Who Is The Real Killer In The Puzzle-Worthy “The Virgin Suicides”

Hint: Not the Virgins.

Oh, so you think the “Bird Box” suicides have left you all dazed and confused?

Well, get yourself seated and get ready for the mysterious visual obsession of “The Virgin Suicides!

You must be wondering: “Is this a Coppola movie? Oh, you mean Sofia Coppola!
Well, what should we expect?”

Thought you’d never ask. Go ahead and close your eyes. Picture Sofia’s acting knocking “The Godfather Part III” off its pedestal. Now, tear that picture apart.
This movie is quite the opposite of that and we kid you not.
She is a real mistress of ambient cinema.

Before we get into it, however, play the music “Playground Love” by French band Air, just to set the mood, and while you’re having the time of your life humming to love songs, make sure to squeeze in feeling for with these sweet, sweet young women…




A still frame from the film “The Virgin Suicides” by Sofia Coppola

It was the 1970s.

Envision a movie scene of a group of 5 feminine ethereal angels bathed in natural lighting in a sorority composed mainly of their long blond hair as sort of a tapestry all around the place along with their girly figures scattered like a piñata in a funnily flawless mise en scène composition – resting their limbs against each other.

They share a mood. A stream of conciseness.

Maybe it’s boys, maybe just boredom – though it might just be their strange, out-of- thin-air suicide enthusiasm…

And that’s as simply put as humanly possible.

There is no in-your-face action; This is an introverted movie, one that openly communicates its personality, coupled with the aura of blinding sun rays and low-contrast quality all over the anti-fairy tale of the Lisbon girls.

You may feel like you’re on a safari trip way past Planet Venus.
So, as this is ambient cinema, we wouldn’t bother ourselves overanalyzing, but merely do our fair share of sightseeing.

In the end, you may find that all ambient cinema can always be reduced to one simple line. Here, it can be found in Jeffrey Eugenides (he’s an author, try not to mix him up with the guy who didn’t kill himself) ‘s eponymous book:

“The trees, like lungs, filling with air. My sister – the mean one – pulling my hair. ”

A still frame from the film “The Virgin Suicides” by Sofia Coppola


Warning – Spoilers Ahead – They Die!!!

Also, Jesus gets crucified.

The title here clearly suggests there’s a suicide in sight.
5 teenage girls – each in her room – by herself for all eternity.

Hence, this burning mystery has us all wrapped up: Why? Why would they kill themselves? They’re so pretty!

You know, we can’t help but feel they were the spotlight object of adoration.

Adored by boys, by the humble viewer, by the rage of mythical Aphrodite.

It certainly is a tempting thought that they’re just dumb movie characters and they’re alive for only as long (or short) as we like them to be.
Just… just entertain the possibility.

A meme.

You must admit character suicide is, after all, the only natural outcome of such adoring worship, the genuinе unfolding of the bloating, swollen toll this “worshiping-them” takes on our precious little lives.
Oh, the heavy burden of our martyrdom!
Yeah, not all heroes wear capes.

So, the girls get to be eternally romanticized when suicided, problem solved.

To conclude, this is a story about us, the humble viewer, and that person is monstrous in their wants and needs, I tell ya.

We are the real killer…

“… I told myself that the ideal solution would have been the death of the person I was interested in. Her death would, on the one hand, have definitively fixed our relationship and, on the other, removed its compulsion.” – Albert Camus, “The Fall”

And yet another mystery:

What else is there by Sofia, yes, Sofia Coppola?

Yet another meme.

Johnny Boogieman

About Johnny Boogieman (né Johnathan Boogiemanovich Goode) is an American comedy reviewer and a self-proclaimed cinema connoisseur, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. … Johnny grew up on a farm in Louisiana, as the only child of a Louisiana-based field worker, dressmaker, dog hairstylist, dog collar jewelry designer, dog walker for the elderly (dogs and owners), disabled and elderly dog walking aids creator-in-attempt, and homemaker, Dutch single mother. As large a clientele as dogs were for the barely-gasping-for-air family business, they were the proud owners of a single tabby cat alone, a streetwise and self-dependent hunter known by either of the street names Stringer Bell and El Capo (sometimes referred to as El Cato). … Having been amazed by the crazy wild early readings of Jules Verne, Johnny’s school days were spent dreaming he’d someday make for a good storyteller. Hence, as early as fourth grade, eager to prove himself to the world, he went for it and constructed a well-balanced heartbeat-skipping thrilling essay, pointing out to some well-reasoned critique of society and solid character arcs, committing to his talents to the fullest and diving right into that pool of majestic phrasing and complexity of thought, confident he’d soon get bejeweled with a spotless A and a pretty clap by the teacher, with gradually having the whole class join in looking up to him as he emerges from his seat to receive his essay evaluation. When results day came, though, little Johnny not only got a D, but he was mocked by the teacher and class for the gullible overexposure of his fragile overambitious mutating childish writing skills of questionable taste and poor poor quality. It was the “you’re tearing me apart, Lisa” equivalent of a child’s essay. He was rather massacred. He never got that brave ever again. … Anyway, Johnny mainly spent his summers field-working on a sunflower field with his uncle Berry under the widespread wings of the storks and the chesty white doves and clever black crows who all flew right under the neighbor’s umbrella caps patio ceiling installation thingy as soon as the first raindrop was godshed over the one-eyed monsters battalion that the sunflower sea was to Johnny. It drove the unwilling bird host nuts, and he’d storm right out yelling and cursing at the birds, “we’re going, we’re going” they went, and flew a semi-circle over the umbrella caps as to fool him and came right back the other way around pretending to be some fresh arrivals of clueless law-abiding American birds not yet acquainted with the police system of the patio. The guy wouldn’t take it out as it took ages to plant and he and his wife thought it made them look like fancy DIY people who had some ideas worthy of admiration. Oh, the bird manure, though, oh the bird manure. “Work your time, boy” – staring Johnny’s uncle frowned, his eye twinkled. … Cinema was to Johnny what he made plans for, what he made time for, what he looked up to all his life, and as he became a young adult, what he fancied himself to have a special talent to understand. It was the sort of a sixth sense, an intuition, a gut sense. He was the squad movie buff and a film whisperer. “No”, it whispered, “Fight Club ain’t no bueno. Mark my words and don’t ask why ‘cos you ain’t schooled enough to know why, boy.” He tried, though, he debated and disputed over a glass of scotch-on-the-rocks and under the jibe of a saxophone jazz, but it was as fruitless and dull as the poetry he wrote - unclean, uneven, and too abstract - as if he hadn’t found a voice to speak in yet. He did his part for years to come, reading as all writers ought to, writing and not publishing until he found out what he had to say with the peculiar piece of work. As for cinema, it happened one evening as he discussed legs-up-a-recliner their plans for the future with his lover-cum-best friend in their rented one-bedroom living space in New Jersey, that his lover casually contributed: “And then I thought we could start a film blog and you could do the content writing” – words that sunflower field Johnny with his gangster cat and his dewy eyes staring at the rainy-day con birds thought he’d never hear.

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