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Notes on Camp: Black Swan

I wanted to wait for Black Swan to be available on DVD before I wrote about it for this column for two reasons: 1) I wanted to be able to spend some more time with it in the comfort of my own home (re: drunk). 2) I wanted everyone that would see it to see it, so that I could spoil the shit out of it. I figure by the time this goes up everyone that has the inkling to watch Black Swan has had ample fucking opportunity to do so – it was in theater all winter and for most of the spring, and is now available on DVD, Blu(e?)Ray, OnDemand, Vudu, Pay-Per-View, iTunes, and illegally all over the InterwebZ. You have no excuse for missing it at this point, and I will proceed with this post as though you have seen it.

The Camp aspects of Black Swan are far from subtle. Many writers and reviewers with far superior credentials than me have brought them up, but usually in a way that over intellectualizes them – some kind of film theory, Camp-as-high-Art-with-a-capital-A argument that negates what fun it all is! I laughed more and harder during Black Swan than any other movie last year. Not always out of happiness, mind you, sometimes out of queasiness or fear, but mostly, thankfully, because it’s so fucking over-the-top I had no choice, and I believe this was entirely intentional.


A few scattered thoughts I jotted down while I watched it again:


Whether or not Natalie Portman deserved an Oscar for her sweaty, screeching meltdown of a performance is not a matter I’m interested in pursuing (*coughJenniferLawrencecough*), but I won’t deny that homegirl goes for broke. Nothing in her resume could have prepared me for this – a classic Victorian hysteric thrust into the cutthroat world of 21st century deconstructionist ballet Polanski rip-offs; The Yellow Wallpaper with tutus. It’s been said for years that Portman is some kind of genius child prodigy – Jodie Foster for nerds, but for the life of me I can’t think of a performance of hers that struck me as actually good, and not just better than average. Garden State makes me die inside, Closer is absolutely interminable, and The Professional was made far too long ago to count towards her adult vita. Black Swan made me aware for the first time just how vital she could be.


Nina’s constant scratching and skin peeling doesn’t bother me as much as it does others – I’m a nail biter, so the tips of my fingers are usually swollen and bleeding more than hers ever do.


Vincent Cassel’s hidden-meaning explanation machine of a choreographer functions as a mirror image of Ellen Page’s character in Inception. Instead of an audience surrogate, he is constantly explaining the subtext of every plot point. So much for subtlety.


Line of the century: “He always said you were such a frigid little girl, what did you do to change his mind…? Did you suck his COCK??!” Why isn’t Winona in every movie? SRSLY.


Blu(e?) Ray conversion makes Portman’s face replacement a little more obvious than the grainy digital projection I saw in the theater, but she’s still about 300% more competent at fake-ballet than I am .


Why doesn’t Lilly ever put her fucking hair into a bun? Doesn’t it make her crazy to have it always stuck to her face when she dances?


Winona (FOREVER) Ryder’s 5-minute performance as Beth is what seals the deal. She somehow manages to be scary, hilarious and sad all in what amounts to little more than a cameo. I can say without hesitation that I have never gasped louder than when she stabs herself in the face with a nail file.


Barbara Hershey looks… (how do I say this politely?) different than she used to – her face is somewhat Asian looking.


Finally, some math: Mila Kunis / Gina Gershon as Natalie Portman / Elizabeth Berkley as Vincent Cassel / Kyle MacLachlan as Darren Aaronofsky / Paul Verehoeven. This much is true.


Ryan