Each month before the Smackdown, Nick Taylor considers alternates to Oscar's ballot...
I bet Pedro Almodóvar's filmography would be a fun one to watch in order. His visual ideas and narrative fascinations recur throughout his films, yet his deployment and examination of them take on different textures at different points. Murder, art, cinema, romantic passion, heartbreaking yet inextricably devoted family ties, queerness, as filtered through the generic keys of farce, melodrama, and thriller, it’s all there from his earliest works to last year’s tremendously moving Pain and Glory, each film recognizably guided by the same hand. There’s great fun to be had in watching different stylists and performers interpret Almodóvar’s very tricky vision, and no collaboration largely specific to the earliest stages of his career is quite as gratifying as Carmen Maura’s heroic work with him throughout the ‘80s.
Granted, I’ve only seen three of their six collaborations in this era - What Have I Done to Deserve This?, Law of Desire, and Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown - so if the first few aren’t up to snuff I’ll amend this. But those films are colorful, highwire efforts whose successes are as much the result of Almodóvar’s inspired writing and direction as Maura’s brilliant acting. Law of Desire provides her the least farcical, most dramatic role of this trio, as well as the only instance where she’s not the main character...
Her Tina is certainly a different role from the funny, exhausted characterizations that carried those other pictures, yet Maura is equally indispensable to making Law of Desire such a widely recognized benchmark of Almodóvar’s canon.
When Tina Quintero (Maura) makes her entrance, emerging from the bottom of the frame and walking towards the camera with her blazing red hair, bright red dress, and beautifully expressive face entering the center of the frame, you might take a second and wonder if anyone has looked more beautiful onscreen than she does in this moment. The film-within-a-film whose conclusion constitutes the opening five minutes of Law of Desire is the latest feature from her older brother Pablo (Eusebio Poncela), a renowned film and theater director. Sauntering to their opening night party, the two discuss future projects with reporters until a rude gossip shuts down the whole interview. Tina, an actress in her own right but struggling to get a good gig, hits the hay early to check on her daughter Ada (Manuela Velasco) while Pablo spends the night with his lover Juan (Miguel Molina) before the latter spends the summer in Madrid.
Trying to condense what follows this into a plot synopsis, to include major emerging threads in this scene I haven’t even mentioned, would be besides the point. The winding asides and unexpected divergences between the main character’s perspectives make Law of Desire difficult to summarize but exciting to experience. Tina is largely absent from the A-plot, as her brother gets involved with a dangerously possessive fan (Antonio Banderas), though Almodóvar still gives her a considerable amount of material to work with. She spends her time doting over a daughter whose other parent (Bibi Andersen - no, not that one) keeps forestalling her return but promises to snatch her away as soon as she arrives, something Ada and Tina are resolutely against. Her love life is nonexistent, which is how she likes it. She also has an upcoming stage performance of The Human Voice directed by Pablo, a long-practiced devotion to Catholicism, and a personal history so rife with landmines that it’s astonishing to watch Maura and Almodóvar unspool it with such delicacy and control.
The first revelation about her past comes twenty minutes into the film. Tina sneaks Ada into the choir of the chapel she attended in her youth, leading her towards an altar and singing along with the organ. The priest playing the instrument quickly turns to Tina, and the lighting and framing of Tina as she approaches him while singing the hymn so beautifully turns her into a literally iconic figure. It’s an image that’s immediately ironized without being undercut when Tina tells the priest that she was a soloist in his choir when she was a young boy. He’s shocked, but not overly so, and she tells him that she’s still the same person deep down. Their reunion is not without some recrimination on Tina’s end, as when she pushes against his claim that she can never be alone by reminding him he is one of two men in her history (the other being her father). Still, she seems happy to see him, nostalgic about old memories and slightly proud to bring her daughter to this old haunt. You almost wonder if she’s imagined this encounter before, or if it’s going as she hoped it would. Tina’s finally a bit dismayed when he tells her she cannot return for choir services, telling her it’s better to escape her memories. “I don’t want to.” she curtly responds. “My memories are all I have left.”
It’s amazing that this scene works so beautifully. I will not position myself as someone who should have a final word over how Almodóvar’s depiction of Tina as a transwoman or Maura’s casting have or haven’t aged with contemporary discourses on depicting trans characters. In my experience of the film, it’s pleasantly surprising how well Law of Desire’s portrayal of Tina and Maura’s performance hold up today, especially compared to many a Danish Girl whose primary goal is to do justice by the trans individual at its center only to fail spectacularly. “Sensitive” may be too strong a word for a film this calico, but Law of Desire nevertheless explores Tina’s identity and her relationship to her gender quite nimbly, matching her comfort in her own body and peace with her past as well as her fierce commitment to upholding the life she’s made for herself.
Perhaps even more crucial is Maura herself, who imbues Tina with a full-bodied sense of self-expression and a directness of emotion that allows her performance to embody multiple tones without stretching herself too thin or falling into caricature. Tina wears her heart so proudly on her sleeve that her understated confessional at the church reads as equally earnest to her higher-volume actions elsewhere.
You also see it in her very next scene, wearing a comically revealing outfit and reacting with unabashed glee when Pablo offers her the lead role in The Human Voice even as she grills him about the sincerity of his intentions. She’s more than willing to brave the aspects of the production and the character that reflect uncomfortably on her life. Hell, she’s eager for a real challenge, to say nothing of how much better working onstage is than in nightclubs. But she refuses to let him create an original character based on her, even if the role is designed specifically for her to play. Tina insists on her right to keep her life from becoming fodder for one of his stories, acknowledging her failures and ridiculous turns of fate while counting them above all as hers to guard and protect. Maura backs this up with so much rage that Tina can barely stand still, nearly storming out of the basement, only to turn right around to hammer the point home.
In short, Maura ensures that for all the competing notes of comedy, tragedy, and melodrama running through her performance, Tina emerges as a heightened characterization without reading as a parodic take on womanhood. There’s such a backbone of humanity in her work that even scenes like Tina luxuriating in the spray of a street cleaner’s hose read as heartfelt expressions of self more than anything. Pablo chides her for “overacting” - a rich line considering how one-note Poncela is - but she’s as highkey as Law of Desire needs her to be (and, frankly, Tina is hardly a more excessive person than Gloria or Pepa Marcos).
I also love her nonchalance whenever she offers advice to Ada about what to expect from puberty and being an adult. When Ada asks Tina if she’ll grow up to have tits like hers, she responds by saying, “Of course you will. When I was your age I was flat as a board” Maura makes it funnier and more maternally comforting by emphasizing her assuredness with this eventual future, even as Tina gropes her own breasts the entire time this exchange is occuring.
There’s plenty more to be written about Maura’s scene-specific ingenuities, which is as much a tribute to the unique demands placed on her at different points in the film as to Law of Desire’s success as a series of arresting setpieces more than a fully-realized, overarching story. Maura is by far the film’s most consistent performer. She’s also the most nuanced, energizing asset it could hope for, creating a character who vividly synthesizes a total comfort with oneself and a desperate desire to protect the life they’ve worked so hard to build. It’s a conflict that resides deep in the heart of Law of Desire that no one else gets to as well as Maura does, though if her other collaborations with Almodóvar have taught me anything, no one gets him quite like her.
P.S. I made a commemorative post on my own site to celebrate this end of this Smackdown season. Do read it if you get the chance. And thanks for playing along, everyone.