CLASSICS OF CINEMA
THE VIRGIN SUICIDES
THE VIRGIN SUICIDES
It seems Hollywood has gone and gotten all “clued-in” with
regards The Duke’s viewing habits. I imagine that a whole bunch
a executive types sat around in a room of some kind, maybe with
an expensive table in the middle, and they most likely thought
to themselves; “What in God’s name do we have to do to get The
Duke to sit through a flick all about girls doing girlie type
things and then being real feminine and so on?”
That right there is the kinda poser I wouldn’t like my career
depending upon. I’m betting those executive types had to use
three, four boxes of Kleenex during that meeting on account of
how sweaty their palms were getting. Probably was a suicide or
two, also. One of them probably realised that it was an
impossible task, trying to get The Duke to sit through 90
minutes worth of touching, feeling, emoting. That one probably
jumped the fuck right out of the nearest window.
But then, just as that meeting was coming to a close, some
intelligent son of a bitch solved the riddle.
The answer, it seems, is to have Kirsten Dunst star in it. That
right there is guaranteed to get The Duke’s attention. They
probably knew I was even planning on seeing that film about The
Smiling Mona Lisa’s for that very reason. Those malignant fucks
read me like a book and then made a film from the book on
account of it was the most amazing thing ever fucking written,
is what.
So anyway, what happened is that a film about The Suicidal
Virgins or whatever pops up on The Duke’s DVD pile on account of
he purchased it not a fortnight ago. It had a couple things
going for it; For one, it was the debut feature of Sofia
Coppola, the woman who then went on to make Lost In Translation,
although that one didn’t have Kirsten Dunst. For two, it stars
Kirsten Dunst.
So yesterday, The Duchess and I sit down and watch this here
film about a bunch of adolescent nonsense, and The Duke makes
sure and says about how original and all it is, when really I
can’t remember much beyond the fact that Kirsten Dunst is in it,
like, fucking loads.
The Virgin Suicides, it turns out, was based on a novel of some
sort. It may have been The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides,
but it could just as well have been one of those Bridget Jones
things. I don’t know. I don’t read “chick-lit”, on account of
The Duke is a stone-cold son of a bitch with a thirst for
vengeance.
The narrative trajectory concerns itself with a group of
sisters, one of whom kills herself fairly soon into the picture,
and another of whom is Kirsten Dunst, but there’s a few others,
too. It’s one of those coming-of-age deals, a bit like Stand By
Me, except it doesn’t have Keifer Sutherland, but then Stand By
Me didn’t have Kirsten Dunst.
The Virgin Suicides would probably succeed for the most part
even if it didn’t have Kirsten Dunst, though. It’s all very
hypnotic, very evocative. It feels not one iota like your
regular “teen” flick, or even your regular “growing-up and
learning stuff” flick.
For one thing, they don’t grow up. I don’t think that’s much of
a spoiler considering the title of the damn thing. Although,
oddly, they’re not all virgins.
At times it’s fairly reminiscent of the kinds of quirky
character-driven comedy-tragedy hybrids that Wes Anderson does
so well. It doesn’t have much of a plot to worry about, and
relies on the central performances to keep our attention.
To this end, Kirsten Dunst is amazing, and also James Woods is
very good as the nerdy father who loves nothing more than to
yack to folks about aviation and his model aeroplane collection.
Woods underplays perfectly, he has a comic timing you’d never
think existed if all you ever saw was that film were he gets a
big old hoo-hah growing on his stomach and then gets his head
sucked into some porn. I think it was one of those Agent Cody
Banks films.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t very funny for the most part. Here,
though, he’s funny as all hell. There’s a pathos, too, a tragedy
to his character that makes the developments all the more
devastating considering how likeable the fella is. Sure, he’s a
geeky son of a bitch, but you wouldn’t wish no harm on him. You
probably wouldn’t mind hanging out for a couple hours with him,
even. Especially if he brought his daughter along.
Kathleen Turner, too, is fantastic, strolling along the oft-
trundled arc from eager-to-please housewife to misguided
religious maniac. Mind you, a fella could get a shock if he were
to put this on after, say, Body Heat.
Same goes for Jimmy Woods. But you’d have to have watched Naked
Lunch or something to get the same effect.
As far as Kirsten Dunst Cinema is concerned, The Virgin Suicides
is up there with Drop Dead Gorgeous and Eternal Sunshine Of The
Spotless Mind and even Spider-Man 2. It’s a compellingly
beautiful, tenderly melancholic affair, one of those numbers
what crawls inside the old skull and hangs around in there for
months afterwards. It wanders very close to the dreaded fires of
the self-indulgent, but it has enough going for it to ensure
that it remains on the friendly side of pretentious.
To wit; it’s got a lot of heart, a lot of humanity, and plenty
of Kirsten Dunst.
Thank you Kirsten.
Thanks folks.
Further Reading
The Motherfucking Cinema Of Kirsten Dunst
Fling The Duke An Email
regards The Duke’s viewing habits. I imagine that a whole bunch
a executive types sat around in a room of some kind, maybe with
an expensive table in the middle, and they most likely thought
to themselves; “What in God’s name do we have to do to get The
Duke to sit through a flick all about girls doing girlie type
things and then being real feminine and so on?”
That right there is the kinda poser I wouldn’t like my career
depending upon. I’m betting those executive types had to use
three, four boxes of Kleenex during that meeting on account of
how sweaty their palms were getting. Probably was a suicide or
two, also. One of them probably realised that it was an
impossible task, trying to get The Duke to sit through 90
minutes worth of touching, feeling, emoting. That one probably
jumped the fuck right out of the nearest window.
But then, just as that meeting was coming to a close, some
intelligent son of a bitch solved the riddle.
The answer, it seems, is to have Kirsten Dunst star in it. That
right there is guaranteed to get The Duke’s attention. They
probably knew I was even planning on seeing that film about The
Smiling Mona Lisa’s for that very reason. Those malignant fucks
read me like a book and then made a film from the book on
account of it was the most amazing thing ever fucking written,
is what.
So anyway, what happened is that a film about The Suicidal
Virgins or whatever pops up on The Duke’s DVD pile on account of
he purchased it not a fortnight ago. It had a couple things
going for it; For one, it was the debut feature of Sofia
Coppola, the woman who then went on to make Lost In Translation,
although that one didn’t have Kirsten Dunst. For two, it stars
Kirsten Dunst.
So yesterday, The Duchess and I sit down and watch this here
film about a bunch of adolescent nonsense, and The Duke makes
sure and says about how original and all it is, when really I
can’t remember much beyond the fact that Kirsten Dunst is in it,
like, fucking loads.
The Virgin Suicides, it turns out, was based on a novel of some
sort. It may have been The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides,
but it could just as well have been one of those Bridget Jones
things. I don’t know. I don’t read “chick-lit”, on account of
The Duke is a stone-cold son of a bitch with a thirst for
vengeance.
The narrative trajectory concerns itself with a group of
sisters, one of whom kills herself fairly soon into the picture,
and another of whom is Kirsten Dunst, but there’s a few others,
too. It’s one of those coming-of-age deals, a bit like Stand By
Me, except it doesn’t have Keifer Sutherland, but then Stand By
Me didn’t have Kirsten Dunst.
The Virgin Suicides would probably succeed for the most part
even if it didn’t have Kirsten Dunst, though. It’s all very
hypnotic, very evocative. It feels not one iota like your
regular “teen” flick, or even your regular “growing-up and
learning stuff” flick.
For one thing, they don’t grow up. I don’t think that’s much of
a spoiler considering the title of the damn thing. Although,
oddly, they’re not all virgins.
At times it’s fairly reminiscent of the kinds of quirky
character-driven comedy-tragedy hybrids that Wes Anderson does
so well. It doesn’t have much of a plot to worry about, and
relies on the central performances to keep our attention.
To this end, Kirsten Dunst is amazing, and also James Woods is
very good as the nerdy father who loves nothing more than to
yack to folks about aviation and his model aeroplane collection.
Woods underplays perfectly, he has a comic timing you’d never
think existed if all you ever saw was that film were he gets a
big old hoo-hah growing on his stomach and then gets his head
sucked into some porn. I think it was one of those Agent Cody
Banks films.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t very funny for the most part. Here,
though, he’s funny as all hell. There’s a pathos, too, a tragedy
to his character that makes the developments all the more
devastating considering how likeable the fella is. Sure, he’s a
geeky son of a bitch, but you wouldn’t wish no harm on him. You
probably wouldn’t mind hanging out for a couple hours with him,
even. Especially if he brought his daughter along.
Kathleen Turner, too, is fantastic, strolling along the oft-
trundled arc from eager-to-please housewife to misguided
religious maniac. Mind you, a fella could get a shock if he were
to put this on after, say, Body Heat.
Same goes for Jimmy Woods. But you’d have to have watched Naked
Lunch or something to get the same effect.
As far as Kirsten Dunst Cinema is concerned, The Virgin Suicides
is up there with Drop Dead Gorgeous and Eternal Sunshine Of The
Spotless Mind and even Spider-Man 2. It’s a compellingly
beautiful, tenderly melancholic affair, one of those numbers
what crawls inside the old skull and hangs around in there for
months afterwards. It wanders very close to the dreaded fires of
the self-indulgent, but it has enough going for it to ensure
that it remains on the friendly side of pretentious.
To wit; it’s got a lot of heart, a lot of humanity, and plenty
of Kirsten Dunst.
Thank you Kirsten.
Thanks folks.
Further Reading
The Motherfucking Cinema Of Kirsten Dunst
Fling The Duke An Email
