Mexican director Arturo Ripstein’s
incredibly lush melodrama The Virgin of Lust makes an ironic statement
about a fundamental delusion in the hopes of Communists to lift up the masses.
Set mostly in a café in Vera Cruz, the film centers upon Nacho (Luis Felipe
Tovar), an unambitious worker who supplements his long days of subservience with
masturbation sessions in which he intones repeatedly “Franco must be
killed!” That private flirtation with revolution is fantasy enough for him,
until one fateful night when he finds Lola, a mysterious and promiscuous
political radical who lives so far on the edge that she always seems on the
threat of self-destruction. Nacho, who is hopelessly attracted to her but too
afraid to act upon his impulses, takes her in, and soon the two find themselves
in a masochistic relationship. A swirl of activity forms around Lola that puts
Nacho’s desire for complacency up against her desire for massive upheaval.
Once expatriates from Spain and revolutionary artists enter the picture, there
seem to be more people interested in determining the fate of the common man here
than there seem to be common men, but because Nacho can’t respect himself
enough to take action to change his situation and Lola can’t dredge up any
empowering respect for him, both are doomed. It’s the examination of this
political stasis that gives the film much of its humor and power.
With the exception of the dazzling
opening and closing sequences, which play like old-school coming attractions
reels for the rest of the story, the exceptionally long takes and the
infrequency of set changes make The Virgin of Lust feel almost stage
bound, but perhaps that's because it's better than most homage at being faithful
to the material that inspired it. Spanish language melodramas from the forties
are the genre being examined here, and from what I understand, they tend to be
stagy and filled with overripe symbolism. Ripstein doesn't betray that, but his
movie has enough sense to realize the limitations of that treatment. Because of
changing standards of what's acceptable on screen, he's able here to include the
text that the subtext once had to mask (mostly sex and anti-Franco sentiment),
and that frankness makes this sexually charged material a lot sexier. Perhaps
more surprisingly though, instead of feeling redundant the style that once hid the subtext only further intensifies
the text. The balance between the two remains complementary throughout, so
the presence of a supposedly antiquated style rarely feels at odds with the
contemporary explicitness, but in his final statement on the interplay, Ripstein
outdoes himself. The final act of Virgin, finds him retreating back into
artifice to show that, under the right circumstances, sometimes melodrama can
actually effect change in the drama of “real life” and it’s with that
impressive application of his technique that the director provides the best possible
defense of his choice to revive the style.
Mexican director Arturo Ripstein’s
incredibly lush melodrama The Virgin of Lust makes an ironic statement
about a fundamental delusion in the hopes of Communists to lift up the masses.
Set mostly in a café in Vera Cruz, the film centers upon Nacho (Luis Felipe
Tovar), an unambitious worker who supplements his long days of subservience with
masturbation sessions in which he intones repeatedly “Franco must be
killed!” That private flirtation with revolution is fantasy enough for him,
until one fateful night when he finds Lola, a mysterious and promiscuous
political radical who lives so far on the edge that she always seems on the
threat of self-destruction. Nacho, who is hopelessly attracted to her but too
afraid to act upon his impulses, takes her in, and soon the two find themselves
in a masochistic relationship. A swirl of activity forms around Lola that puts
Nacho’s desire for complacency up against her desire for massive upheaval.
Once expatriates from Spain and revolutionary artists enter the picture, there
seem to be more people interested in determining the fate of the common man here
than there seem to be common men, but because Nacho can’t respect himself
enough to take action to change his situation and Lola can’t dredge up any
empowering respect for him, both are doomed. It’s the examination of this
political stasis that gives the film much of its humor and power.
With the exception of the dazzling
opening and closing sequences, which play like old-school coming attractions
reels for the rest of the story, the exceptionally long takes and the
infrequency of set changes make The Virgin of Lust feel almost stage
bound, but perhaps that's because it's better than most homage at being faithful
to the material that inspired it. Spanish language melodramas from the forties
are the genre being examined here, and from what I understand, they tend to be
stagy and filled with overripe symbolism. Ripstein doesn't betray that, but his
movie has enough sense to realize the limitations of that treatment. Because of
changing standards of what's acceptable on screen, he's able here to include the
text that the subtext once had to mask (mostly sex and anti-Franco sentiment),
and that frankness makes this sexually charged material a lot sexier. Perhaps
more surprisingly though, instead of feeling redundant the style that once hid the subtext only further intensifies
the text. The balance between the two remains complementary throughout, so
the presence of a supposedly antiquated style rarely feels at odds with the
contemporary explicitness, but in his final statement on the interplay, Ripstein
outdoes himself. The final act of Virgin, finds him retreating back into
artifice to show that, under the right circumstances, sometimes melodrama can
actually effect change in the drama of “real life” and it’s with that
impressive application of his technique that the director provides the best possible
defense of his choice to revive the style.