Black Swan ( Black Swan , 2010, Darren Aronofsky)
Equipped with the true gift that makes every thinker to generate ideas that nourish or challenge the present, Pierre Bourdieu contributed to literary theory with its concept of the literary field. When you look at the last work of Darren Aronofsky, perhaps the best and most defensible, recalls Bourdieu and is tempted to paraphrase the French and speak of a "cinematographic field." So everyone assumes that Aronofsky, the child of the aristocratic posh Hollywood is willing to steal (or take the mainstream) views and ideas in Perfect Blue (1998, Satoshi Kon) or, worse, to ensure prestige in what is only a variation of Suspiria ( 1977, Dario Argento). In any case, one is reminded of Harold Bloom and what he called, precisely against these ideas, schools of resentment. As Bloom and Bourdieu, antagonistic but perfectly compatible, I share this skepticism to relativism. In the film there are scenes similar to those of Deep Red (Profondo Rosso , 1975), yet in the film, Argento does not care about the changes rather vacuous with Hitchcock but raw style. I do not question himself Argento film, but the boring cliches and relativism to accept only high culture require widespread misconceptions. Argento is not an artist at the height of Hitchcock, and this is a movie too complex, however, both as Argento Aronfosky stylists are two bright, two filmmakers with an overwhelming talent. These ironies can only arise from the aesthetics of reception and need to see Black Swan as an unusual piece of virtuoso, capable of being misinterpreted as a piece in a war at all boring and sterile.
Aronfosky film refers, in fact, Argento, Polanski also the firstborn (the repulsion, mainly), there are even some pro-French in their first, vivid drawings, a probable influence of the Dardenne brothers also addicted to the aesthetics of grain and direct. But Aronfosky is essentially a fertile ground for Hollywood's imagination, that of The Red Shoes and All About Eve , passed through a sieve, certainly bizarre, but nothing more. In this perspective, the only thing contemptible the film is predictable and underlined its excess, sometimes too obvious. But the interpretation of Natalie Portman, away from the usual mimesis in post-Streep actresses and closer to Grace Kelly, with a thin contrasting fragility and brutal anger and Aronofsky address do the rest. It is curious that after telling her story of self-destruction in key drug addict, in key and key metaphysical hyper, Aronofsky is in the ballet its artifice less forced or excuse to shine without fuss or predictable and forced moralists generic tolls.
are right Alberto Haj-Saleh and Noel Ceballos when comment that this film is a variation of The Wrestler, the former film director. Curiously, the film starring Mickey Rourke was the most admired of its director, rightly criticized, but so contrived as the rest. Most alarming was, of course, the alleged ease with which the topics on the American heartland were accepted more easily because they had been reused by other movies, like a kind full of notes required before a real artistic challenge. But for me there is one essential difference: while the neo-realism requires absolutely free poetry and difficult, this opera will move to the baroque visual sophistication, rises through the proposed fracture Aronofsky, gently breaking each shot sequence as its protagonist's mind falls apart and reaching a climax in which its form has found its most beautiful, bizarre, almost unbelievable, expression: the silent death and dramatic, emphatic and overacted, that of a crazy as last (and perhaps only) border is the body. That is, the quintessential and most interesting expression of what Aronofsky has tried virtually the rest of his filmography.
