Felicity from the Arrowverse traded in hacking nukes for body slams—and honestly, if she wore the Green Arrow suit, Star City would’ve been spotless by now.
Based on a true story, Queen of the Ring takes us deep into the golden era of wrestling when storylines were written in smoke-filled rooms, friendships were as strong as steel chairs (until they weren’t), and women fought not just in the ring, but against the entire system holding them back. At the heart of it is Millie, a single mother turned wrestling icon, whose resilience redefined the game.
Emily Bett Rickards deserves a championship belt for this one. Rickards is phenomenal as Millie. She embraces the physicality with grit and heart, but it’s her emotional depth that really hits. From the way she captures trauma to the subtle shifts in accent and expression, she proves she’s far more than a sidekick—she’s a knockout lead.
On the flip side, Francesca Eastwood portraying Mae Young is nothing short of mind-boggling. Like many WWE fans, I only knew Mae Young as the legendary “old lady” who popped up on TV in outrageous segments. Turns out, she was a real wrestler and a pioneer of the sport, and Eastwood makes sure her legacy is more than just a footnote.
Josh Lucas rounds out the cast with a deliciously conniving turn as Billy Wolfe. The man oozes villainy like it’s second nature—if betrayal was an Olympic sport, he’d be on the podium every single time.
Director Ash Avildsen crafts this story with both muscle and finesse. The wrestling scenes feel raw and real, capturing the choreography without losing the sheer brutality of the sport. The camera lingers where it matters—on the sweat, the bruises, the intimate camaraderie behind the curtain.
Historical characters, including Vince McMahon, drop in like Easter eggs, rooting the film in wrestling lore. It’s both a history lesson and a backstage pass rolled into one.
At its core, Queen of the Ring is a tale of betrayal, hardship, courage, and the ruthless business behind the spectacle. It peels back the curtain to show wrestling not just as entertainment but as an empire built on grit, loyalty, and the occasional backstab.
What’s inspiring is Millie’s story itself—achieving greatness not just as a wrestler but as a single mother, balancing body slams with bedtime stories. That alone deserves applause.
The film doesn’t just entertain; it uplifts. It reminds us that wrestling’s history is rich, complicated, and more real than the kayfabe storylines we grew up watching. And Ash Avildsen deserves major credit for telling this story with equal parts humor, heartbreak, and history.
In short: this isn’t just a wrestling film—it’s an underdog story that pins you down, counts to three, and leaves you cheering.
