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Losing oneself in the pursuit of artistic achievement is an oft-visited theme and subject. The phrase “to lose oneself” has become such a cliché that we may write off the truth of such an idea. Indeed, many artists do in fact lose themselves – their sanity, their families, their lives – in exchange for artistic greatness. Black Swan, Darren Aronofsky’s most recent psychological mind-bender of a film, digs into the idea of art, dramatics, perfectionism, and sacrifice, as well as gender roles, body issues, and the reality of growing up in a pretty fucked up world.
The film stars an exceptionally emotive and precise Nathalie Portman, and introduces a deceptively familiar-seeming story in which a prima ballerina finds herself dancing so very closely alongside the edge of her lifelong dream to star in her company’s capstone performance. The usual stereotypes are at work here – Portman’s Nina Sayers is beautiful, petite, and hardworking, but also obsessive, puerile, and exceedingly lonely.
Her dance company, meeting at the unsettlingly spare, white-stoned Lincoln Center in New York, is casting for their yearly rendition of Swan Lake, and the company’s maestro, Thomas (Vincent Cassel), has plans to re-invent the classic into something wholly new. Tomas, played with barely-conceived hissing nefariousness, effrontery, and ego has tired of the company’s golden child (and his erstwhile lover), Beth Macintyre (Winona Ryder), and is casting her replacement. From this mention onward, Nina propels herself headlong into the effort of appropriating the “little princess” title for herself; however, Swan Lake involves a challenging dual requirement of its lead. In addition to the White Swan – pure and fragile – Nina must also embody the White Swan’s evil twin – the dangerous, unhinged, and scheming Black Swan, too. Thomas, absolutely certain of Nina’s competence, believes she would be the perfect cast for the White Swan. The Black Swan, however, is a tougher call. He pushes Nina to relax, to lose herself, to even let him make a play at her behind the closed doors of his office. Nina is much too frigid, wholesome, and controlled, he believes. Giving no regard to feelings, Thomas tells Nina of his casting reservations in front of the entire dance company.
Cassel’s Thomas, though well executed, comes off a bit flat. His best scenes involve breathily uttered, against-ear urgings to Nina that she must let herself go, or fail. The scene in which he lunges to kiss Nina after she unconvincingly assures Thomas she has what it takes to be the Black Swan is a bit comical. “You bit me?!” He yelps, voice cracking in disbelief. Turns out, it is this act of defiance that convinces Thomas that Nina may, in fact, have a tinge of rebellion in her, and therefore may be able to find in herself the Black Swan. Egged on by the arrival of West Coast-hailing, sinister tattoo-sporting, sexually liberated and thus liberated dancer Lily (an excellent Mila Kunis), Nina does indeed find herself travelling down the path of abandon that allows her to find, and harness, a frightening – but also enthralling darkness within.
For a moment, it seems as though Nina may quietly accept defeat. After a rough go at try-outs, she retreats to her Upper West Side apartment, embraces her mother (once a dancer herself, certainly familiar with the feeling of defeat), and goes to sleep with her girlhood stuffed animals surrounding her and the sound of a music box lullabying the scene to a close. At this point, the apartment, cold hardwood floors and odd, tinkling tune and all, feels like a calm escape. Later on, however, when we begin to fully grasp the reality of the dynamic inhabiting it, the space becomes a cell of sorts, allowing nothing in and nothing out.
Nina’s mother, Erica (Barbara Hershey), represents a notable flair of casting on Aronofsky’s part. Once a real natural beauty herself, Hershey appears on the screen almost mangled. In her embodiment of Nina’s overbearing, infantilizing mother, we understand her own personal struggles with perfection (offscreen, onscreen) as she sits close by as Nina forces her toes en pointe over and over again. Hershey’s hair pulled taut, her features are rough and ruined. Aronofsky’s casting is spot on – but almost too much so. Knowing Hershey’s history, it seems a sort of stunt. But despite all of the set-up to understand this interesting and formative relationship (the best of the film), Aronofsky leaves us hanging. We are given a taste, just enough to understand the general idea that somewhere along the line, Nina’s mother failed, and so – like many over-hopeful, vicarious-living parents – she wishes to keep her daughter shielded from all the things that befell her, in order to ensure her daughter’s success. In turn, Nina has been so cut off from real life due to her pursuance of perfection in ballet, that her ballet has begun to suffer. She has no passion, no freedom, and no life experience – and thus, her dancing is staid. And what’s worse, as we soon find out, it is her mental stability that has suffered as well.
What Aronofsky focuses on is the pain, the blood, and the cracked toenails, the harsh lighting used to emphasize wrinkles, raised hair, and coarse skin. This decision to focus on the horror aspects and the bodily leaves an emotional void in its place. This void leaves it to the audience to fill the emotional cavity with their own projected sentiments. In this way, a weakness of the film (skimming over the complex emotional relationships that exist in life) works as a strength of the peculiar blending of genres by involving the audience in the visceral experience of the onscreen action.
And before long, Aronofsky leaves behind all intention to work through just why Nina is this way and commits to the full-on assertion that ‘this is happening, who the hell cares why.’ The stylistic, unsteady camerawork does a wonderful job of easing us out of our own desire to understand the why. As Nina walks up the white marble of Lincoln Center’s plaza, she pauses to stare at her face on the performance poster. The camera travels a few paces ahead of her as if her perception and physical being are separate. Nina pliés in front of the mirror and the camera wobbles to the side as it shows us a separate reflection, performing a separate warm-up. All of the sudden, the why is rendered quite unimportant because the now is so instinctively unsettling.
It is ultimately the traditional backbone to the story, given legs by Aronofsky’s flair for the sinister and the surreal that makes this film fly despite some heavy-handedness and plot-and-character-based shortcomings. But the shortcomings seem mere small detail when considered in the scope of the movie’s artistic intention. The final scene, involving the performance of the Swan Lake, conveys Aronofsky’s particular mastery. The scene, choreographed alongside (and given momentum by) the climax of Swan Lake’s performance, is filmed beautifully. The audience present at the venue watches in awe as Nina stumbles in act one, and then reemerges with incredible might and frightening beauty for the second act, as the Black Swan. The camerawork, which up until now has been trembling, lunging, and wobbling, is now smooth and uninhibited. Nina has, it seems, finally found herself, but also simultaneously lost herself completely. Cinematography by Matthew Libatique lends a grungy graininess to the film that serves to offset the audience’s eye and perhaps elevate the foreboding; however, the incredibly quick editing and cuts left me wanting more. The final scene, though beautiful, did not let me experience the dance as much as I wanted to. Instead, we experience abstracted parts of it: Nina’s upper body, her elegant, but strained neck, a cut away to quickly dancing feet. Perhaps this is intentional – and supposed to emphasize the severing effects this final dance has had on Nina. Either way, the film left me craving a little more time to understand Nina’s art, and vice.
I am not entirely certain that I loved Black Swan, the lines between thrasher, thriller, and thoughtful work so blurred at times. Just as I am not entirely certain, at least not right until the very end – and even there, it’s debatable – what sort of reality or unreality we are a part of while we watch this movie. This is, I would argue, a demonstration of Black Swan’s greatest feat. For what I am sure of is that I was gripping the edges of my seat most of the time, throwing my hands up to shield my view, completely engrossed in this weird, perplexing, terrifying character (a testament to Portman’s wonderful performance, no doubt). Worth mention are the beautiful, simultaneously diaphanous and sinister costumes, designed by fashion darlings, Kate and Laura Mulleavy of Rodarte (another smart, spot-on cast thanks to the movie’s auteur). Aronofsky’s particular art is of a certain bravado, force, vision, and fearlessness that is not very common – and the shock, horror, and intrigue we feel as an audience is overall, amply earned.
*Natalie Portman
January 1, 2011 4:33 pmthis was such a beautiful article. well written. bravo.
January 5, 2011 11:43 am