Review of "Black Swan"

Darren Aronofsky's new film Black Swan asks many questions, but they all fold and flourish into one: how far is too far? As the blossoming star of a production of Swan Lake, ballerina Nina (Natalie Portman) follows her art and passion to the edge of sanity, and possibly beyond. That's a fascinating enough premise, but Black Swan offers much more. The film itself rushes headlong to the precipices of illusion, camp, horror, and every sort of sensory delight. Its triumph is that it goes only just that far — far enough to thrill but not to fall.

I'm not going to comb over the plot of Black Swan, because the plot is no more or less important than the cinematography, soundtrack, acting, lighting, and every other element that makes a movie visionary. For me, that's really the key: Aronofsky gets his clear, strong vision across, so effectively that you're not quite sure what's happened to you but you're pretty sure you liked it. That delicious disorientation is what Nina herself experiences. She's not exactly a reliable narrator, so it's impossible to say what really happens in the movie. It's almost irrelevant to say what's real, because a Black Swan delusion is much richer and infinitely more rewarding than the everyday truth.

"Rich" is not a big enough word for the visuals of this film. Exhortations such as "sumptuous" and "dazzling" apply but don't quite describe — you really have to see it to believe it. From the careful control of the black-and-white costumes and sets to the explosion of sound and sight that is Nina's final performance, Black Swan floods your senses and fills your mind, daring you to breathe or move. This is what the medium of film aspires to: a conquering, a transporting, a fullness — a complete life that is completely different from yours.

That flung-open window into the life of a dancer is a big part of my appreciation for Black Swan. I've never wanted to be a ballerina. Grace and poise aren't exactly salient characteristics of mine, and there's music in my soul but not in my shoes. But I've always admired professional dancers, in part because I'm stunned by the agony of their art. No matter how good you are or how hard you work, physical pain and the inevitable heartbreak of aging are always waiting in the wings. Black Swan exposes that brutality and even relishes it — this is the price, it suggests, of transcendence. The only way out of the physical form is through anguish, and when Nina gets there, she's bloodied and bruised but glowing and alive.