In the face of growing fascism, sometimes the most powerful things one can engage in are acts of empathy and understanding, in defiance of the powerful forces that depend on division and apathy. Kiss of the Spider Woman, directed by Héctor Babenco and released 40 years ago this week, creaks in places but still feels vital in its portrayal of these kinds of bonds. While showing how fascism seeks to crush every glimmer of humanity, Spider Woman depicts how oppression itself can forge unexpected human connections that themselves become forms of resistance.
Spider Woman is an adaptation of a novel by Manuel Puig, which was set during the Argentinian dictatorial regime. (The novel was also adapted into a musical by John Kander and Fred Ebb; a cinematic adaptation of that show will be released later this year.) It charts the developing relationship between two cellmates imprisoned by the Brazilian military dictatorship. Valentín (Raúl Juliá) is a political prisoner. He bides his time staring out of narrow bars, trying to see which of his friends is being tortured, and wondering when it will be his turn again. Molina (William Hurt), a gay window dresser, is serving a sentence for “corrupting a minor.” He copes with prison life through escapism. To pass the time, he narrates the plot of one of his favorite films, a romance about a devastatingly gorgeous French nightclub singer. (A black-and-white recreation of the movie accompanies his narration.) Valentín is his reluctant audience.
At first, the men could not be more different. Valentín finds Molina’s elaborate fantasies superficial: “Your life is as trivial as your movies,” he says. Indeed, Molina is so politically ignorant that he doesn’t realize that his beloved movie is a Nazi propaganda film about occupied France. He can’t understand why Valentín’s political commitments mean he must refuse even the meagerest pleasures. But through exchanges both nasty and nice, the pair comes to understand each other better. Valentín realizes that Molina’s decision to live an openly queer life is itself a powerful act of resistance. Molina’s right to live without persecution is part of Valentín’s struggle for the dignity of all his countrymen. And, in Molina, Valentín finds a sympathetic ear for his fears and vulnerabilities. He has the human contradictions of any revolutionary (mainly his longing for his bourgeois ex-girlfriend), and doesn’t want to die a martyr. Molina’s nonjudgmental nature draws them into an unlikely, and unexpectedly romantic, friendship.
Most of Spider Woman is two-handed scenes between Valenín and Molina as they’re confined to their cell. They rest on the two principal performances and their chemistry. Hurt’s Molina is utterly captivating. It’s always tricky to rewatch performances like these; today, we would (hopefully) not cast a straight cis actor in the role. Hurt won the Oscar, the BAFTA, and Best Actor at Cannes, and that feels tricky too, as if playing a queer character is, in and of itself, worthy of accolades. (Part of the problem lies in the character: Molina is the kind of tragic, nobly long-suffering figure that was one of the only models for positive queer representation in mainstream culture.) In retrospect, not all of it works: Molina’s slinky gait and effete quips feel like an ill-fitting cloak. But everything beneath burns incandescently. While Molina has secrets of his own, he possesses a radical humanity. The character’s subjugation has made him wise about human nature; despite this subjugation, he has remained warm and open to the world. These facets of his personality emerge unexpectedly but with a disarming lucidity. This decency, too, is a kind of resistance that Valentín gradually comes to appreciate.
Julià’s Valentín is the subtler role, but also challenging. He begins as an outright homophobe who, on one occasion, erupts into violence. Juliá doesn’t shy away from this ugliness; there’s a flinty aspect to his demeanor that reflects the uncompromising personality of the revolutionary. He plays the role with an ease that belies a deep gravitas. His initial contempt for Molina is prickly and unnervingly sharp. It makes him seem small, but Julià doesn’t tip into outright villainy. The respect he develops for Molina is profound, and all the more powerful for being unadorned and straightforward.
The growing, unconventional intimacy that develops between the two men is not one of cuddly “hugs and learning.” The two men stumble towards each other via the everyday indignities and occasional small pleasures of prison life. Molina’s brave candor and Valentín’s growing tenderness are small flashes that gradually build into something more, something that avoids cliché. This, too, is a little tricky: is the film trying to communicate something about the unpredictability of desire, or is it avoiding anything overtly queer that might squick out an ‘80s audience? In any event, it’s a bond that feels true and truly moving. While a story like this can never have a happy ending, the personal is political and this, too, is resistance.
Despite the claustrophobic gloom of its prison setting, Spider Woman is oddly colorful and visually imaginative. Cinematographer Rodolfo Sánchez picks up flashes of pastels and neons. Rather than constantly reflecting the monotony of confinement, Molina and Valentín are framed in varied and inventive styles, as if reflecting the many ways they connect with one another. The depictions of Molina’s film are visually gorgeous, if dramatically overwrought; an apt realization of his particular brand of escapism. It’s dazzling and imperfect and ephemeral—fitting images for a world where pleasure must be snatched and savored.
“Kiss of the Spider Woman” is streaming on the Criterion Channel and HBO Max.
