Black and white

Imagine yourself internalizing a role as a villain. And taking it too far. And multiplying that a hundred times over. That’s ballerina Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman) in the new Darren Aronofsky (“Requiem for a Dream,” “The Fountain,” “The Wrestler”) film Black Swan.

Nina is about to step into the limelight in the lead role of her prestigious New York-based ballet company’s production of Swan Lake. Her role requires her to portray two roles as the Swan Queen: that of the innocent White Swan and that of the villainous Black Swan.

Here’s the plot of Swan Lake in the words of the ballet director, Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel): “We all know the story. Virginal girl, pure and sweet, trapped in the body of a swan. She desires freedom but only true love can break the spell. Her wish is nearly granted in the form of a prince, but before he can declare his love, her lustful twin, the black swan, tricks and seduces him. Devastated the white swan leaps off a cliff, killing herself and, in death, finds freedom.”

Thomas finds Nina to be the perfect White Swan, but rather too frigid to play the Black Swan. There’s a newcomer, Lily (Mila Kunis), who seems perfect for the sensual role. Nina is immediately threatened by Lily’s presence, and this insecurity colors her downward spiral with a darker hue.

Black Swan was marketed as a psychological thriller, and yes, I found it to be that, plus a slightly higher degree of disturbing. What I didn’t expect was the inward journey I also had to make while squirming in my seat as I watched Nina slowly and steadily unravel, both physically and mentally.

Before I go into that, let me just say that Black Swan is a beautiful movie. Apart from the ballet production scenes, Nina’s hallucination scenes are both breathtaking and frightening. Aronofsky is really good with images telling a story, and with images pulling viewers into an almost voyeuristic, if not participatory, role.

I don’t think I will ever look at my nails in the same way again. Nor a black feather. Nor a black swan, for that matter.

Anyhow, my biggest take home from the film was another exploration of the question that I had always asked myself in as a creative writing major in college: How far was I willing to go for my passions? What was I willing to sacrifice? Should it always be life versus art?

Many films, both good and average, have explored the idea of perfection in an artist’s life. I think this is more easily illustrated in movies about dancers. Not only are they supposed to have a different body (unlike other artists), they’re also supposed to be able to breathe soul into technique.Nina is shown as a perfectionist that needs to let go of her inhibitions. Thomas scoffs at her, “Perfection is not just about control. It’s also about letting go. Surprise yourself so you can surprise the audience. Transcendence! Very few have it in them.” Nina sets off to prove him wrong and dives deeper into darker facets of her personality.

But at what price? The unexpected ending spells it out for viewers.

Pondering the “life versus art” question, my friends in graduate school and I once said we would rather live happy lives than be immortalized as writers. Never mind that one great immortal art piece, so long as we had the love we wanted and the things we needed and a life well lived.

As if it were one or the other. As if it should be one or the other.

The biggest myth that artists buy is that art should have a price in the form of your life. I used to buy into that, given the long list of great artists, from dancers to filmmakers, with tragic lives and fulfilled artistic potentials.But watching Nina’s fall, I am sure I got it wrong.

Who’s say to say letting go means only unleashing or surrendering to danger and darkness? Why should art take over life? Why can’t one have both a beautiful life and create beautiful art?

It’s equally limiting, not to mention dangerous, to think in terms of black and white, of one or the other. We have life, we have art.

Nina dances a perfect dance. And then she is no more. No more Nina, no more dancer. No more life, no more dance. No more art.

And so, I conclude: Life is art.

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