A film with this much camp will hopefully prompt cocktail parties for years to come where Natalie dances herself to pieces and Liza Minnelli re-records her classic with lyrics that sing your praise...
"Pack up all my care and woe! Here I go! Full psycho! Bye! (BYE!) Bye! (BYE!) Black Swan! (Doodle-ee-doo-doo-doo!)"
"It's my turn!" - Nat the Swan.
Darren Aronofsky arrived in my final year of undergraduate film studies. Pi was nothing short of a phenomenon -- there were stickers, there was spray paint, there was a new dude who had made a black and white film about a symbol! A mathematical one, actually. Yes, this seemed to be the Eraserhead of ... well ... Jewish Math? It was unquestionably great. It was clearly the work of a director from the new generation -- one who was going to last. But it was also about ... well... a ratio?
I snarkily walked away from that film focusing on the protagonist's repetitive recounting of his days staring at the sun -- quipping to my friends that I preferred Dana Carvey's angry old man whose only pastime was staring at the sun until his eyes burst into flames and people were roasting chickens on his head. "That's the way it was and we liked it!" Yes, I was a jerk.
This was firmly proven by the film that had me out in the streets hollering "All aboard the Aronofsky express! 'board! All ABOARD!" -- Requiem for a Dream. I saw the film opening day at Lincoln Plaza and spent much of the screening with my eyes so firmly closed and so tightly covered that the gentleman next to me legitimately asked me if I was all right. I've often thought he may be the very same gent who asked me the very same question in the very same theater during a screening of Quills. No. I was not all right. I may still not be all right. Between Ellen Burstyn's desperation to be in the warmth of the sun, Jennifer Connelly's a**-to-a** mayhem, and Jared Leto's arm -- man you just knew that thing was going to have to come off -- I was a wreck. I've never seen Requiem for a Dream or Quills again. I never will. Why would I do that to myself?
The Fountain came and went. Mickey Rourke took all the credit for The Wrestler despite the steady handed unwavering commitment Aronofsky had as its director, bringing Mickey Rourke to near Oscar victory -- a feat most would deem impossible. This was a Tarantino-like triumph -- done on Darren's terms.
Now, here we are with Black Swan, the most improbably artistic achievement in a year of rampant straightforward narratives. Black Swan is the dark, shadow-ridden, internal indie psycho-thriller, happily yanging it up to Inception's yin. Where Inception has slick, Swan has jaunty, hand-held, sloppy control. Where Inception has careful navigators of a psychological world systematically and calculatedly imploding, the Swan is a maddening, self devouring, maniacally mixed-up batch of mayhem -- clawing itself to pieces from the inside out.
Darren Aronofsky has pulled off a masterwork of deliberate camp, embracing everything the ballet psycho-thriller tradition has held to -- from The Red Shoes to Suspiria -- in a Lynchian trip that gives the impression it was accidentally made with a couple of cheap-o cameras when it is in fact the most deliberate, precise, self-sufficient cinematic flip-out we've seen in years.
Just look at the man's casual archetypal casting...
Barbara Hershey -- genius.
Winona Ryder -- excellent (I deeply love Winona).
Vincent Cassel -- who else could it have been?
Mila Kunis -- the female snub of the year.
All perfectly balanced on the bruised toes of the diminutive Natalie Portman.
Won't you just be nice to her?
Natalie has long proven herself as one of the strongest actresses of her generation. Whether it was her initial role in The Professional where she won the world's heart and men's inappropriate attention... Whether it was her Golden Globe winning turn in Closer... Whether it was her split second screen time in Cold Mountain... Whether it was Amidala, Queen of Naboo, mother of Luke Skywalker... Or the very many mediocre movies we've all taken the time to boost simply because they included Natalie... Since the start, she has been a highly valued Hollywood commodity -- a Trump card awaiting the correct play.
Who knew it would be as the timid, would-be Lincoln Center star who tore herself to homicidal shreds under the pressure of a lead ballet role in the sympathetic trippy lesbianic wake of Winona Ryder's forced retirement? Who would conceive such a project around this darling weeper? This mother of Leia? This Wal-Mart birther? The stripper with a heart? Furthermore -- who knew she would not only take the role -- but take the role to its limit?
The Award Season question, of course, is whether Natalie has actress locked away. Will Annette once again lose front-runner award position to a far younger star? Natalie is to the Swan what Sean Penn was to Milk and what the Swank was to Boys Don't Cry: the one who can take the trophy and claim victory for the entire production. Swan's lack of nominations in other categories leaves one wondering -- as I mentioned Tuesday -- whether it is a signal that the film has lost its forward thrust or whether two specific people -- Aronofsky and Portman -- have been given full credit for the entire film's success. Is this the director and his muse raising a champagne glass to their ballet triumph while the company waits in the wings? It damn well may be the case.
This campy wonder has me chomping at the bit for Aronofsky's next. How I wish he would adapt a major piece of literature -- tackle a myth or even a superhero story, caution thrown to the wind. He's earned it -- even if he's decided to maintain the mustache.
- Matthew J. McCue
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