Lie with Me (18++)

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To quell the beginnings of an erection while simultaneously maintaining a sober distance from the object of your assessment isn’t exactly familiar or comfortable territory for a critic. But it’s unlikely that anyone was ever asked to sit down and consider**** ography seriously, as an art with its own system of values and aesthetics, liable to reflect and inform something remnant and revelatory about culture. And yet, this is exactly what Canadian filmmaker Clement Virgo set out to do, more or less, in his most recent feature film, Lie with Me. A hot if hotly intrepid coital surfeit of a film, Lie with Me premiered at last year’s Toronto Film Festival to mixed reviews. For some, it was merely glorified smut, neither edifying nor relevant, while others praised its audacious bravura and explicit depictions of simulated****-acts.

The detractors were hardly puritans, though, since the film’s source material, the eponymous novella by Tamara Faith Berger, revolved around the exploits of one****ually ravenous young woman. From the start, it’s obvious that novella’s narrator is unmoored, emotionally remote, and all too aware of the stigma of the Slut; even so, she persists in sating her prurient appetites in spite of herself. Whether anomie is the cause of her**** ual addiction—the desire to feel something other than torpor or purposelessness—or the result of it is ultimately the more interesting question.

The film iteration of Lie with Me is likely as bawdy as its literary forerunner, given that Virgo and Berger (now partners) adapted the screenplay together. To begin with, we find our narrator, Leila (as played by the ethereal and reposeful Lauren Lee Smith of The L Word and Mutant X) splayed-out topless on a sofa, and, in all her apathetic grace, digging away in her skirt—masturbating! After reaching climax, Leila turns off the**** ography with the same sleepy lethargy that lifts her from the sofa, slinks into a transparent top, and not so much walks out of the apartment as effortlessly covers the necessary ground-space to exit.

Next, we are out the door and onto Queen St. where Leila presents herself in stilted narration—narration that doesn’t match the colorful environs of downtown Toronto. Leila wanders into a club and proceeds to numb whatever despair remains. She stumbles into a bathroom with Dave (Eric Balfour), where they share a few unspoken moments admiring each others’ beauty. Later, Dave eyes Leila in the middle of the dance floor, in the middle of a group of guys with liberal hands (that she doesn’t seem to mind on her body). One of the lucky guys is pulled out of the club and into the blinds of an alleyway by the now officious Leila. He’s instructed to lower his pants, at which point Leila begins to perform fellatio, an act so graphically depicted as to show the actress’ hand actually holding the actor’s penis. By this point, Dave and his girlfriend are well-positioned to view the alleyway gambol, and, naturally, Dave’s girlfriend follows Leila’s lead. The voyeurism feels untoward as the scene continues un-truncated, forcing us to watch, doubtless with pleasure, and then rather guiltily and uncomfortably as Leila is turned around, now facing Dave, and almost appearing to cry.
It’s certainly the case that Virgo skimped on the narrative in favor of the mood. At times, the film comes off inert and aimless, absent of an apparent conflict. The Bee Hives version of Lover’s Spit asserts itself, representing Virgo’s telos: sinuousness, elegiac, inaccessible. And if Woody Allen writes love letters to New York, Virgo is attempting the epistletory equivalent with Toronto. The celluloid is balmy and grainy patina evinces a fleeting and slight dissipation of energy, as if the film were in danger of dissolving away. Toronto has never looked so august and formidable, so warm and inviting. It’s difficult to hold an emotion, especially for the length of a feature film, without conflicting emotions and desires surfacing. It’s even more difficult to fight entropy, but Virgo may have, if only for 90 minutes.

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