Starring Natalie Portman, who spends the vast majority of the film looking constipated, having people creep up on her and having very painful-looking and blood producing accidents, Black Swan is not for those with a weak stomach. The film follows the story of a young and dedicated dancer, Nina Sayers (Portman) in New York, who is finally gets her big break when her creepy ballet teacher Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel) gives her the role of both the Black and White swan in Swan Lake. Nina has, thus far in her dancing career, been poised and exact, so Thomas urges her to get in touch with her ‘dark side’ and become more of a black swan, as she is pitched against her alternate, Lily (Mila Kunis), who coincidentally keeps popping up in Nina’s dreams. Through her attempts to become more in touch with her own ‘Black Swan’, Nina becomes more and more shrouded in mental illness and her perception becomes increasingly unhinged from reality.
The majority of Black Swan should be watched through one’s fingers. There are some truly cringeworthily gruesome moments and this film is not for the squeamish, nor is it for young budding ballerinas or homophobes. It has its perks – the film cleverly follows the plot of the actual Swan Lake, in which the White Swan’s prince falls in love with her twin, and there’s this whole ‘oh my gosh that makes sense now’ moment where Lily and Nina go to a bar and a guy asks if they’re sisters. But overall, the film was just too nightmarishly odd for me, and it’s hard to know when there will be a nice bit of ballet or whether someone will suddenly fork out their eyeball or something. Not for the squeamish or weak-hearted, and a definite no-go for family viewing, unless your parents are cool about racy lesbian sex. If not, it’ll make a very awkward watch.
Add a pinch of praise, a dash of humour, a cup of sarcasm and two sugars.
01 February 2011
07 January 2011
Shore-ly Loyal
loy·al·ty
[loi-uh l-tee]
–noun, plural -ties.
1. the state or quality of being loyal; faithfulness to commitments or obligations.
2. faithful adherence to a sovereign, government, leader, cause, etc.
3. an example or instance of faithfulness, adherence, or the like: a man with fierce loyalties.
Whenever I watch Jersey Shore, I’m always impressed by how fiercely they all seem to have each others’ backs. Out of everything to observe I suppose this is possibly the least significant – why not dwell on their inexplicable capability to drown themselves in booze, pass out in bed and still get up to work out the next day? Or their seemingly endless strings of skanky men and women being bought in and kicked out of the ‘communal smush room’ for one night? But having pretty much got past all these wonders by the first few episodes, I’ve started to have ulterior observations. On the whole, if someone’s your friend, then they’re your friend and that’s the end of it. They’ll believe what you say, have your back in a confrontation and probably even drag you home when you’re messy. At times I’ve found myself wistfully thinking ‘if only my own friendships were that simple’.
It’s hard to find loyal friends, ones that will listen to and believe your side of a story. It’s not a needle in a haystack, it’s worse. And what’s worse is that when you think you’ve sought out someone who’s got your back, it turns out they couldn’t give less of a crap about what you have to say. It’s like finding the perfect heels in the January sales - only to find when you wear them out, the strap breaks. I begin to wonder sometimes if I was born with a stamp on my head saying ‘don’t believe anything I say’ when I was born, only it can’t be seen unless I’m really trying to get my point across. Maybe that would explain why some people are prepared to accept the drivel, lies and nonsensical rubbish spewed into their ears by others who simply do not know what they’re talking about.
I guess it just bothers me when I hear people talking crap and not sticking up for my views because I just automatically assume that it’s part of the package. If you’re going to be someone’s friend, be loyal to them. Have their fucking back. Even if you can’t do that, have the fucking lenience to sit there whilst they speak their mind. And if you can’t do that, have the audacity to admit you’ve not got the tolerance, loyalty or reliability to be their friend.
Sorry if this blog has depressed you. Here is an adorable video to bring up your mood:
[loi-uh l-tee]
–noun, plural -ties.
1. the state or quality of being loyal; faithfulness to commitments or obligations.
2. faithful adherence to a sovereign, government, leader, cause, etc.
3. an example or instance of faithfulness, adherence, or the like: a man with fierce loyalties.
Whenever I watch Jersey Shore, I’m always impressed by how fiercely they all seem to have each others’ backs. Out of everything to observe I suppose this is possibly the least significant – why not dwell on their inexplicable capability to drown themselves in booze, pass out in bed and still get up to work out the next day? Or their seemingly endless strings of skanky men and women being bought in and kicked out of the ‘communal smush room’ for one night? But having pretty much got past all these wonders by the first few episodes, I’ve started to have ulterior observations. On the whole, if someone’s your friend, then they’re your friend and that’s the end of it. They’ll believe what you say, have your back in a confrontation and probably even drag you home when you’re messy. At times I’ve found myself wistfully thinking ‘if only my own friendships were that simple’.
It’s hard to find loyal friends, ones that will listen to and believe your side of a story. It’s not a needle in a haystack, it’s worse. And what’s worse is that when you think you’ve sought out someone who’s got your back, it turns out they couldn’t give less of a crap about what you have to say. It’s like finding the perfect heels in the January sales - only to find when you wear them out, the strap breaks. I begin to wonder sometimes if I was born with a stamp on my head saying ‘don’t believe anything I say’ when I was born, only it can’t be seen unless I’m really trying to get my point across. Maybe that would explain why some people are prepared to accept the drivel, lies and nonsensical rubbish spewed into their ears by others who simply do not know what they’re talking about.
I guess it just bothers me when I hear people talking crap and not sticking up for my views because I just automatically assume that it’s part of the package. If you’re going to be someone’s friend, be loyal to them. Have their fucking back. Even if you can’t do that, have the fucking lenience to sit there whilst they speak their mind. And if you can’t do that, have the audacity to admit you’ve not got the tolerance, loyalty or reliability to be their friend.
Sorry if this blog has depressed you. Here is an adorable video to bring up your mood:
16 December 2010
The Ghost of Christmas Failure
2010 seems to have a dire lack of the usual Christmas mania. Even though the usual Christmas street lights are twinkling around town, Starbucks are serving their delicious Gingerbread lattes and the standard array of omnipresent Christmas carols has arrived, somehow, Christmas hasn’t quite hit me yet. To me, Christmas time means too much food, a whole lot of wrapping paper, a sprinkling of arguments and well meaning but not always successful family get-togethers. But thus far I’ve been spared from any Christmas feelings, and my advent calendar has practically become a countdown till doomsday.
Tackling the Christmas tree is usually a matter of civil war. Most of our tinsel looks like it’s been through the wars these days and my sister and I never fail to have a vicious argument about the colour scheme (God forbid we ever have another painfully tacky blue-and-white year…if we do, she’s getting bitten). The problem with sharing the decoration of the Christmas tree is it’s such a personal thing, and if neither person gets what they really want out of it, they’ll resent the damned thing until January when it gets lobbed out the door. After the saggy tinsel and bashed up baubles have been strategically placed by either party, our dear old dad will come lumbering in to attempt to fix the ever-faulty Christmas lights, which results in another stupid argument and someone storming off, stamping on a bulb in their dramatic exit. This year I was free to decorate the tree as I wished, but it was a sad a solitary event. I never really thought my sister would get old enough to actually get her own house, as in my eyes she will always be a gawky sixteen-year-old, and never a university graduate with a full-time job. So it was a lonesome and hurried task in a bid to make our house ‘festive’, and certainly not a ‘Christmassy’ process.
Presents are another minefield. I’m usually one of those over-prepared Christmas fanatics who have got every ribbon and bow down to perfection by late November, but this year I’m down the river without a paddle and have no gift ideas. Usually, I spend hours scrutinising over which bulky M&S jumper would look better on my dad, he always shakes, pokes and smells his presents before opening them, and dully takes a stab at what he thinks the gift is. My brother usually uses the same vacant expression for every gift and says ‘ooh’. My sister and mum have pretty much perfected the art of faking excitement at crappy gifts. I think the only time I have ever witness my mother show disappointment towards a Christmas present was the time my dad bought her a size 20 dressing gown. But alas, this year I’ve had little time or inspiration to shop, other than a ‘Fishing With Ferrets!’ calendar which I expect my mother to fawn over for the rest of her life.
My lack of Christmas festivities might have something to do with my college’s dire lack of decoration, or in fact any signs that it’s Christmas time at all. I’ve not seen a glimpse of tinsel, a flicker of fairy lights or a dusting of glitter at all. It makes me reminisce over my Secondary School days of wearing elf hats and belting out Christmas carols in our weird annual nativity assemblies. I can’t blame it all on Strode’s being their Scrooge-y selves though; the weather’s also played its part. My idea of snow as a symbol of Christmas and festivities has completely gone out the window – it plagues us, prevents us, and seeing as no one will make a snowman with me, depresses me.
With only a few days of college left, I’ll be glad to have some time off, and hopefully I can brainwash myself into feeling more festive through constant carol singing and mince pie making sessions. As for the rest of you, I hope you’re not dreading the 25th as much as me. So happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Tackling the Christmas tree is usually a matter of civil war. Most of our tinsel looks like it’s been through the wars these days and my sister and I never fail to have a vicious argument about the colour scheme (God forbid we ever have another painfully tacky blue-and-white year…if we do, she’s getting bitten). The problem with sharing the decoration of the Christmas tree is it’s such a personal thing, and if neither person gets what they really want out of it, they’ll resent the damned thing until January when it gets lobbed out the door. After the saggy tinsel and bashed up baubles have been strategically placed by either party, our dear old dad will come lumbering in to attempt to fix the ever-faulty Christmas lights, which results in another stupid argument and someone storming off, stamping on a bulb in their dramatic exit. This year I was free to decorate the tree as I wished, but it was a sad a solitary event. I never really thought my sister would get old enough to actually get her own house, as in my eyes she will always be a gawky sixteen-year-old, and never a university graduate with a full-time job. So it was a lonesome and hurried task in a bid to make our house ‘festive’, and certainly not a ‘Christmassy’ process.
Presents are another minefield. I’m usually one of those over-prepared Christmas fanatics who have got every ribbon and bow down to perfection by late November, but this year I’m down the river without a paddle and have no gift ideas. Usually, I spend hours scrutinising over which bulky M&S jumper would look better on my dad, he always shakes, pokes and smells his presents before opening them, and dully takes a stab at what he thinks the gift is. My brother usually uses the same vacant expression for every gift and says ‘ooh’. My sister and mum have pretty much perfected the art of faking excitement at crappy gifts. I think the only time I have ever witness my mother show disappointment towards a Christmas present was the time my dad bought her a size 20 dressing gown. But alas, this year I’ve had little time or inspiration to shop, other than a ‘Fishing With Ferrets!’ calendar which I expect my mother to fawn over for the rest of her life.
My lack of Christmas festivities might have something to do with my college’s dire lack of decoration, or in fact any signs that it’s Christmas time at all. I’ve not seen a glimpse of tinsel, a flicker of fairy lights or a dusting of glitter at all. It makes me reminisce over my Secondary School days of wearing elf hats and belting out Christmas carols in our weird annual nativity assemblies. I can’t blame it all on Strode’s being their Scrooge-y selves though; the weather’s also played its part. My idea of snow as a symbol of Christmas and festivities has completely gone out the window – it plagues us, prevents us, and seeing as no one will make a snowman with me, depresses me.
With only a few days of college left, I’ll be glad to have some time off, and hopefully I can brainwash myself into feeling more festive through constant carol singing and mince pie making sessions. As for the rest of you, I hope you’re not dreading the 25th as much as me. So happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
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