In Fernley, Nevada, just off Highway 50 — "The Loneliest Road in America" — two teenagers grapple in a barbed-wire ring. One hurls the other into a six-foot "grave" in which a piece of plywood lies wrapped in barbed wire and engulfed in flaming kerosene. There’s blood, and lots of it. And it’s real. Welcome to the world of backyard wrestling.

Paul Hough’s harrowing film takes him from the desert to upstate New York to the English Midlands as he visits just a few of the hundreds of loosely defined "federations" of testosterone-drunk misfits who use mousetraps and razor blades to augment their pile drivers and body slams. It’s an unsettling peek at an often brutal subculture — but one that nonetheless teaches some variants of camaraderie, self-restraint, and self-respect. For all the goofy wanna-be-WWF characters like costumed "Bongo the Pot Smoking Monster" or brutal thugs like "Chaos" (who staple-guns calling cards to his defeated opponents’ foreheads), there are guys like the Lizard. He’s the oldest in a circuit of adolescents, still chasing his dream of turning pro. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry . . . or cheer. (78 minutes) In the Coolidge Corner screening room.