Someone is going to say it and it might as well be me. Sofia Coppola proves herself to be a much, much better director and writer than an actress. (Sorry, kiddo.) In fact, if The Virgin Suicides is any indication, she just might have a fine new career ahead of her. It helps, of course, that she has surrounded herself with a remarkable cast and crew, who help bring to life her stylish and bleak adaptation of Jeff Eugenides’ brooding novel.

Eugenides’ book was both bleak and comical, a tragic look at adolescent love, obsession and self-destruction. This is no fluff piece like Clueless or that ilk; it is more in the tradition of Stand By Me, realistically exposing the razor edges of youth. These razor edges are felt literally by the Lisbon girls – Cecelia, Lux, Mary, Bonnie and Therese – whose existence is governed with the iron fist of their strict parents (James Woods and Kathleen Turner). Every actor in this film is perfectly cast and it’s the meshing of talent that really makes the material sing.

The Lisbon girls are exquisite and unobtainable, making them objects of lust for every boy in the neighborhood and at school. Yet, at the center of their world is an indefinable sadness, made brutally clear when Cecilia first attempts then succeeds at committing suicide. In the hospital, her doctor claims that she isn’t old enough to know how horrible the world can be. “Obviously, doctor,” she replies with painful solemnity, “you’ve never been a thirteen year old girl.”

Cecelia’s death begins the dark spiral for the rest of the sisters. At the core of their tragedy is Lux (Kirsten Dunst), who is courted then abandoned by Trip (Josh Hartnett), a swaggering, pooka-shelled hunk. Lux’s late arrival home after the prom leads her parents to literally lock all the girls in the house like princesses imprisoned in a tower. This is by far one of the most effective parts of the film as the girls desperately search for a way to contact the outside world. When they do, the sequence is nothing short of magical. But the magic can’t last and, like all tragedies, darkness finally falls, leading the local boys to a lifelong obsession about the whys and wherefores.

Given the subject matter of this movie, some people may feel that Coppola is glorifying suicide, when in fact she says that she hoped for the exact opposite. She achieves this by casting light on the pain and alienation of the teen years and of how even decent parents can miss the signs of trouble and can make mistakes. In the end, Mrs. Lisbon bemoans that her daughters were loved; it never occurs to her that her version of love was stifling.

Regardless of one’s feeling about the moral angle, it’s impossible to take issue with the technical quality of the film. This is, flat out, a beautiful movie as technically accomplished as any in recent memory. Coppola’s cinematographer Edward Lachman along with production designer Jasna Stefanovic nostalgically capture the 1970’s in all their bland (and, if you can believe it, beautiful) tackiness while creating, as Coppola calls it, a “scrapbook of memories”. Further, the entire sound and music team should get a statue for the use and choice of music. It’s so right on the money that anyone who lived through the seventies will start having flashbacks.

Finally, Coppola herself is to be congratulated for many of her choices, including some whimsical camera tricks that suck us into the minds of the Lisbon girls. She does fall short on a few occasions, especially when dealing with the arc of Lux’s and Trip’s relationship or the reasons behind the parents’ harsh rules, but these lapses never really hinder the overall effectiveness of the piece. With so many films about teen angst, The Virgin Suicides stands out, not only for its cinematic strengths, but for its intuitive sense of adolescence. Filled with both joy and tragedy, it is a time that sticks with us forever.