Night of the VirginReviewed By Rob Gonsalves
Posted 06/11/18 18:49:12
The gleefully repulsive Spanish horror-comedy 'The Night of the Virgin' is what used to be called a party movie. You put it on late in the evening and watch all your friends either dig it or file out ashen-faced one by one.The virgin of the title is Nico (Javier Bódalo), barely out of his teens, who goes to a New Year’s Eve party looking to shed his V. He encounters Medea (Miriam Martín), a mysterious woman who has about three decades on him. Medea takes Nico back to her scummy, cockroach-infested apartment, and she wants to do something about his virginity, all right, but nowhere near in the way he expects or wants. There is, for example, a goddess named Naoshi who must be appeased.
Up front I should mention that the version of The Night of the Virgin that did the film-festival rounds for a couple of years ran almost two hours (and a common complaint was that you could feel the two hours). The version that I saw, and that will presumably be hitting video-on-demand soon, weighs in at about fifteen minutes shorter, though it looks to these eyes not much less grotesque. Various bodily fluids still become buoyant, ready for their close-ups. Director Roberto San Sebastián and scripter Guillermo Guerrero may or may not be digging for metaphorical gold here — who knows? Most of it seems like a roughhouse gorehound reversal of that well-worn exploitation trope the violation of the virgin, who here is male. “Evil Has No Gender,” the tagline informs us.
This is the sort of film with character names like “Chica Vómito,” “Sodomita Pasivo” and — of course — “Sodomita Activo.” For all that, the sex in the film (in this cut, anyway) isn’t particularly graphic; and for all the liberal use of “maricón” to describe our hapless, horse-faced young protagonist, the movie seems driven by an absolute horror of hetero sex. No, the main event here is the volume of gouts, shpritzes, puddles and Pollock drip-painting of dark, syrupy blood, accompanied by comedically precise foley work on the various assaults on the flesh — enough wet squelching sounds to keep David Lynch chipper for days. The action is mostly limited to Medea’s ghastly apartment, the drama essentially a three-character play (Medea’s ex-boyfriend, played by Víctor Amilibia, makes an appearance about halfway through, eventually beseeching Nico through the locked door to sacrifice his virtue for the greater not-so-good).
What can make an antic splatterthon like The Night of the Virgin bearable and even fun despite its icky unpleasantness is some evidence of irrepressible personality on the part of its makers. When I saw Bad Taste all those years ago, could I — or anyone — have predicted that Peter Jackson, the man responsible for its farcical carnage seemingly inspired by Monty Python’s “Sam Peckinpah’s Salad Days,” would go on to become Tolkien’s obsessive film liaison with a row of Oscars on his shelf? Likely not, and the same goes for Guillermo del Toro, who took his own golden boy this past winter. Oliver Stone got his start with the z-budget horror Seizure. And so on.
That’s not to say that Roberto San Sebastián will be invited to the Dolby Theatre in the next ten years — but it’s also not to say he won’t. What he brings to the slimy party here is a certain sportive sadism. I’ll be curious what else San Sebastián does, what else interests him — is The Night of the Virgin the debut of a new genre star, joyfully coating the squares with bodily goo, or is it a calling card for someone who, having gotten the chaos and gunk out of his system, would now like to adapt Ibsen or Murakami?Again, I’m not sure if the events or uglinesses here are meant to represent anything larger than themselves, the way the pre-Black Knight spurts of blood through armor in Bresson’s 'Lancelot du Lac' indicated a need to strip the heroism out of the Arthurian legend, but I’m pretty sure this will be the only review of 'The Night of the Virgin' to mention Bresson.
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