No matter what synonyms they use, addicts will never properly describe the high or the crash that comes from drugs. Whether they act it out, compare it to other feelings or experiences, or simply recount every second, the body cannot comprehend what it has not experienced. Telling someone that love feels like butterflies in the stomach cannot fully encompass what it means to be in love. Nor can a simple summary convey the high of heroin. But once in a while, someone comes along with a piece of art that communicates the incomprehensible. For example, Antonio Canova’s Cupid and Psyche, or The Lovers by Rene Magritte. Art can speak in ways that words cannot, whether it is a painting or a film. Darren Aronofsky’s film Requiem for a Dream (2000) is one such piece of art that portrays the feeling of a high and the subsequent crash. Aronofsky’s film follows the lives of four addicts, three addicted to heroin, one addicted to diet pills, and the consequences on their lives and well-being. Requiem’s artistry does not come from its narrative or semi-realistic visuals, but from its roots in formalist theories of editing in order to create a film that lets the viewer feel the effects of addiction.

Perhaps one of the most famous examples of formalist editing in cinema is Lev Kuleshov’s experiment of montage. In Principles of Montage, he reiterates how an actor’s work is “absolutely irrelevant,” and that “with good montage it is immaterial how [the actor] works” (Kuleshov, 142). In the experiment, he took an actor’s single expression and juxtaposed it between three different images: one of a corpse, another of a bowl of soup, and, finally, a lounging lady. Audiences assumed that the man was sad, hungry, lustful, respectively, even though his expression was exactly the same. The juxtaposition of each frame in relation to its predecessor and follower is what turns film into an artform. Which is precisely how Aronofsky manages to create the paranoid stimulation of a high.

During the addiction montage, Aronofsky aligned each shot in a way to elicit a response. Each frame lasts less than a second. First, we see the drug in a bag, then microscopic cells, then Washington’s face on a bill, then fingers rolling said bill, a pile of powder, then the action of snorting it. Aronofsky uses these montages multiple times throughout the film as each character battles their addiction, whether it’s snorting, injecting, or swallowing a drug. The quick compilation of seemingly random shots simulates the hit. The stills themselves do not matter. But when placed in conversation with each other, it tells a story of paranoia, speed, and greed. If Aronofsky were to show the process in a continuous shot, it would not be the same. Stacy Thompson explains Aronofsky’s editing as musical since it “mimics punk music’s speed, frenetic energy, anger, antiauthoritarian stance, irony, style, anomie, or disillusionment” (Thompson, 47). The editing, then, becomes the narrative, rather than the actual action of the actor. Addiction is conveyed through the images’ relationships to one another, to create something bigger. To keep with Thompson’s analogy, the shots are the individual notes, the montage is the full melody.

Furthermore, Requiem tells a story of addiction not through its narrative, but through conversation with itself. As Kuleshov says, “No art exists independently, by virtue of itself alone” (Kuleshov, 140). This simply means that Requiem does not and cannot exist only from its images or narrative. Kuleshov goes onto say that “the problem of art is to reflect reality” but that proves harder in film because “the material of the cinema itself demands particular organization” and that the “organization of its material and the material itself is interdependent” (Kuleshov, 140). Essentially, what Kuleshov is saying is that cinema as an artform is difficult because there is art in the image and in the way the images are ordered. Similar to the montage discussed above, Requiem is not artful because of its story – a slow, confusing narrative – nor because of its realistic depiction of the world – the images and characters – but because of how both those pieces fit together in the montage. The film interacts with itself, taking advantage of its tools to create the experience of addiction. Notoriously, Requiem creates the quick, stimulating experience of ingesting the drug, but is then followed by a long, enduring shot from a corner while the characters experience the high. While both the drug montage and the high shot are artful in and of themselves, they become something bigger when placed together. The audience does not feel anxiety because of a connection to characters or situations but because each shot is so jarringly different in comparison to the one before that it elicits a physical response inside.

Now that it is obvious how Aronofsky simulates addiction, the next question is why. As Kuleshov said, “film montage, as the entire work of filmmaking, is inextricably linked to the artist’s worldview and his ideological purpose” (Kuleshov, 137). If the organization of each shot is a response to the “phenomena around us” (Kuleshov 137), one must ask: what is Aronofsky’s worldview? His ideological purpose? Essentially, why is he creating the montage discussed above? What is he trying to communicate through his montage? Simple: paranoia. The film is one of paranoia.

One of the addicts, Sara Goldfarb (Ellen Burstyn) feels like she is being watched as her addiction spirals. Aronofsky uses fish-eye lenses to distort the image in scenarios where she feels judged. Throughout the film, that judgement spirals into paranoia until even her fridge is a physical threat to her. Between these scenarios with Sara and the montage of the drugs, it is sufficient to say that Aronofsky intended to create paranoia as a main feeling of addiction. It makes sense, then, that Aronofsky describes his practice, the art of filmmaking, as a paranoid thing. In Kulezic-Wilson's article, Aronofsky explains, “‘[...] they always tell you in filmmaking that every single scene should relate to your main character, relate to your theme. And that’s exactly what paranoid schizophrenics their world is” (Kulezic-Wilson, 20). To put it simply, Aronofsky considers his art a paranoid one, and therefore, his worldview bleeds into his art, creating montages of anxiety and paranoia. While Kulezic-Wilson's article focuses on Aronofsky’s π, it holds importance in this argument because, as discussed earlier, art cannot exist independently. Yes, the technical tools of cinema, such as editing and shots, create the art, but so does the artist’s style, view, and place in the world.

In summary, Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream is an accurate, artistic depiction of addiction, created through juxtaposing images, interdependent images and story, as well as Aronofsky’s artistic style and perspective. To put it simply, Requiem is a piece of art because it utilizes the significant elements of formalist theory. However, the beauty of the film is not limited to its form, but the overall accomplishment discussed at the beginning. Aronofsky explains the unexplainable, describes the indescribable and creates a way for the audience to endure a taboo and detrimental experience. If addiction can be communicated through formalist theory, then so can some of the most incomprehensible concepts, like love, grief, and life.