This adaptation of the book is hardly worth a mention. I'm only writing because I was so appalled by it watching it the second time (the first being in the theater some years back). Watching it last evening, I couldn't get through the first sixty minutes and had to turn it off (this rarely happens). The book, which I'd read between my first viewing and the ill-fated second, is an amazing exploration of the decay of an American era and the explosive domestic drama that results thereof, in a world where physical reality and society (personified in the film by the Church primarily) collide. It is a book about men and our inability to access women, thus also our emotionally "gooey" sides. It is a tragedy in that great tradition, so much so that the tragedy within the narrative transcends the narrative itself to comment on a greater tragedy... which is what good art can do.
But we get none of that from this train wreck of an adaptation. Which is really a shame.
Coppola instead opted to present a nostalgic view of an era, lingering on what I think are meant to be humorous shots of out-of-date cars and suburbia... bored moments of awkwardness... first kisses... Basically it looks like an after school special or a long but semi-serious episode of Saved by the Bell. She presents a view that (and this is the great failure) sympathizes clearly with the inscrutable sisters when the text of the book in no way even accesses the character of these sisters. That's the problem. These girls aren't supposed to be sympathetic. They're inscrutable. Lux isn't a heroine, which she's clearly made into through this film. She's not some kind of grand dame answer to sexual repression. She's the victim of it.
This is a book about young men, and men of age, trying to understand their world through the collective totem of the Lisbon sisters. Emphasis on "totem." It is not an after school special romanticizing the supposed dreaminess of female adolescence. Ultimately, this isn't a film or book that women should appreciate any more than men or men more than women - it's a human story about men trying to understand women, not women's supposed superiority over male ignorance.
Really, thinking on it: it's a story of how girls age more quickly than boys. Most boys are awkward and clumsy at 14 (granted, well portrayed in the film) when many girls are quite grown into their adult shapes and can attract men far older than themselves, rendering them dangerous when coupled with the "off-limits" element. This is a physiological reality that comes into conflict with the values of a society. This reality isn't a male or female reality. It's a human reality, inasmuch as there exists filial and legislative restriction against premarital and youthful intercourse. But in this movie there is none of that nuance.
Instead we see a clear, banal, crude sympathy for the suicidal girls. That is a failure, particularly considering the book is written - self-deprecatingly, at times, of course, but still written - by the male characters who, I should mention, don't despise men as much as this movie presents. They admit male foolishness and adore the memory of these young women, but they aren't self-loathing. Neither do they sympathize with the girls. They can't. They don't understand them. So the film shouldn't presume to enter that landscape, which is clearly not laid out by the book. There is room for a film-maker to embellish upon a narrative, but for a Freshman who clearly didn't get the text she was reading, this spells train wreck.
We could have been told a story about gender in America and the post-sexual revolution landscape as it related to a decaying Detroit. That would have been nice. Instead of the story the book presents, this film adaptation presents a systematic misandry lacking any nuance or creativity or artistic merit. Better had David Lynch directed this film than Sofia Coppola, who's going to have to do a lot more than put Bill and Scarlett in a room together to convince me she's a real directorial talent and to make up for her performance in the Godfather III, which was the pinnacle of celluloid dross and artistically unforgivable.
Last words: don't bother. Give the book a read.
But we get none of that from this train wreck of an adaptation. Which is really a shame.
Coppola instead opted to present a nostalgic view of an era, lingering on what I think are meant to be humorous shots of out-of-date cars and suburbia... bored moments of awkwardness... first kisses... Basically it looks like an after school special or a long but semi-serious episode of Saved by the Bell. She presents a view that (and this is the great failure) sympathizes clearly with the inscrutable sisters when the text of the book in no way even accesses the character of these sisters. That's the problem. These girls aren't supposed to be sympathetic. They're inscrutable. Lux isn't a heroine, which she's clearly made into through this film. She's not some kind of grand dame answer to sexual repression. She's the victim of it.
This is a book about young men, and men of age, trying to understand their world through the collective totem of the Lisbon sisters. Emphasis on "totem." It is not an after school special romanticizing the supposed dreaminess of female adolescence. Ultimately, this isn't a film or book that women should appreciate any more than men or men more than women - it's a human story about men trying to understand women, not women's supposed superiority over male ignorance.
Really, thinking on it: it's a story of how girls age more quickly than boys. Most boys are awkward and clumsy at 14 (granted, well portrayed in the film) when many girls are quite grown into their adult shapes and can attract men far older than themselves, rendering them dangerous when coupled with the "off-limits" element. This is a physiological reality that comes into conflict with the values of a society. This reality isn't a male or female reality. It's a human reality, inasmuch as there exists filial and legislative restriction against premarital and youthful intercourse. But in this movie there is none of that nuance.
Instead we see a clear, banal, crude sympathy for the suicidal girls. That is a failure, particularly considering the book is written - self-deprecatingly, at times, of course, but still written - by the male characters who, I should mention, don't despise men as much as this movie presents. They admit male foolishness and adore the memory of these young women, but they aren't self-loathing. Neither do they sympathize with the girls. They can't. They don't understand them. So the film shouldn't presume to enter that landscape, which is clearly not laid out by the book. There is room for a film-maker to embellish upon a narrative, but for a Freshman who clearly didn't get the text she was reading, this spells train wreck.
We could have been told a story about gender in America and the post-sexual revolution landscape as it related to a decaying Detroit. That would have been nice. Instead of the story the book presents, this film adaptation presents a systematic misandry lacking any nuance or creativity or artistic merit. Better had David Lynch directed this film than Sofia Coppola, who's going to have to do a lot more than put Bill and Scarlett in a room together to convince me she's a real directorial talent and to make up for her performance in the Godfather III, which was the pinnacle of celluloid dross and artistically unforgivable.
Last words: don't bother. Give the book a read.