Requiem for a Dream (2000)
ANYBODY WANNA WASTE SOME TIME?
by Danielle Lee
Those bludgeoning violins. Ellen Burstyn’s terrorizing fridge. Jared Leto’s arm. Three chanted words at a graphic sex show.
Everyone has that scene they’ll cringe and remind you of when you tell them you masochistically chose to watch Requiem for a Dream a third time for the purpose of analysis. Or in my mom’s case, one exasperated word: “Danielle!!”
To be fair, she was the one I called crying after that ill-advised second viewing a few years back, in the throes of a year-plus unemployment depression, thinking Darren Aronofsky’s stylish portrait of spiraling junkies would somehow assuage my own privileged distress over my rapidly progressing long-distance relationship with the recorded voices at the New Jersey Department of Labor and Workforce Development.
Requiem for a Dream doesn’t offer the detached viewing option that other similarly well-made movies in that implicit “only-watch-once” genre do, in their moments of sheer fantastical over-the-top-ness. (See: Oldboy’s incredible hallway slaughter.) No, Aronofsky creates such a visceral, sensory viewer experience with his adaptation of Hubert Selby Jr.’s novel that, although veering on clunky at times, it never really leaves your bloodstream.
The aforementioned “Lux Aeterna” song, operating as a surrogate heartbeatfor the film, thuds in escalating concert with the characters as their situations become increasingly grotesque—tactile close-ups in split screens; feverishly fast-cut, Foleyed sequences of the characters getting high. Actor-mounted cameras that quickly switch between subjective POV shots and their 180 degree opposite close-ups, capturing those characters’ (often tragic) reactions to the brutal scenes they’ve found themselves in.
All of these unique stylistic choices ensure the characters’ narratives enter your veins and practically indict you in their respective downfalls.
The film circles around protagonist Harry (Jared Leto), the Brighton Beach native with drug empire dreams that soon become disastrous as his heroin addiction advances. Joining him are his girlfriend, Marion (Jennifer Connelly),whose own fashion-designer aspirations are similarly destroyed through codependency and addiction; his aging and widowed mother Sara (Ellen Burstyn), whose loneliness fosters a delusional, television-aided obsession with public admiration that’s only intensified by diet-pill psychosis; and his friend Tyrone (Marlon Wayans), partner in both the heroin business and self-administration.
Their interlocking relationship dependencies and the pits of despair they individually spiral down are often rendered visually, with spherical aerial camera movement and shots like the one of Harry and Marion sitting inside a ring of her design sketches and Sara enclosed by a hallucinated conga line, starring a glamorous and adored version of herself. Their dreams of creative success and individual glory offer glimpses of circular eternity, yet only taunt them with surreal suffocation as the drugs put them further out of reach.
Marion wears a choker necklace when grudgingly asking a sexually interested acquaintance for money to fund Harry’s heroin distribution plans. Later, having sex with him to earn the cash, the choker has been replaced by his hands encircling her neck.
The four characters’ narratives continue paralleling each other throughout—at times explicitly enough to underscore Aronofsky’s surrealist vision.
The airtight ordering of scenes likens Sara’s doctor’s brisk, impersonal rip of the prescription pad to Harry and Tyrone’s Coney Island drug transactions. It suggests Harry and Sara’s hallucinations—hers of food, his of soundlessly running toward Marion on a pier only to fall into a void—begin at the same time, and that sugar, television, caffeine, amphetamines, coke and heroin (especially mixed in a cocktail of personal failure) can all levy similar doses of psychological damage.
Because where does staunch realism factor into the warm comfort that floods out of a tequila shot, the pleasant synaptic Rockettes chorus line in a cup of coffee, or the gratifying shoulder landslide in a smoky college dorm?
If we as viewers are complicit in Harry, Sara, Marion and Tyrone’s actions via subjective POVs and vulnerable edits, we are also dizzied and sedated and thrilled and exhausted. Even when approaching levels of fried-egg PSA subtlety, the tightly woven construction of the film forgives these small indulgences for the sake of clear messages.
And beyond that obvious drugs are bad m’kay one are some corollaries. The film’s constant, escalating tension also feeds into conflicts between private vs. public, internal vs. external, dream vs. reality.
The first of these conflicts is visualized in one of the film’s opening scenes—a split screen as Harry enters his mother’s house to steal the TV he continually pawns for drug money while she cowers in her room. In one panel, we see her perspective through the keyhole and in the other, her hiding behind the door. Much later, her previously sad but quiet shut-in existence now unraveled by amphetamines, a broken family and a fixation on warped infomercials, Sara rides the subway to claim her right to TV stardom based on some junk-mail promise. Suddenly, we’re seeing this woman, whose slow descent into madness we had sympathetically witnessed, through the eyes of strangers, who laugh at and dismiss her, with her frizzed hair, mad repetitions of “I’m going to be on the TV!” and wild eyes, as the prototypical Crazy Subway Lady.
The moment when Marion takes one simple action that irrevocably catapults her into the abyss of miserable addiction elicits a similar response from an outsider. During a terrible fight with Harry, he writes down the number of a heroin-holding guy that’s willing to “share” exclusively with women, for non-monetary prices. With Harry gone and withdrawal imminent, Marion reluctantly calls the creep, who answers her desperate “Hi” with a terrible cackle.
For brief moments, we have to reevaluate our commiseration with these characters, for whom we can effortlessly cry thanks to sweeping moments of excellent cinematography, but at whom we might snicker in the subway or—as becomes Marion’s fate after that phone call—judge from a safe distance for headlining some humiliating sex party.
In keeping with the film’s visceral tone, this internal-external dichotomy is also explored on a more micro level. After so many scenes of ingesting and shooting into veins, Marion twice cues the maddening “Lux Aeterna” crescendo by expelling something. First, vomit from her mouth after her first degrading encounter with the man on the phone. Later, her screams, visualized in the underwater bubbles of her bathtub.
The scenes of her carefully applying (darker and darker) makeup show the disconnect she’s trying to achieve (one that the drugs help her facilitate)between a benign beauty routine and the horror to which she’s about to subject herself. Yes, the water silences her rage. But it also threatens to drown her entirely, given just a few more moments of catharsis.
Marion and Harry are constantly on that precipice—shooting up or “pushing off”—fighting to suspend their aching reality at the risk of just one moment too long underwater.
Down there, the two have lost their grip on each other, washing away the earlier love story captured in giddy embraces on the beach, mutual assurances (“you are my dream”), and the joint purchase of Marion’s fashion outpost. These high points have devolved into oppressive, minimally lit scenes of isolation and shouting matches that end in one specifically heartbreaking exhale of “fuck you.”
In one early split-screened scene, the two lie in bed as we voyeuristically watch them touch each other in an aerial wide shot alongside close-ups of the fondled body parts. Employed here to celebrate points of human connection, the split screen later welds together bonds between human and anthropomorphized drug. With no son to eye, even through a keyhole, Sara now faces off against her diet-advised grapefruits, her medley of pills and a fridge that comes to monstrous life. Harry and Marion’s split screens in bed make way for, first, split screens of their mutual shoot-up routines—and then to split screens entirely absent of one another. In one full screen shot at the very end of the film, after Marion has sacrificed her body and creative ambitions to the mercy of drugs, she spoons her rewarded bag of heroin in an aerial re-creation of the couple’s earlier cuddling on that couch.
Tyrone shares a split screen with a childhood memory, in one of many moments when dreams stifle, rather than expand, the characters’ psyches. Harry and Sara’s hallucinations both begin with aspirations of love—Harry’s in the form of Marion and Sara’s projected from her TV. The dreams quickly become dangerous, though, morphing into oppositional nightmares, with Harry plunging to a near-death and Sara’s audience ruthlessly taunting her. These visions of the future are just as toxic as Tyrone’s fixation on the past, and, unable to move forward or back, the characters can only get high, chemically extending their synthetically feel-good present. With each desperate elevation the crash only becomes harder, back down to a reality grown vicious with neglect.
Later, while Harry and Tyrone attempt to escape their respective nightmares—and the law—with a drive to Florida, Tyrone cheerfully announces that they’re now 600 miles closer to Miami. When Harry reminds him of the geographical flip-side—600 miles farther from New York—Tyrone glances in his side rearview, face collapsing with overwhelming anguish. Aronofsky largely truncates the reasons for Tyrone’s despondency, but these kinds of scarring transformations and breaks with the past occur over the span of the film for the other characters.
Scenes of the characters’ mindful walks—or in Sara’s case, roll on a gurney—down hallways toward horrible fates visually indicate these life-altering moments. As do the close-up expressions on their faces, poignantly executed by the actors.
Ellen Burstyn’s entire performance is particularly incredible. In the cases of Jennifer Connelly and Jared Leto’s astonishing portrayals, their casting is also aesthetically superb.
As the dilating pupils in Aronofsky’s getting-high sequences demonstrate, eyes are often the most terrifying, immediately apparent barometer of an addict. I am still haunted by the disturbing lifelessness I’ve witnessed in the eyes of addicts I’ve loved. Connelly and Leto have the suitable light-hued, expressive canvases for that brutal hallmark.
Back on the other side of this codependent-simulating relationship between characters and viewers, our eyes are just as continually assaulted. Along with our ears, consciences, hearts, minds and stomachs.
As all the characters become fully submerged, we go down with them. And gasp with relief at the end credits, though it’s possible we’ve already been under way too long.
If you are one of likely dozens (!) of people in the world who can’t get enough of Darren Aronofsky’s nightmare-inducing visualizations of addiction, Danielle Lee recommends you check out his anti-meth PSAs, and then go about jamming safety pins into your eyelids or whatever else it is that gets you going.
What Maisie Knew (2012)
THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD.
by Erica Bean
The first time I encountered two parents fighting I was fifteen years old, and they were not my parents. They were the parents of my first boyfriend, and it was a shock to the system to hear such ugly words being hurled across a kitchen island. I was one of the lucky ones whose parents were still happily married, though this happiness did nothing to prepare me for a real world full of arguing adults. Their love never showed me all the ways that married people sometimes do not love—or even like—one other.
As an adult I can understand why my boyfriend didn’t seem disconcerted in any way, but as a teenager, I could only stare in surprise at him as he took me by the hand and walked with me into the backyard to sit by the pool. We sat at the edge of the pool and made circles in the water with our feet.
I pretended not to hear the arguing still going on, but all those angry words smashed into a million pieces inside of me, shattering everything I thought I knew about the way people were supposed to speak to each other. I wondered how my boyfriend survived, how he coped all these years. I remember asking him, has it always been this way? He answered casually, practiced—I don’t know anything different. His words marked a distinct point in our relationship where I felt the gap between what he knew and what I thought I knew about life. From the pool where we sat, I could hear the tone, the inflections, the harshness. The lovely, gracious people I had known for so many years had turned into people I no longer recognized. We rested our backs on the hot cement under the summer sun, our knees hanging over the edge of the pool.
This is what I think about when I see Maisie watching her parents yelling at each other. I think of the ripples, and the affects of that loudness, the piercing harshness. I see her recognize the arguing, the angry look on her mother’s face when she is calling her father an asshole, and I see her take herself away—shifting her body to a place away from all the noise—with a look on her face that says all this fighting is normal. She no longer hears it. Instead, Maisie is humming, she is playing tic-tac-toe, or laughing with her nanny, she is letting herself win at her own game, drawn on a pizza box with a blue crayon.
What Maisie Knew has two directors, David Siegal and Scott McGehee, and the cast is exceptional: Julianne Moore as the mother, Alexander Skarsgård as Lincoln, Joanna Vanderham as Margo the nanny, and Steve Coogan as Maisie’s father. But in the end it is Onata Aprile, as Maisie, that we can’t look away from. Hers is a soft voice in a loud room, a smiling child despite a temperamental mother, a tiny and perceptive human being, wholly focused through the camera as she carries the film with her two tiny hands, every moment a graceful reminder of what it means to forgive all of those who let us down.
Maisie’s parents do all the things parents shouldn’t do when they are divorcing. They force her to take sides, they ask her about the other parent’s life. Maisie keeps herself occupied as her parents remain preoccupied with their own lives, spending far more time fighting about their daughter than actually spending any time with her. She is watching the secrets form, the way they weave in and out of her life. She is left to wait late, after school, forgotten by her mother and her father. She is a patient, and obedient child, but still a child. She often doesn’t understand what is happening all around her.
Her father marries Margo, and her mother marries Lincoln. The nanny is now her new step-mother, and a bartender her new step-father. The hardest part of watching What Maisie Knew is watching Maisie navigate her way through this new, dismantled world in quiet solitude. And yet, she remains the brightest spot in every scene—she is the shining light, the laughter and joy and color on a summer day. She is too young to feel resentful toward her parents, the way they wander in and out of her days. Maisie is the reason the pieces of her fractured family keep smashing into each other like stained glass, bright and sharp and shattered, but she forgives them for breaking. She loves them in spite of it. Because, despite the terrible ways in which they behave, they are her parents, her biggest sense of permanency. She consistently displays her sense of forgiveness, choosing to love her mother and father despite their mistakes, or their absence. Maisie’s childhood innocence and habitual love creates a bubble in which she finds a way to survive her parents’ divorce.
As an adult I know that life is not always conclusive, that failures usually speak to the heavy burdens we’re forced to carry on our own, and the ways we get stuck when trying to let them go. Sometimes the questions are hard but the answers are easy. People are complex: it’s not as simple as mothers or fathers not wanting their children, even if they have the utmost obligation in their heart to do so. We see Maisie being held and kissed by her mother and told that she is loved while also being left, or forgotten, or playing in her room, watching her mother cry. Everything we know is everything Maisie knows.
In the unfolding of her days Maisie still finds joy despite all the shuffling from parent to parent, from place to place. Even while she listens one morning as her father tells her he is moving to England, her small mouth chewing up her breakfast, there is that unwavering grace, a small resilience smoothing out the edges of her new life without all the things she used to know.
Margo takes Maisie to a beach house. Here, she can be a child. She runs into the sea, the cold water rushing over her bare feet. Her small hands building something, even if only with crumbling, dry grains of sand. She sits on the shore and holds a shell up to her ear, listening to the ocean. She is listening to a world that is finally listening to her back.
Her mother comes for her one evening. “Let’s go Maisie,” she says. But Maisie doesn’t move. “Maisie, come on,” she repeats, impatient, the tour bus parked and waiting. But Maisie wants to stay, she wants to go on the boat the next day like she was promised. She does not want to leave behind hope in exchange for disappointment. Her mother, for once in touch with an awareness outside of herself, understands this with sharp clarity.
“Do you know who your mother is?” her voice breaks to ask, kneeling in front of her daughter, scared that she has been replaced by the very people she’s had to rely on to take care of Maisie in her absence. But Maisie, her beautiful and delicate daughter, does not let her mother fall through the cracks.
“You,” Maisie replies softly, placing her hand on her mothers shoulder, in reassurance. In comfort.
On that summer day when I was fifteen, I can see how like Maisie I was—the child in a room full of knowing adults. I knew nothing more than what I’d been told, or what belonged to me from my own limited experiences. The things I thought I knew were changing, but on that day, this is what I knew for sure: that there was arguing inside a beautiful house and that it was summer and I was young and that I knew so very little about people, about how they could lash out in hurt, or how they coped with all the twisted things inside of themselves. All I knew was that I needed to keep moving, to keep breaking the surface of the water at my feet. I knew that I had a lifetime ahead of me to figure it out.
Erica Bean is a writer and photographer living in San Francisco, California. She uses the occasional “y’all” and sometimes goes to movie theaters just for the popcorn. You can read more of her work here.