After mathematical panic attacks, LSD excesses, Eso-funerals and steaming wrestling show the now fifth Aronofsky tried soul-stripping of the myth of sporting self-esteem between the extremes of art, which inevitably leads to delusions, slide apart to reality and fiction. Close to Cronenberg, close to Polanski, and yet so far from Cronenberg and Polanski. More like a loud narrow-gauge version in view of what is distilled the "extravagant" director of extravagant pirouettes Swan-fabric. He lets the Portman howl and whine and lean theatrical and despair and throw up while the camera is being stubborn and sticking to her hypnotic. Portman plays and dances for her life, which she interpreted credible despite some over-the-top faux pas, certainly. Cassel also shines, the choreography of the ballet scenes anyway. However rages in the background of the eternal craftsmen with the eternal mallet that leaves his crowded one-dimensional UXO action rumble licked as stereotyped as over tepid shocks physical body cinemas that are using mirrors, wet dreams and thundering sound din long enough announced previously. A sensuous passion for film that is not original or complex, or as exciting, not a film that has something left for nuanced reflection of its subjects, not a coherent medium-insights and identify any similar quest for formal perfection of its maker can such as Nina Sayers. Darren Aronofsky's intention is appropriately combined gross: Who wants to be good to masturbate, you must first properly.
4 / 10
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