It is difficult to know whether Bigas Luna is an unreconstructed celebrator of machismo, or a sly critic of it. In Jamon Jamon, the hero's tragedy is linked to his phallic power, but so is much of the film's energy and pleasure. In Golden Balls, the hero is plainly subject to critique, but the treatment of women is frequently exploitative.
The Ages Of Lulu differs from these hits in having a woman as protagonist. One of the interests of the film is in the way the viewer is never sure what direction it is going to take. It begins with the lightest of touches, and ends in dark tragedy. On one level, it is a rite-of-passage story (the crucial early scenes are soundtracked to pastiche early rock'n'roll), as we follow the growth to maturity of a naive young girl, from the object of male fantasy, to a woman who recognises her own desire, and knows how to satisfy it; from someone who must tell stories to arouse her lovers, to someone who narrates her own self-defining story.
Lulu's greater independence, however, is treated with solemnity and fear by the film, which is also a rigorous exploration of sexuality as site of character, identity, gender role-play, philosophy and politics (almost a comic Ai No Corrida, although this terror of female transgression recalls Lulu's famous namesakes in Wedekind, Pabst and Berg). However, the admirable realism and nervous pleasurability of the early sex scenes become dark, demonised and dangerous the more freedom Lulu gains. The final nightmare orgy brings Lulu to her senses, and back to her selfish wimpy man. Her consistently marginalised transvestite friend is sacrificed so that heterosexuality can reassert itself.
The irony of this film is not as apparent as it is in Luna's more famous films, and Spanish audiences might be more alert to the contemporary resonances than I am. Phalluses abound in this still strongly patriarchal culture. There is none of the verve, colour and melodramatic swagger of Jamon Jamon in Luna's direction here, which is detached, yet prurient. The film shares many of the same features as an 80s Almodovar movie, but without the extravagant formal means of ironising the material. The story begins to get monotonous when the finger begins to wag. There isn't much opportunity for good acting: Neri is much better in Live Flesh, though she ages convincingly here.
The Ages Of Lulu differs from these hits in having a woman as protagonist. One of the interests of the film is in the way the viewer is never sure what direction it is going to take. It begins with the lightest of touches, and ends in dark tragedy. On one level, it is a rite-of-passage story (the crucial early scenes are soundtracked to pastiche early rock'n'roll), as we follow the growth to maturity of a naive young girl, from the object of male fantasy, to a woman who recognises her own desire, and knows how to satisfy it; from someone who must tell stories to arouse her lovers, to someone who narrates her own self-defining story.
Lulu's greater independence, however, is treated with solemnity and fear by the film, which is also a rigorous exploration of sexuality as site of character, identity, gender role-play, philosophy and politics (almost a comic Ai No Corrida, although this terror of female transgression recalls Lulu's famous namesakes in Wedekind, Pabst and Berg). However, the admirable realism and nervous pleasurability of the early sex scenes become dark, demonised and dangerous the more freedom Lulu gains. The final nightmare orgy brings Lulu to her senses, and back to her selfish wimpy man. Her consistently marginalised transvestite friend is sacrificed so that heterosexuality can reassert itself.
The irony of this film is not as apparent as it is in Luna's more famous films, and Spanish audiences might be more alert to the contemporary resonances than I am. Phalluses abound in this still strongly patriarchal culture. There is none of the verve, colour and melodramatic swagger of Jamon Jamon in Luna's direction here, which is detached, yet prurient. The film shares many of the same features as an 80s Almodovar movie, but without the extravagant formal means of ironising the material. The story begins to get monotonous when the finger begins to wag. There isn't much opportunity for good acting: Neri is much better in Live Flesh, though she ages convincingly here.