In The Wolverine, Hugh Jackman takes the live-action superhero body to a disturbing new place. And, no, it's not the gym. Well, it's not only the gym. Most of the movie is him in and out of a white tank top, his arms and shoulders abubble and athrob, the veins flowing with god knows what. His body is beyond fitness, beyond fat, beyond muscles, beyond ready comprehension. It is beyond the human body as the movies have previously depicted it. I've never seen anything like this, and I've seen John Travolta in Staying Alive, Demi Moore in G.I. Jane, and Sylvester Stallone in everything. Jackman surpasses what they've done. Yes, he seems performance-enhanced and computer-generated. But his body appears to be
acting.
He has pumped himself all the way up, after having worked himself down to nothing to bench press the show tunes in Les Misérables. Jackman placed a similar stress on the character's body in the previous movie. But this time there's no glory in any of it. There's no sexiness, either. All Jackman does here is strain and grunt and suffer. You rarely see an actor work this hard just to express more work, but he's made a complete surrender to the exercise of exercise. When Travolta danced in his loincloth (under Stallone's direction, too), it was vanity. When Moore shaved her head and did one-arm push-ups, it was politics. With Jackman, it's neither. Whether he's cutting open his chest and feeling around for his heart, pretending to slice into the roof of a speeding train, or holding on to grating that overlooks a cliff, Jackman is giving us the camp of martyrdom. His charisma has gone to his biceps and his chest and his delts and his abs. It's not sweat that's pouring out of those muscles. It's The Messiah.