We are weary and ready to take off for the holiday, but a disjointed thought on "The Fountain" before we go:
"The Fountain" is utterly without a sense of humor. This is essential â€” anything less than total dedication to its own seriousness would have destroyed it, and made the ending, which includes a lot of hairless future Hugh Jackman floating in lotus position through vaguely vaginal space imagery, completely ridiculous.
Plenty of people will find it completely ridiculous anyway.
Darren Aronofsky‘s big ideas about fears and the beauty of death aren’t nearly as profound as he thinks. His imagery, on the other hand, is. The film is epic in scope (indeed, it’s a love story that lasts 1000 years), but intimate in scale â€” from the stylized Inquisition-era Spain to the floating tree at the end of the world, nothing seems to exist beyond the orbit of the two lovers. You could read the past and future segments as simply being part of the story without the story, but it doesn’t really matter. The echoing imagery â€” the downy hairs at the nape of a neck, the stars, the snow, the golden tones â€” just draws the farthest reaches of the film’s universe back to some tiny remembered moment of being curled in bed half-asleep in the morning light.
Open wide November 22nd.
+ "The Fountain" (Warner Bros.)