When Luca Guadagnino’s Suspiria hit theaters, several critics wished that the film had been directed by a woman. “The essence of Suspiria is feminine […] and it likewise cries out for a female director,” Andrea Thompson wrote for The Chicago Reader. “My biggest peeve with Suspiria—aside from a cloying, mismatched score—is that, like the new Halloween, it’s written, directed, scored, edited and shot by men, though it almost solely stars and concerns women,” April Wolfe wrote in LA Weekly. “I know this isn’t cool and perhaps pointless to say, but I wish a woman had remade Suspiria,” Emily Yoshida wrote in the opening of her review for Vulture, elaborating that she wishes that a woman had been “empowered” to make a similarly ambitious film.
There’s a part of me that agrees with these critics. I don’t believe that women’s stories should be exclusively directed by women, though Suspiria isn’t exactly a realistic women’s story. When director Dario Argento released his original movie in 1977—about a young American terrorized by witches in a German ballet academy—he filmed it as a baroque, titillating slasher. While Argento wanted to serve his viewers technicolor, blood-spattered candy, Guadagnino gives his movie the ’70s backdrop of the Berlin Wall, haunted by ghosts of the Holocaust.
He seems to confuse depictions of women’s ability to inflict pain on others as a sign of their feminine, and apparently, feminist, power
Guadagnino seems to have half-baked conceptions of what makes his movie a “feminist film,” a distinction he has advertised in the press. He seems to confuse depictions of women’s ability to inflict pain on others as a sign of their feminine, and apparently, feminist, power—a mistake many other male directors have made. Not to mention a grave mishandling and copying of Ana Mendieta’s art, in a movie about the power of women’s art, undercuts any claim that Suspiria is an empowering manifesto.
But despite its flaws, I loved Suspiria. I keep returning to the performances of the women in the movie; only three men appear in the entirety of Suspiria, two of whom are almost castrated for laughs by the Academy’s witches. Tilda Swinton is the heart of the movie, playing the academy’s Pina Bausch-ian lead instructor. And then there is Dakota Johnson, appealing as Susie Bannion, a waifish American girl who left her Mennonite past to become a dancer in Berlin. What Guadagnino’s Suspiria lacks in stylish, slasher deaths, it makes up for in surprisingly erotic, long exchanges between Swinton and Johnson, who suck the air out of theaters with their tension. And Johnson, whose biggest roles so far have drawn out her doe-eyed, breathy naïveté, weaponizes that reputation here [Spoiler Alert] by playing a wolf in final girl’s clothing; she tricks her teachers, and us as viewers, into accepting her as the movie’s frail, star bait, until she reveals herself to be the cruelest of the cast.