Jennifer Lopez and Tonatiuh shine in a dulled version of Kiss Of The Spider Woman
Bill Condon updates the Tony-winning 1993 musical, but this revamp lacks the opulent luster of Technicolor Hollywood that it strives to emulate.
Photo: Sundance
Theoretical musings on gender, sexuality, and revolution are messily woven together in Kiss Of The Spider Woman, Bill Condon’s reimagining of the musical that swept the 1993 Tony Awards. While that production was based on the wildly successful 1985 Brazilian film of the same name—which itself was based on Argentine author Manuel Puig’s 1976 novel—Condon’s version is more interested in making minor semantic updates as opposed to offering a compelling new vision.
The inherent constraints of the independently financed project—executive produced by Jennifer Lopez’s Nuyorican Productions alongside Ben Affleck and Matt Damon’s Artists Equity banner—are evident on screen, where everything from the costume design to the lighting choices lack the sumptuous essence typically on display in the Old Hollywood sensibility that the film attempts to recreate. Despite these visual shortcomings, Jennifer Lopez and newcomer Tonatiuh (who some may recognize from his minor yet essential role in the recent Netflix airport thriller Carry-On) deliver committed performances, even if the ideas they’re tasked with communicating don’t quite land.
As with all renditions of this story, the central conceit is the same: Cellmates Luis Molina (Tonatiuh) and Valentin Arregui (an unconvincing Diego Luna) slowly develop a deep bond as they endure a harsh prison sentence. In line with the musical and novel, the two are imprisoned in Argentina during the tail end of the Dirty War, the military junta that violently persecuted communists from 1974 through 1983. While Arregui is detained for his involvement with a Marxist syndicate—and is regularly tortured in the hopes that he will eventually betray his comrades—Molina’s crime is merely his sexuality.
From the moment they’re placed in the same cell, Molina announces the reason for his conviction: “public indecency” for having sex with another man in a restroom. In previous iterations, Molina is charged with “corrupting a minor,” a detail that was almost certainly changed to refute the homophobic notion that queer people are prone to predation. Yet his backstory isn’t particularly fleshed out here. Elements of his relationships on the outside—namely with his mother and unrequited love interest—clutter his characterization instead of fortifying it.