The Fountain

If anyone is lured towards The Fountain expecting a traditional blending of genres, a sci-fi romance hybrid for the CGI age, then the studio’s marketing team should sleep soundly at night knowing they have done their work well. For although science and romance have their respectful roles on the film’s periphery the main object of concern in this, director Darren Aronofsky’s third feature length film, is that most inevitable and mysterious of human limitations, physical death, and the persistent hope of immortality that accompanies it regardless of race, culture, or religious creed. Some higher power must have decided that ruminations on human mortality would be a tough sell especially when they dabble in the fantastic and emerge, as The Fountain does, as an impressive visual spectacle. The film’s substantive visual flair and indelible imagery will haunt you long after the credits roll, but here Aronofsky eschews the brisk, though extremely effective editing techniques of Requiem for a Dream, employing a more singular and philosophical tone that lifts this film into a whole other cinematic realm: it is closer in spirit to the work of Terrence Malick, Andrei Tarkovsky, or Krzysztof Kieslowski than anything a member of his directorial generation has so far produced.

At times astounding, occasionally frustrating, the film unfolds with a grace and mystery analogous to the organic forms that serve as its primary metaphors, branching out into different time periods and religious traditions in a wholly universal reflection on the quest for eternal life. To detail the plot is a delicate undertaking; the danger is not in revealing too much but rather misrepresenting the film as ambitious but hopelessly convoluted. However, a rudimentary distillation may be attempted. Tom (Hugh Jackman) is a modern day American neurosurgeon attempting to find a cure for his wife Izzi’s (Rachel Weisz) brain tumor. Izzi, though terminally ill, is writing a book called The Fountain which concerns a conquistador (Jackman again) who at the request of Queen Isabel (Weisz) has left Inquisition ravaged Spain to search the Mayan empire for a mythic tree of life, seeking immortality for himself and his queen, and salvation for his country. The book then transitions to the 26^th century where an astronaut (Jackman yet again) possessing the freshly shaved head and unadorned wardrobe of a Zen Buddhist novice ascends space in an enormous bubble, accompanied only by a tree of primordial dimensions. His destination, a nebula wrapped around a dying star believed by the Mayans to house the souls of the dead, appears to offer the hope of immortality and results in some of the film’s most unforgettable visuals.

Hugh Jackman ably infuses intensity and metaphysical resolve into each of his three roles while Rachel Weisz, as both Spanish monarch and Izzi, captures a real sense of vulnerability in addition to radiating a truly ethereal beauty. Unfortunately, Ellen Burstyn, so stunning in Requiem for a Dream, here inhabits a much more marginal figure as Tommy’s supervisor. Hers is a character of seriousness and genuine empathy yet her limited role does not allow for the full expression of her considerable talent. The film’s fluctuation in time and locales, from Central American jungles to transparent spacecraft, is in contrast to the singleness of theme that permeates this thousand year span. None of this is too revealing however, because The Fountain doesn’t offer us conflict in one age that is resolved in another. Though all three time periods appear to be inextricably linked there is an elliptical and decidedly non-linear structure to the film. Indeed, one of the film’s central visual metaphors, the ring, reinforces not only cyclical rhythms of life, death, and rebirth, but is also useful when applied to an understanding of the film’s narrative flow. In each age there are the same problems, the same temptations, and the same truth: a constantly reoccurring epiphany for those with the eyes to see.

Perhaps one of the most notable features of The Fountain is its utterly earnest and sincere treatment of all things spiritual. “What do you think about….death as an act of creation?” Izzi asks while reflecting on the Mayan creation myth, a loaded question that could easily stem from a Christian or Buddhist epistemology. There is an element of Buddhist thought underlying much of the film though its introduction seems somewhat arbitrary, at least in the film’s historical context. Still, it manages to coexist with Mayan religious ritual and Catholicism in such a way that their commonality is subtly, though distinctly highlighted. Such ecumenical treatment is remarkable in its best moments for cultivating a rare cinematic humanism that contains real spiritual dimensions. The film may contain the occasional stumble where, for example, the assumption of the lotus position in interstellar flight may make for awkward visual choreography and induce guffaws in even the most seriously inclined of viewers. Still, such missteps are rare. The real difficulty of The Fountain is deciding which understanding of immortality the film attempts to embody as true. The conviction that death is a disease to be cured is clearly repudiated as anti-human, and graceful, calm acceptance of death is depicted as virtuous. However, the question lingers: does our rebirth constitute any semblance of individuality or is it a more impersonal process, forsaking the limitations of the individual in order to be a part of all things? Since theologians and philosophers over millennia have failed to fully address these concerns it would be unfair to expect a film to provide definitive answers, and it is high praise to say that one attempts to raise itself above the level of momentary diversion and aspires to be that rarity among contemporary films: an instrument of sustained philosophical reflection. “I’m going to die” one of the characters says and it is this realization that is the heart of The Fountain. It is more important to recognize this fact than it is to try and penetrate the mystery itself. Functioning simultaneously as spectacle and visual meditation, Aronofsky’s beautiful handiwork challenges, confounds, and perplexes, but even in its imperfect striving manages to reach towards the heart of something so profound that experiencing it onscreen seems to be itself a form of prayer.