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"'Virgin'
Wary"
by Scott Mantz
"The Virgin Suicides"
Kirsten Dunst, Kathleen Turner
Directed by Sophia Coppola
When it comes
to poetry, you either get it or you don't. When it has to be explained
to you, it loses its meaning, and most likely something gets lost
in the translation. When it comes to movies, the same rules apply.
Most of the time, movies consist of the same old Hollywood-style
lowest-common-denominator stuff that we're all used to, so there's
no problem. However, there are some films that really make you think
and draw your own conclusions, which can actually make for a more
rewarding moviegoing experience. Movies that are open to interpretation
can mean different things to different people, but the frustrating
thing is when they don't mean anything at all. That's the feeling
I got after watching Sophia Coppola's long-awaited directorial debut
"The Virgin Suicides". While it certainly earns high marks for its
wildly ambitious and poetic visual style, it gets so wrapped up
in its own depressing self-indulgence that it ultimately becomes
a pointless exercise.
"The Virgin
Suicides" is all about the beautiful Libson sisters of Gross Pointe,
MI, and the boys who love them. Of the five, Lux (Kirsten Dunst)
is by far the most beautiful and in touch with her burgeoning sexuality.
The problem is that their religious and over-protective mother (Kathleen
Turner) won't let any them take advantage of their nice (ahem!)
assets. Their geeky p-whipped father (James Woods) isn't much help
either, as he'd much rather talk about his model airplanes than
teach his girls about the birds and the bees. When the youngest
daughter Cecilia (Hanna Hall) commits suicide (for reasons known
only to her), mommy dearest tightens her already suffocating grip
on her family. In an effort to get to know them better (and maybe
even get down their pants in the process), the boys of summer wind
up even more obsessed with the girl's beauty that's all on the surface.
Think of "The
Virgin Suicides" as an episode of TV's "That 70's Show" as directed
by Stanley Kubrick. Sophia Coppola (maybe you've heard of her father
Francis) shot the film with a beautiful, haunting, and poetic visual
style that would have made the late Kubrick proud. She keeps the
pace slow and intense in an effort to bring the audience into the
dreamy world of this mid-1970's dysfunctional family. The problem
is that after building the level of anticipation up to a fever pitch,
the films comes to an abrupt conclusion without satisfying your
pent-up curiosity.
Growing up is
not easy, and we're all left to fend for ourselves when it comes
to discovering our sexual side. The trapped feeling of living a
sheltered life and not being allowed to explore this can, as this
film indicates, lead to tragic consequences. But does that justify
the actions that take place here? I don't think so. If there was
a hint of mental illness, physical abuse, or even drug use (hey,
it does take place in the 70's), then that would make a little more
sense. Nothing of this type is even eluded to, leaving you to draw
your own conclusions from the subtext of the film, of which there
is none.
The film is
narrated by one of the boys all grown up (but which one?), which
brings me back to my point of explaining poetry. Maybe this was
Coppola's way of keeping the audience informed about what was really
happening for the people who were too daft (like myself) to figure
it out for themselves, but even that doesn't help. We still end
up knowing just as much as we did going in, which is practically
nothing. Perhaps the whole point was to keep the film enshrouded
in mystery, but, in the end, it remained a mystery to me.
Having said
that, the film is still full of some fine performances. Kirsten
Dunst exudes the persona of the sexy young teen out to satisfy her
yearning for self discovery, but she looks a little too old to be
the 14 year old she's playing here. Josh Hartnett plays the dreamy
stud who sees Dunst as nothing more than a sexual conquest that
he has to have. Kathleen Turner is superb as the uptight mother
who's too protective for her own good, and James Woods is sympathetic
and rather funny as the father who's got his hands full with his
young girls.
Since I didn't
read the Jeffrey Eugenides 1993 novel on which the film is based,
I can't make any comparisons between the two. Then again, I shouldn't
have to. The film should stand out in it's own right, and in some
ways, it does. In the areas that it doesn't, my guess is that something
got lost in the translation. The film is beautifully shot and contains
some decent performances, but in the end, I just didn't get it.
I kept waiting for something to happen to bring it all together.
Nothing does.
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