Cecilia, Lux, Bonnie, Mary, and Therese

Yesterday I finally watched The Virgin Suicides. I had wanted to watch it from inception. Somehow 21 years slipped by before I did.

It was a bit darker than I had imagined, even though the title should have clued me in (I wasn't sure to take it literally or not). I liked that the book had been written by a man and it managed to beautifully and convincingly delve into the psyche of teenage girls. Having been one myself eons ago, admittedly I did not/do not understand my peers and how their minds worked/work at times.

Given the current pandemic and quarantine, the isolation portrayed in the story couldn't have hit closer to home. If the author (and screenplay writer/adapter) chastised the mother who in no uncertain terms is responsible for driving her daughters toward desperation, the sentiment was very subtle, which somehow makes the tragedy all the more unbearable.

I like that the narrator and his friends, young as they were, truly cared about the Lisbon girls, a yearning to be close that went beyond lust, esteem and prestige. They didn't like them in spite of the fact they were girls, or solely because they were girls, but almost with a kind of intrigue and respect, as persons and individuals. Sure, the girls were beautiful. But oh, the connection!

OK. So maybe the boys worshipped the girls like they were deities, to some degree. The daily convention to observe the latter, subscribing to the same magazines, etc. was more religion than hobby. In the end, when the world was moving on from the painful memory (or did they ever care?), the boys acknowledged a long goodbye. That moment to me was pure friendship.

I hope it was true to the book. 

Drama has to be believable for me to buy and get into.

There was one point that bothered me: Therese was 17 going on eighteen. She was so close to becoming an independent adult. Finally free to make her own decisions, go where she pleased, no longer confined, physically and psychologically. Why wouldn't she have waited? I'd be counting down the days.

Also, why did each girl choose a different method of suicide? Wouldn't it be easier to, say, all take sleeping pills, as one of them did? Perhaps there weren't enough sleeping pills. Still, employing seemingly ALL methods in the book (save for a shot in the temple) seems unpractical. One's gotta ask: how to decide who gets what? What if two of them want the same method? Was there an argument? Personally, sticking one's head in the oven is way too uncomfortable. Worse, hanging. I couldn't tie a secure knot to save my life - oops, the point would not be to save my life, touché.

I wonder if the book alluded to more. The problem with watching a movie based on a book that I haven't read, for me, is I tend to wonder if the book will be better. Books usually are. But, once I have seen the movie, I can't go to the book. The movie will have ruined it for me. (And once I have read a book I have no need for the move, as in The Help, and Eat Pray Love.)

As in Gone Girl, I had such high hopes. I bought the book and sat on it and sat on it. When the movie came out, I tried with all my might to avoid seeing or hearing anything about it. But it is near impossible in today's day and age. Ultimately, just knowing that Ben Affleck starred in the leading role ruined the reading experience when I finally got to it. Try as I did, it could not be un-ruined.

Gone Girl, incidentally, was a novel obviously based on meticulous research, very well structured (for the most part). But in the end it quickly unraveled for me. Again, it's a fine line between incredible (good) and unbelievable (I'm out of here).

Perhaps these are reasons that the ambiguity of The Virgin Suicides really appealed to me. It is not about a pedantic moral. (Is it just me, though?)