In accordance with the obvious sexual origin of its title, "Woman on Top" wants to be a movie about the triumph -- or even the precondition -- of female control in matters of the senses. So if you don't want to see a movie about that, don't, especially if you're a man and you'd prefer not to be at the wrong end of a confused mix of grateful social commentary and satire.
But here's the irony: you'll miss out on watching an enchantress work a little bit of her magic on you. That the bubbly and curvy font in the opening credits of "Woman on Top" is sharply reminiscent of "I Dream of Jeannie" isn't coincidental in a movie that nods to private, quiet female control. But like Jeannie, Isabella (Penlope Cruz) doesn't seem to know what will result from her powers of seduction.
The premise of "Woman" is concerned with the fact that the sensuous Latina suffers from chronic motion sickness. Isabella learns to control her sickness by controlling her motions -- on the cutting board, in the car, in the bedroom. As in all stories that lunge at fairytale-like triumph, this heroine derives strength from her weaknesses.
Isabella's primary strength is her extraordinary ability to cook. Too frail to play outside with her friends, our heroine "spent her days in the kitchen" and developed into a coconut-squeezing, pepper-sauting young woman.
Such impressive culinary talents draw job offers from customers, and she dreams of travelling the world. Yet she takes her dreams off the burner when -- you guessed it -- she meets her romantic match, a gorgeous Toninho (Murilo Bencio), whose eyes literally twinkle when he sees her.
Yes, "Woman" is that kind of movie. Twinkling eyes and floating imaginary fish are staples of this genre -- fairytale romantic comedy. The only problem is that Torres does not add these effects with her tongue in cheek, nor does she show any signs of letting us in on the reason for the "magic."
Isabella's need for control quickly wilts her husband, and he seeks to redeem his manhood with a less dominating neighbor. In a great example of the occasional deadpan humor of "Woman," Toninho screams in self-defense from the balcony: "I'm a man! I have to be on top sometimes!" But there, I've almost ruined it for you. That's one of three funny lines in the supposed comedy.
Somewhere behind her pretty eyes, Isabella stews her anger and anxiety, consequently taking a flight to San Francisco where she moves in with tranvestite best friend Monica (Harold Perrineau Jr.), lands a job, and propels herself into American stardom with her own cleavage -- er, cooking show. This, in part, because of an offering made to Yemanja, goddess of the sea.
But as the magic moves Isabella's story along, we are lost in the muddled force of the film. The Dramamine-laden transition from Brazil to San Francisco is set in motion before Isabella's character is given any real meat. For the rest of "Woman," we're stuck trying to figure out where Isabella is headed -- or if we care at all.
In one scene, camera tricks trace the aroma trail from Isabella's spicy creations to the quick-triggered senses of men on the production set and those well out of range. Men are aroused by her smells; but when they see her, men drop their hammers, beer and wives in her pursuit. Alas, the gag falls flat because the satire is directed at the willing victims of the movie's selling point: Cruz.
Indeed, Isabella's victims are myriad -- but afflicted. The slack-jawed men at the bar are, lest we forget, spending their free time sitting in a bar. Cliff, an overgrown frat-hopping TV producer, gets the hiccups when he's anxious, and we watch him jog on his treadmill at a challenging 1.7 miles per hour. Toninho is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and he can't take his pants off in the correct bedroom. They might be awe-struck by the magic of this woman, but they're losers. Director Fina Torres doesn't seem to notice.
Isabella looks most beautiful in a scene from her cooking class. She glows under the spell of memory, rubbing a pepper under her nose. Confused but envious onlookers immediately lift the peppers and inhale. The audience is supposed to laugh. We know they're not privy to Isabella's sexual memories; what joy could they possibly get from a pepper?
Torres may be getting the same sort of laugh. We silly audience members hope that the magic that this movie obviously wants to address -- and does, to a small extent, through samba music, beautiful actors and scenery -- would somehow make itself tangible through characters.
Unfortunately, the desires of characters, like the aroma of hot peppers, aren't intrinsically valuable to outsiders; these things need to earn our love. We want to love Brazil, Isabella and the magic realism of South America, but we just aren't given any reason to.
Even Brazil, sold as the inspiration for sensuality in the film, came off as a prop. I don't feel closer to understanding its spirit than I would to perceiving the essence of Regis's living room by watching "Who Wants to Be a Millionare."
Cruz, San Francisco and Brazil are mystical but unavailable in Torres's film. We'd all be better off with some postcards and Internet pictures. That way, we can gaze at them on our own time, and avoid the turbulence of watching "Woman on Top."