spider woman

When “Kiss of the Spider Woman” premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January, it was in the shadow of President Trump’s return to office.

Just days earlier, Trump had begun his term with a wave of executive orders to expand the country’s immigration detention infrastructure, fast-track deportations, remove protections preventing Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officials from targeting schools and churches, and a declaration that the U.S. government would recognize only two sexes.

Referencing these developments ahead of the screening in Park City, Utah, writer-director Bill Condon told the audience: “That’s a sentiment I think you’ll see the movie has a different point of view on.”

Released in theaters Oct. 10, “Kiss of the Spider Woman” is set in the final year of Argentina’s Dirty War, the violent military dictatorship that spanned from 1976-1983. The story begins in the confines of a Buenos Aires prison, where newfound cellmates Valentin Arregui Paz (Diego Luna) and Luis Molina (Tonatiuh) find they have little in common. Arregui is a principled revolutionary dedicated to his cause, while Molina is a gay, flamboyant window dresser who’s been arrested for public indecency.

Undeterred by their differences, Molina punctuates the bleak existence of their imprisonment — one marked by torture and deprivation — by recounting the plot of “The Kiss of the Spider Woman,” a fictional Golden Age musical starring his favorite actress, Ingrid Luna (Jennifer Lopez), casting himself and Arregui as her co-stars. Transported from their dreary cell to the bright, indulgent universe of the musical, their main conflicts become a quest for love and honor, rather than a fight for their basic human rights.

When Argentinian author Manuel Puig began writing the celebrated novel, “Kiss of the Spider Woman,” in 1974, it was just a year into his self-imposed exile to Mexico as his native Argentina lurched toward authoritarianism. By the time the book was released in 1976, a military junta had seized control of the government. The next seven years were marked by the forced disappearance of an estimated 20,000-30,000 people, many of whom were kidnapped and taken to clandestine detention camps to be tortured and killed. Among those targeted were artists, journalists, student activists, members of the LGBTQ+ community and anyone deemed “subversive” by the regime.

Initially banned in Argentina, Puig’s novel has been adapted and reimagined multiple times, including as an Oscar-winning film in 1985 and a Tony Award-winning musical in 1993. With each iteration, the central elements have remained unchanged. And yet, as the 2025 adaptation arrived in theaters this month, this queer, Latino-led story of two prisoners fighting the claustrophobia of life under fascism feels at once like a minor miracle, and a startling wake-up call.

Tonatiuh, left, and Diego Luna in the movie “Kiss of the Spider Woman.”

(Sundance Institute)

In the months since the film’s Sundance premiere, the parallels between the fraught political climate of 1970s Argentina and that of our present have only become more pronounced.

Under Trump, an endless stream of escalating violence from masked federal agents has become our new normal. ICE officers have been filmed apprehending people outside of immigration court; firing pepper balls, rubber bullets and tear gas at journalists, protesters and clergymen; and, earlier this month, they descended from Black Hawk helicopters, using flash-bang grenades to clear a Chicago apartment building in a militarized raid that had men, women and children zip-tied and removed from their homes. As the country’s immigrant detention population reaches record highs, widespread reports of abuse, neglect and sexual harassment, particularly against LGBTQ+ detainees, have emerged from facilities across the U.S.

Amidst these headlines are people just like Molina and Arregui — activists, artists and human beings — finding their own ways to survive and resist an increasingly paranoid and repressive government. And while Arregui’s instinct is to remain unwavering in his cause, Molina’s is to retreat into the glamorous, over-the-top world of the “Spider Woman.”

In dazzling musical numbers expertly performed by Lopez, who delivers each song and dance with all the magnetism of a true Old Hollywood icon, both the prisoners and the audience can’t help but be drawn further and further into her Technicolor web.

Jennifer Lopez and Tonatiuh in the movie “Kiss of the Spider Woman.”

(Roadside Attractions)

It might be easy to write these moments off as nothing more than a superficial distraction, as Arregui does early on, and characterize musicals as shallow and cliche. At first, Molina is happy to admit that’s why he loves them, but the truth is more complicated.

During Argentina’s dictatorship, discrimination and attacks by paramilitary groups against LGBTQ+ people became more and more frequent. Molina accepts the role society has cast him in, allowing himself to be the “monster,” the “deviant” or the “sissy” that people want him to be, while retreating mentally into the world of classic films and pop culture. For him, their beauty is a salve — an opportunity to abandon reality and cast himself in a role that doesn’t actually exist for him.

Though he never explicitly claims an identity, it’s made clear that he doesn’t just love “La Luna” — he wants to be her. And in their first feature lead role, the queer, L.A.-born actor Tonatiuh embodies all of Molina’s contradictions — his bluster, his pain, his radiance — to heart-wrenching effect.

As Molina and Arregui grow closer, the boundaries between reality and fantasy begin to melt, and their formerly rigid perceptions collapse along with them. Arregui takes on some of Molina’s idealism, and the musical he once saw as a tired cliche becomes something invaluable: a sliver of joy that can’t be taken from him. A cynic convinced of the world’s brokenness, he realizes that revolutions need hope too.

In the film’s final act, while the world around Molina hasn’t changed, he has. Still trapped within the confines of a society that is doing its best to crush him, he adopts Arregui’s integrity and realizes that he has a choice: “I learned about dignity in that most undignified place,” he says in the film. “I had always believed nothing could ever change for me, and I felt sorry for myself. But I can’t live like that now.”

Like the film within the film, “Kiss of the Spider Woman” isn’t an escape. It’s a lifeline — and a reminder that, even in the darkest of times, art has the power to transport us, sustain us and embolden us to be brave.

“Kiss of the Spider Woman,” a sexual and scatological dazzler about an inmate‘s obsession with a favorite musical, sounds like the kind of thing some folks won’t watch even if they, too, were locked in a prison for years. Their loss. In the spirit of the film, I’ll try to change their mind.

It’s 1983 Argentina, the last days of a militarized dictatorship under which 30,000 people have been disappeared. Scraggly, severe Valentin (Diego Luna) is a political prisoner with ties to the revolutionary underground. His new cellmate is a brazen chatterbox named Molina (Tonatiuh), a gay window dresser serving an eight-year sentence for indecency in a public bathroom. They have zero shared interests. But to pass the time — and, more importantly, to get Valentin to put down his biography of Lenin and talk a little — Molina recounts the plot of a Golden Age spectacular starring the fictional movie star Ingrid Luna (Jennifer Lopez), a red-lipped, pineapple-blond beauty whose vintage posters brighten their wretched gray walls.

“I hate musicals,” Valentin complains.

“Then I pity you,” Molina says breezily, charging into the first scene.

Through beatings and starvation, poisonings and betrayals, all under the gaze of the oppressive warden (Bruno Bichir), Valentin and Molina escape into Technicolor in a desperate need for distraction. The writer-director Bill Condon (“Chicago,” “Dreamgirls”) has savvily, unabashedly reworked the 1993 Broadway extravaganza (already a bold adaptation of the 1976 experimental novel and 1985 Academy Award-winning drama). He’s double-cast Luna and Tonatiuh as the film-within-a-film’s leads and changed the imaginary tale from a Nazi propaganda flick to a melodramatic but moving South American romance between a glamour queen and a noble photographer. Its themes of love and sacrifice come to mirror Valentin and Molina’s own relationship.

The songs themselves are the same rather-forgettable numbers by John Kander and Fred Ebb who did a zingier job mixing fascism with feathers in “Cabaret.” “Live inside me on a movie screen,” Lopez’s Ingrid sings, luring Molina to get lost in daydreams. Behind her, dancers gyrate like victims being electrocuted. (I wouldn’t have minded more jolts of morbid humor.) Unhummable as the music is, its message has a spark: In the war for liberation, it’s OK to take mental breaks.

In fact, pleasure is necessary, especially for the regularly tortured Valentin who seems to have been numb for a long time. (Communist memoirs don’t stir the soul.) A hardline ascetic, Valentin won’t even alert the medics when he’s sick, in case they give him morphine.

The two roommates comically bicker about what scant pop culture Valentin knows, taking shots at “Raging Bull,” Meryl Streep and his own crass insistence that Ingrid’s character, Aurora, is frigid due to some kind of childhood trauma. (“Oh, God, let her be,” Molina sighs.) Yet, their conversation always pirouettes back to the gap between the real world and the movies.

“I hate to break it to you,” Valentine says, “but nobody sings in real life.”

“Well, maybe they should,” Molina huffs.

Maybe in confinement they can’t.

Condon smartly limits who sings and why and when. In the 1985 drama, which starred Raul Julia and William Hurt (who won the Oscar for Molina), both men remained trapped in this horrible dungeon and never sang a song. On Broadway, all of the characters — even cranky Valentin — crooned numbers the whole way through. But Condon draws a thick line between reality and fiction to highlight how much his leads need the freedom for radical self-expression.

“Kiss of the Spider Woman” is about a lot of things: Valentin reconnecting with his emotions, Luis discovering that he’s more than a self-described trivial sissy. (“I cringe every time you make fun of yourself,” Valentin growls.) But it’s fundamentally about those scenes in which the palette and polish of the film shifts and cinematographer Tobias A. Schliessler switches from handheld to Steadicam. The putrid chamber drama becomes a fantasia, befouled rags turn into tuxedo pants and it’s finally safe to belt how they feel.

Earlier incarnations of this story had activism as the end goal, Valentin for his principles and Molina for his new friend. Condon is more focused on their humanity. Caring for each other makes this bleak world worth fighting for. Without joy, we’re already in chains.

People will come out of “Kiss of the Spider Woman” gushing about Tonatiuh and with good reason. Striding confidently into his first starring role, the L.A.-born breakout talent is a bright new discovery with shining eyes and brash exuberance. He needs to be excellent for the movie to succeed and he’s pretty darned close, even pulling off a glib beat where Molina recoils from a battered man and quips, “If I looked like that, I’d want a bag over my head too.” There are scenes where he comes off arch and a little telegraphed, although in fairness, that’s also just who Molina is — performance is protection. And when Tonatiuh cowers from the guards, we get a hint of what Molina has suffered without Condon ever having to show the abuse.

To keep things faithful to 1983, Tonatiuh’s Molina doesn’t identify as transgender — the character sticks to the limited vocabulary of the time. But you see Molina’s subtle disappointment when Valentin, trying to be supportive, insists, “You’re not a monster, you’re a man.” And Condon has tweaked a climactic refrain, changing the pronoun to “Her name was Molina.”

Playing Ingrid-as-Aurora — the heroine of a film that, even its biggest fan admits, is “no ‘Citizen Kane’” — Lopez is shellacked under two layers of diva artifice. But at this point in her career, she’s suited to being an icon. She’s long since given up pretending she’s still Jenny from the Block, and Condon has shaped the role of Ingrid to her like a corset. You hear it in the line, “No matter how hard Hollywood tried to make her all-American, she never stopped being Latin” and more than that, you see it in Lopez’s delight as she flashes her legs and tosses her hair. She knows she can nail this role and she really hoofs it. There’s a wide-angle shot of a nightclub where Condon gives her and a dozen background performers a full, uncut minute to twirl. Most impressively, Lopez grabs a martini, slowly does a one-legged spin to the ground and then uncoils herself to stand back up and cheer.

She has a harder time commanding the screen in a third role, when Ingrid also acts the part of the sinister Spider Woman, a spiky-haired, taloned jungle goddess who smooches her prey to death. The movie’s stiff Spider Woman set pieces are a relic of the ’90s musical that put Chita Rivera in a massive web. Trapped in them, Lopez can’t do much more than a predatory grin. But it’s still better than how Condon’s “Chicago” chopped up its choreography into close-ups (and here, there’s still a few gratingly askew camera angles). The new film is the director’s penance: an apologia to musical lovers who want to see the star do every inch of the dancing.

Still, my favorite performance has to be Luna’s, whose Valentin is at once strong and vulnerable, like a mutt attempting to fend off a bear. He’s the only one who doesn’t need to prove he’s a great actor, yet he feels like a revelation. Watching him gradually turn tender sends tingles through your heartstrings. For his second role as Ingrid’s onscreen boyfriend, Condon resurrects a discarded number from the original musical where Luna croons about being “An Everyday Man,” his warm voice perfectly imperfect. Even when he’s grouchy and filthy, you get why Molina would imagine Valentin as the ideal romantic lead.

I don’t want to spoil the ending other than to say that Condon adds an exclamation point to his insistence on music as emancipation with a new scene set after the fall of the junta and its right-wing abduction squads. The camera looks down at the jail as the inmates spill into the courtyard. Then it pulls up for an aerial shot of the entire block. We see citizens flood the streets. We hear honking horns and spontaneous street music. The whole country is free to sing.