Requiem for a Dream
 (2000)
review by Red Velvet Kitchen

Based on Hubert Selby Jr's 1978 novel (which I haven't read, but apparently Selby likes the film) Requiem For A Dream is Darren Aronofsky's follow-up to the similarly confused and pretentious Pi, both films classic examples of a director over-reaching to the point of ruin. Whereas Pi started as a nice little examination of a mind waylaid by its craving for inspiration in the search for solid truth rather than interesting opinion (shunning people in favour of figures), it rapidly descended into a cod-conspiracy thriller with pseudo-apocalyptic musings on fanaticism and insanity, without ever convincing it was more than its former strength. A quirky indie release chewing more than it can fill its mouth with, and failing unsurprisingly. With his sophomore feature, Aronofsky chooses to present a façade of carelessness and hedonism that masks the general state of emptiness (whether emotional or otherwise) and quiet despair felt by his characters, ignoring reality and grasping for something more heightened but essentially false (the dream instead of the reality, and the problems that reaps). The film focuses on Harry Goldfarb played with unexpected charm and naiveté by Jared Leto, and his soon-to-be-smashed relationships with his girlfriend Marion (Jennifer Connelly), best friend Tyrone (Marlon Wayans) and most crucially of all, his mother Sara (Ellen Burstyn). This impressive cast (yes, even a Wayans brother) endure a three-act structure broken into the optimism of the summer, the uncertainty of the fall and the despair and cold denouement of winter. These people are all addicted to various kinds of drugs, whether that's marijuana, heroin, dieting pills or television, and over the course of the film's two hours, we see the casual optimism slip away, then implode, then careen into destruction.

Before I go and piss acid on Aronofsky's pretty little parade, I should at least point out what the film has to offer (something its detractors fail to mention in their critical bluster). With a split-screen technique simultaneously connecting and distancing the characters, sped up, fish-eyed and hyper-real camera practices blending the beautiful with the beastly, Aronofsky is certainly adept behind the camera. His vision of New York and beyond is one that can switch from jaundiced sunshine smothering the streets to the sleazy blue and orange neon's of night time within a single rapid edit, creating a fast and sensationalist world that continually tosses you around from place to place, character to character, emotion to emotion, happiness to desperation. This uncertainty provides a setting and inhabitants who are both dangerous and exciting, this permanent edge everything is perched on a reflection of the character's perilous situations. The smouldering edges the celluloid burns segue perfectly with the confrontational and intimate scenes between Harry and the two women in his life, the simplicity and delicate acting billowing a quiet poignancy. With the threat of unhappiness and unfulfilled dreams always lingering, the lost smiles and dilated wide-eyes are like great dark works of art stored in a building waiting to be demolished. Somewhere along the way though (you judge when, but my estimation is around the time of Sean Gullette's exteneded cameo), Aronofsky does just that and takes a hammer to his world. The film's edge demolished, the remainder limps along on its merrily miserable warpath, waiting for the mortal blow. In case you weren't aware of their collective plight, things starts to get really bad when Clint Mansell's otherwise excellent score sounds as if Robbie Coltrane was tossed into a giant mangler, which then malfunctioned and squealed like HAL on heat. Now that's subtlety. In fact, it passes the unsubtle mark and just sinks into unadulterated preaching. The score though is great, a melodic yet human twisting of strings and techno. It's a soundtrack that actually hints at a more intriguing film (like say, Fight Club and Sleepless) a fact that appears to have critically blinded a few people.

So, in the end, the film is a bit of a cheat; it bears no resemblance to reality and even challenges the kind of silver screen plausibility-busting quota that ensures Jerry Bruckheimer a decent night's sleep when the day shuts down. Aronofsky has no compassion for his characters, all emotional relations and trysts exist only to be pulled apart and flushed away, and for a film that wants to be both grimy and poignant, watching pretty people sloshed in heroin-chic make-up didactically destroyed by a filmmaker who prefers a mildly gimmicky visual style to genuinely compelling drama is tough to accept. What galls more than most though are those that support this film as an emotional powerhouse tending to be the type of cinema activists who find the mainstream watered-down and obvious, with filmmakers like Stephen Spielberg practically petitioned for lynching because of their 'terrible manipulation'. Well, ignore the flashes of unwarranted style and excess, and you're left with nothing but a predictable, essentially conservative diatribe against an issue the director obvious has little real affection or experience in. And he wants you to inherit his shallow, self-pitying sense of designer sadness. Yes, this is one of those films that wallow in their own melancholic musings (see also 'Leaving Las Vegas', 'Dancer in the Dark' and the recent 'Monster's Ball'), insisting you treat it with the utmost seriousness, mouth-agape, brain challenged and eyes misty because its 'heart is in the right place'. I'll pass here, rather angrily.

However, whether I'm watching Tarkovsky or Troma, entertainment is the bottom line, even if the film lacks authenticity, intelligence or sincerity. Of course, just because I am generally entertained by a film that doesn't mean I should overlook any faults or failings within, but instead separating the virtues from the bad bits and trying to give things a little perspective is advisable. Did I find Requiem For A Dream to be a truthful portrait of drug use and addiction? No. Did I find Requiem For A Dream offered insights into the deluded, hundred miles an hour pulse and addictive lifestyle? A little, yeah. Did Requiem For A Dream excite me with its flair for aesthetics, and brazen belief in its own power? Hell yeah, biggest thing going for it. All I'm saying here is that this film should be watched as an overt, hyperactive horror film which just happens to circumvent on the subject of drug use. Why should it? Because it's more enjoyable that way. Squint at the screen and look for genuine human warmth, brilliant character interaction and unadulterated tragedy and you'll undoubtedly be thwarted, but look at the film as an especially morbid rollercoaster and things should be okay. Shift your perceptions, contrive your own emotions, allow yourself to be manipulated but not sucked in, and maybe you'll get more out of the stylised grisliness. It's still an uncomfortable ride, for reasons intentional and otherwise, and there's a distasteful taste in the mouth of what could have been, particularly evident when Aronofsky calms down and lets his actors do the acting for themselves. It's at these points when the film shines, and crucially, convinces.

If you want realism and painful subjectivity go and see Christiane F or Trainspotting, but if you want to indulge in that bizarrely exciting, pulse-racing sense of uber-misery-as-glamour that this film offers, see Requiem For A Dream, a piece of work which thrusts tears inside of you with its attractively-stated glimpses of hope wrecked and expects you to shoot them out with gusto when the overblown finale crashes onto your screens. If only Aronofsky was more modest, that bit fonder of his characters, and stuck to the horror genre idiom of implication and suggestion's infinite power over graphical overstatement. Who needs ECT's and psychopathic fridges when you have the permanently uneasy eyes of Jennifer Connelly, the oddly world-weary yet immature Jared Leto and the complete conviction of Ellen Burstyn to compliment those keen to please visuals? Not to mention a pretty kick ass soundtrack.

I'm reviewing the Region 2 DVD, which I believe is identical to the Region 1 bar the omission of a typical, embarrassingly fan-boy essay from Harry Knowles. The strongest asset here is the commentary from Aronofsky, ironically a lot more content and full of optimism than anything in his film. He's a good storyteller, full of anecdotes, with a keen eye for intriguing technical and visual information. Tellingly though, he rarely talks about his work in an emotional, conceptual or structural way, and he lacks the self-deprecating nature of the best commentaries (from directors like Ridley Scott, John Carpenter and Alan Parker). There are a few insubstantial deleted scenes which add little, and a very amusing one featuring a Jar Jar Binks parody courtesy of Marlon Wayans. For that mixture of curio appeal and genuine insight though, Hubert Selby Jr's interview with Ellen Burstyn is pretty fascinating stuff.