Are actors turning into their own special effects?
Drifting off to sleep the other night, I found myself mulling over Natalie Portman's performance in Black Swan, as one does, trying to figure out what was behind our current demand for physical self-transformation in our actors. By 'recent' I mean 'the last thirty years', the vogue dating back, as far as I can make out to De Niro's widely reported weight gain in Raging Bull. Actors had transformed themselves for parts before of course, but not to that degree, or such PR effect. Thereafter, it became par for the course for actors to cough up their altered vital statistics a sign of their 'commitment' to a part, and awards worthiness, in actual, measurable column inches.
Then it came to me: in the era of digital effects, actors have had to transform themselves into a kind of special effect. Raging Bull, remember, came out just three years after Star Wars, the film that first thrust America cinema into hyper-space, spearheading the effects revolution whose ripple effects are still being felt today. It's almost as if De Niro and Scorsese had, on some instinctive level, taken stock of the new landscape, thought about how they could compete and decided there was nothing for it: if they were going to centre a movie around a performance, they were going to have to really hunker down, order in the klieg lights, and put on a show to equal that of the exploding death star at the end of Lucas's space epic. Only it would be De Niro doing the ballooning.
Cut to: thirty years of actors quite literally making spectacles of themselves. They're not acting so much as morphing. Think of the language critics use to praise performance these days — "immersive," "transformative", "revelatory," "as you've never seen her before" — and you realise how much it echoes the way we talk about special effects, and how both subscribe to the oldest maxim in show business: show 'em something new.