Obsessive love runs rampant through Pedro Almodóvar’s body of work. In Law of Desire, Antonio Banderas’ character throws the lover of his obsession from a cliff, Marisa Paredes’ character wears a pair of too-tight boots given to her by her estranged husband but cannot take them off without assistance from another in The Flower of My Secret and in Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! Banderas is at it again, tying up an actress until she consents to love him. But rather than persecute this motley band of dreamers and lovers that fill his filmography, Almodóvar most often rewards them, allowing the object of affection an abrupt about face into their open arms before the final credits roll.
Although The Flower of My Secret did feature obsessive love, many critics bristled at that film’s abrupt change of tone, more mature yet more restrained than anything in the director’s oeuvre. Previous films like High Heels were somber too, but still had flashes of Almodóvar’s twisted wit. But in Flower, the muted plot skittered away from sex and there weren’t even any transvestites to speak of! For his next film, Almodóvar adapted British crime writer Ruth Rendell’s Live Flesh, the only time the director has shared a screenwriting credit. However, aside from the most basic shred of a plot line, the film version of Live Flesh has very little in common with its source material.
Live Flesh begins during Christmas, 1970. When six Basque separatists are sentenced to death for killing a policeman, the ETA and other Basque sympathizers begin staging demonstrations. Dictator Francisco Franco declares a state of emergency following the kidnapped of a German diplomat, locking down city streets at night. During this extended prologue Penelope Cruz, in her first role for Almodóvar, is a pregnant prostitute who, after going into labor, gives birth to Victor Plaza on a city bus. The story takes the nation by storm and both the prostitute and her son are given lifetime passes for Madrid buses, predicting a “life on wheels” for Victor.
Flash forward 20 years and Victor (Liberto Razal) arrives at the apartment of Elena (Francisco Neri), a junkie he fucked in a club bathroom a week before. Smitten by Elena, Victor is dismayed to find her expecting her dealer when he arrives. When he refuses to leave in typical Almodóvar style, Elena pulls a gun on him. As they quarrel, two cops arrive to stop the fight. The older cop Sancho (José Sancho, who won a Goya award for his role) is drunk, despondent that his wife has been cheating on him. As he struggles with Victor, his partner David (Javier Bardem) is shot in the melee.
The bulk of Live Flesh takes place six years later. Victor emerges from prison, intent on tracking down Elena and making her love him. However, while prison has done little to change Victor’s obsessions, Elena’s life has changed. She runs an orphanage and is married to David, now a basketball star for Spain’s paraplegic basketball team. Victor moves into to the hovel left to him by his dead mother in one of Madrid’s outlier neighborhoods and begins to hatch a way to get closer to Elena.
Razal’s Victor is similar to the roles played by Banderas in past Almodóvar films, an inexperienced firebrand exploding with sexual passion. He immediately begins an affair with Clara (Ángela Molina) the wife of Sancho. After he is unable to satisfy her during their first sexual encounter, Clara uses each subsequent lovemaking session to teach him a new sexual tip. See, while in jail Victor has hatched an insidious plan for when he got out: become the world’s best lover, fuck Elena all night long and then leave her, as she begged for more.
It is difficult to look at sex in Almodóvar’s film from an American point of view. Though our nation is based on Puritanical values, we don’t have the same Catholic guilt looming over our sexual identity. When Almodóvar broke out as a filmmaker, in a period between the end of Franco and the beginning of AIDS, centuries of sexual repression exploded, but the specter of Catholic guilt still loomed large. As Victor learns more about sex and love from Clara, he becomes less angry, quelled by this release of repressed desire.
Meanwhile, David has become a national star and passionate athlete. Unfortunately, the accident has rendered him unable to satisfy Elena’s sexual needs. When he learns that Victor is back, even volunteering at the orphanage, he becomes obsessed with distancing his assailant from Elena. David confronts Victor and when that doesn’t drive the young man away, follows him and photographs his affair with Clara. However, Victor reveals that it was Sancho that pulled the trigger on David, not him, because Sancho knew David was sleeping with Clara. Haunted by this knowledge, David hides the photos of Clara and Victor in his desk.
And here is where Almodóvar returns to that Catholic guilt. Elena remains with David because she feels responsible for his paralysis. Although she loves him, there is no erotic charge between the two. However, when David confesses to his earlier affair with Clara, Elena is set free from her obligation and sleeps with Victor. United by their guilt and repressed desire, Elena and Victor make explosive love in a scene sensuously captured by Almodóvar where bodies meld into one. But when David finds out about the affair, his use of the photos of Clara and Victor spurs a great tragedy.
Live Flesh marked the beginning of a run of critically acclaimed films that may be the zenith of Almodóvar’s oeuvre. In earlier efforts, the director seemed to veer too far into the realms of camp or seriousness, unable to maintain a balance between the two forces. But unlike The Flower of My Secret, Live Flesh is not deadly serious. There is a farcical element alive during the film’s most serious moments and logic is put on hold for emotion and passion. It is important not to get tangled up in logistics and details in an Almodóvar film. Just ride the emotion and you’ll come out fine. The film ends on Christmas as Elena is about to give birth to Victor’s son. Unlike the Christmas of his birth, this is a new Spain, one unfettered by the fear of Franco and breaking away from the guilt of the past. Christmas has been reclaimed. It is no longer the birth of Christ, but the birthday of a child created from the ebbing forces of repression and culpability. Almodóvar welcomes us to this new Spain with hope and optimism, a marked change for a young man born on a bus and persecuted for his passion ever since.
by David Harris
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