Not Coming to a Theater Near You

Live Flesh / Carne trémula / Spain / 1997

Almodóvar’s characteristically knotty tale of passion and infidelity is actually based (loosely, I would guess) on a Ruth Rendell whydunit, transposing her novel about a supposed attempted rapist from the idiom of the English crime thriller to that of the Iberian melodrama. Somewhere along the way from London to Madrid — which is as lovingly rendered here as it is in any of his other films — Almodóvar molds the story into another of his intricate and surprisingly sympathetic portraits of the idiocies of love. Drugs, domestic abuse, public transportation, virginity (and its unceremonious loss), physical paralysis, the Barcelona Olympics, incarceration, obsession, revenge, and, best of all, the fuzzy lines that bind sex with love — all are sewn together in Almodóvar’s film with plenty of good humor, and a minimum of sarcasm or condescension. In this universe, if in no other, there is abundant pathos for a drunken wife-beater, disdain for a snitchy paraplegic, and respect for a sexually obsessive ex-con.

And if that’s not enough, the film is also one of the most deeply felt portraits of infidelity I can think of in cinema, one that manages to lay out the circuitous circumstances of the human need for affection — even to the point of betrayal — without providing any pandering justification or facilely demonizing the characters in any way. When a principal character (actually, more than one) cheats on her husband, it is a necessary act, neither spiteful nor reckless, motivated by a physical and emotional lack. It doesn’t serve to reduce or elevate the character (or other characters) as such, but it allows Almodóvar to demonstrate that the lives of his heroines — his restless, indomitable, manic heroines — are not totally circumscribed by their relationships with their husbands or lovers. Though, of course, Almodóvar is careful to delineate the ways in which these actions have reactions.

And although it’s probably boorish and politically moronic to speculate as such, it is a consistent wonder (and pleasure) to me that Almodóvar displays such a rich insight into heterosexual relationships — richer, I would venture, than almost any heterosexual director currently working. Naturally, his sexuality shouldn’t matter in the least, but I wonder if a heterosexual male director would have the guts to sensitively (and selflessly) portray a woman cheating on her husband without making her out to be a whore or him out to be a monster. Of course, that Almodóvar does neither of these is probably more attributable to his abilities as a creator of characters and especially as a director of actors. But I find it sort of amusing and slightly embarassing that most modern “films about men and women” directed by hetero men function as either self-deprecation or self-mythologization, laboring either to self-effacingly skewer the male character as a pig or pathetic slob or to try to rehabilitate the by now thoroughly trampled image of “guys” into a kind of reified masculine heroism. (See Knocked Up for perhaps a bit of both.)

Almodóvar manages to navigate these extremes, creating characters who are in many ways repellent and in many ways admirable, for reasons that probably have little or nothing to do with the director’s sexuality and more to do with how well they are realized. But whatever the cause, between this film and Talk to Her, I can think of few filmmakers that better capture the bathetic neediness and erotic possessiveness that men have for women in a light that is so relentless, so tender, and so clear. Not to mention funny as hell.

by Leo Goldsmith | Source: MGM Home Entertainment DVD
11 Sep 2007 3:06 PM | Submit Comment