February 21, 2011

An Ass Crack in the Sky

Before I begin my posts that’s basically a carbon copy of my previous, self-defecating, and ingratiating rants, I’d like to begin to talk about how awesome Black Swan was. I saw the film a couple of weeks ago with girlfriend and was just waiting an opportune time to review it in this blog.

Holy hell, did this movie deliver! Darren Aronofsky comes up with some of the most arresting stuff seen in cinema, both stylistically and essentially, and he was able to conjure beautifully haunting moments that leave you breathless. I, for one, am not too sure of the Kafkaesque elements that were plastered throughout the course of the film, but I generally dug the whole psychological violence that laid the blueprint for the stunning finish, or at least that’s the impression I got from watching the film.

What separates Mr. Aronofsky to others in terms of craft is not only the dedication to detail and strength of storytelling from beginning to end, but it is only how he leaves the door open for critical study of his work, whether it be on an academic setting or just small talk at the office water cooler. Really, if you think you got Requiem for a Dream or have understood the beautiful sadness of The Wrestler (for which I also wrote a substantial review on my previous blog), then you’re sadly mistaken. Sure, you may have glimpse portions of its beauty and sublimity, but as a whole? Judging from the film’s transcendence from its impetuous climax, which left me at the throes of speculation and wonder as to the number of the truck that just hit my senses at full speed, it’s safe to say that the consumption and regurgitation of Black Swan as an entirety, along with timeless works of art, is a monumental impossibility. I applaud you, sir.

I have never met a person who didn’t like Natalie Portman. Even more surprising is that I never have heard a person who lusts over her physical beauty, like the way boys whack off their dicks at every Megan Fox sighting or awkward teenage girls offer their fannies to Justin Bieber. With Ms. Portman, an unequivocal number of people like her, have a crush on her, found her adorably sensational, or all of the above. (Up to this very day, I, for one, am guilty on all accounts).

Black Swan only amplifies the love for Ms. Portman as her charged performance, in particular, the transformation from a fragile white swan to the dangerous and seductive black, was the culmination of the promise that she hinted in Anywhere But Here, which I consider her finest thespian outing until her flawless achievement with Black Swan usurped this idea. Also, despite the overt sexuality of Black Swan, I feel that her risqué moments in the film did not change my views towards Ms. Portman as an untouchable, otherworldly woman impervious to sexual fantasies. This is a good thing, I think, unless my penis betrays me.

Although I would not recommend Black Swan to all, I sincerely believe that any discerning viewer out there, regardless of how casual  you may appear to be, after watching the film, will undress is details into its bare essentials in their memories again and again. By then, everybody will have deemed it worthy of their time.

Which brings to me, and perhaps the start of this entry’s downward spiral to crapdom.

February, regardless of how much I try to make it a good month, always manages to find a way to screw me, both physically and mentally. Not to get into the dreadful specifics of my life, but nothing’s going according to plan. All the pep talk I wrote on previous entries of this blog for the purpose of reminding me to stick to my goals for this year and never letting them go are merely words emptied by my inability to actually substantiate them into reality.

A couple of years ago, especially after college graduation, I was having a blast, a renaissance of sorts, because I got to finally get free from the prison of academic institution and into the world of office hierarchies and jolly jeeps. And after years of searching with the aid of people who I met in my professional career, I subconsciously have finally found who I really am and what my role is in this world.

Right now, however, everything’s a hot goddamn mess. The lines between self and other is blurred as I found myself treading the Other side, pretending to be something else, which I’m really not. But because of repetition and pigheadedness, I may have become something that I didn’t bargained for before. I am fully aware that there is a great part of me that is conscious of my uneventful transformation, but just like the greatness of Black Swan, destiny just sweep you off your feet as you land on the back of your head, paralyzing you until blood trickles from your neck and into the pavement. You immediately lose your life, your joie de vivre. Until I do something about this, I’m about to.

But why? I’m tired, man. I want to take a breather, just sit, enjoy the company of loved ones, and not worry about studying for school, reaching ideal works in my work at home, and other things I’d rather not reveal here. It’s a pain, I tell you.

To end this entry, I’ll play Dr. Phil here and give you golden nuggets of advice that you should take with you in your life moving forward. First, NEVER take MA classes unless you’re fucking sure what you want to get out from it. I assumed I knew, and right now, I’m miserable. Second, learn how to divide your personal from your professional life if you’re working from home. ‘Nuff said.


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