As a kid glued to the TV in the 1980s, professional wrestling was a staple in my weekend diet—equal parts spectacle and sweaty soap opera. The names were larger than life: Hogan, Savage, Andre…and among the women, there was only a few names that ever filtered down into my living room: The Fabulous Moolah and Wendi Richter. Other than that, the early history of women’s wrestling was a complete blur.
Enter 2024’s Queen of the Ring, an ambitious biopic that tries to fill in those missing years by spotlighting Mildred Burke, the pioneering queenpin of the women’s wrestling scene long before McMahon made tights mainstream. The film is less a body slam of greatness than it is a shoulder shrug in a leotard—not bad, not great, but earnest in its attempt.
A Title That Feels Earned, Not Handed
Burke’s story deserves a big canvas. Queen-sized ambition meets trailer-park grit in the 1930s and ’40s, when women in wrestling were scoffed at, even banned in some states. The film gets that. It shows Burke not just suplexing opponents, but smashing through barriers: gender roles, marital shackles, and destiny’s middle finger to expectations. She’s not some left wing goofball shouting “Girl Power!”—she’s earning her place by slamming big men and bigotry into the dirt.
The performances are raw. Rickards nails Burke’s transformation—waitress, wife, mother, champion, then lone feminist force. She’s muscle and mascara, iron fist in a silk glove. Josh Lucas plays Billy Wolfe—Burke’s promoter-husband—perfectly smug, paternalistic and gradually venomous. Their marriage dissolves ring-side, public spectacle giving way to private pain. Walton Goggins lands a memorable cameo as a rival promoter; Tyler Posey plays Burke’s teenage son, quietly holding a torch for his mother’s fading patience and rising ambition.
But Billy is portrayed like a bad hangover in human form—slapping Mildred and even his own son around like he’s trying to knock sense into the plot. And then, just as suddenly, he’s remorseful, like a drunk uncle trying to hug it out at Thanksgiving. This on-again, off-again cycle of abuse and apology is played so often it might as well be on the undercard.
Wolfe’s character isn’t so much written as scrawled angrily on the wall of a dive bar bathroom. He’s a heavy—no question—but the film wants to give him nuance, to humanize the guy without really earning it. One minute he’s orchestrating backroom deals to bury Mildred’s career, the next he’s crying into his hands like a man who just realized he forgot Mother’s Day.
The most bizarre left turn? Wolfe uses June Byers to seduce his own son as part of a revenge plot. This is delivered with the dramatic weight of a wet dishrag. One minute there’s a hint of forbidden romance between Mildred and Wolfe’s boy, the next it’s tossed aside like a folding chair during a backstage brawl.
Training on “Weights and Chicken Breasts”
You won’t confuse this with ballet. According to Entertainment Weekly, Rickards lugged a wheelbarrow of raw chicken breasts and weights for “pump” shots—it’s as strange as it is badass. No fake flexing here. Burke’s body is her weapon, and Rickards’ physical commitment sells it. You can almost smell the locker-room liniment.
Fight choreography, by Heath Hensly and Jett Hansen, nails the era’s carnival-style cage matches and evolving athletic ability. Early scenes show Burke toppling featherweight men at county fairs; later, she brutalizes women like June Byers—or, well, Kamille in the role—her suplexes echoing feminist manifestos. Each move is a statement: you will not shove me off this stage.
Pacing the Pepsi Between Triumph and Trauma
At 140 minutes, the movie is overly long. We hop eras, locations, costume changes like hops on a broken rope—transition sequences that scream biopic by checklist. There is a lot of filler drama and slow stretches. True. You’ll feel the time: awkward extended dialogues, predictable power struggles, and expositional beats that hold like gum on the bottom of your heel.
But in wrestling—as in movies—the build matters. We need those slow rises to feel Burke’s burnout along with her victory. And when the matches come, they land heavy and personal.
When the Canvas Bleeds
The real gut-punches come in the ring. Burke’s biggest battles—the literal falls against June Byers, the emotional breakdown around her marriage—aren’t just about victory. They bleed. In a showdown mirroring real history, Burke loses to Byers under manipulative officiating, only to declare herself champion in her own promotion. That smack of rebellion is cinematic gold, even if the film slightly sugarcoats the complexity.
Byers, played by Kamille, intimidates with physical dominance and smooth, ruthless efficiency—a reminder that the women who followed Burke had their own demons. The film almost glosses over the infamous Burke-Wolfe split that cracked her empire. She’s reinventing something, but you feel the toll: divorce, financial ruin, isolation. Rickards doesn’t need to cry. The quiet screw on her lips and the set of her shoulders say enough.
Moments of Gold, Grounded in Darkness
There are moments worth pausing: Burke eating supper with her young son, realizing she’s become a stranger in his adolescence. Burke walking the line between manager and martyr. Burke refusing to play by staged wrestling’s rules, opting instead for authentic stunts—even if that authenticity cost her career.
Cinematographer Andrew Strahorn bathes the film in sepia tones—grainy, smoky, working-class beauty. Costume designer Sofija Mesicek nails each time jump, from fifties-style lucha jackets to wartime simplicity. The film looks confident in its period setting, which makes its sea of story beats feel less sloppy and more sprawling.
Dark Humor in the Squared Circle
You want dark humor? Here it is: early on, Burke body-slams a carnival strongman, and he just laughs, like “Yeah, bitch, your turn came.” Later, Billy Wolfe tells her, “You’ll clean toilets if you don’t do what I say”—like it’s advice, not extortion. She laughs a brittle smile in his face. When she breaks away and goes solo, there’s no confetti—just punitive lawsuits, broken promises, and the irony that the woman who made money for wrestling got erased from some of its history.
The film’s humor comes not from jokes, but from situational irony. Burke becomes America’s sweetheart, then becomes persona non grata. She paved the way for GLOW, AJW, and tomorrow’s Toni Storm—all hinted at via cameos from wrestlers like Kamille and Toni Storm herself. The sport she helped build forgets her. It’s funny—but only if your humor likes its punchline in the heart.
Final Bell
With a 74% on Rotten Tomatoes and critics calling it “straightforward” yet compelling, Queen of the Ring lands as a solid, if imperfect, tribute. It doesn’t rewrite wrestling history to feel triumphant. Instead, it flips the script: this is a portrait of a woman who let the ring define her—until she defined it herself.
The title feels earned. Mildred Burke is not just the queen—they call her the ring itself, holding space better than any man ever could. That legacy isn’t flashy, but it’s harder than leather and deeper than any storyline. A few scenes drag like an old gear, but the collective punch carries you through to the end.
Ratings Rundown
-
Performance: Emily Bett Rickards embodies Burke’s fire without flaming out. Josh Lucas sleazes it up as the manipulative Wolfe. Support cast solid. 8/10.
-
Direction & Script: Ambitious, sometimes overstuffed. Hits key narrative points, occasionally fumbles pacing. 5.5/10.
-
Period Style: Rich, believable, sepia-toned love letter. 8.5/10.
-
Fight Choreography: Realistic, gritty, visceral. Takes cues from wrestling history and revives it. 8/10.
-
Overall: 6.5/10—a heartfelt, hard-hitting wrestling biopic that snarls while it celebrates.
Final Verdict
Queen of the Ring isn’t a perfect film, but it’s a rare one that punches you in the gut with history, feminism, and sweaty athletics. Mildred Burke didn’t bend to the spotlight—she became one. And this biopic, for all its built-in limitations, respects that. It may not be the knockout some hoped for, but it counts as a technical knockout in heart, showing that while wrestling is performance, this legend was the real thing.
