A Black Swan, 3 White Swans and a whole load of regret.
Black on White. White on Black. Reflections. Mirror Images. Perfection. Obsession. 3 missing swans. Missing 3 swans.
Black on White. White on Black. Reflections. Mirror Images. Perfection. Obsession. 3 missing swans. Missing 3 swans.
It’s exactly 10 months to the day since the “Grand Old Lady of Pompey” AKA Maureen, AKA my dear old Mum, departed for universes anew and hopefully a sly whiskey and lemonade with a man called Patrick. The lovebirds had been apart for 35 years so I hope they’ve drained a bottle or three in the course of reacquainting themselves and are exploring the infinity of the great beyond, the unknowable, the unreportable and the inevitable and undeniable. My Mum was bowled a “googly” in 1986 and “played and missed” a lot in the following 35 years but at 85 she’d had a “good innings” and that’s where we’ll leave the cricket analogies now, even for one of it’s avid, and perhaps unlikeliest, of passionate fans.
I’ve written a eulogy (of sorts) for my Dad and I’ll link it below if I remember, but I can’t produce the same for my dear old Mum because I still refer to her as my “dear old Mum”. It’s all still too raw, even typing those three simple words of “dear old Mum” gets me going, let alone hearing snippets of songs from Roy Orbison or Luciano Pavarotti. Or how she’d be so pleased “my Ronnie” plays for Manchester United again, or that Boris Johnson is “That Bleeder!” and is your car road worthy Stephen? And have I been eating? How’s Joshua? Oh how he towered over me Stephen! “Made me feel like a midget!”. It’s the silly stuff I miss, the unique individual that was my Mum. That cantankerous old crow with a heart of gold. The person so comfortable within her own skin yet still crying out for the reassurances from another. She was a bag of contradictions was my Mother and the apple fell from her tree hitting me squarely on the head on the way down, a mother’s son and a father’s pride and I don’t grieve for her. Not really.
I just blooming well miss her.
It’s the finality in a grieving process that’s the hardest, certainly for your humble narrator. So I am grieving but in a far different way than in 1986 and the torrid years that followed. I just miss the basic fact of life, and indeed death, that my telephone is never going to ring again and show a simple “Mum” on the visual display and she’s never going to leave a voicemail (and the only one she ever, and always, left!) which was “Stephen, it’s Mum. Just ringing up to see how you are. Bye!”. If you knew my Mum you’d read that simple sentence in a far different way, believe me!
No more calls. No more playful bickering over football. No more routine sketches as I asked about everyone in the family. No more enquiries into a grandson she adored. No more jokes reserved only for her. No more cheery “I love yous” even if we’d talked the other down and cheered them up. It’s the finality that kills.
So it’s been a rubbish two weeks leading up to this point as she has really dominated my thoughts more and more. So I’ve raised the defensive shield and written an insane amount of blogs in a vain effort to stop thinking of her and here I am, thinking of her.
In 5 days time it’ll be exactly a year since I last saw my dear old Mum and being my Mother’s Son the contradictions rise as normally I’m useless with dates and figures (Birthday’s and Ages mean absolutely nothing to me), but here I am, thinking of the person I’m trying not to think about and remembering exact days and months in a cyclical morass of calendar days that mean absolutely nothing to me ordinarily. Maybe the White Swan is talking to me, the Black Sheep, sorry, Swan, as for some bizarre reason this was the last film we ever watched together, 361 days ago and a film that’s hardly “afternoon matinee” material! But there we were, Mum, my oldest sister Yvonne and I, sipping tea and squirming at the overtly sexual scenes, jumping at the jagged edited scares and generally breathing a huge sigh of relief when the film was over. “It’s all about obsession Mum”, I may have said. I may have also said the film was also all about the juxtapositions between the white and black, a Mother/Daughter story perhaps, achieving perfection despite the costs or just the flat out obsessions that pervade all of the films of the director, Darren Aronofsky. Despite being completely agreeable to my selection from her DVD shelf, after the film Mum was all rather nonplussed about the whole thing. She wrinkled her nose and said a simple “Nah”.
That was my Mum!
A grand old lady. A misunderstood misanthrope. The best of us.
Below is a review I wrote many years ago for the film Black Swan, then I’ll conclude this brief tale with a couple more white swans.
“I just want to be perfect”.
The metamorphosis of the pure, virginal white swan into her evil black swan twin is the insignia for Aronofsky’s fifth film set against a continuing visual motif of white on black throughout and a day in, day out striving for perfection in this brilliant psychological thriller. From the simple premise of casting for Tchaikovsky’s ballet Swan Lake we follow a similar theme of obsession and perfection which is brilliantly juxtaposed in a horror/psychological drama that never relents and although following a linear narrative always reinforces a darker, obsessive side to many characters.
Written by Mark Heyman, Andres Heinz and John McLaughlin, however it was Aronofsky’s original idea of a relationship between a Wrestler and a Ballerina that spawned both The Wrestler and Black Swan and is perhaps why they both share the obvious theme of dedication and obsession to their art but more importantly is perhaps the physical toll exacted on these perfectionists. Both films showcase this but importantly they both portray the psychological and physiological breakdowns brought on by their obsession. Whereas in The Wrestler we see an aged Wrestler trying to recapture his glory days in a failing body, here the close ups are of a frail, tender and young “Nina Sayers” (Natalie Portman) rigorously training at every available opportunity, foregoing the delights of a normal diet and indeed a normal, regular life to achieve her dream. The close ups are of the excruciating pain ballerinas go through to achieve a nubile and flexible body, the constant pressure on their legs and feet (forever shot in close up) and whereas The Wrestler depicts camaraderie between the professionals, here there is intense competition to be the best, to stand out amongst a high calibre field of your contemporaries and never settling for being a member of the cast.
The film quickly and expertly shines a light onto an art form that requires intense dedication and preparation with nothing left to chance. New ballet shoes are worn in, scored and taped together, routines are meticulously repeated over and over again pushing Nina and her contemporaries immediately to the boundaries of physical exhaustion, yet each spare minute is framed with Nina posing, posturing and dreaming of being chosen as the White Swan, or Swan Queen. The white on black motif is never more starkly portrayed than in “Lily” (Mila Kunis) a contemporary of Nina’s who despite being the newest member of the cast quickly becomes the most popular and eventual double for her. The doppelganger motif is immediately evident but it’s Lily’s free spirited verve and ever smiling persona that juxtaposes against Nina’s more rigid determination to succeed and achieve perfection. Lily is simply everything that Nina should be but isn’t. Nina is technically brilliant but as punishing Teacher “Thomas Leroy” (Vincent Cassel) is often shown in the background, she needs to “let go” and be herself. Technically adept at being the White Swan, he doubts her ability to encompass the raw passion and intensity of the Black Swan, the merging of the majesty of the virginal white swan with the dark intensity and free spirit of her twin.
Aronofsky’s camera work is immediately to the fore from the opening scene onward and as with The Wrestler he again frames the majority of his star(s) performances close up with a Steadicam that immerses you in the dance and the exacting routines. His constantly moving camera brilliantly brings to life a highly technical and choreographed art with a signature circular camera move often employed. Black Swan saw Aronofsky finally acclaimed with an Oscar nomination for Best Director and rightfully so alongside a well deserved nomination for regular Cinematographer Matthew Libatique and Editor Andrew Weisblum. The film itself was also nominated at the 2011 Oscars for Best Film, however only Natalie Portman won for her incredible portrayal as Nina Sayers for Best Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role. Both Mila Kunis and Vincent Cassel were cruelly overlooked for their accomplished portrayals, as was Barbara Hershey for her performance as Nina’s exacting and tireless Mother “Erica Sayers”. Costume Designer Amy Westcott also deserved higher recognition for her sterling work.
Amongst many stand out supporting roles across a large cast of ballerinas is a crucial cameo role from Winona Ryder as “Beth Macintyre”. In support of these fantastic roles is another musical score from regular collaborator Clint Mansell, but here unsurprisingly the weight is left with the superb original pieces of music from the ballet itself and a thumping Chemical Brothers interlude in a nightclub that brilliantly surrounds a hedonistic, drug fuelled night of passion, of letting go, and the beginnings of Nina’s final transformation to the Black Swan.
Coming full circle from his debut film Pi, this film owes a tremendous debt to Aronofsky’s black and white debut film and whilst more stylish and accomplished than it’s earlier predecessor, this takes the psychological horror to a new, oblique level. Here the film excels, away from the obsessive desire for perfection and away from characters that are so enveloped in achieving this halcyon position of nirvana they reject anything and everything else to achieve it. The film is wrapped in a metamorphosis from virginal white to dark and sinister black. Nina is dedicated to the extreme but always overlooked by an overbearing Mother who is always dressed in black. Their apartment is white on black throughout and seemingly everywhere Nina turns she sees this reflection on her, black against white, white on black. Nina is forever in white or light pastel coloured clothing juxtaposed against Lily, her Ballet Mistress, Thomas and even Beth, all of whom are dressed in dark or mainly black clothing.
The film also excels as Nina’s transformation becomes complete as both her body and her mind transform to encompass both the white and black swan. Early on she passes herself in a railway station (the film’s signature first overt clue) and the railway station is continually used (as with Pi) as a narration point for her physical decline. Reflections in windows immediately provide more black/white motifs, as do awkward encounters on the train or a brief early glimpse of Lily in another train carriage, white on black, black on white constantly recurring. There are subtle psychological touches as the film progresses through to overt and outlandish touches of greatness in a pulsating last Act that spoilers will not allow me to divulge!
Brilliant performances from Natalie Portman, Mila Kunis, Vincent Cassel and Barbara Hershey in particular propel this 108 minute gem of a film that although not a personal favourite of mine relies heavily on the Director’s first, best and most challenging film. From Pi to Black Swan in five brilliant films. Full circle?
That’ll be 3.14 recurring, round and round, black on white, white on black. Round and round.
I hope you enjoyed that brief cinematic interlude!
I adore Black Swan a lot more than when I wrote that initial review 7/8 years ago and not just because of the recent link to my dear old Mum. I’m a film geek on the quiet and I used to write a lot of reviews in yet another of my own obsessions, compulsions and passion projects that completely consume me at times. The director of Black Swan is Darren Aronofsky and he’s one of a multitude of directors whom I obsess over in terms of their central themes, motifs and through lines that are bathed within their films. As already noted, his films are soaked to the skin in compulsions, obsessions, perfection and the huge personal toll this can exact from his central characters, both physically and mentally too.
So it’s all the more bizarre that this film should be the last we watched together and indeed anything of any real substance that we did together, before I boarded the Hogwarts Express to journey back to my own Neverland. We played cards as we always did. It was a tradition of sorts and I graciously lost the occasional game of “Trumps”. We laughed. She shone like a beacon as I showed her pictures of her now very grown up Grandson. She tottered on the walking frame and I feared for the eventual fall that was coming in the Christmas mail. I left for the train station as I always did, reluctant to close the front door, a promise to ring to confirm I’d arrived “home” safely, and in floods of childish tears.
I miss that white swan and I miss the other two white swans in my life too. It was 15 short years ago that all three of these majestic ladies and white swans attended the Royal Albert Hall in London for a production of Madam Butterfly and in a day that my dear old Mum kept remarking “This is the best day ever Vivienne, thank you”. My Mum wasn’t that forthcoming with such displays of overt emotion but she was this day, as recalled by the aforementioned Vivienne, my sister, just a few months ago. She was effusive in how our Mum repeated this line of thanks over, and over again. It was the best day of her life, or certainly the post Patrick years, and a character we’ll codename “Buns” also reinforced this, as well as remembering that Vivienne was “Mum” that day and forever fretting over whether our dear old Mum was ok, enjoying herself, at ease, not overwhelmed by being in the Royal Albert Hall, and just generally making a right Royal fuss of her. Memories eh?
A very precious, human commodity.
I always aspired to be like my sister Vivienne (Viv for short) and her wisecracking, soft hearted husband Steve. I’m the baby of my family by an adult generation so everyone in the family naturally seemed mature to this perennial 14 year old teenager, but Viv always seemed a step or two ahead in the maturity stakes with my other sisters, and Viv and Steve also both showed me that life existed outside of my hometown, that there was life after 1986 and they both scowled at the real teenage me whenever I refused to eat something “exotic”.
Like curry!
But I’ve always admired my “Bruv and Sis” and for a 2/3 year spell I really aspired to be somewhat like them and I somewhat succeeded too before the idealist and daydreamer returned and probably pissed off “Buns” in the process.
I miss these ladies even though I saw one of them two months ago and I saw the other yesterday! But that trite sentence doesn’t even begin to describe the degree to which I use the word “miss”. I miss my sister glowing as she talked about our Dad, the smile she reserved for the story of a very little me falling in a much larger pond and the laughter as she recalled being mistaken for my Mum as she pushed me around in a pushchair as a baby. Buns? Well, we have a bond (whether she likes it or not!), a lot of years and a beautiful son, and we try to be separately responsible as good, nurturing parents. One of us succeeds! And I “miss” her in ways that only make sense in my tiny teenage, obsessive (and occasionally compulsive) mind. Apart from being a general arse (and a misunderstood Mother’s Son), there’s one other crystal clear reason why I’ll continue to “miss” codename “Buns” even though I see her every other day. And that’s a very simple, if cliched, old fashioned phrase that nobody else can “hold a candle to her”. If you’re aware of the expression, you’ll get what I mean. If you don’t, well perhaps you’re somebody else’s candle and if you are, I salute you.
Black Swans. White Swans. Obsessions. Compulsions. Perfections. Fallibilities. Frailties. Reflections. Memories. Legends. Myths. Candles.
And those to whom no-one can come close to their flickering flame.
For Buns. For Vivienne. And for Maureen.
My Dad in a Field of Dreams
and why I can’t watch a silly baseball film about baseball that isn’t about baseballmedium.com
“I gotta go see about a girl”
Good Will Hunting, the comedic genius of Robin Williams, and how I stole his line.medium.com
My Hometown
and how the return of the prodigal son was a success despite the anxiety demons lurking on my shouldersmedium.com