Posted: 11/23/2002

Talk to Her [Habla Con Ella]

(2002)

by Parama Chaudhury

Almodovar’s latest shrugs off the commonplace in some surprising ways.

To really appreciate this film, you need to see it under the circumstances I saw it: after nearly two weeks of pretentious though visually stunning French films with the odd Hollywood star vehicle thrown in for good measure. Yeah, I saw Hable Con Ella at the 2002 New York Film Festival, and I was one of about 20 or so people who excitedly shook hands with director Pedro Almodovar after the screening, out of sincere appreciation and even gratitude. This may not have been the best Almodovar ever - its bizarre elements are much more under control than in his earlier movies - but it reiterated Almodovar’s unique place in the annals of fimmaking. He is a formidable innovator who can give any of the big guns a run for their money, but at the same time stays close to his gut feelings which makes him a joy to watch whether or not you hang out with the Cahiers du Cinema crowd.

There are a couple of things that set Hable Con Ella apart from earlier Almodovar projects. For one, even though the title refers to a “her”, the main characters are men. They appear to be from different parts of the social spectrum and are brought together when tragedy befalls women with whom they have somehow become involved. Marco, played with great restraint by Dario Grandinetti, is an Argentinean writer who is researching a story about a female bullfighter, Lydia. He is in the stands when she is gored by a bull, and takes it upon himself to hover at her bedside when she slips into a coma. But the real star of Hable Con Ella is Javier Camara who plays Benigno, a hospital attendant who is quietly obsessed with a young dancer named Alicia. Alicia, too, has had an accident and Benigno is responsible for taking care of her. Marco is unsure of himself, of his position in Lydia’s life, of his responsibility towards the comatose bullfighter. Benigno, on the other hand, cares for Alicia with a confident hand and a loving heart. As he bathes her and brushes her hair, he tells Alicia stories and reads her the news. “Talk to her,” he urges the reticent Marco, keep her alive. A friendship develops between the two men as they figure out how to cope with their sleeping women, and when Benigno falls from grace, Marco is the only one he can turn to for help. Throughout their friendship, Marco remains skeptical, but Benigno is clearly growing on him, and by the time the final tragedy strikes, you can almost hear the regret in Marco’s sobs.

Almodovar uses the rich hues of Spanish diaspora in general, and the bullfighting context in particular, to contrast the normal life of these characters with the sterile life within the hospital. The dark reds of the bullfighters dressing room are a shock after the pure white walls and the steely blue neon lights of the clinic. The melodramatic performances of the Pina Bausch ballet theater clash with, but also somehow complement the spectacle of the patients in the hospital strolling around with their drips attached to one arm while they are smoking with the other hand. But the ballet is not the only gimmick in Hable Con Ella. Almodovar slips in bits and pieces of a black-and-white silent movie that he made himself, as one of the stories that Benigno tells Alicia. It sounds like just that kind of thing that would push a movie over the cliff into an abyss of absurd self-consciousness. But, incredibly, it works. It comes tantalizingly close to shedding light on some of the darker corners of Benigno’s mind, and even though it seems a bit much at times, this clip is a fitting salute to the disarmingly grotesque sense of humor that Almodovar and his compatriots have developed as a way of approaching the topic of sex.

Part of the reason why the silent movie and the ballet work pretty well even though they are essentially the tricks of a first-time filmmaker is that Almodovar constructs such a complex and layered atmosphere, that you are pulled deep into the heart of the narrative, and accept these sideshows as a natural way of commenting on the goings on in real life. Several actors also contribute to the dark, rich sweetness of the atmosphere in Hable Con Ella. Geraldin Chaplin puts in a charming cameo as Alicia’s dance teacher. When their stories are told in flashback, Leonor Watling as Alicia and Rosario Flores as Lydia command our attention as complementary faces of woman: Alicia is fresh-faced and lovely, almost too delicate to touch, while a darker-skinned Lydia emanates raw strength and passion. But the central axis around which the entire film rotates is undoubtedly Camara’s tour-de-force performance as the gentle attendant Benigno. There is always a hint of passion or rage bubbling over beneath that smooth, pacific exterior, a hint of things to come. Grandinetti cleverly plays Marco as the observer; there is no competing with Camara on the screen, so Grandinetti becomes one of us, and watches Benigno with as much curiosity and growing alarm as we do.

Was Hable Con Ella the best of the film at this year’s festival? Definitely. But it was so much more than that. Like several other Almodovar films, it is a rebuke to all those self-conscious films that speak the lingo but don’t address the audience. Once again, Almodovar shows how a technically superior film can be made to feel like an intimate conversation, like those hilarious stories I heard my Jewish friends tell at a seder a few years ago, where seeds of absurdity are mixed up so intricately in a backdrop of tragedy, that you are literally torn between wanting to laugh and cry. This is also the most mature Almodovar film I have seen, possibly a sign that the enfant terrible is finally settling down. I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Let’s hope Almodovar doesn’t lose his knack for over-the-top silliness, or his ability to show how much fun he is having and convincing you to come along for the ride. We need at least one person to moon the high-and-mighty’s of the filmmaking world.

Parama Chaudhury is a graduate student, an ex-writing instructor and a budding freelance writer based in New York City.

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