movie review by [click on photos Studio Movie
| Cecilia was the youngest. Like all the Lisbon sisters, she had long,
vanilla-colored California-girl hair. She wore a tattered, lace wedding dress
when she shimmied up the crooked tree in the front yard (the "diseased" elm
that the city had condemned to death). The pages of her sticker-ridden diary
described her daily events: what she ate for dinner (creamed corn), the
"noise" of the boys next door, designed to keep her curious.
The eldest Lisbon was Lux. She also had hair worthy of a Breck ad. Her
dimples made parentheses around her pearly whites. Trip Fontaine called her a
stone fox. She was the only girl he ever loved (and the only girl who ignored
his slick attentions). When Cecilia slit her wrists for reasons no one could
comprehend, Lux sat with the other sisters in her room for days, listening to
dreamy records and doodling on her underwear.
After Cecilia's death, the rules tighten. Nobody enters or leaves the
mourning household. Nobody except Trip, who plants himself in the living room
to watch nature shows on television. He decides that he simply must take Lux
to the homecoming dance. Her parents say, the only way she may go is if her
sisters attend too.
It sounds like a modern day fairy tale, as told through the rose-tinted
eyes of an older Trip (still decked out in custom-fitted cowboy shirts).
Sophia Coppola (daughter of Francis and wife to MTV wunderkind, Spike Jonze)
has fought off charges of nepotism to make her favorite book hit the big
screen. Even the author, Jeffrey Eugenides, declared it impossible to adapt The Virgin Suicides.
Coppola remains true to the story, set in suburban mid-'70s America (as
lensed in luscious, Kodachrome amber by cinematographer Edward Lachman, with
a wispy, cocktail lounge score by France's nostalgia-obsessed band, Air). The
era is evoked in all the right details: split-level homes bordered by
manicured lawns, clutter-stuffed rec rooms swarming with cheerful
knick-knacks. It's the candy-floss stuff that adolescent dreams revolve
around--the ethereal essence of Lisbon lasses, as idealized by the
neighborhood boys.
"I'm having the best time," sighs Therese Lisbon at the star-dusted
Homecoming dance. (Who ever had a good time at a school dance?) Her sister
sneaks behind the bleachers to swig peach schnapps and tongue-twist with her
date. The soundtrack moves from ELO's "Strange Magic" to 10CC's "I'm Not in
Love." Everything sways in 4/4 time. Mirror balls and dime-store crowns,
confetti and white corsages. There's a tragic sense that something important
is about to happen. Only we can't imagine it. That's the futile optimism that
underscores every languid scene, so hinted in the details.
So we wait. But the girls, like most fairy tale princesses, will never
grow up. They simply fade into a dreamless sleep, undone by their own
idealism. The elm in the front yard and the pointy fence surrounding it serve
as metaphorical signposts. Not only have the hopeful boys lifted the Lisbons
onto untouchable pedestals, the grown-ups (particularly their own parents)
have made them the embodiment of all things beautiful. Are the overprotective
parents guarding their daughters, or just the idea of happiness, buttoned up
in a Butterick dress? When the house-bound girls fail to find joy in their
sequestered lives, is it any surprise they create it in their sugary
fantasies, populated by unicorns and other impossible creatures (not unlike
themselves). When a doctor expresses shock at Cecilia's attempted suicide,
she mutters the proverbial adolescent battle cry, "Obviously, Doctor, you've
never been a thirteen-year-old girl." A male director might've made a
different film. Sophia Coppola knows how men are doomed by dreams, but her
sympathy lies with the girls. It's not a voyeur's notion of femalehood.
Forget those references to the camera's "male" gaze. This is not the way we
were, but the way we wished to be.
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