"Mother", the latest work by Darren Aronofsky; a film that was booed in Venice

Darren Aronofsky's latest film titled "Mother" (starring Jennifer Lawrence and Javier Bardem), which was part of the competition at the 74th Venice International Film Festival, was heavily booed during its screening for media representatives and subsequently received a torrent of negative reviews. However, aside from the festival uproar, "Mother" is a strange and deeply disturbing film that requires both patience and a significant understanding of myths and ancient stories to watch. For this reason, it is not an easily accessible film, and due to its horrific ending violence, it can provoke many negative reactions (I certainly agree that the violence in these scenes is beyond tolerable and there is no necessity to witness such repulsiveness, but the filmmaker clearly decided to step to the last stair of madness and display it unabashedly). Nevertheless, it is an astonishing odyssey in human history; from the beginning of creation to the present day, with continuous and significant references to myths that have shaped Western beliefs: from ancient Greek myths to the New and Old Testament. Everything has a symbolic form, and judging the film based on its relatively simple story is an unforgivable mistake that many commit: a writer lives with his beautiful young wife in a remote house. A guest arrives, without the woman knowing that this guest—and later her husband—will settle in this house. Their children also arrive, and with subsequent events, the house becomes filled with people who throw everything into chaos. At first glance, the film is a thriller that starts from zero and gradually reaches the peak of violence in a closed environment. The female character—who is somewhat the main character of the film—finds herself in a tightening and increasingly unbearable siege. The film gets so close to this character—thanks to Aronofsky's astonishing direction—that sometimes the tightening of this siege directly correlates with our breath being held. Up to this point—and from this surface perspective—we are still facing a well-crafted thriller that does not deserve to be booed or to end up at the bottom of critics' polls. But this is just the beginning of the story: Aronofsky adds dozens of mythological, philosophical, and historical layers to this apparent story and strangely—while engaging the viewer in the surface layer of the story—arrives at a very complex film that bears no resemblance to Hollywood films and seems to have the ability to recreate myth and make it believable; brick by brick, it narrates the bitter and terrifying story of humanity on Earth: from the moment of entering the planet—when the man (Adam) enters the house, finds a wife (Eve), and the arrival of his two sons (Abel and Cain, one of whom kills the other, and the first sin on Earth—Abel's blood—remains forever and is not cleansed until the end of the film). On the one hand, it narrates humanity that, like Sisyphus (the hero of Greek mythology who was condemned to an eternal punishment of rolling a large stone up a hill, only to watch it roll back down and start the process all over again), carries the burden without having any way out of this closed circle. The burden of suffering—human suffering; one of the beliefs of Christianity that Christ came to bear the burdens of others—forms the main essence of the film: the story ultimately returns to the beginning of the film and like a burden that, at the behest of the gods, has fallen down the mountain again, must reach the peak once more; enduring a multitude of pain and sorrow; and it seems this bitter story never ends. The writer (Javier Bardem) in the film can symbolize God, who in Christian belief is the father of Christ (the child he brings into the world, as Christ is torn apart by others, and in the final scenes, like a symbolic church ceremony, they eat his flesh), but at the same time, he can also be seen as a symbol of Christ himself who does not die and returns again, perhaps this time in hopes of saving humanity. He, Christ-like, welcomes everyone into his home and wants to build another world, but—like Bunuel's "Viridiana"—there seems to be no salvation for humanity: all those who have entered his house become accustomed to rudeness and savagery, tearing each other apart and leading the house—the Earth we live on—to destruction. The relatively realistic atmosphere of the first half becomes intensely surreal in the second half: the house becomes a battlefield, with the presence of soldiers and heavy weapons in a small, closed environment that seems unable to withstand such violence and savagery; a clear symbol of today's excesses and absurd wars that arise without reason and only result in poverty, misery, and death. The film also mocks politics and politicians; there are clear references to today's politicians that subtly blend with the heart and soul of the film's simple story. Every scene, every presence, and every dialogue gains a meaning beyond itself, without having a heavy presence due to its effect—and its deceptively simple story. On the other hand, the film critiques fame with dark humor. The second—and final—onslaught of people into this house begins when the writer's new book is published, and people rush to his house for autographs and to see the writer. The writer—artist—appears in a surreal space in the role of Christ and has no problem with the destruction of his house. At this point, the film becomes a parody of itself: it mocks its own mythological aspect on which the film is built and critiques the Christ-like status of the artist, viewing it with skepticism; just as it does with the story of all film festivals and red carpets that seem to have no value or importance in such a audacious film that mocks all human life, resembling a loud game that for Aronofsky, with this level of audacity in making a personal—and likely box-office resistant—film, such hasty reactions to the film might seem like a joke to him.