Director: Pedro Almodovar
Cast: Liberto Rabal, Francesca Neri, Javier Bardem, Angela Molina, Jose Sancho, Penelope Cruz
Distributor: Madman Entertainment
Classification: MA
Running Time: 97 Minutes

Being the utter stranger to pornography and all-round neo-conservative (go Georgie!) that I am, I was plainly taken aback when the latest offering from Spanish director Pedro Almodovar landed upon my desk. Imagine the scene. I am sat at work when a large brown paper envelope is handed to me. I open it to discover it contains a DVD titled Live Flesh. On the front are the images of two naked bodies entwined in an act of… ahem… fornication. I was so disgusted, I had to go home early, place it in my DVD and, in the manner of all good Catholics worldwide, find out exactly how depraved such disgraceful muck can be. Try and be grateful, I’m doing it for your eternal salvation.

However, God preserve my Christian sensibilities, I was soon to discover that rather than being the work of the Devil, Live Flesh is in fact the latest arthouse offering from renowned Spanish writer, director, producer, composer and sometimes-actor, Pedro Almodovar. Almodovar is something of a legend in Spanish cinema (just ask him), with a filmography which includes some of Spain’s most acclaimed films, including Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!, All About My Mother and Women On The Edge Of A Nervous Breakdown. Combining sexual and often dark tales of obsession with a distinctly arthouse style of filming, and placing it all in the context of both contemporary and historical Spain, Almodovar’s films are distinctly recognisable and well loved by the critics.

Live Flesh is the tale of Victor (Liberto Rabal), a naïve, puppy-like young man who falls hard for part-time junkie Elena (Francesca Neri) after a brief sexual encounter in a nightclub toilet. Alas, Elena fails to remember or value the tryst that has led to our hero’s love-smitten state and dismisses his further advances out-of-hand. Eventually, Victor ends up at Elena’s apartment and, after the police are called, a tense stand-off arises. In the manner of all good tragedies, a gunfight ensures, Victor ends up in jail and one of the policemen, David (Javier Bardem), in a wheelchair.

Six years later sees our newly shaven-headed Victor emerge from prison, still apparently smitten by Elena and surprisingly just as naïve and love-struck. Meanwhile, wheelchair-bound David and the now clean-living Elena are wed, and David has become Spain’s leading paraolympic basketball player, his face on billboards all around Madrid. The inevitable happens and the trio’s paths cross. So begins Almodovar’s familiar examination of obsession, sex and human emotion.

Live Flesh is a fairly straightforward film and an example of why Almodovar’s work is held in such high regard by those who value the art of filmmaking so deeply. The film is packed full of beautiful imagery and is shot with an eye for detail. Set against the backdrop of Madrid, the film is distinctly Spanish and, unfortunately, here lies one main reason why the film loses much of its impact and meaning.

Let me explain. Take the opening scene for example. This is the story of Victor’s birth in Madrid of the 1970s, under the politically oppressive rule of Franco. His mother (Penelope Cruz), working as a prostitute, gives birth on a city bus and Victor is awarded a lifetime bus pass. This, by the way is Penelope Cruz’s sole contribution to the film, despite her strange billing as a star of the production.

When combined with the body of the movie and the final scene, showing the new, politically optimistic Madrid, the mood and imagery is supposed to represent the evolution of Spanish society since the downfall of Franco. Almodovar combines these elements in his films for a Spanish audience he knows understands these subtle references and will appreciate them. However, for those of us not intricately familiar with the historical and social development of Spanish society and unwilling to blow hot air out of our arses pretending we do, it can all seem rather irrelevant.

In addition, too much of the story itself comes across as a series of convenient coincidences coupled with slightly unbelievable and extreme dialogue. Take for example the scene where David confronts Victor in his home for the first time since his release. The idea of the first face-to-face conversation between a paraplegic and the man who injured him being interrupted by both men momentarily forgetting their anonymity and hostility as Barcelona score a goal on TV, is somewhat hard to swallow. Even if I were able to accept that they are huge football fans, it is still clumsily done and undermines the films attempt to portray the emotional detail of the situation. Then again maybe I don’t understand Spanish humour, or perhaps something has been lost in the translation.

Almodovar has worked with some of Spain’s finer actors and can take part credit for Antonio Banderas’ successful switch to Hollywood. However, in Live Flesh I never got the feeling that any of these actors were capable of switching into second gear and providing the film with the emotional intensity and depth it so badly needed to persuade me to actually care about any of the characters. Instead, they plod slowly and often monotonously along; happy to bathe in the film’s beauty and assume that the mere existence of the love-triangle (or quadrangle) will be enough to keep the viewer enthralled.

Many will like this film. Spain enthusiasts and fans of the art of filmmaking in particular will be in for a treat. Almodovar’s work is dense, colourful and demonstrates an eye for symbolism. However, for those viewers who are more likely to find their enjoyment in a strong storylines and impressive acting performances rather than flawless cinematography, you may find Live Flesh to be more of a Dead Fish, and ultimately a rather average film.

Special Features: Not much here to get excited about; a seven-page Almodovar text biography, a selection of three Almodovar Trailers (All About My Mother, Talk to Her and Live Flesh) and five trailers for other titles from Madman.

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