Black Swan is a hoot—even more so if one identifies Aronofsky with the haughty maestro who swans through the movie like a bobblehead cadaver—and compared to the ponderous pulp mysticism of The Fountain, Aronofsky’s suffocatingly self-important attempt to out-kibitz the Kabbalah, it’s surprisingly fluid. The wall-to-wall Tchaikovsky (and “Tchaikovsky”) certainly helps, but credit the filmmaker: Despite (or perhaps thanks to) his shock cuts, zap hallucinations, off-kilter framing, moody chiaroscuro, and repetitive creepiness, Black Swan is something like a 100-minute swoon. The camera lurches, leaps, and pirouettes; in some scenes, it feels as if it’s being tossed around the stage along with Portman. Kitsch this bombastic becomes something primal.
J. Hoberman om filmen Black Swan i Village Voice - ekstatisk velformuleret kritik med glitrende punchline
onsdag den 1. december 2010
Så bombastisk kitsch er primalt
Indsendt af Lars Bukdahl kl. 06.27
Etiketter: Black Swan, J. Hoberman, kritik
Abonner på: Kommentarer til indlægget (Atom)
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