The Virgin Suicides · essays & theory

A reading · through the lens of theory

Start with the window. Almost every image in The Virgin Suicides has glass in it somewhere — the boys across the street with their father's binoculars, a sister framed behind a pane, a curtain, a car window, honeyed light coming through gauze. You never once see the Lisbon girls plain. You see them the way the boys, now middle-aged men, still see them: backlit, hair haloed, drifting across a lawn in slow motion while Air's analog synths hold a chord that never quite resolves. Coppola's first move as a director is to make you notice that you are being handed a memory of something the narrators never actually possessed.

That gap — between the girls and the boys' images of the girls — is the whole film. It is also, almost exactly, what Deleuze calls a crystalline description. In an ordinary movie a shot describes something that exists independently of it: here's the room, here's the girl. A crystalline description does something stranger. The image composes its object and then stands in for it, until you can no longer get behind the picture to the real thing. The Lisbon sisters reach us only as relics — a diary, a hoarded photograph, a votive candle, a bra left on a radiator — reassembled decades later into a shrine. The boys' longing builds the girls, and the built girls replace whoever the sisters actually were. Coppola never lets you forget the construction. When Lux glows on the lawn, the romanticism is flagged as a symptom, not offered as fact.

The boys, meanwhile, are what Deleuze calls seers — voyants. In an action movie a character perceives a situation and does something to change it; perception feeds straight into action. These boys perceive endlessly and can do nothing. They watch through the window, they catalogue, they phone across the street and play records down the line because touch is impossible. Coppola turns voyeurism into a whole cinematic condition: a pure optical situation, seeing with no exit into action. The tragedy is built into the grammar. Whatever the boys might have done to reach the sisters, the film has already sealed them behind glass.

Kirsten Dunst's Lux is filmed as a qualisign — Deleuze's name for an image that holds up a single pure quality for contemplation rather than putting it to work. Backlit, slowed, reflective, she expresses "desirability" the way a close-up expresses wonder: a feeling registered and suspended, never discharged into anything. That she is also the one sister who acts — on Trip Fontaine, at the dance — is the film's cruelest irony. The narrators freeze her into an icon at the very moment the story needs her to be a person.

The frame around all of this is memory, and here Coppola refuses the easy version. A normal flashback is a recollection-image: a dated past, cleanly retrieved, that explains the present. The men narrating The Virgin Suicides reach for exactly that, and it collapses in their hands. They have the artifacts and no key. Recognition stalls; the past will not resolve into a cause. This is Deleuze's moment where memory fails and the image tips over into pure time — the men stuck circling a single year they can neither leave nor understand. The film tells you the outcome in its first minutes precisely so that suspense is off the table and only this is left: the ache of a memory that cannot be closed.

Which is why the film keeps faith by lying. The narrators are honest forgers — Deleuze's powers of the false, falsehood used as a creative principle rather than a failure of truth. They admit they never knew the girls; they offer versions, guesses, reconstructions they know to be partial, and the film presents these as the only truth on offer. It withholds the coroner's explanation, the tidy psychology, the why. What it affirms instead is that the mythologizing itself is the event. The boys legending the sisters into permanence — fabulation, subjects caught in the act of making a myth — is what actually happened, and keeps happening every time the men tell it again.

None of this grammar is spun from nothing. Coppola is working a precise tradition: the bridal-veil diffusion and permanently withheld mystery of Picnic at Hanging Rock; the naïve, ironic voiceover of Badlands that romanticizes what its images quietly undercut; the magic-hour drift of Days of Heaven filtered through a child's narration; the needle-drop-as-co-author that the Zoetrope line ran from American Graffiti; the aestheticized adolescent body of Carrie; the chilled, faded 1970s suburb of The Ice Storm. Her own invention is to weld all of it onto a first-person-plural voice. That "we" turns the male gaze into the confessed subject of the film rather than its unexamined method — the watchers are on trial alongside what they watched. And it seeds what follows: the mood-over-plot drift of Lost in Translation and Marie Antoinette, and a whole strain of 2000s cinema that treats feminine adolescence as a landscape of unreachable interiority.

Watch it again and watch the glass. Every pane, every curtain, every haloed lawn is the film telling you the truth about its own beauty — that you, too, are being handed a picture of girls you will never get to meet.