Black Swan—Movie Review

I wasn't going to go see this movie because I heard it was a little naughty (which it is) but it was getting so many award nods that I couldn't resist the pull of feathers, tulle, and promising performances. I wasn't disappointed.

The lovely Leslie Davila and I went last night. We dressed up for each other, each got red slushies, and went to the ballerina movie—a consummate girl's night out.

The movie begins much like any ballet movie; Nina (Natalie Portman) wakes up in a pretty pink nightgown, surrounded herself with her stuffed animal collection, and is sing-songed awake by her overly affectionate though somewhat unbalanced mother. Nina buzzes with anticipation knowing that auditions for Swan Lake are coming soon pending the retirement of the prima ballerina, Beth (played well by Winona Ryder). Here's my first spoiler—Beth retires and Nina gets the part (shocking, I know).

That her technique is impeccable and she embodies the virginal, delicate white swan, the director knows; his concern is that Nina won't be able to play the sensual, powerful black swan too.

If you don't know the story of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, it's about a princess, Odette who gets turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer. One day, Prince Siegfried goes hunting at dusk, sees and takes aim at a lovely white swan for his collection when the swan transforms into a beautiful woman. He learns that until she receives a promise of love from a virgin prince she will ever remain a swan by day and woman by night. The prince falls in love with Odette but by a trick of the evil sorcerer he is seduced and accidentally proposes to another woman at a party (the black swan in human form). Odette, devastated, kills herself and the prince feeling so regretful follows her so they can be reunited in death.

Nina's professional training to become the black swan becomes a destructive transformation of herself: her mommy issues, pressure for perfection, and, most prevalently, her sexuality.

All in all, the film is visually stunning, the plot edgy, and Portman's performance is perfectly en pointe. One can see that she has shed blood, sweat, and tears to become a dancer for this film (one entire year of training) and her acting gave me goosebumps. I will also submit that this movie has the feel of a classic film—it was the subtle suspense that carefully avoided cheesiness and the perfectly packaged storyline.
Things you should know before you see this film:
1) It's naughty—there's about every variety of sexuality in this film but I strongly feel that it was necessary to tell the story
2) It's graphic—dancers already have enough cracks, snaps, and bloodied feet but this film takes it to the enth degree by adding an element of fantasy and horror, and
3) If you're easily spooked, you might want to rent or skip this movie altogether.

All that said, if you think you'll like this movie at all then definitely see it in the theater. Natalie Portman shimmers, the costumes wow, and I just don't think a television will give the same feeling of there being a stage before you as the big screen will.

Last night I went tangoing for the second night in a row (am considering going again tonight). I'd worked a 12-hour day and gone straight to Barry's to dance with two older, distringuished tangueros who were kind enough to dance with an amateur like me (it helped that I was the only female who showed up to Tuesday tango night). As I drove home last night, I wondered why I was spending my time dancing when there were so many other things I should be doing. I have goals I'll never reach if I don't start getting organized and apply myself and there are people I neglect to feed my dance habit. I thought about it, and this week I'll spend five nights out of seven out dancing. Why am I doing it?
For one thing, the exercise is great. It's the only workout I enjoy and as my appetite shrinks and my legs grow strong, I feel my waistline veeeeeeery slowly diminish. But there's a better reason: four years ago in Buenos Aires, I tried to tango and after a horribly failed practica, I swore it off for life. I just knew I couldn't do it and uncharacteristically took it off the table forever, or so I thought. Now that patient instructors and kind male partners have taught me that I can be an acceptable tanguera, I feel immensely empowered. It is the first time in a very long time that I believe that we can do the impossible if we try. That, as cheesy as this line is, we truly do miss 100% of the shots we don't take.
Now that the lessons and practicas aren't a huge struggle, just a matter of polishing and improving, I feel ready to use this as a springboard toward accomplishing other things I've been putting off out of laziness and hopelessness.

Thanks for indulging yet another selfish post—I hope that someone might read this and feel encouraged to try something unfamiliar and uncomfortable and overcome his/her own fears. It's a wonderful thing to discover you have more in you than you thought.

All Tango-ed Up

Not the best picture of me ever or anything, but I'm proud of it because it's of my first tango lesson.

Oh my word. I have a new obsession. I am addicted to tango.

I swore I'd never be able to tango. This was based on a humiliating tango lesson during my time living in Buenos Aires—I'd just come from Mexico where I'd finally become a really pretty good salsa/merengue/bachata dancer and I foolishly assumed that the prowess I finally showed for those dances would come through in tango. I was so dead wrong. My partner actually left me on the dance floor partnerless visibly frustrated with my clumsiness. Part of my problem is that I kept pulling away from him as I felt he was skeevily pressing me to him (erm, it's called close-embrace tango...he wasn't skeevy, he was right). I swore off the art then and there and was almost in tears as I sat alone at my table and changed back into my street shoes.

Well, a couple weeks ago I'd left behind my credit card at Sur Tango's salsa night and returned for it Friday evening after first friday art galleries. I grabbed the card, and made to leave but I was mesmerized by the dancers. Cheek to cheek they glided across the floor perfectly mirroring each other, but their feet made rapid, fluid movements that belied their relaxed, unmovable frames above the waist. The girls curled their lovely legs around the men and the men returned the favor by bending her back elegantly. I sighed and was almost out the door when I bumped into a dancer friend who insisted I participate. Despite my (I thought) firm protests, he slipped my purse off my shoulder, firmly backed me onto the dance floor and drew me into his frame so a lesson could begin. He was brilliant and made the movements very doable. I've been going to lessons since and have been loving every second of it, even the awkward ones when I step on or kick my partner during a "castigada".

I honestly didn't think I'd love anything more than salsa and tango still ties with bachata but tango has stolen my heart. I fantasize about it all day at work and look forward to putting on a dress, my suede-soled shoes, and plastering my hair up for an evening of lessons three days a week.

So far I can do the "parada", "carousel", "castigada", front and back "ochos", "bolero", and "hook". It's the leading into these moves I still have trouble following but I'll get there.

Try tango. So far, the best part of all of this is the amazingingly friendly and accepting tango community in Lincoln. They are so eager for me to catch on that they never let me sit out a dance and are patiently giving me tips which I soak up as much as possible.

When I grow up, I want to be a tanguera.

Thanks for indulging this post, I know it's pretty focused on me, me, me but I am just bursting with enthusiasm over this.

There's Delicious Salsa at Cafe Sevilla

Fifteen-hundred miles away, my mother chops jalapenos, stews tomatoes, and minces onions for her homemade salsa. It's labor intensive, time consuming, and very tasty. Five miles away I made some of my own salsa, it's a lot hotter than anything my mom would make, mostly because I'm using my whole body to do so.
My old friend Alison, new friend Rose, and I went downtown to Cafe Sevilla for some dancing last night and though my mother's salsa is delectable, it can't quite compete with the experience of clubbing at San Diego's funnest salsa bar. I didn't dance as often or as well as my girls, but I had a fantastic partner and I'm still on a natural high; of course, there haven't been many hours between us shutting down the place and my 7:30 A.M. work day. That's what coffee's for.
I will look my whole life and not find another experience quite like salsa dancing, a myriad of colognes and perfumes rise off of the bodies on the dance floor and mingle with the sharp smell of sweat; the effect of which is intoxicating in and of itself. Add to that the positively primal selecting of partners, and intimate moves and you have salsa. I danced with this one guy who was huge and seemingly immovable, but he was light as a feather on his feat, solid as a rock when he rolled me in, and strong as an ox as he rolled me out and guided my turns.
When I was in Mexico, it often occurred that I would start out with a man by doing the basic steps, when he would squeeze my fingers and inform me "Vamos hacer poemas," indicating I should get ready for some turns and tricky moves. The translation of this is "we're going to make poetry". I don't think I'm good enough to call any of my moves poetic, so that's why I think it's important for me to go out again tonight to keep practicing, don't you?