Murdered by Flowers

A second old blog I saved from my MySpace account.

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Murdered by flowers: A Critique of Aronofsky's The Fountain

Written by: Cherie Black

Death is life. It's difficult to imagine how one could complicate such a simple concept; however, Darren Aronofsky takes the cake in his film The Fountain. Set in three different periods (1500 A.D., 2000 A.D., and 2500 A.D.), the story follows Tom (played by Hugh Jackman) as he attempts to conquer death, first by seeking the tree of life, next by discovering a cure for a brain tumor, and then be traveling to the heart of a dying star.

Thirty minutes into the film, it becomes immediately obvious what Tom needs to discover: not the solution of death, but the acceptance of it. One can only truly live if one is willing to die. However, the viewer must wait another hour to see this revelation take place.

And in that waiting, the viewer is subjected to seriously irksome characters. Take, for example, Izzy (played by Rachel Weisz) the main reason for Tom's obsession. In 1500 A.D., she is Tom's queen and he is her conquistador. As his queen, she commands him to protect her from those who would oppose her by seeking the tree of life. If he is successful, she states that she will be his Eve and that they will live together forever. (Not a bad offer right?) But in 2000 A.D., she, as his wife, explains to him that she is no longer afraid of dying and that her death will bring about new life (a tree can be planted over her grave). This is a far cry from living forever.

In my opinion, Tom's attachment to Izzy is what sets him off his rocker. She sends him so many signals that the poor man can't function properly. This is evidenced by the finest scene in the film: when Tom, out of grief for the loss of his wife, begins tattooing himself with an ink and quill set that she presented him with on her deathbed.

To make matters worse, Aronofsky's chosen vistas are horrendous. If he wanted to convey the celebration of life while lived and death well-accepted, he selected poor colors and backdrops. The characters are faced with blacks, browns, and putrid whites and yellows, not to mention skulls, tubes, and furry trees. If I lived in such conditions, I would be begging for escape. "Open window here I come – GOODBYE LIFE!!"

Overall, if a person desired to talk about life and death, they would be better served by Mitch Albom's book Tuesdays with Morrie, an amazing nonfiction work that allows its reader to connect on a personal level with its characters. Yes, 192 pages does take up more of one's time than a 96 minute movie; however, instead of the far-removed, tedious tale which The Fountain offers, the stimulation provided by the act of reading would at least benefit the brain through exercise and potentially lengthen one's life…. er, yeah…

I would rather love a person than a city

This is an old blog of mine I saved from my MySpace Account.
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I would rather love a person than a city: A Critique of Paris, Je T'aime

Written by: Cherie Black

One of the best aspects of a vignette is the opportunity it provides to see how good an actor really is. Limited by time, an actor's ability will either shine, stimulating the viewer with an authentic performance, or it will tire, making the viewer realize that they had just lost six more minutes of sleep :-D

In Paris, Je T'aime, we receive the best of both worlds. Eighteen vignettes in 113 minutes…. Sometimes the brief scenes are perfect, imprinting a story with beautiful lines upon the viewer's mind – like the vignette entitled "Bastille." After three years of adultery, a husband discovers that his wife is dying from cancer. In an attempt to make her last days special, he ends his relationship with his mistress and completes his wife's favorite activities (attending matinees, bargain-hunting, and reading novels aloud); then just before she dies, he recognizes, "By acting like a man in love, I became a man in love again," a confession that is provoking, begging the viewer to reflect on their own life.

However, more often than not, the vignettes flop… especially the ones with the famous actors. "Quartier Latin" features Gena Rowlands and Gerard Depardieu, and the acting in it is stiffer than a wet shirt dried in below freezing temperatures. The only thing left to fall back on with such poor acting is the story, and obviously this is where the film falters. Because of the rapidity of each scene little to no connection can be made with the characters; thus, the viewer feels so far removed one wonders: what is the point?

So what is the point? As the film title states: Paris, I love you. Unfortunately, this seems to be the solution of each character's problems. Getting a divorce after more than fifteen years of marriage? It's OK – I am in Paris, and I love Paris. Want your windows broken by a crazy model? Sure, I am in Paris and I love Paris. Spend all of your time watching someone else's baby instead of your own? It's alright; I am in Paris and I love Paris. As a tourist, do you want to get manipulated and then beat up by a local, love-struck couple? Yeah, baby, bring on the pain. It's all part of Paris, and I LOVE Paris (although I must admit, this one was actually pretty cute – then again, how can anyone go wrong with Steve Buscemi?).

In the end, Paris, Je T'aime is almost as bad as the cliché "What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas." It is just a little artsier and classier.

In These Shoes: A Haiku

when my heels caress
floors I absorb allure as
cactus soaks water

Clashing at 5:00

Your question, Mom, is dinner
ready yet? irritates me
like a burnt steak I HAVE to chew.
There is no time to explain
why sausage needs to be boiled,
only that it should be.
Don't
argue.
If you'd done it two hours ago -
when
I'd
asked -
we'd be eating
and you wouldn't be waiting. But no, you chose
to play baseball with Mark.
So, yes! You will remain
hungry another thirty
minutes and stay away
from the kitchen until I say
all
is
ready.

My Bucket of Water

You poured in your self
deprecation (I'll never be
anything but a mechanic), stirred
in the family abuse (He's
a loser wearing silver chains), dropped
in your low income wage (I can't
afford the Ford 100) and topped it
off with past history (I'd push
my previous girlfriends to break
up with me so I didn't have to).
Setting it down with an adorable
shrug, you asked You want it?

I picked up that bucket without hesitation
used the water
for a shower and nearly froze
trying to dry off.

Today I will...

Today I will ask you how
you are even though I know
you will scowl
and
be
short
(Fine). Today
I will smile when you enter
though I know you
will not acknowledge me
and will plug into
your white headphones. Today
I will remind you I can help
while I watch you spread yourself
over the table, and I will
listen as you tell me I don't
need your
assistance. For today is the same
as any other day - I am here
and am waiting for you to say Yes

Salt and Saffron

Too much of him initiated
a stroke but not enough
made a person dehydrated.
Really, the only way he could
be served was with saffron,
for she, in even the smallest pinches,
complimented him.

I remember when he sprinkled
himself all over the office. His granulated
figure distracted clerks
from their calculated charts. We were
ready to kick him out, but she calmed
his spasmodic zest with three words
(Tour the store) and channeled
his enthusiasm into sales. Customers became
enamored with him
and purchased bachelor’s chests.

Unfortunately, saffron’s content to remain
orange became pungent to him.
He wanted to be known as salted
not saved. So he left her for basil,
a terminal cluster that surrounded
him and made him obvious.