The Fountain

Directed by Darren Aronofsky

There are several reasons why it makes sense to hate The Fountain, the third helping from indie prodigy Darren Aronofsky, least of all being its pretentiousness. The enigmatic plotting, transmitted through overt spiritual symbolism and heavy-handed mythologizing, spanning three separate time periods and featuring the same central performers in each era as star-crossed lovers is not really such a rotten idea—but that density hardly befits a director whose first two films possessed more focused contemplation. Now Aronofsky has taken the Jackson Pollock route: spewing a million ideas in as many directions across a canvas 96 minutes long. You can’t blame him for trying.

Nor can you ignore the talent: Aronofsky has maintained the same core technical team that helped him skyrocket to fame with the revolutionary sci-fi drama Pi in 1998. Together, they create a gorgeous wonderland. Composer Clint Mansell unifies the epic mood through the flow of mournful electronic melodies, while cinematographer Matthew Libatique photographs each scene with impenetrably complex color schemes and editor Jay Rabinowitz—having possibly the toughest job of the bunch—helps us navigate the temporal boundaries with ease. Yet The Fountain has dozens more puzzling signposts than any befuddling “Lost” episode, and provides far fewer answers (really). The big picture looks magnificent—but is ultimately incoherent. It’s a supremely trippy movie about ideas, but not a good movie with them, which paves a tragic path to dissatisfaction.

The epic story opens with a quote from Genesis about the Tree of Life, then promptly devolves into life-and-death blather as a ferocious conquistador (Hugh Jackman, doing a fine job) battles to the top of a hidden Mayan pyramid in search of the Tree of Life to gain immortality for his queen (Aronofsky’s spouse Rachel Weisz). The jungle scenes seemingly appear courtesy of Werner Herzog’s Aguirre: Wrath of God, with storybook Mayans possibly appropriated from Mel Gibson’s forthcoming Apocalypto. From there the scenery shifts to an abstract, CGI-laden future where a contemplative Jackman travels alone in a glass ball toward the center of a nebula (the press notes identify him as an astronaut in the 26th century, but I caught neither time nor occupation); then we traveled to the present, where brain scientist Jackman aims to cure wife Weisz’s fatal tumor with regenerating tree cells. Each mini-drama has merit, especially when Aronofsky illustrates Jackman’s tortured subjectivity (in one memorable sequence, the contemporary protagonist walks down a busy city street while only his footsteps are audible). But whenever one thread picks up, another one begins. The continuous narrative reboot gets mighty tedious.

Taking into account an overwrought, seven-year production backstory, the unexceptional end result comes as no surprise. The Curse of the Hollywood Passion Project tends to exclusively plague able minds. Respected filmmakers tend to alienate audiences (M. Night Shyamalan, anyone?) when they become too stuck on the sole task of fulfilling their dreams. Welcome to the club, Darren (and rest in peace, Robert Altman, for managing to buck this trend).

Still, Aronofsky is not one to be pigeonholed into cliché. He has simultaneously made his most troublesome and absorbing work. Ponder that paradox to get a sense for its unflagging creative edge. The Fountain might be a monumental misstep, but the artist’s well has yet to run dry.