I prefer the Pedro Almodovar of "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown" over the Almodovar of "The Flower of My Secret" or his Oscar-winning "All About My Mother." I miss the madcap, wiggy, inventive way he hits his marks. He did it with verve and panache; and he did it blessedly fast. You weren't forced to take too much of what was going on seriously, and yet no one would have been able to pry me from my seat. He made it look like les mujeres were calculating their next move on the spot, and this gave "Women on the Verge..." a kind of highwire-act suspense. The tension he created left me watching breathlessly.
Almodovar has discarded this wonderful side of himself for something more profound, and, unfortunately, more conventional. That doesn't mean there is precious nothing to take home with you: the depth of Marisa Paredes' grief (Here she plays a revered actress named Huma Rojo.) in "The Flower...;" and the haunting face of Eloy Azorin in this one. Even if you're not always sure where the story will lead you, you feel as though you're traipsing through emotional ground Ingmar Bergman had dredged up far too many times to suit even his most ardent fans.
When you're forced as you are in "All About My Mother" to look headlong at Manuela (Cecilia Roth), a nurse who has raised her only son (Azorin) who had been fathered by a man (Toni Canto) who abandons them after deciding getting breasts could only add to his appeal, it's hard to muster sympathy for the rest of the sexually-disfranchised in this movie--and this includes the pregnant nun Rosa (Penelope Cruz). Pity or empathy isn't exactly Almodovar's point, I'm sure; "All About My Mother" takes for granted the prerogatives of the transgender world to do as they please with their bodies and their lives and see as benighted people like Rosa's mother (Rosa Maria Sarda) who cannot touch her own grandchild because he's HIV-positive. (I don't think I'd be that fidgety over the situation if confronted with it, but I'm not sure I blame the woman either.)
When Manuela's mammary-man-friend Agrado (Antonia San Juan) tries salvaging what is left of a presentation of "A Streetcar Named Desire," the movie feels like it's grinding to a halt, and the moment strikes me as condescending. (I think the critic Molly Haskell's notion that characters like Blanche Du Bois or Margo Channing are really figments of a transgender wish-fulfillment is equally as patronizing. You could prop Haskell's impressions on a book shelf right next to Mother Rosa's fears.)
The hearts and flowers that we get in the end don't root very deep; neither does the moralizing. The moral here could be "When you die, make sure the mortician gets the make-up right for your funeral." Otherwise, it would be the same politically correct platitudes we get on the E Channel. The only thing that runs counter to the shallow sentiments is the tenderness which Cecilia Roth brings to the fray. She should have been nominated for an Oscar.
Azorin's is not the only unforgettable face. Fernando Fernan Gomez ("Belle Epoque") who plays Sister Rosa's father holds the camera in the few moments he's on screen. Spain would look to have resurrected their own Ralph Richardson. I needed to clear my eyes to make sure it wasn't him. The great ones never really die.
Almodovar has discarded this wonderful side of himself for something more profound, and, unfortunately, more conventional. That doesn't mean there is precious nothing to take home with you: the depth of Marisa Paredes' grief (Here she plays a revered actress named Huma Rojo.) in "The Flower...;" and the haunting face of Eloy Azorin in this one. Even if you're not always sure where the story will lead you, you feel as though you're traipsing through emotional ground Ingmar Bergman had dredged up far too many times to suit even his most ardent fans.
When you're forced as you are in "All About My Mother" to look headlong at Manuela (Cecilia Roth), a nurse who has raised her only son (Azorin) who had been fathered by a man (Toni Canto) who abandons them after deciding getting breasts could only add to his appeal, it's hard to muster sympathy for the rest of the sexually-disfranchised in this movie--and this includes the pregnant nun Rosa (Penelope Cruz). Pity or empathy isn't exactly Almodovar's point, I'm sure; "All About My Mother" takes for granted the prerogatives of the transgender world to do as they please with their bodies and their lives and see as benighted people like Rosa's mother (Rosa Maria Sarda) who cannot touch her own grandchild because he's HIV-positive. (I don't think I'd be that fidgety over the situation if confronted with it, but I'm not sure I blame the woman either.)
When Manuela's mammary-man-friend Agrado (Antonia San Juan) tries salvaging what is left of a presentation of "A Streetcar Named Desire," the movie feels like it's grinding to a halt, and the moment strikes me as condescending. (I think the critic Molly Haskell's notion that characters like Blanche Du Bois or Margo Channing are really figments of a transgender wish-fulfillment is equally as patronizing. You could prop Haskell's impressions on a book shelf right next to Mother Rosa's fears.)
The hearts and flowers that we get in the end don't root very deep; neither does the moralizing. The moral here could be "When you die, make sure the mortician gets the make-up right for your funeral." Otherwise, it would be the same politically correct platitudes we get on the E Channel. The only thing that runs counter to the shallow sentiments is the tenderness which Cecilia Roth brings to the fray. She should have been nominated for an Oscar.
Azorin's is not the only unforgettable face. Fernando Fernan Gomez ("Belle Epoque") who plays Sister Rosa's father holds the camera in the few moments he's on screen. Spain would look to have resurrected their own Ralph Richardson. I needed to clear my eyes to make sure it wasn't him. The great ones never really die.