Pedro Almodóvar’s films always are characterized by two things: strong, if sometimes psychologically damaged female characters, with men little more than sidebar distractions; and a socio-political subtext that deeply influences the relationship dynamics.
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| Ana (Milena Smitt, center) and Janis (Penélope Cruz), having met by chance in the hospital delivery ward, are about to give birth on the same day. |
Although superficially described as a chance encounter — which leads to a deep friendship — between two women who give birth on the same day, at the same hospital, that barely scratches the surface of what eventually becomes a fascinating, at times painful emotional roller coaster.
Both pregnancies are unintended, both women becoming single parents.
Janis (Cruz), a middle-aged fashion photographer, is jubilant; she has experienced the joy of establishing a successful career, and now is prepared for the challenges of motherhood. She’s ready.
The withdrawn, mousy Ana (Milena Smit), still adolescent, is repentant, traumatized and absolutely terrified. She gets no support from her self-absorbed mother, Teresa (Aitana Sánchez-Gijón), who focuses solely on her own acting career. In contrast, Janis is visited by her best friend and agent, Elena (Rossy de Palma), a cheerful, effervescent force of nature who swoops into the hospital room like an ambulatory rainbow.
Janis notes the disparity. Later, after the visitors have left, she tries to compensate with kindness and encouraging words, while she and Ana slowly pace the hospital corridors, awaiting delivery like exhausted sleepwalkers.
The babies arrive; the two women part. But not for long.
Janis’ initial au pair proves hopeless, particularly when the new mother decides to revive her photography career. A chance encounter with Ana — now a bit more relaxed and self-assured — proves inspirational; Janis knows that she’d make an excellent au pair, and the younger woman gratefully accepts the offer.
But she does so, under a cloud.
That makes them an excellent match, because Janis has long struggled with her own ghosts.
Almodóvar actually opens this film as Janis and several female friends and relatives seek a means to open a mass grave believed to contain the body of her great-grandfather: one of nearly 200,000 people executed by Francisco Franco’s nationalist forces during the 1936-39 Spanish Civil War.
Following Franco’s death in 1975 — and notably unlike other recovering nations moving toward democracy — Spain’s various political parties agreed to a “Pact of Forgetting,” in lieu of trials, resolution panels, formal statements of blame, or even apologies. Attempts to address the vile, egregious excesses of Franco’s dictatorship were simply turned off, like a light switch: not to be discussed on any public level.
Although this seems to have been successful for Spain as a country, Almodóvar’s point — an obvious one, really — is that it left deep scars on survivors and their families: wounds still unhealed, all these years later. His subtext here is the pull of ancestors, and the hopes we have for descendants.
This explains Janis’ somber conversations with Arturo (Israel Elejalde), a representative of the “History Memory” project, which has been granted the power to petition for the careful exhumation of such grave sites. Their time together briefly turns intimate — some of this is revealed in quick flashback scenes — and he fathers Janis’ child. Their relationship then resumes its purely professional status. (She doesn’t mind.)
However…
Janis’ obsession with heritage, and lineage, has entirely unexpected consequences: a revelation that changes everything. The woman who has spent years trying to shed light on long-dormant secrets, suddenly finds herself keeping a fresh one … which nibbles at her soul.
And fuels the increasingly painful third act of Almodóvar’s drama.
Cruz is a revelation, as she navigates Janis’ highs and lows: flirty and playful at one moment, shattered by guilt in the next. She’s one of the rare actors whose every move and expression are interesting; as I’ve said on rare occasions, about very few other performers, it would be fascinating even to watch her do something mundane, like shopping or washing clothes.
Cruz excels during the crisis moments; Janis’ anguish is so palpable that it radiates from the screen. But Cruz also is adept at the (seemingly) spontaneous little gestures, such as Janis’ warily sympathetic glance, in the hospital, when she clocks the dynamic between Ana and her mother. Such bits of business feel like genuinely impulsive, spur-of-the-moment responses during a given take (but almost certainly are crafted with precision by Almodóvar and Cruz).
(On a sidebar note, it’s fascinating to compare and contrast the depth of Cruz’s work here, with her much lighter — but equally engaging — approach to The 355, also just released.)
Smit works equally hard to hold her own, and for the most part succeeds. She lacks Cruz’s subtlety, but nonetheless turns Ana into a persuasively authentic young woman. She evolves considerably, during this story’s three-year arc, developing self-confidence and an appreciation for the nuances of relationships: the fact that some are worth preserving, even under stressful circumstances.
It’s also fun to track Ana’s evolution on the basis of her hairstyles and costume designer Paola Torres’ cleverly calculated outfits, which craftily augment the shift from inhibited vulnerability to a greater comfort and satisfaction with her own self.
Events build to twin revelations and their outcomes: each distinct, deeply personal and raw … and yet also intertwined. By this point, we’re so wholly absorbed by these women — they’ve become real, like the folks next door — that we share their torment and catharsis, as we would with close friends or family members.
The tech credits are impeccable, as always is true of Almodóvar’s films. Production designers Antxón Gómez and cinematographer José Luis Alcaine deftly contrast Madrid’s wildly colorful energy with the muted, almost sepia hush of cramped hospital rooms and corridors. Alberto Iglesias’ score, almost unnoticed at times, artfully complements the evolving drama.
Almodóvar’s final scene will linger for a long time: the deeply moving culmination of a journey that — in one sense — began eight decades ago … but which also is very modern.
And quietly satisfying.
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