THE FOUNTAIN

THE FOUNTAIN
Written and Directed by Darren Aronofsky

There's something to be said about artistic hubris. On one end of the spectrum, it is a driving force to better one's craft, to keep pushing boundaries, to advance the mediums in which we work. The other end of the spectrum drives the artist to levels of erudite arrogance, leading the artist to believe that they see something beyond the mere mortal.

I felt both ends of the spectrum watching Darren Aronofsky's THE FOUNTAIN. Aronofsky is an artist I greatly admire, and I was both impressed and shocked with the direction he has taken his art. Ultimately, I have to view the film as an artistic success, but an intellectual misfire.

Set over a period of 1000 years, THE FOUNTAIN is the story of one couple, spread over three incarnations. In each incarnation, one of the lovers faces the threat of death, and the other is charged with the responsibility of saving their life. The responsibility is not out of obligation, but rather eternal love and the avoidance of the inevitable pains of separation.

The first of the stories is set during the Spanish Inquisition, wherein the Queen of Spain (Rachel Weisz) charges her young conquistador Tomas (Hugh Jackman) with the task of finding the Tree of Life, which has been uprooted from the Garden of Eden to an undisclosed location within the Mayan forests. The tree is the key to the defeat of the Inquisition, and the lock that will seal the love of the Queen and the conquistador forever.

The second story is set in modern times in an undisclosed location, where neurological scientist Thomas (Jackman, again) is fighting time to discover a cure for brain cancer, which his beloved wife Izzy (Weisz) is terminally stricken with. A mysterious substance lends promise to Izzy, but in case the cure is not found, she charges Thomas with the task of completing her novel, which is completed save for the last chapter.

The third story is set in the 26th century, again in an undisclosed location. We see Tom (Jackman, lastly), head shaven and practicing tai chi, floating in a transparent orb that contains a small island and a singular tree. Tom speaks to the baobob and chews on its bark, promising it that everything will be fine. The orb hurtles through space, heading toward a golden light in the distant ether.

The constant theme here is the personal agony of loss, and Aronofsky is relentless in his assault of tears, groans, and frustration. This is a immensely sad picture, one that touches upon the universal fear of losing those we love most. As a theme it is relevant, but the constructs surrounding it are so intellectually overwrought, despite the fact that they are achingly beautiful to look at.

The design of this film is immaculate. Cinematographer Matty Libatique envelopes the film in darkness, punctuating form with sharp blades of incandescent light. The art direction is inspired, reconstructing the past and the present in monolithic shapes and dead tones, and pulling futurescapes seemingly inspired by one half Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's illustrations, and the other half from the liner notes of a Tool album. That's a good thing.

After taking in the aesthetics of the picture, including its handsome leads, we're then unfortunately bludgeoned with the preening pseudo-intellectualism of Aronofsky's bulky script. The principles and logic, while played as sophistication, are in actuality rather elementary. Behind the impressive quoting of Mayan mythology, historical references, and metaphysical posturing lies the base theme that everything must die. Oh, and love lives forever. Well, okay.

I guess watching THE FOUNTAIN gave me the feeling of reading a Wikepedia article on something I vaguely knew about, and after reading the article I know I should be smarter, but in some way I feel I've been had. I've learned nothing new, and there's something hollow about the summarization. It's kind of like saying the Cliff Notes version of Macbeth is better and more accurate than the actual book. And the real turnoff is that Aronofsky and his cast and crew are so committed to believing in the greater, deeper meaning of the film that they come off as silly. It's like a kid watching a puppy being born, and then making the assumption that he knows all there is to know about sex. The filmmakers take intellectual molehills and turn them into preening, foolish mountains, and they read into the perceived complexity of their subject way too much.

I have no doubts that Aronofsky is a brilliant man- his films PI and REQUIEM FOR A DREAM are some of the smartest works I've seen, and the praise for his intelligence has been universal. But perhaps he's bought a bit too much into the praise, and forgotten the one tenant that constitutes a great artist or scientist: curiosity. It's the acceptance of not knowing anything at all, of wanting to discover. THE FOUNTAIN postures to know it all, and thinks that it's our privilege to see it for the first time and stand in its awe.

Alas, I don't think my hubris would allow that.

Filmcraft: ACTING LESSON WITH NICOLE KIDMAN

As a director it is my responsibility to give my actors the best tools and information I can for them to make informed choices about their characters. There are several components to this- back story, spine, allegory, and relativity among others. A skilled actor has the intellectual and observational capacity to draw on their life experiences or the experiences of others to extract the truth of the moment from said information. It is a skill that requires courage and panache- the actor is baring her emotions and inner demons to the public, which is terrifying, and she must also deliver the truth in a way that is compelling. It's too easy to act through histrionics and hand gesticulation- the best actors make choices that are subtle, choices that don't involve dialogue, screaming or tears. They use the only instrument they have- their bodies- and they use it masterfully.

Now I've seen many great performances by many great actors who employ this art, but over and over again I return to this particular performance by Nicole Kidman in the film BIRTH as the paramount example of the actor's craft.

BIRTH, directed by Jonathan Glazer, was an uneven film and based on a wobbly script, but it is worth a watch for Kidman's performance. Hers is an exercise in subtlety, of demonstrating the small physical choices that an actor must make to tell a story in the most compelling and affecting way possible. It is an amazing performance, and worthy of our time and study.

Before you view this clip of the film, here's a little back story. Kidman plays Anna, a New York socialite who has been struck with a tremendous tragedy- her young husband, Sean, has died. Time passes, and Anna attempts to move on in a new life and love, when suddenly a mysterious young boy shows up and wishes to speak to Anna. He tells her that he is Sean. Naturally, Anna dismisses the boy, but the boy begins to reveal truths of her relationship with Sean that only she and her deceased husband would know. She still refuses to believe the boy, as she cannot accept whatever supernatural logic that may be at play.

In this scene Anna goes to the opera with her lover. She is still contemplating the boy, as to whether or not he is really her dead husband. Watch:



Quite an unusual shot, no?

If you have come this far, try watching the clip again, this time placing yourself within the mindset of the character. Look at the small, subtle choices that Kidman makes, and be aware that we are privy to the transition of her thoughts.

We begin with Anna's complete distraught and disbelief that her husband may very well be alive in the body of a child. She is confused, maligned, torn between reality and possibility.

We then see her move to reasoning, forcing logic to conform to what she wants most- for her beloved husband to be alive again. She is in the process of convincing herself, of rewriting science and philosophy.

Finally, we see acceptance- she is willing to believe her new logic. There is relief and anticipation- she wants to see Sean again. She looks off to the side, no longer interested in the opera or the company of her lover. She has found love again, and she wants to be there.

Imagine the complexity of piecing this performance together, of what Kidman had to draw upon to expose herself to such raw emotion with a camera right in her face, recording every tic and gesture. If you don't think this is difficult, stand in front of a mirror and try acting out the progression I've just described, without saying a word. It's frustrating as hell to pull it off successfully.

Kidman puts equity in small nuances because she understands the format. She is in extreme close-up with a wide lens, so she knows that even the smallest movement will translate huge on the screen. She shows remarkable restraint, limiting her movement to her mouth and eyes, conveying confusion and discovery with instinctual reactions.

And that's the key word here- reaction. Kidman is not acting out the process of information, she's reacting to it, just as you or I would were we to be in such a predicament in real life. She allows herself to be emotionally available to the information presented to her by the director and the script- she's not judging the information, rather she's allowing it to attack her. This requires tremendous vulnerability and trust, and is indicative of the bond between actor and director, and the actor and the material.

The lesson imparted here for both actors and directors is the faith in instincts, or the ability to react to information truthfully and honestly. One cannot argue with the truth, and when it is parlayed so convincingly and so naked, it speaks to all of us in a universal fashion. We cannot help but be moved by it. Once mastered and understood, it is an art whose power is rivaled by few.

Nicole Kidman won Oscar praise for her myriad other performances, but it is this performance that shows her skill. As a director I am humbled to see acting like this, and it gives me something to strive for. To me, there is no greater joy than seeing actors execute at the height of their powers. It is a rush unlike any other, both for the performer and we the audience. We need more of it.