Black Swan Directed by Darren Aronofsky Tiny Furniture Directed by Lena Dunham Aronofsky’s demented ballerina, and a mood Mumblecore flick that out-Greenbergs Greenberg.

Debris de Corps: The demands of a ballet troupe take a physical and mental toll.

Drugs, death, numbers...and ballerinas? Darren Aronofsky has trafficked in cinematic mindfucks before, trippily dealing with the three former subjects in Requiem for a Dream, The Fountain, and Pi. Then he deviated from his script with 2008’s The Wrestler, trading paranoia and surreality for a heartfelt and realistic portrait of an athlete past his prime. You might therefore expect his latest, Black Swan, to follow suit—but then the delusions kick in, bodies morph, blood gushes, and you realize you’re not exactly in for Mickey Rourke in a tutu.

Natalie Portman turns in a remarkable performance as Nina, a dancer with a fictional New York City ballet troupe who embodies her mother’s favorite term of endearment: “sweet girl.” She’s an excellent ballerina, though one who prefers precision to passion, which makes it look as if she’s going to fail to nab the lead in her company’s dark, reworked production of Swan Lake. Indeed, it goes to someone else—until Nina bites her instructor, Thomas (Vincent Cassel, finally with a bit of hero mixed into his inherent villainy), when he kisses her. That’s just the hint of danger he was looking for, the proof that Nina may be able to convince as the ballet’s Black Swan as well as its White. She gets the part, and the hissing from corps begins.

Soon Thomas isn’t thrilled, either. Nina still proves stiff and virginal in rehearsals, despite teacher’s attempts to pry her open about sex with questions about her experiences and homework to touch herself. There are other pressures, from Beth (Winona Ryder), the company’s star, who isn’t happy about a forced retirement, and from Lily (Mila Kunis, terrifically sensual), a new dancer, who is everything Nina’s not. And Nina’s mother (Barbara Hershey) is the invasive, overprotective sort, insisting on examining her daughter’s every wound (she has a habit of scratching herself under stress) and asking after her when, say, she takes too long in the bathroom. Soon Nina is seeing her mother, and sometimes herself, in the corners of rooms or hovering above her in the bath. And that scratch on her back gets worse, spreading and bleeding until tiny lumps begin to appear.

When Nina or her mother cuts her nails, they inevitably draw blood. Much of Black Swan is squeamishly visceral, from the cracks in Nina’s neck and feet while she’s stretching to close-ups of her battered toes or a hangnail that she pulls halfway up her finger. This isn’t a pretty portrait of ballet, but of the ugliness of what comes before a perfect, ethereal performance: The buckled feet. The muscle strains. The need to go over choreography again and again and again until even the piano player gives up, bitterly remarking that he has a life. Thomas is constantly in Nina’s face, literally at the studio and figuratively when she’s at home, beating herself up for not living up to his expectations. Physically and psychologically, her journey is brutal.

As the pressure further bears down on Nina, Black Swan becomes more surreal and wonderfully twisted, with Aronofsky and his trio of scripters journeying into the cobwebby corners of an increasingly demented mind. Throughout, the camera swirls around the performers along with the music, which does the double duty of adding momentum and obscuring any technical faults of the actresses, though Portman and Kunis do lovely, convincing work. (Their characters’ love-hate dynamic offstage is a treat, too.) Ballet eye-rollers, don’t stay away from Black Swan for fear of boredom. It’s as gripping a story as any you’ll see this year, a fitting addition to Aronofsky’s oeuvre.

Tiny Furniture Directed by Lena Dunham

Here’s a tiny review of Tiny Furniture: Irritating. Unoriginal. And lacking any semblance of genuine human behavior.

You want me to go on?

Tiny Furniture is a puzzling indie darling, the mumblecore creation of 24-year-old Lena Dunham, its writer/director/star. Dunham hasn’t employed a whole lot of resources—or imagination—for her story of Aura, a recent college graduate who just doesn’t know what to do with herself. She shot the film in her mother’s Manhattan loft, using her actual mother and sister (Laurie Simmons and Grace Dunham) to play her fake mother and sister. She even steals Mom’s profession (photographer of dolls, and their requisite scaled furnishings). And Aura wants to be a filmmaker! Instead she just tools around TriBeCa, working a job she hates, hanging out with grating people, and going to art openings. It’s Greenberg all over again.

At least Greenberg was clearer on who was meant to get under your skin and who you were supposed to cheer for. With the exception of Aura’s younger sister Nadine (why even change names?), who’s allowed to be a brat here because so many teenage girls are, these characters aren’t even believable in their jackassery. Aura’s mother is prickly from the start, bitching about random things (Aura ate one of her frozen dinners!) and showing not an ounce of maternal affection toward her blah-but-admittedly-nice daughter. (Not to mention that Simmons and Grace Dunham are far from natural actors.) Aura’s alleged love interest (Alex Karpovsky), who’s “kind of a big deal on YouTube,” happily crashes at mom’s studio when she and Nadine are away, never displaying any charm nor interest in Aura beyond friendship—and actually complaining when she tells him he has to find another place because her family’s returning. And Aura’s best friend, Charlotte (Jemima Kirke, the only watchable actor in this mess), swings between bitchy-fabulous and just plain bitchy, having decided that everyone and everything except her and her interests are stupid.

Aura herself is innocuous at first, but as she breezes from day to day yet eventually whines to Mom, “I’m a young, young person who’s trying very hard!” you want to smack her. Dunham has one plus going here, and that’s featuring her neither model-beautiful nor -thin self as the lead, largely makeup-free and unafraid of showing some thick thighs and imperfect breasts as she walks around in various states of undress. But it’s not enough to make Tiny Furniture worthwhile.

Our Readers Say

Funny; I was totally bored by "Black Swan", which seemed like so much borrowed work (Polanski's "Repulsion", Powell's "Red Shoes" and "Black Narcissus"), and totally charmed by "Tiny Furniture".
I had to delve deep into Rotten Tomatoes to find a review that didn't sing Tiny Furniture's praises. Glad we're in the same boat.

http://www.flixist.com/review-tiny-furniture--2
This is one of the reasons film festivals are dying out--shitty, pretentious smarmy crap like this.
Just finished Tiny Furniture. I'm with the reviewers above in finding it mostly self indulgent with nothing much to say. It's not charming it's quite boring with the occassional witty bit...the white cabinet remark comes to mind. But mostly the dialogue if boring, the 20 something angst predictable, the privileged New York atmosphere somewhat off putting -- in all, nothing to say about nothing at all.
Just finished Tiny Furniture. I'm with the reviewers above in finding it mostly self indulgent with nothing much to say. It's not charming it's quite boring with the occassional witty bit...the white cabinet remark comes to mind. But mostly the dialogue if boring, the 20 something angst predictable, the privileged New York atmosphere somewhat off putting -- in all, nothing to say about nothing at all.
While every movement and sound Lena Dunham's produces is eventually smothered in the flop sweat of her narcissism, the reason why her work is so pedestrian obviously escapes her. Dunham has cribs heavily from Woody Allen and Whit Stillman in attempting to capture the droll emptiness of hipsterism of Manhattan trust fund babies, what she produces is a unintentionally funny celebration of those awful qualities.

That's because, as a shallow, gen-y, wannabe hipster herself, Dunham can't see past her own lumpy reflection. There is no counterpoint to her work, everyone is from the same noxious milieu. In "Annie Hall," we got to see Diane Keaton's ex-boyfriend say "step on my heart, with your foot", and Jeff Goldblum on the phone because he "forgot his mantra." Then, Woody withdraws from the superficiality and contrasts it with his more grounded (if neurotic) seriousness.

In Dunham's world- she IS the world. And a boring, over-precious world it is. At least in her fantasies, she gets all the guys and excitement she wants. But only someone with her privilege and ego could believe that she "speaks" for a generation (what is she "saying" exactly?). And no one should have to pay to watch her body, or the mental masturbation that is her "work."

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