Narrator Giovanni Ribisi is almost the disembodied equivalent of Citizen Kane's investigative reporter, determined to unravel not the circumstances surrounding but the significance of the death of five fair-haired teenaged sisters. Unlike Kane's Thompson, the (unnamed, as with almost all of The Virgin Suicides' male characters) Ribisi character knew them--not well, no one did--and grew up in their neighbourhood: he has spent a lifetime, as opposed to a couple of weeks, reflecting on their collective demise. (Ultimately, why the smothered Lisbon siblings killed themselves is not an Agatha Christie mystery; the narrator assuages his insecure regret by feigning inquest.) In the opening sequence, he relates Cecilia Lisbon, the youngest sister and the earliest to die. She has just slit her wrists but survives this first suicide attempt, and when a doctor lectures her in earnest, she looks him deadeye. "Obviously," she says, "you've never been a thirteen year old girl."

From there, we meet the others, played by Hannah Hall, Chelse Swain, A. J. Cook, Leslie Hayman, and Kirsten Dunst. Their character names are equally inconsequential, as they essentially comprise a singular oppressed identity, a blonde sacrificial lamb. Coppola only stresses the designation of Dunst's alter ego, Lux, and that's appropriate: "Lux" implies luminosity, and she is the Lisbon who glows brightest. It is Lux the boys across the street spy on in the wee hours, as if she is the Lisbon house's sole source of light at night, a beacon sending out a lonely S.O.S.. When Lux is shamed, as when her heart is broken by callous junior gigolo Trip Fontaine (a swell Josh Hartnett), or when her devout mother forces her to set alight her collection of rock 'n' roll records (the story takes place in the Breck Girl '70s, I should add here), the neighbourhood literally goes dark.

Coppola marches to the same austere drummer that her father, Francis Ford Coppola, did in such films as Apocalypse Now and Bram Stoker's Dracula, but she resists his impulse to overproduce lyricism. All the same, while she certainly shows more organized promise than he did in his thesis effort, You're a Big Boy Now, The Virgin Suicides feels a work of isolated passion--intense dabbling, if you will--and not the herald of a new cinematic life force. As for the film's dreaminess, it ultimately undermines a penetrating analysis. (Fitting that Coppola chose the French band Air to score the picture.) Its beauty, like that of the Lisbon sisters, is untouchable and simply incontrovertible.

Paramount's DVD release of The Virgin Suicides preserves the filtered autumn delicacy of Ed Lachman's cinematography. He and Coppola forge a convincing period atmosphere that matches, at times, those gauzy coming-of-age flicks of the seventies. The transfer is letterboxed at 1.85:1 and enhanced for 16x9 displays. Audio is Dolby Digital 5.1, though it rarely identifies itself as such, except during a homecoming sequence; Air's selections, too, are noteworthy for their implacability--the instruments sound as if they're emanating from us. Extras include: a halting, 23-minute video diary of the production shot by Coppola's mother Eleanor (acclaimed author of Notes) that Sofia recently admitted in an interview probably won't appeal to many people outside of her family; the bizarre clip for Air's "Playground Love" (chewing gum stands in for the lead singer!); the theatrical trailer; and a nice photo gallery that gives the impression of a yearbook.-Bill Chambers

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DVD VITALS:
Running Time
96 minutes
MPAA
R
Aspect Ratio(s)
1.85:1 ONLY, 16x9-enhanced
Languages
English DD 5.1,
French Dolby Surround
CC
No
Subtitles
English
DVD-5
Region One
Paramount

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Published: December, 2000