Why do we ask so many questions?

L’ECLISSE (1962)

Part of me regrets not taking in more of Michelangelo Antonioni’s filmography before tackling L'avventura and now L’Eclisse – the head and tail of a trilogy that includes La notte – because in retrospect I'd say these films belong in a class of their own, a class that perhaps requires a special taste only acquired after viewing and really appreciating the Italian director's prior films. The territory that both L'avventura and L’Eclisse cover is so alien and almost barren of human emotion that investing interest in the sparse developments that occur becomes a bit exhausting. Having not seen La notte, I can only assume that it breathes the same air of emotional indifference, and considering the period these films were released – in the throes of the Cuban Missile Crisis – it’s not hard to understand why optimism seemed absent on Antonioni’s agenda.

It was a bleak period not only for the working class, but also for the bourgeoisie and unlike most neorealist directors who focused on struggling proletarians, Antonioni chose to scrutinize the upper crust of Italian society. The final act in Antonioni’s trilogy examines social alienation in the modern world and while certain moments are hauntingly meditative, for the most part the story's quite simple. L’Eclisse introduces us to Vittoria (Monica Vitti), a woman who finds herself at the end of an affair that her significant other makes little effort to reinvigorate. Unable to make a connection, she leaves him and eventually falls for an enterprising, but shallow young stock broker named Piero (Alain Delon). After relishing momentary flashes of bliss and passion, the two eventually realize they have nothing concrete to offer each other.

There’s this sense of isolation that swells in L’Eclisse and although that sense is at its peak during the finale, the bulk of the film is essentially one large metaphor for being alienated by the looming modern world. The two scenes that take place in the stock exchange are absolutely primitive, depicting a mob of brokers and investors as jostling pawns of the capitalist machine. Vittoria responds to both the hustle bustle of the exchange and the effect it has on its dependents – one being her distant mother – with a curiosity denoting a growing fear that isolates her further from the fast-paced society she lives in.

Antonioni holds no reservations when it comes to forcing his arctic cold atmosphere upon the audience. It’s the antithesis of classical romance, in stark accordance with reality, but not quite authentic enough to pass for a documentary on failed relationships. Delon and Vitti exhibit these characters in ways that convey pure heartache and a desire to break free from routine, but they seem far more interested in preserving their individualism than seeking refuge in someone else. They’re lost, and as viewers we find ourselves lost in their digressions throughout the film – which ends on an obscure, sort of open-ended note. It’s a common dilemma only made disturbingly eerie and real by the utter loneliness Antonioni subjects these characters to. What Piero and Vittoria seem to be after in life is a question Antonioni fails to bring up, but perhaps it’s a question that's impossible to answer.

7/10

Who says Santa's pants have to be red?

HAPPYTHANKYOUMOREPLEASE (2011)

In an age where it’s practically the norm for actors – both highly and just moderately successful – to try their hand behind the camera, I’ve become virtually unfazed when I hear word that the likes of Angelina Jolie or Jennifer Love Hewitt are planning to helm their first feature film. It’s become a pattern in Hollywood and if an actor has the funds and means necessary to realize a script, why not take a stab at directing it as well? Will it result in a sloppy, lumbering mess? Probably, but credentials aren’t often taken into account when actors experience these whims of inspiration and creative impulse. Audiences don’t seem to care either as it’s the name on the poster – directed by insert-overexposed-celebrity-here – that tends to garner their interest, the very same interest studios need come opening night. But who would be interested in seeing a film directed by Ted Mosby?

I’ve seen less than a handful of How I Met Your Mother episodes and the material honestly does zilch for me. So when Josh Radnor, who plays Mosby on the show, decides to follow in the footsteps of his credential-less peers, I’m not exactly overwhelmed about what he has to offer. If anything’s getting my attention it’s an interesting script with fleshed out characters, which the trailer for Radnor’s debut film Happythankyoumoreplease appeared to boast. Unfortunately, while watching Radnor’s ridiculously scrambled presentation of plotlines, I slowly began to realize that this first effort of his was the furthest thing away from the indie comedy I anticipated and more along the lines of mainstream melodrama.

Happythankyoumoreplease tries to sell itself as an ensemble piece, but clearly Radnor – who is the Jerry Seinfeld of his own Seinfeld show here; the indisputable weak-link – is our focus. I say “ensemble piece” because not unlike those sappy romantic comedies that revolve around some commercialized U.S. holiday, Happythankyoumoreplease moves several related, but unrelated (story-wise) characters down a very obscure path made even more obscure by the film’s slew of disjointed themes.

First up is Radnor who plays Sam, a freelance writer in a rut who’s suddenly burdened with the responsibility of caring for an abandoned foster child named Rasheen (Michael Algieri); a rather absurd concept that just becomes less conceivable as the story progresses. Through Sam, we’re introduced to his best friend Annie (Malin Akerman), a loveless, but animated young woman coping with alopecia – a form of hair loss. Her arc is the typical “true love standing right in front of you” archetype that we’ve seen plenty of times, but lucky for us her “true love” is played by the spectacular Tony Hale – there's an outstanding monologue of his towards the end that reaches unexpected dramatic territory for an Arrested Development alum. The least interesting, but most genuinely performed arc finds a twenty-something couple (Zoe Kazan and Pablo Schreiber) soldiering through an emotional disconnect after Schreiber is offered a lucrative partnership that would force him and Kazan to relocate to Los Angeles; something Kazan, a proud New Yorker, is openly averse to.

About a quarter way through Radnor’s uneven attempt at wheedling sympathy for these characters, you begin to realize that separately these stories could have possibly succeeded as standalone films rather than a mishmash of arcs, especially Hale and Akerman’s. Alas, Radnor chose to go with what seems to be the rage these days – ensemble films – and compress these outwardly complex individuals into such a short timeframe that they're ultimately served up as two-dimensional cutouts of three-dimensional characters.

Take Radnor’s love interest Mississippi (Kate Mara) who’s been “feeling a little fragile.” You'd expect that remark to develop into something, but being pressed for time, Radnor bypasses this profound angle to concentrate on his other players. Why is she so emotionally fragile? Why should we care? It’s the ultimate foil and my single greatest irk in films: poor characterization. It riddles this film, and instead of growth and introspection, Radnor’s cast is subjected to the most banal clichés and romantic comedy conventions, making it difficult to take any of the film too seriously.

6.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Nine

THE LOWER DEPTHS (1957)

Comparing Kurosawa’s Lower Depths to Jean Renoir’s is like comparing apples to oranges. Despite having come from the same origin – Russian author Maxim Gorky’s political play of the same name – the two are vastly different. Renoir’s more romanticized take feels a bit mainstream and accessible compared to Kurosawa’s bleak, yet comedic vision, but the play itself isn’t meant to be taken as an accessible piece of entertainment. In a way, it practically circumvents what audiences expect from this sort of genre, so in that respect Kurosawa’s adaptation falls more in line with what Gorky was probably trying to present.

While Renoir handles the plot the way films are conventionally handled – implementing key plot developments, back-story, character growth, etc. – Kurosawa handles it more theatrically, but genuinely, confining the action almost claustrophobically so and treating the characters as standard, immoral outcasts rather than plot devices that push the story forward. In fact, there’s little progression, if any, in Kurosawa’s adaptation; we’re introduced to a group of destitute individuals wrapped up in their own concerns and ideals and they never really develop in any remarkable way. But I suppose this sobering portrait of the proletariat lifestyle is what Gorky had in mind.

Instead of spotlighting a single character – like Renoir mostly does with the thief – Kurosawa has created more of an ensemble film that lapses between the eccentric conversations of lower-class denizens living in a shabby tenement during Edo-period Japan. The members of this complex include a gambler, a prostitute, a tinker, an alcoholic actor, and a thief named Sutekichi played by Toshiro Mifune in what many consider to be his finest performance. At the core of their miserable lives is the tenement’s depraved landlady Osugi (Isuzu Yamada) who Sutekichi is secretly having an affair with. There’s also a wandering priest who drops in to serve as the “wise old sage” figure or mediator in this case, but once things go awry and Osugi discovers that Sutekichi has been unfaithful, drama ensues, hysteria breaks out, and the priest hightails it, realizing the tenants are beyond help.

Trying to distinguish tone here may turn off a few viewers, but I believe Kurosawa knew exactly what sort of atmosphere he wanted to establish in Depths. It's a tragicomedy, and although it has the air of a theatrical play, the way Mifune and his co-stars behave comes across far more authentic than their French counterparts. Their indifference is precise and unabashed, yet comically dispersed throughout the film. Kurosawa also incorporates cruelty as a function to examine these characters and peel them wide open, ultimately revealing very little, if anything redeeming about them. He certainly has the edge on Renoir when it comes to characterization, because instead of getting wound up in the romanticism of it all, we’re constantly learning more about these individuals through dialogue. The ending – which is the most chilling I’ve seen in some time – especially typifies how indifferent these people are toward human compassion.

Ironically enough, faith is the only substance these characters have in seeking greater things life, yet their unwillingness to reach out from the lower depths and actually make something of themselves is what hampers their resolve. Naturally, the priest is the sole presence of “faith” or religion in the tenement so he makes several attempts at imbuing optimism into everyone's lives, but fails on almost every level. Then there's the manner in which these characters strive to strip away each other's faith, which is a bit saddening considering faith is essentially their only means of living.

In the end, the idea of faith poses a question of realizing illusion – making dreams reality – and I found that to be the deepest aspect of Gorky’s play that Renoir failed to properly touch on. Kurosawa makes it fairly clear that most of Gorky's characters have this deluded sense of satisfaction in life and have no intentions of reforming the way they live. It’s depressing to watch, but the light moments tend to edge out the more somber ones.

Again, I don’t see much point in comparing Kurosawa’s Depths to Renoir’s because they’re two entirely different beasts. But if I had to choose the better film, I’d probably go with Kurosawa’s mostly because he seems to hit the mark where Renoir misses cerebrally. Renoir’s Depths sort of panders to the conventions of cinema, but it’s still quality filmmaking; just not thought-provoking. Not without its faults, Kurosawa’s can be unbearably slow at times, but at least he makes an effort to remain faithful to the source material.

8/10

I've started something I can't control

EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE (2010)

Unreliable narrators seemed to be a fixture in film last year. From DiCaprio’s delusional Teddy Daniels to Portman’s disquieted Nina Sayers, a handful of now prominent films featured stories told through the eyes of their unhinged protagonists. Christoffer Boe’s Jacob Falk is no exception. The Danish director's fourth feature film is one that caters to our curiosity and forces us to look beyond the scope of normalcy.

Much like Swimming Pool and even Memento – to an extent – Everything Will Be Fine offers more than a fair amount of interaction – films with enigmatic structures usually do. Minds race, questions are asked, clues are assembled. Films like Pool and Memento are fun to watch because they involve the audience; when our narrator is clearly unsettled, it becomes our job to separate fantasy from reality. There’s no singular path provided, thus we’re left to draw our own conclusions.

We’re initially led to believe that the events unfolding in Everything Will Be Fine are based in reality and that the contradiction of this would turn out to be the “twist”. As a firm hater of spoilers, I’ll just safely confirm that the real “twist” – if you can even call it that – has nothing to do with the psychological aspect Boe promotes in this film. In fact, the clues given throughout are presented so overtly that it’s not all that challenging to discern a large sum of the plot as pure fantasy.

 

Appropriately enough, our lead character’s – Jacob Falk’s (Jens Albinus) – strong suit centers on fantasy; he’s a director/screenwriter faced with a deadline and the pressure to meet it is taking toll on his mental health. Adding additional pressure is his wife (Marijana Jankovic) who nags him about the adoption papers he’s failed to fill out and capping it all off is the soldier (Igor Radosavljevic) he runs over – who happens to be carrying photos of Danish soldiers committing atrocities against POWs. This little finding incites a spiraling descent into paranoia, a descent that serves more as a guilt trip than anything else and one that ultimately finds Falk wallowing in regret over his past.

If any film deserved the label of “mind bender” last year, it was Boe’s thriller. Inception may have pulled out all the stops in the dream department – with a hefty amount of exposition, I might add – but it never once allowed me to determine the logic behind what was happening for myself; mostly because explanations were doled out so generously to the audience. With Everything Will Be Fine, audiences are rendered just as clueless and disconcerted as Falk.

The disorienting effect Boe employs through Falk is the essence of “mind bending”, the remnants of classic psychological thrillers unearthed in brilliant form. What also makes Falk’s journey so transfixing is the capability of the actor portraying him. Albinus quickly transforms from a seemingly composed director into a man influenced by fear. He comes to distrust his own sister (the talented, but wasted Paprika Steen), loses his grip on reality and begins rambling on about government conspiracies and secret agendas that fit better in his script than they do in reality. Albinus really slips into the psychosis of this character, delivering a disturbed, but natural performance.

Boe’s structure causes some minor concern – as we follow Falk on his wild goose chase for answers we’re simultaneously following Ali, the soldier Falk mows down in his 70s model Grand Marquis. What’s bothersome about this is the interweaving of story arcs. We hear Falk mumbling to himself about penning a script on war; enter Ali. Ali’s arc begins, we shift between his and Falk’s, Falk eventually runs Ali over, snags his sensational photos and heads off on an aimless quest for answers. Ali’s arc technically ends there, but Boe continues to recount the soldier’s story alongside Falk’s. So instead of contributing anything crucial to the plot – Ali’s arc really has nothing important to say – this tactic mainly interrupts flow. I suppose one could always consider Ali’s back-story necessary in visualizing Falk’s script, but what a distracting way to execute such an idea.

On the technical end, Boe’s cinematography and camerawork are absolutely spellbinding; the way he captures Denmark’s modern aesthetics – the country’s obscure architecture specifically – is laud-worthy. His decision to display external scenes as film set dioramas rather than actual locations further confirms the falsity of what Falk perceives as reality. All in all, an ambitious film with ambitious performances that sits high on my list of the year’s best foreign features.

8.5/10

Kurosawa Series: Part Eight

NO REGRETS FOR OUR YOUTH (1946)

After a prolonged hiatus, the series is back in full swing to discuss one of Kurosawa’s heaviest character studies: his first and only female protagonist who's also the most compelling character I’ve seen in any of his films to date, transitioning from intolerable brat to aspiring activist. Yukie, masterfully portrayed by Setsuko Hara, is a rare breed of protagonist – whose character traits run the gamut from heedless and manipulative to spoon-fed and juvenile – and I initially wrote her off as an unpleasant hindrance serving only to spoil the film’s atmosphere, but when she’s finished taking pleasure in the clear, rhythmic sounds of gunfire, boasting her piano skills, and challenging potential love interests in areas of passion and resolve, we’re treated to a fascinating analysis of a woman bereft of identity who eventually puts aside her childish ways and matures into a revolutionary whose perseverance is captivating to watch flourish on screen.

No Regrets for Our Youth is a profound story on the ideologies that spearheaded World War II, not to mention gender roles and the resurgence of leftist views in Japan. Faced with censorship woes – which his wartime films were usually subjected to – Kurosawa remained firm, capitalizing on his artistry as a filmmaker to convey a message on the “sacrifices in the struggle for freedom.”

No Regrets opens under idyllic pretenses with students whistling and singing, frolicking on grassy hills reminisce of those Julie Andrews pirouetted across in The Sound of Music, only smaller, and enjoying the simplicities of nature that seem to diminish as the film progresses. This majestic air of beauty and tranquility that our heroine Yukie seems to value more than politics and social issues is soon disrupted by gunfire, which excites Yukie, but worries her male cohorts; it’s 1933 and the Manchurian Incident has many students riled up in revolt. The setup for No Regrets parallels The Kyoto University Incident of 1932, where law professor Takigawa Yukitori was relieved of his teaching duties due to supporting Marxist philosophies; which led students to protest for academic freedom. In the film, Professor Yagihara (Denjiro Okochi) – largely inspired by Yukitori – faces suspension for advocating leftist views against fascism and, aligning with actual events, the students stage mass protests against the system.

In the midst of this conflict, Yukie finds herself juggling two suitors: Ryukichi Noge (Susumu Fujita), who’s driven by his ideals and is steadfast in putting an end to fascism, and Itokawa (Akitake Kono), who’s more reserved, subservient and adheres to the government’s practices. More inclined toward radical traits than those of a push-over yuppie, Yukie is wooed by Noge’s self-esteem and strong-willed nature so much that when he’s released from jail years later – for participating in an anti-militarist protest – and has noticeably changed into a caricature of Itokawa, she loses all interest in the man he's become. But after a romantic run-in with the former protester in Tokyo, she discovers that his ideals are still very much in tact.

Kurosawa offers an ample amount of characterization in No Regrets, more than any of his other films, and this isn’t merely hyperbole because Yukie’s search for selfhood is by and large – at least it should be – the standard for developing a character from the ground up. What’s most impressive is how Yukie feels that, as a woman, the only way to feel validated is to stand in the shadow of an enterprising man who takes risks rather than a pen-pusher who lacks ambition and bravado. The latter seems to be the case for Itokawa, who’s dull and bureaucratic, and upon realizing this, Yukie sets her eyes on Noge. Unlike Itokawa, Noge is capable of challenging Yukie, and although this intimidates her – “If I were to marry him, my life would blaze so brightly that I might be blinded” – she also finds it enticing. There’s little to gain intellectually from a relationship with Itokawa, but Yukie reveres Noge and settles to adapt to his principles, sponging up the zeal he exhibits so effortlessly. She’s a woman seeking growth and introspection, both of which she attains by the end of her relationship with Noge.

I’m usually transfixed by Kurosawa’s near-flawless direction and attention-to-detail, but here, it’s all about Setsuko Hara. Yukie's tale is one soaked in political messages – maybe even propaganda – but underlying all that is a story of individualism and empowerment. While the same documentary-style quality that riddled The Most Beautiful is apparent in the beginning of No Regrets, the way in which events ingeniously unfold puts to rest any doubts about Kurosawa's knack for storytelling. The final half of No Regrets is staggering because we’re finally introduced to an adult Yukie who displays a complete shift in character, and the way Hara bares herself emotionally on screen is utterly human, tragic, and makes for a monumental performance.

8.5/10

Heaven is overrated — there's nothing there

UNCLE BOONMEE WHO CAN RECALL HIS PAST LIVES (2010)

Not too long ago I took a gander at Citizen Dog, the gaudy, heavy-handed romance from Thai “New Wave” director Wisit Sasanatieng that was perhaps a few steps outside of my usual boundary of weirdness, but intriguing nonetheless. However – I brought this up in my review for Citizen Dog and I’ll mention it again here – there’s often a cultural barrier in films like Dog that protrudes front and center, preventing me from fully grasping the story’s sum and substance, and ultimately taking away from whatever the director is trying to get across. Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives – the slightly deceiving, but clever title from Apichatpong Weerasethakul – is my second venture into Thai film, and while I found myself hitting the same barrier that seems to be housing Buddhist customs and beliefs that are just beyond me, the contemplative tone of Boonmee is far more refreshing than Dog’s – although the two are quite different.

Since Boonmee won the prestigious Palme d'Or during this year’s Cannes Film Festival, I’ve been scanning through several articles about the film and its director, one in which Weerasethakul calls Boonmee a lamentation, one particularly aimed at the deterioration of cinema itself – but in a way, Weerasethakul is also lamenting on a more intimate level. From what I understand, Weerasethakul is a very personal filmmaker, so themes pertaining to his own life usually echo through his films. He’s also known for scrutinizing Western misconceptions of Thai culture. So with that bit of history, Boonmee becomes interesting, because one can then infer that a political message may have been tacked on behind the superfluous religious connotations, but that doesn’t seem to be what Weerasethakul’s going for here. Or does it?

The narrative structure of Boonmee itself is daunting, but not wholly unconventional. Uncle Boonmee (Thanapat Saisaymar) is nearing death, and upon reaching it is visited by his city slicker sister-in-law (Jenjira Pongpas) and her apathetic nephew (Sakda Kaewbuadee). But before meeting them, we’re momentarily introduced to an ox that may or may not be the vessel of one of Boonmee’s past lives. The unspoken angle of Boonmee is this: Uncle Boonmee, on his deathbed, is recalling his past “lives”, or – from my perspective – past memories of deceased wife Huay (Natthakarn Aphaiwong) and long-lost son Boonsong (Jeerasak Kulhong). Both have returned in – more or less – otherworldly forms to help Boonmee approach his fate peacefully.

The idea of Boonmee’s “past lives” translated as literal reincarnations is also touched on, but vaguely: specifically Boonmee as a catfish who performs cunnilingus on a disfigured princess; or is Boonmee the receiver in this vignette? Ultimately, the story meets the inevitable, but climaxes on two peculiar out-of-body experiences that hike up the film’s eerie, atmospheric tone and then proceeds to roll end credits against an unbefitting Thai pop song.

Cryptic as it may be, Boonmee has a message, and while it may reside within our own – perhaps flawed – theoretical conjectures, it’s there. Subjectivity reigns in this film to a sickening degree and it's truly absorbing. There’s so little to take from the characters themselves, but plenty offered in the film's pensive ambience. Usually when a film lacks character development it’s a failure in my book, but the characters here are – to be frank – dispensable; Boonmee’s governed by themes – the characters are merely tools used to propel those themes.

Weerasethakul’s introspective fantasy presents notions of loneliness and confinement, living and dying, all engulfed by whims of reincarnation and visions of talking catfish – making it appear more obscure and enigmatic than it needs to be, but fascinating enough to command your attention. For the most part, Boonmee is a cerebral piece on the human condition, and although it promotes dull protagonists and meanders along a fairly uneventful path, I relished the pleasure of actually being able to take something away from it.

7.5/10

The only person standing in your way is you

BLACK SWAN (2010)

I suppose audiences were drawn to melodrama during the Golden Age of cinema. Back when the big studios were just emerging, society craved the sort of histrionic kitsch we'd probably deem "dated" nowadays. These days it’s all about shock value and controversy; the raw elements of cinema. Personally, I’d take realism over formalism any day, but I do often miss those grandiose films of the postwar period – not to mention their over-the-top directors; Powell and Pressburger, specifically. In 1948, they released an impressive rendition of Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Red Shoes” that presented a stark, but vivid contemplation of ambition and obsession. That film, in my mind, is a masterpiece, because we’re immediately transported into a realm of mythos and intrigue that remains taut throughout, symbolic to a fault, has no bearing on reality whatsoever, yet still retains a timeless message.

Darren Aronofsky’s (Requiem for a Dream, The Wrestler) latest film Black Swan – which, in many ways is congruent with Red Shoes, but also dabbles in darker motifs parallel to Dostoyevsky’s “The Double” and other doppelganger folklore – is a little trickier. It’s like a potent cocktail mixed with shots of reality and fantasy that leaves behind an odd taste. Like Red Shoes, Black Swan follows an obsessed dancer who strains herself mentally by trying to perfect her craft. However, while Red Shoes is aware that virtually every frame is there to convey some form of melodramatic effect, Black Swan sort of wavers between laughable theatrics and heavier themes one would expect to find in an understated drama.

The framework of this film is bewildering. Aronofsky’s style and direction are near immaculate, but he really drops the ball when it comes to tone and delivery. But I’ll give him this: I can think of few directors who would handle such an unusual plight in the remarkably ominous way he has; and he almost pulls it off.

Swan is told through the eyes of Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman), a reserved, but inspired ballerina who yearns to be featured as the Swan Queen in her ballet company’s upcoming production of “Swan Lake”. Opportunity knocks when artistic director Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel) decides to give prima ballerina Beth MacIntyre (Winona Ryder) the ax in order to steer “Swan Lake” in a more contemporary direction. And in spite of her demure and “controlled” method, Leroy chooses to reward Sayers with the esteemed role of her dreams.

The actual production of “Swan Lake” entails that the soft-spoken ballerina master dual performances as both the innocent White Swan and her malicious twin sister, the Black Swan. When Sayers – who's apt and well-suited for the White Swan – encounters a dash of rivalry in newcomer Lily (Mila Kunis) – who exemplifies the Black Swan’s sensual characteristics – her resolve is put to the test. Facing pressure from her fanatical mother (Barbara Hershey), Leroy’s uncertainty, and her inferiority to Lily’s effortless carriage, Sayers begins to suffer from violent hallucinations that ultimately hinder preparations for her big debut.

To say Portman delivers one of the most vulnerable performances of the past decade would be an understatement. She absolutely carries this film by employing herself with the burdensome task of transforming Swan into a dark meditation on perfection and individualism. She fully embodies Nina Sayers, allowing the audience to interpret her coyness and introvert qualities as an inner struggle to balance the good and evil necessary to personify both swans. As Portman tries to tap into her dark side onstage, Aronofsky thrusts Nina into an eerie world outside of the ballet studio by incorporating disturbing visuals that harshly exaggerate the troubled ballerina’s plight.

Darkening the mood and providing leeway for Nina’s sexual awakening is Kunis’ unabashed Lily. Adequately performed, Kunis manages to convince us that she is the Black Swan that Nina seems ill-suited for. Surprisingly, she’s handed the most challenging role in the film – fence-straddling between Nina’s tainted view of Lily and the genuine, presumably harmless Lily – but for some reason, Kunis doesn’t seem to broaden the character at all; and that's counting seducing Nina in a scene that – believe it or not – felt a bit tame if not completely uninspired.

A definitive verdict for Black Swan is difficult to hand down because the film essentially transcends genre. Not since Tarkovsky’s Solaris have I had this much trouble classifying a film, and perhaps that can be taken as compliment. Aronofsky seems to know what Swan is going for – be it a raunchy b-movie or provocative drama – but it's never clarified. His use of steadicam amplifies the gritty worldview we see through Nina’s eyes, suggesting a visceral approach, but then we see Nina experiencing some questionable – even silly – hallucinations that highlight a good portion of the film. The score’s orchestral whimsy only further complicates defining the tone here, but of course, being undefined isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Thought-provoking, but not in the way one would – or should – expect, Black Swan is by no means a masterpiece, but a head-scratcher. Aronofsky's bizarre angle on this all-too-familiar tale hampered my ability to take away anything remotely profound from the film, but the way it’s handled – technically – is worth commending. It’s the skeleton of a far more daring piece that, in the hands of Lynch or even Haneke, could have been spellbinding, but Aronofsky proves more than adept in offering a satisfying thrill ride that certainly leaves an impression.

8/10