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Pedro Almodóvar's pansexual gaze is established in shifting POVs during the credits, male crotches and rumps cruised equally by the two protagonists in the punk Madrid of the new decade. Therapy is another fad, "the father of artificial insemination" (Fernando Vivanco) has a nymphomaniac daughter (Cecilia Roth), a rock starlet with a knack for orgies. At the concert she crosses paths with the incognito Middle Eastern prince (Imanol Arias), afterward she's sandwiched between a pair of louts while he has a fellow's head bobbing between his thighs, yet they're now in each other's thoughts. Elsewhere the scion's stepmother (Helga Liné) dons Dietrich-Bowie drag to sample the nightlife, the dry-cleaning lass (Marta Fernández-Muro) endures ravishment from her mixed-up father, and the flaming artiste (Fabio McNamara) huffs nail polish and poses for a porno version of Ferrara's The Driller Killer. "Can't talk right now, I'm being attacked by a sadistic serial killer." Grunge and romanticism in whirlwind fusion, already the heart of Almodóvar's screwball camp. (In fishnet stockings and plastic hoop earrings, the filmmaker is a game stomper for a little number dubbed "Suck It to Me.") A city of free-flowing fetishes, visitors welcome—the bumbling terrorists have a reliable nose until their hunky bloodhound (Antonio Banderas) gets smitten ("When I'm in love, I can only smell that person"). Easy bets with the zaftig Lacanist, the primal remembrance at the beach congruent with Argento's Tenebrae, "una broma científica." The airport dash from Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown gets a rehearsal, amor verdadero triumphs in the end but not before the old laxative chestnut is pushed to its logical conclusion. With Ángel Alcázar, Ofelia Angélica, Concha Grégory, Luis Ciges, Cristina Sánchez Pascual, and Agustín Almodóvar.
--- Fernando F. Croce |