The Sea Is All I Know, a short film by lesbian filmmaker Jordan Bayne, is transformative as a whole (if not at every turn). I’m reluctant to say that it’s "about" assisted suicide, because it’s really about love, sacrifice, nature, god — a lot of things at once. (It’s much less "about" assisted suicide than, say, the heavy-handed Million Dollar Baby.) And despite encompassing so many vast subjects, the film is stripped-down and quiet, imparting the stillness of death even as it captures the shock of loss.

Melissa Leo and Peter Gerety play the estranged parents of a terminally ill adult daughter. That’s pretty much all you should know about the plot. The facts of the film don’t matter half as much as the feelings: the worlds of pain that Leo holds in her dark eyes as her thoughts turn inward; the helplessness that washes over Gerety as he stares out at the susurrous sea. In the hands of such gifted actors, these muted moments do more to convey the heightened pitch of the situation than any sob or scream ever could.

Writer-producer-director Jordan Bayne intentionally kept the film’s universe small, peeling away layers and background until she was left with the truth of her story. In a Q&A session after the screening I attended, Bayne noted that she never thought she had a feature film on her hands. That might be her real gift: the ability to sound out the borders of her landscape. The film never strays far from the anguished atmosphere that its characters are breathing in and buckling under. But the goal isn’t claustrophobia — just clarity.

Bayne made the film for Leo, and that’s the other key to The Sea Is All I Know. An Oscar winner at the top of her game can be trusted with such potentially heavy material — trusted to take us into the depths of what she’s experiencing, yet protect us from getting too overwhelmed to make sense of it. Even when the dialogue gets a little clunky, Leo doesn’t disappoint. She’s marvelous — a marvel.

But Leo’s virtuosity won’t help you reach any conclusions about the tough subjects in this film, though I did walk away with the reassurance that love can give me the courage to transform one moment of life into the next. And knowing that is probably knowing everything.

Jordan Bayne and Melissa Leo
Photo: Carme Boixadera

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Darren Aronofsky’s new film Black Swan asks many questions, but they all fold and flourish into one: how far is too far? As the blossoming star of a production of Swan Lake, ballerina Nina (Natalie Portman) follows her art and passion to the edge of sanity, and possibly beyond. That’s a fascinating enough premise, but Black Swan offers much more. The film itself rushes headlong to the precipices of illusion, camp, horror, and every sort of sensory delight. Its triumph is that it goes only just that far — far enough to thrill but not to fall.

I’m not going to comb over the plot of Black Swan, because the plot is no more or less important than the cinematography, soundtrack, acting, lighting, and every other element that makes a movie visionary. For me, that’s really the key: Aronofsky gets his clear, strong vision across, so effectively that you’re not quite sure what’s happened to you but you’re pretty sure you liked it. That delicious disorientation is what Nina herself experiences. She’s not exactly a reliable narrator, so it’s impossible to say what really happens in the movie. It’s almost irrelevant to say what’s real, because a Black Swan delusion is much richer and infinitely more rewarding than the everyday truth.

"Rich" is not a big enough word for the visuals of this film. Exhortations such as "sumptuous" and "dazzling" apply but don’t quite describe — you really have to see it to believe it. From the careful control of the black-and-white costumes and sets to the explosion of sound and sight that is Nina’s final performance, Black Swan floods your senses and fills your mind, daring you to breathe or move. This is what the medium of film aspires to: a conquering, a transporting, a fullness — a complete life that is completely different from yours.

That flung-open window into the life of a dancer is a big part of my appreciation for Black Swan. I’ve never wanted to be a ballerina. Grace and poise aren’t exactly salient characteristics of mine, and there’s music in my soul but not in my shoes. But I’ve always admired professional dancers, in part because I’m stunned by the agony of their art. No matter how good you are or how hard you work, physical pain and the inevitable heartbreak of aging are always waiting in the wings. Black Swan exposes that brutality and even relishes it — this is the price, it suggests, of transcendence. The only way out of the physical form is through anguish, and when Nina gets there, she’s bloodied and bruised but glowing and alive.

Dancers (or at least the cinematic version of them) do seem to have cornered bliss, in the form of that brief glimpse of perfection when all the elements come together. The body moving through space suddenly also gives form to rhythm and time, floating on the upswing of a violin bow and pirouetting on the pulse of the tympani. Black Swan captures that soaring, and I’m not sure it could have done so without Natalie Portman. From her first moment on screen, she is a ballerina, as fragile and lithe as you’ve ever imagined a swan or a princess. More important, she shimmers with the serenity and strength of an artist who has finally come into her own. Forget Queen Amidala and V for Vendetta. Here she’s finally the natural-born actor we’ve suspected she was all along — and she’s probably ready to meet Oscar.

Also impressive is Mila Kunis as Lily, a less traditional (and much less repressed) dancer who reflects and distorts Nina’s talent and drive. Lily is both foil and savior to Nina, and Kunis’s performance makes you want to know more about the dark, deceptive anitheroine — even as it makes you fear her. But she’s not merely an opposite; her character is complex rather than stereotypical, adding a layer to the message that nothing is quite as it seems and never so simple as it first appears.

Like Lily, the other female characters in the film also seem two-dimensional at first, but they shed their stereotypical skins to reveal more. Winona Ryder and Barbara Hershey play a fading diva and a domineering mother, respectively, but despite flirting with All About Eve and Mommie Dearest (Swannie Dearest?), Black Swan retreats from melodrama. This is not a chick flick; it seems to flip off the very idea and laugh mercilessly at anyone who’ll suggest it.

Black Swan toys with sexual politics, but it’s more interested in internal struggles than power plays. Vincent Cassel is both appealing and revolting as Thomas Leroy, the seductive artistic director of Nina’s company, but he is ultimately powerless. So is everyone else who attempts to control Nina. She is under (or appears to be under) assault at every turn, from her mother to strangers on the subway to her director-mentor, and each foe is equally showy and finally ineffectual. Do your worst, Nina says: I’ve already hurt myself more than you ever could. In her world, no predator is as threatening as her own quest for perfection. Art has already roughed her up and left her raw. What more can man or woman possibly do?

This is probably a good time to address the sex scene between Kunis and Portman, if you can call it that — which I don’t think I can. Their encounter is white-hot, intense and hungry and beautiful in a way that we all want sex to be, but it’s both more and less than sex. Lily is largely responsible for this because she both surrounds and eludes Nina; she is a variation of the classic bad girl, fully there when she’s ready for you and entirely gone when you’re ready for her. (The variation — hallelujah — is that the "you" is Natalie Portman.)

The flickering space between satiety and hunger is where Black Swan lives. Lily and Nina are mirrors of each other, but in a cracked way. When Nina confronts a mirror — in various forms and in many places — it’s not the rising-above moment of A Chorus Line or any of the other traditional moments in front of the typical mirrors of a hundred other shows and movies about dancers reaching their peak or facing their decline. For Nina, each mirror is a revelation (maybe even a Revelation, with four horsemen riding Ambition, Sensuality, Mortality, and Mom). She can see what she wants — even what she is — but it is foreign to her, out of reach in a mystical and maddening way.

Mirrors are the method of Black Swan. When buttoned-up Nina finally lets go and dances with Lily at a nightclub, it’s as if Nina has stepped through the looking glass to the other side of what dancing is. If there’s an antidote to her grueling, almost ascetic life of mother-induced abstinence, trainer-tended health, and Tchaikovsky-enclosed expression, it’s sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Nina and Lily, though not exactly opposites, are a collision of matter and antimatter that can only produce a void. Nina flings herself into it, and the explosion is suffusive and transformative.

And as Nina transforms, so do we. Black Swan takes the viewer on a thwarted journey. Watching it feels like being frozen at the height of a daring leap, being deprived of the victory of sticking the landing and solving the puzzle. We’re never sure whether Nina is changing or being changed. The glory and pain of art mix with that special Aronofsky brand of paranoia and add up to a shattering and unmooring. We’re released, but we’re lost. We’ve learned that the human psyche is fragile, and that breaking through is the same as breaking. The art of dancing — any art — offers so much, but it burns to touch perfection. Nina can’t hold on to it, and neither can we. We feel the loss of it immediately, the lack of its purity and intensity. Black Swan understands and embodies art: it’s a walking shadow that struts and frets, takes flight and then crumples in a heap. It’s the only moment that counts, and when it’s over, you know you’ve been blessed and cursed.

I started out with only one Black Swan question, but I guess the film has a second: if this is too far, what exactly is the point of holding back? Nina rejects the ice-cold, deprived white swan queen and leaps forward. She dives deep and emerges into the fullness of her darkest, unfettered id. When she takes the stage, the crowd clamors for more — for too much, beyond what she can give — and Nina knows that here and now is perfect and the dancing and the music are sublime. Her black swan soars, and she hitches a ride. If her final shot is a mad smile, a grande jeté, and an open wound, it’s enough. It’s everything. Black Swan will take you there if you let it, and I’m glad I played along.

I loved the movie so much, I’ve just decorated my three work desktops with three of these gorgeous Black Swan posters:

I especially love that last one. You can find desktop-tailored versions on the official Black Swan site (Downloads > International Teaser Art).

Now that’s the way to get through a workday!

I’ve been watching in horror and disgust and (especially) disappointment as lesbians all over the web have excoriated this exceptional film because it has a “lesbian-sleeps-with-a-man” storyline.

The film does not have that storyline.

It has that plot point, but it does not tell that story. Its stories are much bigger than that.

The Kids Are All Right is about family, love, honesty, parents, children, failure, dreams, freedom, responsibility, now, then. It’s about growing old, growing up, reaching out, turning in, having courage, having issues, taking a risk, taking stock, making babies, making speeches, moving on, moving closer, exploring, retreating, eating, drinking, having sex, having a fit, freaking out, calming down, going too far, going home, kissing well, kissing awkwardly, wearing sweater vests, wearing tennis shoes, wearing hats, telling the truth, telling a fib, hoping for the best, fearing for the worst, saying goodbye, saying you’re sorry, confronting your fears, avoiding your neuroses, singing Joni Mitchell songs, laughing at Joni Mitchell songs, riding motorcycles, driving trucks, driving each other crazy, forgetting your principles, remembering what you love, watching porn, watching your children become adults, tending the earth, neglecting your own, rising above, going down, going to Home Depot, going off the rails. It’s about lesbians, Californians, hippies, skater dudes, composters, perfectionists, drinkers, landscapers, Mexicans, Americans, moms, dads, kids, friends, enemies, frenemies, lovers, posers, flirters, partners. It showcases flaws, talents, fun, pain, hopes, disappointments, commitment, roaming, steadiness, flakiness, distrust, acceptance, promises, lies, sincerity, hypocrisy. It knows how people love, what people think, why people fuck up, what makes adolescence amazing, what makes adults lovable, who knows best, who’s on first, what is sexy, who holds the cards, how to make you look, what will make you cry, why you should bow before Annette Bening, why you should worship Julianne Moore, how to spell “all right,” who you were as a kid, who you’ve become, what you missed, what you feel, what you need, why you try, why you can’t, how you can, who you wish you could be. It matters because life is hard, love is precious, kids are tricky, parents are important, women are strong, men are beautiful, people are strange, families are fragile, time is fleeting, and love is everything. It is funny, sad, smart, universal, careful, carefree, pure, inspired, real.

It’s about life. It’s about women. It’s decidedly not even a little bit about penises.

If you have seen the film, you know what I mean. If you haven’t, you cannot possibly know what I mean. So stop jerking your knees and belittling a bigger-than-that movie and GO SEE IT. Keep your mind and your heart open. Listen to what the characters say, watch what they do, and understand who they are.

Don’t cheat yourself. Lisa Cholodenko has a brilliant vision and a giant heart. It saddens me to think that someone might miss out on that by favoring petty politics over transcendent truth.

I hate, hate, hate storylines in which lesbians sleep with men. And I love, love, love this movie. Oxymoron? Or revelation?

All I am saying is give TKAAR a chance.

Peace!

In times of such upheaval, I find myself turning to movies for comfort and commiseration (this is also true in times of joy and times of boredom and … just all the time). But guess what? They don’t really make movies about moving, or about the other mundane things that have been consuming my energy. I had to think long and hard to come up with this handful of pictures of the prosaic.

1. Packing/organizing: Housekeeping captures the futility of tidying up when you yourself are a bit of a mess. I mean that in a good way; as Sylvie the itinerant, Christine Lahti is delightfully chaotic. But she’s certainly no Martha Stewart: when her stodgy neighbors disapprove of the state of her heaven-for-hoarders house, the best Sylvie can do is stack up the crush of newspapers and scrub out the clatter of tin cans. She ends up torching the whole damn thing, which sounded like a fine idea to me the night before the movers arrived.

By the way, the "trestling" scene in Sunshine Cleaning was totally stolen from Housekeeping.

2. Movers and moving yourself: When I was younger and cheap(er), I insisted on moving my own stuff, like Alice in Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. Get outta my way!

But now I’m a big fan of the big men with trucks, even when they scratch the edges of my pristine LCD TV (dammit). Next time I’m going to let movers actually pack up my stuff, too — or maybe I’ll use elephants and trains, like Karen Blixen in Out of Africa. She had more (and finer) stuff, and it all survived the trip.

3. Dog trauma: I think my pup is fine now, but for the first few days in his new home, he growled and barked at everything that twitched. And who would make a movie about canine neuroses? There’s The Dog Problem, but the problem (loving a rascally mutt) turns out to be no problem at all.

And there’s Pink Flamingos, which I mention only for that scene in which Divine devours a doodie sandwich (because it came to mind the day after the move, when my dog took an anxious dump on the doormat).

Oh, wait — how could I forget about The Year of the Dog? Dogs and trauma to the max. Poor Pencil the pup.

4. Back pain: Nobody wants to hear about, let alone watch a movie about, the aches and pains of lifting boxes and hefting furniture and flaying your own finger with a pliers. And the pain of moving is like the pain of childbirth: a few years later, you’re certain it couldn’t have been that bad and you’re ready to try again. So all I can think of for this category is Fast Food Nation, which portrays a workplace back injury (and which we happened to catch on IFC shortly after moving). But that’s not really a film: it’s more of an extended bit of vegetarian propaganda (I can say that because I too am a vegetarian), and Richard Linklater should be ashamed of himself. (But look: Chrissy Seaver is all grown up!)

5. Second-guessing your moving plans: We didn’t seriously reconsider our move, but we did have a few outbursts like “How can anything be worth all this effort?!” And then, while happily doing laundry for the first time in our new building, we saw a few minutes of the best movie ever in which people spend the whole time planning to move and then, at the last minute, decide to stay put: Meet Me in St. Louis.

It’s cloying at times (like, every time that little kid speaks), but Judy Garland is gorgeous and in very fine voice. Just be prepared to have "The Trolley Song" in your head for a few days or weeks afterward.

6. Apartments and elevators: I’ll end on a high note: The Apartment, in which Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine fall in love amidst misunderstandings. I’ve always run hot and cold about Ms. MacLaine (I’m sure she’d like to forget those crystal/chakra/psycho years too), but her savvy-yet-goofy elevator operator is delicious.

Pitch-perfect comedy and a flawless script make The Apartment a must-see even if you’re not moving to an apartment on the Upper West Side (ah, if only I could claim a fantastic brownstone like the one in the movie). And the story follows an immensely satisfying arc: life takes a strange turn, then flies completely off the rails, and ultimately lands you exactly where you want to be. If only every apartment tale — and every life event in general — could turn out so sweet.

Postscript: IMDb tells me there really is a movie about moving, and it’s even called Moving. It doesn’t sound great, though. Some things just aren’t cinematic.