Pumping Iron (1977)

Yes, this is the Arnold documentary where the now world famous strongman/actor/governor compares the act of weightlifting to sexual gratification.  And such comparisons never hurt his political career.  While he may not show it now, in his aged and endured state, back in the day he was ripped from head to toe, more so than in Terminator.

            Labeled as a documentary, there are many confessed falsities revealed in a follow-up documentary about the film’s making.  Regardless, the content within is energetic and testosterone infused, making it all the more entertaining and impressive.  There seems a natural peculiarity in the sport itself, where one builds loads of muscle then poses on stage to scores of screaming fans and everyday weaklings.  Perhaps there is something vicarious in a muscle-bound mammoth of a man displays the potential of the human body, a potential that none of us normies will ever reach.

            At the same time there is just as much oddity in the event.  It is like a freakshow, a collection of strange people, who in this case have something in common.  But unlike that malformed or bizarre, these people have intentionally transformed their body into something more.  And more is better.

            The film creates a battle between Arnold and an East Coast nemesis who weighs in at 275 pounds of solid muscle.  His father is his trainer, he is partially deaf, and his gym is like a torture chamber where he gruels away the days.  On the other side of the country is Arnold pumping weights at Gold’s Gym and Venice Beach and posing in photo shoots with bikini-clad women.  And this rivalry was created for the film, regardless of whether it would have existed itself; it was embellished by the filmmakers for the sake of conflict.

            This is not altogether a bad thing, but labeling it a documentary stretches the definition to a degree.  A degree that, in my opinion, is not even necessary in the first place.  The body building culture, which is still effectively portrayed throughout the film, is fascinating in its own right.  Legions of screaming fans and scores of muscle magazines and groups of the manliest of men encouraging each other to lift a little more.  Much of this film is consists of groaning interludes with specific music that, if one were to close their eyes, could be mistaken for an old-school adult film.

            But ‘tis not the case and this 1977 feature is as motivating as it is curious.  A definite must for the cult fan, doc snob, and muscle head.