Greater love hath no friend...
Pedro Almodóvar traditionally makes films about women — often a pair of women — and they always talk a lot. It’s tempting to assume that he’d have been happier as a director of stage dramas, but that would overlook the beautifully composed cinematography that always highlights his productions — in this case, courtesy of Eduard Grau — and which almost becomes a character in itself.
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| During one of her better days, Martha (TIlda Swinton, left) and Ingrid (Julianne Moore) visit a bookstore, where the former buys books she'll never have time to read. |
Ingrid (Julianne Moore) and Martha (Tilda Swinton) were close friends during their early, post-college years, when they worked together at the same magazine. Ingrid subsequently became a successful author of autobiographical fiction, with legions of adoring fans; Martha became a war correspondent energized by the adrenaline-charged buzz of being in a danger zone.
They lost touch, as the years passed. The film begins as the Manhattan-based Ingrid chances to learn, from a mutual acquaintance during a bookstore signing, that Martha has been hospitalized.
Ingrid visits immediately, and is stunned by the news that Martha has end-stage cervical cancer.
What follows is essentially a two-hander, which occasionally expands via flashbacks and Ingrid’s chats with close friend Damian (John Turturro), who — back in the day — was a lover to both women (sequentially, not simultaneously). There’s a comfort and familiarity to the ongoing conversations between Moore and Swinton; they look, sound and move like longtime best friends.
We’ve all experienced this dynamic. Reuniting with some long-unseen friends feels awkward and uncomfortable; you can’t wait to depart (probably permanently). But it’s different with friends who somehow remain fiercely close, despite distance and separation; you fall right back into the pattern of finishing each other’s sentences, and perhaps even continuing a conversation cut short, as if no time had passed.
Reminiscences and catching-up comes first, although Martha’s condition obviously hovers throughout.
We learn, via flashbacks, of the whirlwind romance her teenage self (played by a buoyant Esther McGregor) had with beloved boyfriend Fred (Alex Høgh Andersen), who returned from Vietnam a shattered shell of his former self. Their final “breakup sex” left her pregnant, after which she never saw him again.
This became a point of friction with her growing daughter, Michelle, who became consumed with wanting to know about — and meet — her father. Martha’s inability to provide answers became a wedge that ultimate left them estranged ... with Michelle now dispassionately disinterested in her mother’s condition.
There soon comes the point when Martha — who spent her career not fleeing from danger — decides to confront this new enemy head-on. Rather than wait for death after an unknown period of decline and emaciation, she resolves to die with dignity.
To that end, she rents a house in upstate New York, for a month ... during which, on some day and moment of her choosing, she’ll do the deed. She asks the ultimate favor of Ingrid: to spend this final “holiday” with her. This will make Martha feel better, knowing that her best friend is in “the room next door.”
It’s a massive ask, because — unlike Martha — Ingrid always has feared death; the mere thought makes her nauseous. But Martha has nobody else to ask, and doesn’t want to be alone ... nor does Ingrid wish her to be alone. And so, bravely but reluctantly, she joins her friend in this isolated and attractively modernist house: a sort of limbo that lies between the “real world” of Manhattan, and ... whatever comes next.
It’s quite a setting: actually Casa Szoke, nestled in a pine forest landscape on the southern slope of Monte Abantos, an hour’s drive from Madrid. It was designed by Aranguren + Gallegos, clearly inspired by the game-changing creations of Swiss/French architect and urban planner Le Corbusier. The structure is a series of interconnected box-like “modules” in glass and steel, with all manner of rooms and staircases within. Although austere on the outside, it’s surprisingly comfortable and cozy inside.
The women chat often, sharing — among other things — a fondness for books, magazines and writing ... although the latter becomes a point of frustration, as the days pass. Martha loses her ability to focus enough to write, while Ingrid is too upset to write. Conversational topics veer from the philosophical to the prurient; Martha confesses that being in war zones always made her insatiably randy. (Sex always is a flirty presence in Almodóvar’s films.)
Martha has bad days, when she wants only to rest on the patio, admiring the forest silence. On good days they take occasional outings, such as a visit to a nearby bookstore (an amazingly varied and well-stocked shop, I must say.)
Martha is the focal point most of the time; Ingrid primarily reacts to her moods and words. Swinton — adept at wholly inhabiting her characters — looks and acts every inch a cancer victim: wan, tousled, unconcerned about her appearance, sometimes impatient. She’s angular and brittle, with hard edges; Moore makes Ingrid softer, warmer, sympathetic and caring. Moore also is an expressive observer and listener. Ingrid helps simply by being there.
Grau’s camera placement throughout is captivating, expressive and emotional; I love how one telling shot is composed, when Ingrid spoons with Martha, on her bed.
Their conversations are absorbing and interesting, never boring; unlike some melodramatic films, where our presence — as a viewer — feels like unwanted eavesdropping, here it’s more a case of being in the same room with two mutual friends.
Ingrid’s occasional visits with Damian are more serious. Unlike California, New York doesn’t yet have death with dignity laws, so he’s concerned that Ingrid could face criminal repercussions for her knowledge of Martha’s intentions, and presence when the act occurs.
Although kind and thoughtful, Damian also is a pessimistic cynic. Turtorro’s delivery of Damian’s one fatalistic outburst is shocking, comparing Martha’s situation with what he perceives as Earth’s pending death throes (rather too heavy-handed, and definitely out of place).
Alvise Rigo makes the most of his brief role as a fitness trainer Ingrid seeks, as a means of relieving stress. Alessandro Nivola is memorably unpleasant, in his third-act appearance as an aggressively fundamentalist police officer. The epilogue also features a cheeky bit of stunt casting (about which, I’ll say no more).
The film’s glaring sour note — pun intended — is its score, despite the fact that the composer/performer is the celebrated and oft-Oscar-nominated Alberto Iglesias. His use of music here is intrusively relentless: too loud, too jarring, frequently distracting. I’m surprised Almodóvar didn’t rein him in.
But that certainly doesn’t spoil this meditative, tender and superbly acted parable of life and death. It’ll definitely get under your skin.
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