Grade: C-

This documentary by Barry Blaustein is like a love letter to
professional wrestling, and particularly to Vince McMahon and
the World Wrestling Federation. Soft, repetitive to a fault,
and narrated by its maker in tones of wistful awe that seem
totally inappropriate to its subject, “Beyond the Mat” tells
very little that’s consequential and not much we didn’t already
know, apart from the fact that Mr. Blaustein, a comedy writer
who’s worked for “Saturday Night Live” and co-scripted several
Eddie Murphy films, looks upon the “sport” that’s entranced
him since childhood without a hint of ironic detachment. That’s
pretty amazing, given the awful press the WWF has received of
late.

The picture is structured as a tale of three wrestlers–
retiring veteran Terry Funk, exhuberant family man Mick Foley,
and tormented over-the-hill legend Jake Roberts. Footage of
the three, and interviews with them, are intercut throughout,
and Blaustein tries to piece it all together in a vague
chronological scheme, with the bits linked by his adoring
narration. The wrestlers seem like interesting characters:
Funk resembles a good-natured version of Pat Buchanan and
Foley a chubbier, bearded version of Richard Masur (whose
voice he even shares), while Roberts, a crack addict troubled
by his strained family ties, exudes a remarkable mixture of
pride and self-loathing. All are (perhaps surprisingly)
articulate fellows, and the picture certainly humanizes them.

But Blaustein’s treatment never goes much beyond the obvious,
and his portrayal of the business itself has all the earmarks
of an “approved” recitation. “Beyond the Mat” also needs
stronger editing than that provided by Jeff Werner, who allows
many sequences to ramble on far too long and failed to impose
impose a guiding thread on the episodic material.

“Beyond the Mat” was clearly a labor of love for Blaustein, but
it’s unlikely many viewers will respond to it with similar
affection.

Grade: B-

A feel-good film about the aftermath of the war in Bosnia might
seem an impossible task, but that’s roughly what novice writer-
director Jasmin Dizdar has attempted in her feature debut.
Actually “Beautiful People” is a complex, multi-layered black
comedy-drama which, through a variety of intercutting narratives,
portrays the spillover of Balkan ethnic hatreds into the
London of 1993 by dramatizing the experiences of immigrants
trying, after escaping the horrors of their native land, to
become a part of England’s broadly multicultural population
mix. In the process the Bosnians must learn to suppress the
antagonisms which have driven their lives for so long, while
the British with whom they come into contact find themselves
changed by the experience. By the end, although undercurrents
of the old pains remain, the process of assimilation has taken
hold, and the future looks promising, if imperfect; as one
character observes rather too obviously, if one can find even
brief moments of joy amidst the catastrophe, life can be
beautiful.

One has to admire the ambition of Diznar’s concept, which
contains elements of broad farce (especially in the sequences
involving a Serb and a Croat who batter one another into a
hospital ward, where they’re housed with a Welsh terrorist who’s
exploded a bomb in his own face–a reminder that ethnic strife
is evident everywhere), drawing-room comedy (in the portrayal
of the home life of a British MP whose daughter becomes
romantically attached to a Yugoslavian refugee), whimsically
sentimental humor (in a narrative about a young hooligan who,
mistakenly transported into the Balkan war zone, is transformed
by the experience and becomes a hero to his middle-class
parents), domestic drama (in the story of a doctor whose wife
has just left them and who gives shelter to a newly-arrived
Bosnian couple) and political denunciation of western failure
to stop the conflict (through an episode regarding a BBC
journalist wounded in the Balkan fighting who is tormented by
what he’d seen there). The segments are diverse in terms of
both narrative and tone, but they’re all shot through with
streaks of mordant humor and moments of pungent pain that give
them considerable, if sporadic, power.

Still, it must be admitted that, for all the virtues of its
concept, its execution is often flawed. For one thing, there
are simply too many characters to allow for them to be
presented in anything but the most cursory, perfunctory fashion;
over the course of the first hour, a viewer might wish for a
scorecard to consult about who’s who, and even after the
identification becomes less difficult, most of the figures
continue to be portrayed so sketchily that they seem like
pieces on a cinematic chessboard rather than full, vibrant
human beings. Nor are all the narratives of equal interest;
that concerning the young layabout Griffin (Danny Nussbaum)
whose accidental trip to Bosnia nullifies his own prejudices
and promises to change his life is probably the most
immediately appealing (and surely the funniest).

But even in that strand of the plot, the speed and ease in the
transformation of the characters come across as not merely
implausible but somehow troubling. In the final analysis
Diznar’s picture seems to underplay the lasting impact that
the horrors of Bosnia must necessarily have on its victims;
the fact that the BBC journalist is apparently cured of what
one doctor calls the “Bosnia syndrome” of identifying with the
people involved in the conflict by the simple expedient of
hypnotism is characteristic here. And the mostly generous (if
sometimes grudging) acceptance by the English of the Yugoslav
immigrants appears too simple as well; in this connection the
abrupt and sentimental abandonment by two of Griffin’s pals of
their ugly xenophobia toward the picture’s close, while
eliciting smiles of contentment from the audience, is forced
and dramatically false.

“Beautiful People” is thus a film of brilliant isolated
moments, but its segmented approach ultimately dilutes its
impact, and the hopefulness of its final message seems, in
view of its subject, oddly self-congratulatory.