Issue Ten

    What is improbable is not impossible...

    When the unexpected happens…when the very worst happens….how do you get through another day?  In the 1999 Spanish film “All About My Mother” writer/ director Pedro Almodovar explores a mother’s grieving in this unconventional (not unconventional for Almodovar) treatment of loss and healing when a woman unexpectedly looses her son on his 17th birthday.
    Pedro Almodovar, known for such internationally famous films as “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown,” “Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down,” and “Talk to Her,” creates women whose needs are over the top, yet not impossible or improbable.  “All About My Mother” is among his very best, winner of numerous Best Film awards, including the Oscar for Best Foreign Language.
    In “All About My Mother,” set in Madrid, Manuela, a woman who is as complex as any woman written for the screen, played with sobering dignity by Cecilia Roth, takes her 17 year old son Esteban to see a theatrical production of Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire.”   After the production, in a matter of moments, as tragedy often comes, Esteban is hit by a car as he runs for an autograph from the leading actress who plays the part of Blanche.
    Almodovar hits Manuela with a mother’s grief as she witnesses the loss of her only son.  But here is the genius of Almodovar; the audience is not manipulated to tears by her loss, but instead, reaches out to befriend her.  Manuela soon flees Madrid for Barcelona to find the father of her son, Esteban, Sr., the son he never knew he had, and we, the audience, go along for the ride.   
    Once in Barcelona Manuela never looks for the father, but lives each day, one day at a time.  She wants to tell him about the son she had named after him, but life has a way of taking over; she needs to find a job.  Very soon she meets up with her dear old friend Agrado, a transvestite prostitute, played with spunk and vinegar by Antonia San Juan.  With the promise of helping Manuela find a job, Agrado introduces her to Sister Rosa, played by Penelope Cruz, who works in a shelter for battered prostitutes.  (No, it’s not a comedy…but there are some very humorous moments.)  What Manuela gets is a boatload of people who are in need of her maternal nurturing. 
    Rosa, the nun, was also a friend of Esteban, Sr.  (Hold onto your hats.) The audience learns that he became a transvestite prostitute and changed his name to Lola.  Rosa says she saw Lola four months ago.  “We helped her through detox.  I cared for her through her withdrawal, but then she disappeared.”  She also wants to see him again.  Everyone, it seems, is looking for Lola. 
    Almodovar’s characters (thanks to his witty dialogue and brilliant casting) assume each identity with dignity and a sense of truth.  The audience believes them and, more importantly, believes in them. 
    Manuela attends another theatrical production of “Streetcar,” starring the same cast that was performing the night her son was killed.  After the performance she goes backstage and meets Huma, the actress who plays Blanche.   In an improbable but possible moment, Huma hires Manuela to be her personal assistant. “Doing everything, everything except sleeping with me.  I’ve got enough with Nina (the actress that plays Stella).”  Huma is played “like a star” by Marisa Paredes.  Later, when Nina doesn’t show up for her performance, Manuela volunteers to play Stella – and does. 
    The next day Rosa (remember the nun played by Penelope Cruz who works at the shelter for prostitutes) shows up at Manuela’s door.  She needs a room; she reveals she’s pregnant and that the father is Lola.  (This is not a surprise to the audience.) Manuela’s reaction is immediate, “That lousy…”  (Whatever Lola wants…)  Rosa knows that there is a good chance she will test positive for HIV.  (It turns out that Esteban, Sr. has AIDS.) Two weeks later Rosa is diagnosed with HIV, and Manuela takes her in.
    Back at the theatre, when Nina accuses Manuela of plotting to take her place in the production, Manuela explains how she came to the theatre that first night, how,  “Streetcar has marked my life.”  Huma remembers the young man, Manuela’s son, pounding on the window of the car for her autograph. 
    Later Huma is distraught and goes to tell Manuela that she can remember her son perfectly.  One of the most touching moments in the movie is when Huma gives Manuela an autograph for her deceased son; it reads, “Dear Esteban, this is the autograph I never gave you, and not because you didn’t try.”     
    At Rosa’s funeral…Lola finally makes her/his entrance, dressed in a proper funeral black dress and heels, albeit walking with a cane, topped off with a very bad wig.  Nonetheless, we can see that Lola was once a very handsome man.  Manuela weeps at the sight of him, “You aren’t a human being Lola.  You’re an epidemic.”
    In the end, the director has left us caring about new friends and knowing that we are a little better off for knowing Manuela, another of Almodovar’s women.  Thank you, Pedro.

    –illustration by Ellen Shepard