Let me tell you the inescapable truth of a movie about ballet: it is as mind-blowingly dull as the real ballet.
There was once a time when it was fresh and exciting to make a movie where the audience was never really sure if the main character was crazy or if she actually inhabited a world where supernatural shit was par for the course. Back in an era where directors and writers actually had talent – a time I like to refer to as "pre-Bay" – a solid script could nail audiences to their seats with its subtle examination of the blurred lines between fantasy and reality.
Nowadays, the only thing nailing me to my seat is the six gallons of watered-down cola that I slurp from a kiddie pool-sized cup in an effort to stay away through utter garbage like "Black Swan." Let me tell you the inescapable truth of a movie about ballet: it is as mind-blowingly dull as the real ballet. In fact, it's worse, because at least while attending an actual ballet performance you might get to witness an anorexic stick figure snap his or her shin bone while landing a jump. No, movie ballet is much more like ice dancing, ballet's retarded Northern cousin, where nothing spectacular ever happens and at the end you can't believe someone's about to win a gold medal – or an Oscar – for something with so little artistic merit.
It's 2010. Black Swans just aren't that scary. Oh no! She might be transforming into a SWAN! Say that out loud and then try to tell me you don't feel ridiculous and embarrassed for director Darren Aronofsky. His entire career has been downhill ever since he filmed the "ASS TO ASS" scene in "Requiem for a Dream," an act which single-handedly increased the sales of double-ended dildos to the point where they outpaced those of the Bible.
I will say this about "Black Swan," however - it's not the most money I've ever spent to watch two ballerinas have sex. Those 20 seconds or so of Mila Kunis munching on Natalie Portman's cooter must have been the primary draw for more than half the audience, because after I had ceased my own discrete rustlings under my stained black trench coat I noticed that the majority of the audience was gone.
Actually, in truth I had passed out after Portman and I achieved our first mutual orgasm, and I was only roused from my post-arousal somnolence by the sticky poke of a janitor's broom. Which explained why the theatre was empty, but not why the policeman standing beside him was wearing rubber gloves and telling me to close my eyes and think of England. Good advice, as I would soon find out.
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