The most common meanings of the Spanish word “volver” are “to turn” and “to revert” and Pedro Almodovar’s film of the same name does plenty of both. Though it twists through the surface of propriety, turning up sordid family histories and broken relationships, there is at the heart of this tale a genuinely realized hope for reconciliation. The blessings and misfortunes of Raimunda (Penelope Cruz) and those near her constitute the film’s emotional and moral center. Despite living in near poverty and working menial jobs Raimunda still harbors a dream that if fully realized could liberate both her and her family. My ignorance of Spain makes it difficult to decide whether or not a woman such as Penelope Cruz, imbued with fiery wit and exotic beauty, would realistically occupy the lower rungs of Spanish society, but her performance is nothing if not vintage art house gold. The dearth of films that allow for performances where subtle looks and gestures carry great emotional weight or where a character’s personality requires a nimble gait to effectively capture pathos and humor is such that Cruz’s nuanced and justly praised performance arouses in the cinephile a passionate desire to proclaim that she has joined the ranks of Giulietta Masina and Catherine Deneuve. The wonderful thing is that this may not be hyperbole. Yet the glory is not solely Cruz’s, though her name and face help sell the film. This is an ensemble cast of considerable talent, and every woman that enters Almodovar’s prism is fleshed out and reflected as a mysterious and complex creature with a continually growing awareness of her own self.
Volver is tender, capricious, and funny, yet it contains dark undercurrents of violence, jealousy, infidelity, and deception. Perhaps more than any film I can remember, excluding some of the works of Ingmar Bergman, it is thoroughly a woman’s film. The few male characters that manage screen time are largely ephemeral: we do not know them except in the most superficial of ways. Yet this did not strike me as a tract of feminist rage or an exercise in male condemnation but rather a sustained view of the difficulties and joys that exist in female relationships of all stripes. All appear confronted with a past that threatens to devour both body and soul, and all seek a future where they may be free of such terrors. The way to reach it seems to be through true connection with family and friends, through compassion, and interestingly, through confession. Despite his deep concerns and themes, Almodovar appears to revel in the fun and titillation of the intentionally provocative nature of the trashy tabloid culture. This is evident in his consistent thematic preoccupation with social taboos with an eye always cast towards the erotic. So we are treated to the shock of the revealed secret, mortality depicted as both bittersweet and comically macabre, and human dignity thrust cruelly against the lurid backdrop of the daytime television talk show.
Curiously enough, it is usually in the midst of these scandalous moments that the truth is revealed. It is only in these moments that the wounds are treated, the scars accepted, and the ghostly apparitions find embodiment. Despite the fact that many of the plot elements in Almodovar’s films could be lifted straight from bad soap operas, there is something truly remarkable in his ability to find compassion for his characters and arouse that compassion in the viewer. For some reason his filmmaking style reminds me of Fellini. Perhaps it is a carnival spirit, the careful employment of bright and vivid color, or maybe a sensibility native to the Mediterranean, but the similarity, though slight, still seems to exist. Maybe it is reinforced by the graceful closure each is capable of bringing to their work, most notably an acute sense of melancholy lurking beneath a veneer of frivolity. At some point in Volver you become aware that the figures at the center of this spectacle are human, and that all are suffering, all are in a state of purgatory, each seeking liberation, atonement, and possibly (though one can’t be too sure) a measure of grace.
