Cinema hurts. Whether you like it or not, you will feel pain in one of those air conditioned silver screens at some stage. It could be caused by your wallet belly-aching that you unnecessarily raided it to watch a recent film starring Vince Vaughan, or maybe you slipped over on those few steps at the front of the screen mid-film in front of a packed audience on the way to the loo (pride and ankle glowing red).
Maybe, like me, you were so engaged in Black Swan while chewing your nails with the tension, it was too late before you realised you had bitten a section out of your thumb. Needless to say my week got underway in a more protein enriched fashion than I’m accustomed to. But regardless of tissue damage/blood loss what a way to start a week!
After seeing the Black Swan trailer months ago, my interest was definitely peaked. Although there is always an element of doubt because that’s what trailers are supposed to do – most of the time, all the goodies are packed into those three-minute marketplaces. Plus, I’m not exactly down with ballet. I fell asleep at the first and only performance I was taken to (there was some ‘unpleasantness’ involving snoring and dribbling). Thankfully all these prospective ankle-breakers are put to rest very early on.
Imagine everything you’ve ever heard or been shown about ballet. Now douse all those clichés, tutus and Sugarplum Fairies in petrol and set fire to the lot of them. You’re somewhere closer to understanding what Darren Aronofsky has created. Portraying ballet as it really is for the dancers, every muscle tearing, tendon stretching, toe-bruising second of it, while tumbling down the rabbit hole with Natalie Portman’s Nina as her psyche cracks under her attempts to release the passion and menace of the Black Swan within her.
It packs a lot in in a relatively short running time, the pursuit of perfection, perception, ego/id, displaced ambition, fear of replacement and sexual awakening wreaking utter havoc underneath the smooth veneer of perfectly practiced steps. All the time merely one well balanced ballet slipper away from full on psychological horror. In retrospect I should count myself lucky I made it out with only a mildly disfigured digit. Aronofsky is getting better with every film, which is why I’m both deflated and intrigued to discover his next project is the Wolverine sequel.
I went back to the cinema the following day (equipped with plaster and suitable antiseptic) for Morning Glory. The story of Rachel McAdams’ cute-as-a-button executive producer charged with saving an ailing breakfast television show while attempting to tame Harrison Ford’s grizzled and decorated news anchor is breezy, uncomplicated and provided a soothing balm after the previous days’ exertions. Despite being well done, consistently funny and with excellent chemistry (Diane Keaton and Ford taking the lion’s share of the credit here) it is largely typical, forgettable fare. But y’know, sometimes that’s perfectly okay.
I’d experienced the full gamut of what Hollywood could do to a person through these two films. Thrilled, frightened, driven half mad and propelled to self-injury in one instance; whilst hugged warmly and a smile put on my face in the other.
The truly terrifying part is that I preferred being kicked around a little by the former. Paging Dr Freud!
