Movies, books, poetry, dirty jokes
Monday, April 30, 2007
Film censorship is a primitive manifestation of authoritarian exercise which not only does a great disservice to the improvement of our cultural environment, but also makes Thailand a laughing stock in the eyes of foreign communities, which have long adopted the more rational, though still not perfect, system of film rating. The gist of the embarrassment lies in the fact that the Thai legislation used to govern film censorship in 2007 remains the one written in 1930, two years before this country underwent its historic shift to a constitutional monarchy and before the concept of democracy was formally inducted in this land. Article 4 of the Film Act 1930 stipulates that no screenings should be permitted for films that "may be detrimental to the state of peace, order and moral decency''. Such open wording has left an enormous gap for negative interpretations for 77 years, and the successive government agencies in charge of supervising film screenings have always cited this article in deciding what the audience can or cannot see. But it is getting increasingly difficult for the Censorship Board -- chaired by the police and including rotating representatives of cultural and academic bodies -- to justify their seemingly arbitrary decisions. The recent uproar over the acclaimed arthouse film Saeng Satawat (or Syndromes and a Century) exposes the inefficiency, if not complete bankruptcy, of the existing censorship regime. The censors are not happy with four scenes in the film -- a monk strumming a guitar; two monks playing with a radio-controlled flying object; a group of doctors drinking whisky; and a doctor kissing his girlfriend and a subsequent shot of his trousers in the area of his crotch.
For those who have seen Saeng Satawat, these images carry no defamatory ill-will to doctors and monks and are much less detrimental to "decency'' than the vulgar images and crude expletives dispensed gleefully in other Thai films that passed the censors, not to mention a shot of a woman dyeing her pubic hair in the Dutch movie Black Book, or the bloody decapitation in 300. By making this comparison, we are not saying that the dyeing of pubic hair or the gruesome beheading should have been scissored out. But it is imperative that the government open its eyes and get in touch with reality as reflected by an art form such as film, and to modernise the system that ensures both fairness and the right of artists to express their vision.
The censorship board has lost the moral authority from its many demonstrations of bias and mediocrity that it can no longer rely on the magic mantra that what it is doing is protecting the young from bad influences and safeguarding the glory of Thai culture. Such claims sound more and more ludicrous since what we see on television every day is much more shocking than any scene in Saeng Satawat, and since a number of Thai films thriving on rudeness can open without objection on 300 screens.
In an ideal world, nothing should be cut or banned and people should be encouraged to make their own judgment on the representations of virtue and vice as projected by any medium. In a less ideal world, a mode of semi-voluntary censorship like the film rating system should be applied. Film rating, which classifies audience access to screenings according to their age, allows a greater degree of artistic freedom and at the same time is a mechanism for preventing children from being exposed to sensitive material. True, we can imagine a long list of headaches that will arrive with the rating system -- the multiplex operators are likely to oppose it, for a start -- but it has proved workable in many countries; it is a system more in tune with the democratic spirit this country has long been paying lip service to. The current, unreasonable censorship practice must be abolished at once.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Op-ed Commentary, Bangkok Post, Mar 3, 2007
So a military dictator staged a coup and later won the Oscar-- no, I don't mean the real Idi, just that big man who plays him. Likewise, Queen Elizabeth locked horns with Tony Blair and was awarded a nude male doll--not the real queen mind you, but the majestically wrinkled Helen Mirren who portrays her. Cut to a much less glamorous turf, our very own 16th Century fighter-king rules the multiplexes, valiantly warding off the Burmese without ruffling the perfect contours of his stiff moustache. He's not at the Oscar party but hey, The Legend of King Naresuan is "the film of freedom''. Does that include, as sardonic banter goes, the freedom not to see the film?
Idi Amin's dictatorial rule of Uganda during the 1970s is the subject of The Last King of Scotland, starring Forest Whitaker in the award-winning role. British actress Mirren won the statuette for depicting the icy Windsor monarch in The Queen, a dramatised version of the crisis between Queen Elizabeth and the recently-elected Blair following the death of Princess Diana. The Thai gentleman who plays King Naresuan, cavalryman Capt Wanchana Sawasdi, though persuasive, is unlikely to win any awards local or international, unless a new kudos is created to honour best independence-declaring speech, or best performance by a moustache.
Amin died in 2003 in exile. Now Uganda is one of the most stable countries in Africa. The Last King of Scotland (Amin adopted that as one of his nicknames) is reported to be a major hit at Uganda's tin-roofed theatres, since it brings back the ghost of the infamous dictator and reminds citizens how lucky they are to have gotten rid of him.
Meanwhile, The Queen acquires a prickly political overtone since Blair is rounding the last corner of his term, bruised by his Bush-socialising stunt but still smiling, and his imminent departure only emphasises the transient nature of a political pursuit, even a democratic one like his. His queen, by the way, is wrinkling fast though she's not going anywhere.
And does King Naresuan echo any contemporary political spectacle of ours? Sceptics rushed to judge the movie by its poster when they scoffed at the picture's supposedly jingoistic posture, suspecting the perpetuation of the ancient myth that we're history's only good guys. There were rumours that theatres would scan the ID of every moviegoer and that proof of your "nationalism'' from supporting this film could be produced for tax deduction, military exemption, or to collect points at 7-Eleven. I confirm that this is just hearsay. It's as absurd a fib as when some demented publicist said that rapper P Diddy would play Senator Obama and Ellen DeGeneres would be Hillary Clinton in their respective biopics made for the fund-raising campaigns.
Luckily the war chants are kept to a minimum in Naresuan. Contrary to some predictions, there are no subplots involving an attempt to buy back satellites or an insurgency by invisible extremists. And if casting a neighbouring country as an arch-enemy is a reliable trick in diverting public attention from shaky domestic politics, no one in this ginger cabinet stands to gain much from the movie. Xenophobes, however, have been looking up to the animation Khan Kluay, in which King Naresuan's royal elephant murders a Burmese beast with bloodthirsty glee and spouts the ask-not-what-your-country-can-do-for-you lecture. Bizarrely, Khan Kluay recently won quite a few local trophies, including best picture at the Supannahong Awards. It's like giving an Oscar to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Somebody, and not just that mad elephant, needs to be put inside a zoo.
With Whitaker playing Idi Amin, we're seeing a pattern, though: to get a shot at an Oscar, Thailand should produce a movie based on the life of our notorious past leader. All we need is an actor with a geometric face and a knack for verbal diarrhoea. But unlike the Amin film, which reminds Ugandans how fortunate they are to have thrown him out, this new film of ours will only pose the bitter question of whether we've been truly better off since that guy went into exile. The Amin movie is a drama, ours will be a black comedy.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Note from Kong: This essay on ''Syndromes and a Century'' was commissioned to me by the Vienna's New Crowned Hope Festival. It was published in the festival catalogue in November 2006.
“There are two trees. One represents my father’s story. The other represents my mother’s story. They grow together, and other stories grow out of them too.”
The enigma of Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s new movie is the enigma of memories. How they come flooding like happy sunlight on an afternoon by the pond, how they gradually slip out of grasp like when a solar eclipse casts an inevitable shadow on the earth. It’s the great enigma of how memories haunt, touch, tease, elate and pain us. How they illuminate life. How they darken life. How they imitate life then become life itself. How they orchestrate the ecosystem of the senses and the biological symmetry of the body, the metaphysics of the soul, the eternal pulsating of the heart—his heart, mine, yours. How they save and obliterate us. How they could be scientifically explained and spiritually questioned. How they hint at the possibility of the past life and augment the prospect of the next. How they appear so solid, so indestructible and at once so transient, so dishearteningly impermanent like the joy that is found and suddenly lost, sometimes forever.
Apichatpong once told me that the magic of memories is in the fact that he could inherit them from his parents, like a family heirloom. You can have the memories even though you didn’t experience them, he says, and the elusive nature of what is inherited and what is actually remembered constitutes the enigma of Syndromes and a Century, a film in which time is fragmented and memories compartmentalised, in which the scientific and the spiritual dance a surreal pas de deux that juxtaposes the present and the future—or the past and the present. The thin, now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t storyline is taken from the lives of the filmmaker’ parents when they were both working at a rural hospital in Khon Kaen, a province in northeastern Thailand. Almost the entire film is set in a hospital, warm and wistful in the first half and synthetically clinical in the second, as we meet patients with a variety of syndromes and doctors who seem to be afflicted by a repertoire of invisible maladies themselves. Apichatpong spent his early years hanging around the wards where his parents worked, and in this strange, funny, affecting film he juggles the unlikely playground of his childhood, where sickness was an everyday spectacle, with the ethereal longing to find a universal healing to all human conditions.
By also dabbling into the memories he never had, Apichatpong suggests the possibility of paralleled lives, of dreams that invade reality, probably of the joy and agony of reincarnations. The Thai title of the film is Saeng Satawat—“lights of the century”—and it is the director’s ceremonial experiment with lights that gives the film its bifurcated tonalities. In the balmy aesthetics of the first half, the supple rays of natural sunlight always dash the swaying banana trees outside the windows of doctor Tei’s examination room. The physical presence of the hospital seems to demarcate a medical domain that is totally separated from the verdant inferno of green paddies and teeming forests, always dappled by the tropical sun-glare. Through her windows, doctor Tei stares out at the flora kingdom that is so close but feels so remote, and there’s a deep sense of poignancy when we understand that she’s trying to grasp her own ungraspable memories. It’s the possibility of love that leads her out of the shell of her hospital, and the young doctor’s romantic encounters with a botanist, who repeatedly boasts of his rare breed of wild orchid that glows in the dark, takes place in chlorophyllised environments of leafy verandas and tree-embraced corners that were once, she’s told, fallen into the shadow of a total solar eclipse.
If the interrelation between the technological and the natural, or the scientific and the supernatural, seems possible at the first glance as doctors prescribe pills to the patients while the patients prescribes herbal potions to their doctors, Apichatpong proposes another scheme at the film’s midway mark and plunges us into the territory of sharp lighting, of artificial fluorescent flares and tungsten illuminations as his camera travels into the bowel of the hospital, where grotesque medical equipments and soul-sucking metal pipes promise both the redemption and the end of human organism. Here the strong, harsh light and disturbing drone of strange machines suggest a dystopian realm where healing is attempted but not necessarily possible. Because Apichatpong’s films always affect us at both the conscious and unconscious level, the real-light-vs.-fake-light strategy is not merely a matter of exercise. It is inherent to the fundamental concept to explore the presence of fleeting memories, real or artificial, that seem so bright and clear at one second and foggy and untouchable at another.
“I’m not a fan of Mozart. But when I listen to his music, I hear the fluid, watery quality in it. I hear how the music seems to take different shapes as it tries to move forward. Maybe there’s the same quality in my film.”
Apichatpong, 36, studied architecture in Khon Kaen and filmmaking in Chicago. The marvel of his films, especially for Thai audience who digs his brand of rural surrealism, thus comes from the intuitive naturalness that is framed within the precise, almost scientific structure of the narrative. Apichatpong didn’t study music, but in his quest to stretch the limit of his art, the filmmaker may have tapped into some cosmic energy that has influenced so many artists that came long before him: Unintentionally, the structure of Syndromes and a Century, when we see the same scenes being repeated with slight variations as if memories are playing tricks on us, bears a resemblance to the fugue form in classical music composition. Perfected by Bach though rarely used by Mozart, the fugue form features a melody that keeps repeating itself while also branching off into new melodies based on the original theme. The organized fluidity of Apichatpong’s movies may attract the label of (post-) modernism, but it’s actually a traditional art form practiced by baroque composers long before cinema was invented.
Yet again, Apichatpong’s movies often display that subtle dissonance, like when a minor chord lurks beneath a major key and intimates a subconscious fantasy of melodies that exist but that we cannot hear, or a dream that’s forcing its way to the surface. In reading his previous film, the Cannes-winning Tropical Malady, a Thai critic (okay, it’s me) compares the film’s dual structure and its primitive surrealism to Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring. Such unlikely comparison may illustrate Apichatpong’s unique talent that has been born out of his status as a Third-World filmmaker: despite the fact that all his works are firmly rooted in Thai sensibilities, in the homegrown melodrama and provincial unsophistication, they also draw their artistic license from the vast pool of Western intellectualism. So the world sees glimpses of Renoir and Bach and Kiarostami in Apichatpong’s movies, but we also see ancient myths, jungle yarns and cheap pulp fictions of totally Thai origins. As the world sees lyrical metaphors and mystical conjuring, we see the mundane misery and honest humor patented only to the Thais.
The director hardly uses any orchestral music in his films; he’s not familiar with the fugue form or the Stravinsky’s masterpiece, and my takes on those musical analogies might have sounded, in retrospect, unduly ambitious. Apichatpong may have detected the “watery quality” of Mozart’s music, but in truth the filmmaker is known to be so fond of cloying Thai pop numbers that sound at once earnest and utterly cheesy. In Blissfully yours, an upbeat tune sung by a sweet-voiced teenager launches the film into its Edenic second half. In Tropical Malady, a folk singer croons the sadly prophetic Wana Sawat (“jungle romance”) before a young soldier treks into a humid forest in search of his lover who’s transformed into a tiger. In Syndromes and a Century though, a sentimental dentist sings a brooding love song at a dusty temple fair before a classical guitarist chips in a tune of nostalgic beauty that somehow complements the gentle aesthetics of the visual. Apichatpong may not be a Mozart fan, but at that particular moment when the nylon strings are plucked the enigma evaporates and all memories seem so clear—it’s the rare moment of luminous beauty known to all Mozart listeners since three centuries ago.
“I’m not religious. But I often consult religious books when I have emotional problems. I believe in the idea of letting things go, of not feeling attached. But I always find that it’s hard to do that.”
I first interviewed him for my newspaper when he was struggling to finish his first feature-length film Mysterious Object at Noon. Apichatpong was still an unknown filmmaker who just came back from his study in Chicago, though his experimental shorts had generated a certain buzz among a small circle of cinephiles in Bangkok. I wrote a few articles on his next movie Blissfully Yours, which was shown in the Un Certain Regard at Cannes but was mutilated by local censors when it opened in a single theatre here. And I was lucky enough to be in Cannes in 2004 when Tropical Malady was screened in the Competition and eventually won a Jury Prize, the first time a Siamese movie was honored with a major international film award.
“Joe”—that’s what Apichatpong calls himself in English, though his nickname in Thai is a vowel-twister that’s pronounced somewhat like “Joei”. Sometimes I’d like to call him “gentleman Joe” (it hasn’t got into the mainstream yet!). And from the very first time I interviewed this amiable man, I experienced a mix of curiosity and frustration since it was difficult to understand the description of the film he tried to give me. He knew it and occasionally sympathizes by saying: “I know it’s hard to understand. You have to see the film in order to.” For most people though, being unable to understand a movie by simply reading its synopsis in a newspaper is unacceptable, and while some people are driven by a mix of curiosity and frustration to see an Apichatpong’s movie, most viewers feel only the latter. Frustration even transforms into dread, and I’d feel upset with myself when I realize that sometimes my articles on a new Joe’s film often sound like a warning sticker that this may not be a movie for everybody, especially regular multiplex-goers.
“I make films from my personal wavelength, and I know that maybe not many people share the same wavelength as mine, but that’s all right,” he once said. What I’ve tried to convince myself lately is that perhaps people don’t get Apichatpong’s movies not because they are difficult but because they are very simple. In a time when our consciousness is clogged by overexposure to fictions and moving images, stories based on memories and myths—the oldest stories of humankind—might have seemed like something from an alien wavelength. Apichatpong’s films always feature nature as the force that affects the biochemical and metaphysical workings of human beings. You could say that it’s not easy to understand nature, but then again there is nothing easier. The Thai word for nature, by the way, is dharma-chart, whose linguistic root is based on the word dharma. In the Buddhist dharma teachings we’re told that everything is impermanent. It’s just illusion, or dream, or memory. Gentleman Joe’s is the cinema of dharma-chart—the cinema of impermanence. As he himself is learning how to let things go, to not feel attached, perhaps we should do the same when watching his films. There’s nothing easier than let yourself be swept into the irresistible embrace of nature. Maybe there’s even no enigma after all.
When you bat an eyelid in Bangkok, a tower block could crumble in, say, Khartoum. Your smallest action in Bang Rak might trigger, among other bad things, a massacre in Eastern Europe or a drought in Patagonia. Your carelessness could provoke a tragedy of the saddest kind, ruining families and civilisation, because everything is dependent on everything else, because that's the unbendable law of God, of the stock market, of the relativity theory, of ambitious filmmakers. And no, I'm not talking about global warming.
Mexican Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu won best director award at Cannes 2006 for his grandiose film Babel, and his presence will surely give Oscar punters a run for their money if they've already pinned their hopes on either Grandpa Clint or Uncle Marty winning the statuette. That's because Babel is dressed up and gift-wrapped to win awards; it's a film that spells the word IMPORTANT on its every gene, with its God-like point of view and stories that mean to dig up the core, a rotten core to boot, of all humanity.
Inarritu is a formidably talented filmmaker whose previous two features, the gorgeously grimy Amores Perros and the wrenching 21 Grams, employed the disorientating jigsaw effect by compartmentalising several strands of narratives, breaking them up into short vignettes that slowly assemble into one whole shiny piece. The streetwise bravado of Amores Perros sucks us in and makes it work, while 21 Grams projects a heartfelt aftertaste because the drama has its impact. Inarritu clearly subscribes to the idea of cinema as a vessel of raw emotions, as testified by his chilling 11-minute short in the compilation 11''09'01 marking the Sept 11 tragedy.
Now with Babel, the director's colossal talent still stands out, sometimes overshadowing his characters. His preferred technique of chopping up his narratives into fragmented blocks this time seems like a self-indulgent conceit, his globe-spanning multi-stories more like a calculated dealing than a spiritual conviction on human interdependency. Inarritu shuffles a deck of cards and spreads each one on the table, then he deftly gathers the pieces up and re-arranges them in a neat order. You admire the procedure, though it doesn't really make you care.
The grand design of Babel, which takes place in Morocco, Tokyo, LA and a Mexican border town and involves four families in those locations, is spun from a dastardly rifle. Sons of a Moroccan sheep herder play with their father's newly acquired weapon. Their aimless shot hits an American tourist, played by Cate Blanchett, who's travelling with her estranged husband, played by Brad Pitt. This accident triggers a chain of events that leads us down, down, and further down the chasm of irredeemable tragedy. Unable to come home, Pitt asks his Mexican maid to take care of his young children, and the maid, along with her nephew (Gael Garcia Bernal), decides to bring the white kids along on their trip to a wedding party across the border in Mexico _ a seemingly harmless action that becomes an unwise decision.
Then the tale jumps to Tokyo. Here we discover the identity of the rifle's original owner, a stern-faced businessman and part-time hunter who nurses a sullen relationship with his disenchanted daughter (Rinko Kakuchi). Flashing her panties in public to mark her existence in the world, this girl is perhaps the only character that inspires genuine sympathy in the entire film.
Babel is meant, of course, as a dramatised essay on miscommunication, presented in crisp, breathtaking cinematography by Rodrigo Prieto. It has its power, but it is not a poem, since it leaves nothing to the imagination. Its philosophy on intricate and invisible human interconnection is more or less an endorsement of the notion of predetermined destiny, and with my limited knowledge I simply wonder if we should watch a movie, any movie, to learn that we're born with the ability to control our own lives despite the situation, or a movie should tell us that our courses are pre-determined by the actions of some strangers somewhere far away.
Charting the courses of the characters' lives is no doubt a job of screenwriters and directors. Catholic or Calvinist or Buddhist, they're all playing God, and playing God is part of the game. But to some directors, playing God also means acknowledging God -- to humble oneself before a greater force, an all-encompassing cosmic energy whose entirety cinema can only try to replicate, without success. Directors like Bergman, Bresson or Ozu always evoked the presence of God, sometimes questioning him, sometimes bowing before him, but always reminding us that something is always beyond our grasp. The films of those directors are poems, because they let us ponder bigger questions. Babel only gives us answers, which is satisfying though its impact barely lasts.
It is unholy of me, but I'm reminded of another movie I've recently seen that's pertinent to this God issue. Little seen elsewhere aside from its country of origin Heremias, Book One: The Legend of the Lizard Princess is a mesmerising religious allegory made by independent Filipino director Lav Diaz. The nine-hour monochrome movie concerns the lonely journey of a poor peasant who's tested by hostile nature, corrupt government officials, devils in the guise of men, and maybe by his god. The image of the peasant dragging his cow through muddy puddles and his futile attempt to do what his conscience tells him is the right thing to do represents a spiritual poetry on the ongoing trial of humanity.
Heremias is a film that believes both in the power of cinema and in God. Babel is a beautiful picture that believes only in itself.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
twentyseven bums give a prostitute the once
-over, fiftythree(and one would see if it could)
eyes say the breasts look very good:
firmlysquirmy with a slight jounce,
thirteen pants have a hunch
admit in threedimensional distress
these hips were made for Horizontal Business
(set on big legs nice to pinch
assiduously which justgraze
each other). As the lady lazily struts
thicklish flesh superior to the genuine daze
of unmarketable excitation,
whose careless movements carefully scatter
pink propganda of annihilation
goodby Betty,don't remember me
pencil your eyes dear and have a good time
with the tall tight boys at Tabari'
s,keep your teeth snowy,stick to beer and lime,
wear dark,and where your meeting breasts are round
have roses darling,it's all i ask of you--
but that when light fails and this sweet profound
Paris moves with lovers,two and two
bound for themselves,when passionately dusk
bring softly down the perfume of the world
(and just as smaller stars begin to husk
heaven)you, you exactly paled and curled
with mystic lips take twilight where i know:
proving to Death that Love is so and so.
(thanks to tee)
Friday, February 16, 2007
Pedro Almodovar's latest movie is a comical, affectionate joyride of feminine optimism. Volver is at once fantastic television trash and a revelation of warm-hearted humanism, displayed through the ripe primary colours of Penelope Cruz's wardrobe and lipsticks and the mythic milieu of rural Spain. There're nods to Hitchcock and a knifed body stuffed in a fridge, there's a dark secret waiting to be disclosed, and there are moments when the surreal intrudes on the mundane, but all technical and structural discussion is moot and superfluous when the movie sends us out full, sad, and happy.
Funny if anyone would perceive the film as an "arthouse" movie (probably with a sneer), given that it was premiered in Cannes last year, and considering that it's a baby girl from a homosexual European filmmaker glorified by critics and cinephiles of all orientations. If anything, nearly all of Almodovar's films - from his madcap early opuses like Law of Desire and Kika to tender fares like All About My Mother, Talk To Her and apparently Volver - have proved how art - sincere, honest art firmly rooted in local sensibilities - can blur and break up the distinctions between what we believe to be high, middle, and low-brow works. And if there's any "brow" worth reviewing in Volver, they are the rich, arrow-like, cupid-carved eyebrows of the director's goddess: Cruz.
It seems like the vividness of the entire film has its source in the sparkling lava of Cruz's beauty: But remember, this is an actress, when acting in Spanish, whose talent is much more exciting than her cleavage. Cruz plays Raimunda, a woman from the rougher part of town, a mother who endures all sorts of female troubles, including her vile new husband who lusts after her teenage daughter Paula (Cobo). But even as she swears and sweats, as she draws blood from the man who wrongs her and drags his heavy, lifeless body around - in Almodovar's world, males are often a burden - Cruz manages to remain a slim gazelle who skips about with such grace. It's well-known that Almodovar reveres classic Hollywood beauties, the likes of Bette Davis or Joan Crawford, but Cruz is the director's supreme Sultana of present-day La Mancha, the sleepy rural domain in which a large part of Volver is set.
When the film opens, Raimunda and several other women are scrubbing the stone graves in a cemetary; for these hard-working females, duties include tending to the dead as well as the living. Soon afterwards we're introduced to different generations of women who make up the chromosomes of Spanish femininity, each of them played by Almodovar's favourite muses. Raimunda has a sister, Sole (Lola Duenas) who's now living in Madrid after leaving their hometown of La Mancha. Their mother, Irene, (Carmen Maura) died in a fire many years back, though her sister Paula (Chus Lampreave) becomes convinced that Irene's ghost has come back to visit her in the house. Paula is sick, and she's being cared for by Augustina (Blanca Portillo), whose own mother also disappeared years before.
Volver means "coming back" in Spanish, and the motif is manifest in the return of Irene, Raimunda's supposedly dead mother, into the realm of the living. For Almodovar, motherly love hardly ceases even when a mother no longer lives with her daughters. Irene's resuscitation - her homecoming - is treated matter-of-factly by the director and his actresses, and the delicate fibre of the narrative doesn't suffer any rupture from this bizarre plot point. If this were the riotous beginning of his career, Almodovar might have seized the opportunity to spin the absurd threads of biting comedy by having the dead lecture the living. But what we're seeing here, despite what looks like the ghost of Irene, is a tragi-comedy of struggling human beings who constantly discover a new meaning of the word "family".
Almodovar has waded into this water more than once before, but it's still bracing to witness him shifting the tones of the story so fluidly, as his chirpy flock of tough, determined birds whirl in and out like great gusts of wind. An absurd douche into the suspense takes place when Raimunda devises a plan to get rid off her major "female trouble" (how this sequence resembles the ordeal of a character in the Thai film 6ixtynin9!), then we emerge into a sequence of colourful conviviality when Raimunda takes over a neighbourhood restaurant, throws a party for a film crew shooting nearby, and surprises us by breaking into a gentle musical interlude. What a mother - a woman - can do, or has to do, in an Almodovar movie covers a startling range from the darkest of crimes to the silliest of activities. The kick is when we realise that these women do everything they do because their generous hearts tell them so.
Recently, someone threw me a pseudo-cryptic question: Can we classify a movie by its gender? Can we say a movie is male or female, in the same sense that we distinguish a man from a woman?
As far as I know, a film cannot grow a sexual organ, so this is a purely rhetorical question. Usually, any form of demographic classification is the work of marketers - this is a "chick flick", this is a "tough-guy picture", this is a "teen comedy". Stereotype is useful in selling products, movies included. But sometimes when a film is made with as much heart as with hands, it could rise beyond such simplification and divisive segmentation. And of course it could transcend the gender frontier. Brokeback Mountain is a love story, not just a gay love story. Volver may dispense with men and celebrate the beauty, the spirit and the follies of women, but that's exactly why men should be able to appreciate it as much as their girlfriends will.