Natalie Portman: the second day in Toronto

The public screenings of Danny Boyle’s brilliant 127 Hours were too much for some audience members – some fainted, others just couldn’t handle it when the film reached its logical but decidedly extreme conclusion. But at least most people knew going in what was coming (the movie’s real life hero, the climber Aron Ralston, is pretty well known), so it shouldn’t have been too much of a shock.

On the other hand, imagine if you’re a dance fan who booked a ticket to the North American premiere of Black Swan because you see it’s about ballet, and you like that nice Natalie Portman. Maybe you don’t recognize the name of the writer-director, Darren Aronofsky, or maybe you haven’t seen his films Requiem for a Dream and The Wrestler. http://nataliaportman.blogspot.com/

At first the movie goes how you might think: Portman’s character is promoted to prima ballerina for the next production of Swan Lake. The artistic director (Vincent Cassel) knows she is an exquisite dancer, but he urges her to dig up some passion to play the twin role, the black swan. But you are unprepared for the lengths to which this Svengali will go, and dismayed as Natalie’s mildly neurotic habit of scratching herself begins to draw blood. By the time she is led astray by another young dancer (Mila Kunis), you already fear the worst – but even so, the speed with which Portman descends into paranoia and psychosis is simply dizzying.

This is like no ballet film anyone has ever seen before – it’s visceral, violent, and enthusiastically lurid. Aronofsky uses digital effects to make his star’s skin seem to crawl and her bones to break. The movie is awash in blood – hallucinations, mostly, but so vivid we’re rarely more confident of that than Portman is. It’s a wildly heightened melodrama, two parts The Red Shoes to three parts Repulsion. Some will find it risible, but many will thrill to Aronofsky’s virtuoso style and Portman’s extraordinary performance.

Also pretty gruesome, and pretty great, Let Me In, the American remake of Let the Right One In. Lord knows we’ve seen plenty of excellent foreign horror movies minced by Hollywood, but this one is an exception to the general rule. Cloverfield director Matt Reeves transports the action to a snowy Los Alamos, Texas and comes up with a new opening gambit, but nine scenes out of ten he sticks close to the Swedish film. So much so, fans of the original might feel underwhelmed by the remake. But bear in mind, the Swedish movie made just $2 million in North America, and $11 million worldwide. Even if it flops, the remake will be seen by three or four times as many. Reeves jettisons the handicam-style he brought to Cloverfield for a far more classical, restrained, composed look, and draws terrific performances from Chloe Moretz (Kick-Ass) and Kodi Smit-McPhee (The Road).

Less grisly, but still grueling, John Cameron Mitchell’s latest is a surprising change of pace after Shortbus and Hedwig And The Angry Inch. Rabbit Hole is a somber drama about a couple struggling to cope with the death of their four year old in a car accident. Nicole Kidman is the housewife mom, and Aaron Eckhart her high-flying husband. Both actors dig deep (Kidman is one of the producers), and the film is honest and moving, if not especially illuminating. It will be interesting to see if the material, which feels more appropriate to a TV movie of the week, will put off cinemagoers – apparently the US distributor Lionsgate fancy its chances for the Oscar.

And if that’s not too heavy for you, there’s also Trust, in which Clive Owen and Catherine Keener go to pieces when their 14 year old daughter is raped by a 35 year old stranger who has groomed her over the internet. Directed by David Schwimmer of all people, Trust is diligent, plausible and virtually void of all cinematic interest – though I have to report that the woman who exited in front of me claimed it was “the most moving film” she had seen in years.

At any rate it was better than Miral, Julian Schnabel’s contribution to the Palestinian cause. Personally, I liked the politics but hated the movie, which skitters through the last half century before settling on the eponymous Miral (Freida Pinto), a Palestinian who grows up in East Jerusalem and joins the Intifadah after witness the flattening of Ramallah in 1987 and meeting a good-looking, charismatic revolutionary. Baldly written and shot with random abandon, the film has been made with an agenda but minimal insight. The best that can be said, it’s a beginners’ guide to the Palestine conflict, but a considerable disappointment after The Diving Bell And The Butterfly. Or perhaps it’s just not violent enough to have much impact in this bruising battleground of a film festival.