Aronofsky is a man possesed by obsession. All of the movies in his young but fascinating portfolio deal with the great potentials of perseverance as much as the dangerous downfalls of addiction. Pi quickly descended into a dizzying state of paranoia; Requiem for a Dream lamented human lives overwhelmed by addiction; The Wrestler and its sister project, Black Swan, both dealt directly with the physical and mental toll of reaching perfection in one’s craft.
So it’s no surprise that Aronofsky would be attracted to the oldest tale of obsession, sin, and redemption. Noah manages to turn a few verses of Genesis into a sprawling fantasy melodrama. Aronofsky imbues the text with startling visual life -- fallen angels are turned into grotesque stone monsters, stampedes of animals cascade into the coffin-like ark, trees sprout instantly from the earth as if willed to life. The result is an odd but fiercely realized film -- part disaster CGI spectacle, part moralistic meditation. It’s occasionally unwieldy but never fails to fascinate.
Aronofsky’s Noah is, by all traditional definitions, not a good man. He’s still loyal to God’s message; but in this telling, Noah is a man whose zealous devotion is taken to the brink of insanity. Aronofsky seems to understand that Noah, however righteous in his idealism, is inherently a knowing accomplice in an act of global genocide. This is not the noble and virtuous Noah who saves animals from a flood; this is a tortured man possessed by the word of God, obsessed with carrying out His duty for the betterment of mankind.
In one of the most revealing liberties taken with the original text, Noah saves his middle son, Ham, as the deluge begins but chooses to leave an innocent girl to die. This act not only drives a familial wedge between him and Ham, who had loved the girl left behind, but also reveals the significant price Noah will pay to ensure God’s will. Rarely does the title character of a Hollywood blockbuster kill an innocent life so abruptly -- such an act would usually draw the vitriol of audience members. He would be unsympathetic and unrelatable, cruel and cold. He would be villainous. But Aronofsky doesn’t refrain from unending expectations, especially in a defining moment of characterization. “[Aronofsky’s] more comfortable with other people feeling uncomfortable with the film than with him feeling uncomfortable with it,” claims Clint Mansell, Aronofsky’s long-time composer. This is simply Aronofsky's way of warning you to pay attention.
As the film progresses, it becomes clear this version of Noah’s Ark will deal not only with the physical cost of surviving the end of the world, but the psychological understanding that we as humans were complicit in humanity’s destruction. It’s interesting to note that the film barely focuses on the multitudes of animals on the Ark; there are no colorful, cute critters to lift the mood. Instead, we are left with striking images of tortuous death -- a pinnacle of human bodies forming a grotesque pyramid of clawing despair, jettisoning out of the rising waters as it’s slowly swallowed by the crashing waves. Within the Ark, Noah stoically listens to the dying cries outside, reverberating through the chambers like a demented whale song.
The central idea that Aronofsky explores is physically embodied through Tubal-Cain, the barbarian leader of the Cain family who has been at odds with Noah’s lineage, the Seth family, for years. Tubal-Cain is bloodthirsty and savage, a spoiler of lands and a killer of men. And as he hears word of the imminent flood, he naturally wants a seat on the Ark. Tubal-Cain is not a bad man nor a villain; in a very real sense, he is a pragmatic humanist. He believes that humanity should have the right to fight for its survival; he believes humanity deserves a berth on the Ark as much as any beast or reptile. “A man isn’t ruled by the heavens,” he argues at one point. “He is ruled by his will.” But Tubal-Cain’s will to survive is also driven by jealousy, fueled by God’s rejection. In his eyes, Noah is the vessel that God has chosen to save; he is the lesser mortal. “I am a man, made in your image,” he cries to the heavens. “Why will you not converse with me?”
This idea of man’s will (Tubal-Cain) versus God’s will (Noah) sculpts the story into much more than just an apocalyptic blockbuster. It adds moral weight to an old tale, infusing it with a dire meditation on the inherent flaws of mankind that persist even today. At one point in the film, Noah’s blind obedience is challenged when he is faced with a choice to kill his own granddaughters. Believing it to be God’s will that the human race should end with his family, Noah raises a knife to the helpless infants. In this moment, neither fate nor will alone can prevail. It is, as it should always be, a calling to a deeper understanding of humanity -- a plea for acceptance and a chance for peace.
So it’s no surprise that Aronofsky would be attracted to the oldest tale of obsession, sin, and redemption. Noah manages to turn a few verses of Genesis into a sprawling fantasy melodrama. Aronofsky imbues the text with startling visual life -- fallen angels are turned into grotesque stone monsters, stampedes of animals cascade into the coffin-like ark, trees sprout instantly from the earth as if willed to life. The result is an odd but fiercely realized film -- part disaster CGI spectacle, part moralistic meditation. It’s occasionally unwieldy but never fails to fascinate.
Aronofsky’s Noah is, by all traditional definitions, not a good man. He’s still loyal to God’s message; but in this telling, Noah is a man whose zealous devotion is taken to the brink of insanity. Aronofsky seems to understand that Noah, however righteous in his idealism, is inherently a knowing accomplice in an act of global genocide. This is not the noble and virtuous Noah who saves animals from a flood; this is a tortured man possessed by the word of God, obsessed with carrying out His duty for the betterment of mankind.
In one of the most revealing liberties taken with the original text, Noah saves his middle son, Ham, as the deluge begins but chooses to leave an innocent girl to die. This act not only drives a familial wedge between him and Ham, who had loved the girl left behind, but also reveals the significant price Noah will pay to ensure God’s will. Rarely does the title character of a Hollywood blockbuster kill an innocent life so abruptly -- such an act would usually draw the vitriol of audience members. He would be unsympathetic and unrelatable, cruel and cold. He would be villainous. But Aronofsky doesn’t refrain from unending expectations, especially in a defining moment of characterization. “[Aronofsky’s] more comfortable with other people feeling uncomfortable with the film than with him feeling uncomfortable with it,” claims Clint Mansell, Aronofsky’s long-time composer. This is simply Aronofsky's way of warning you to pay attention.
As the film progresses, it becomes clear this version of Noah’s Ark will deal not only with the physical cost of surviving the end of the world, but the psychological understanding that we as humans were complicit in humanity’s destruction. It’s interesting to note that the film barely focuses on the multitudes of animals on the Ark; there are no colorful, cute critters to lift the mood. Instead, we are left with striking images of tortuous death -- a pinnacle of human bodies forming a grotesque pyramid of clawing despair, jettisoning out of the rising waters as it’s slowly swallowed by the crashing waves. Within the Ark, Noah stoically listens to the dying cries outside, reverberating through the chambers like a demented whale song.
The central idea that Aronofsky explores is physically embodied through Tubal-Cain, the barbarian leader of the Cain family who has been at odds with Noah’s lineage, the Seth family, for years. Tubal-Cain is bloodthirsty and savage, a spoiler of lands and a killer of men. And as he hears word of the imminent flood, he naturally wants a seat on the Ark. Tubal-Cain is not a bad man nor a villain; in a very real sense, he is a pragmatic humanist. He believes that humanity should have the right to fight for its survival; he believes humanity deserves a berth on the Ark as much as any beast or reptile. “A man isn’t ruled by the heavens,” he argues at one point. “He is ruled by his will.” But Tubal-Cain’s will to survive is also driven by jealousy, fueled by God’s rejection. In his eyes, Noah is the vessel that God has chosen to save; he is the lesser mortal. “I am a man, made in your image,” he cries to the heavens. “Why will you not converse with me?”
This idea of man’s will (Tubal-Cain) versus God’s will (Noah) sculpts the story into much more than just an apocalyptic blockbuster. It adds moral weight to an old tale, infusing it with a dire meditation on the inherent flaws of mankind that persist even today. At one point in the film, Noah’s blind obedience is challenged when he is faced with a choice to kill his own granddaughters. Believing it to be God’s will that the human race should end with his family, Noah raises a knife to the helpless infants. In this moment, neither fate nor will alone can prevail. It is, as it should always be, a calling to a deeper understanding of humanity -- a plea for acceptance and a chance for peace.
