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Director
PEDRO ALMODÓVAR
Biography
He was born in Calzada de Calatrava, province of Ciudad Real, judicial
district of Almagro and Archbishopric of Toledo, in the 50s. When
he was eight, he moved with his family to Extremadura. There, he
studied Primary and Secondary level with the Salesian Fathers and
the Franciscans, disrespectively. His religious miseducation only
taught him to lose faith in God. At that time, in Cáceres, he started
going to the cinema, compulsively. At sixteen he settled in Madrid,
alone, without family or money, but with a very specific aim: to
study and make films. It was impossible to enroll in the Official
Film School, Franco had just closed it. Given that he couldn't learn
the language (the form), he decided to learn the substance, and
dedicated himself to living. It was the end of the 60s and, despite
the dictatorship, Madrid was, for a provincial adolescent, the city
of culture and freedom.
He had many sporadic jobs but couldn't buy his first Super-8 camera
until he got a "serious" job in the National Telephone Company of
Spain. He stayed there for twelve years as administrative assistant.
Those years were his true education. In the morning (from very early)
he was in contact with a social class which otherwise he would not
have known so well: the Spanish middle class at the start of the
consumer era. Their dramas and misfortunes. A gold mine for a future
story teller. In the evening-night, he wrote, loved, performed theater
with the group Los Goliardos, made films on Super-8mm. He collaborated
with various underground magazines. He wrote stories, some of which
were published. He was a member of a parodic punk-rock group, Almodóvar
and Mcnamara, etc.
He was fortunate in that the opening of his first film in commercial
cinemas coincided with the birth of Spanish democracy. After a year
and a half of difficult shooting on 16mm, "Pepi, Luci, Bom..." had
its première in 1980. From that moment, cinema became his second
nature. He wrote and directed. And he lived, enough to be able to
carry on making up stories that were alive. With "All About My Mother,"
he won the Oscar, the Golden Globe, the César, 3 European Film Awards,
the David de Donatello, 2 BAFTAs, 7 Goyas and 45 other awards.
The awards haven't changed either his perspective of the films he
wants to make or his life, except maybe to add a certain pressure
to both.
* * *
"TALK TO HER"
Cast
Although his enormous success in the television show "Seven Lives"
and in Santiago Segura's "Torrente" have made him extremely popular
in Spain in the last couple of years, JAVIER
CAMARA (Benigno) has been working since the early nineties,
in theatre (Harold Pinter's "The Homecoming"), film ("Allegre ma
non troppo" and "Cuarteto de La Habana," both by Fernando Colomo)
and television. He also participated recently in Julio Medem's "Lucia
and Sex" and is currently shooting "Torremolinos" 1974, directed
by Pablo Berger.
Born in Argentina, DARIO GRANDINETTI (Marco)
made his film debut in 1984 in "Darse cuenta," directed by Alejandro
Doria. His performances in the films of Eliseo Subiela have won
him international recognition, particularly "The Dark Side of the
Heart", for which he won the best actor award at festivals in La
Habana, Biarritz and Gramado. He has also worked on several films
of Alberto Lecchi ("El dedo en la llaga"), Jaime Chavarri ("Sus
ojos se cerraron") and Pablo Agazzi ("El dia que murio el silencio").
For this last film he won the best actor award at the Cartagena
Film festival. He is currently shooting "Tiempos de tormenta" in
Spain, directed by Pedro Olea.
LEONOR WATLING (Alicia) caught
the attention of Spanish audiences in her film debut, Pablo Llorca's
"Todas hieren." Since then, her performances in films such as "La
primera noche de mi vida" (Miguel Albadalejo), "La hora de los valientes"
(Antonio Mercero) and "La espalda de dios," as well as her success
in the TV series "Raquel busca su sitio," have made her one of the
hottest young actresses in Spain today. Most recently she starred
in Bigas Luna's "Son de mar" and "Deseo" directed by Gerardo Vera.
She recently completed production on her first English language
film "My Life Without Me," an El Deseo production starring Sarah
Polley, Mark Ruffalo, Scott Speedman and Debbie Harry.
The youngest member of the Flores family (her mother Lola Flores
is one of Spain's most beloved flamenco icons), ROSARIO
FLORES (Lydia) has now made her mark both as an actress
and a singer. She first stepped in front of a camera in 1982, in
Eloy de la Iglesia's "Colegas," and worked in films such as Francisco
Regueiro's "Diario de invierno" and Felix Rotaeta's "Chatarra,"
as well as in several television films and miniseries. During the
nineties she concentrated on her career as a singer and released
three very succesful albums. Her return to the screen in "Hable
con ella" has coincided with the release of her latest album, "Muchas
flores."
Since her childhood appearance in "Limelight," GERALDINE
CHAPLIN (Katerina Bilova) has honored to her illustrious
surname in such classic films as "Doctor Zhivago" and "Nashville."
In Spain she collaborated in many of the most celebrated films of
Carlos Saura, including "Peppermint Frappe," "Cria cuervos, elisa
vida mia" and "Mama cumple cien anos." In the last decades she has
appeared in films such as "The Age of Innocence" and "Chaplin,"
and series such as "Mother Teresa: In the Name of God's Poor."
"TALK TO HER"
Filmmakers
Executive producer on all of his brother's films since "Women on
the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown," AGUSTIN
ALMODOVAR (Executive Producer)
is considered one of the leading producers in Spain. His objective
at El Deseo S.A., their production company, is to provide Pedro
with absolute creative freedom. He would also like El Deseo S.A.
to be a breeding ground for new directors looking to make their
first films. Along this line, El Deseo produced in 1992 the first
feature film by young basque director Alex de la Iglesia, "Accion
mutante." Since then, "El deseo" has produced Monica Laguna's "Tengo
una cassa" and Daniel Calparsoro's "Pasajes," which was selected
for the prestigious Quinzaine des Realisateurs at Cannes 1996. He
was selected by "Millimeter" magazine as one of the top 50 producers
in the world. Last year El Deseo S.A. also produced Guillermo del
Toro's "The Devil's Bachkbone," and is currently in production with
Isabel Coixet's "My Life Without Me."
ESTHER GARCIA (Director of Production)
has been Director of Production in all of Pedro Almodóvar's films
since "Matador." Efficient, precise and ordered, she has worked
in almost every level of production since she began as an intern
in the legendary TV series "Curro jimenez." She worked on over 40
films before she began to work at El Deseo, with directors such
as Fernando Trueba, Fernando Colomo and Mariano Ozores. She won
Goya Awards for Best Production for Alex de la Iglesia's "Accion
mutante" and for "All About My Mother."
One of the top DP's working in Spain today, JAVIER
AGUIRRESAROBE (Director of Photography)
has worked with some of the country's most prestigious directors,
including Fernando Trueba ("The Girl of Your Dreams"), Montxo Armendariz
("Secrets of the Heart"), Pilar Miró ("Beltenebros and el perro
del hortelano"), Juanma Bajo Ulloa ("La madre muerta"), Imanol Uribe
("Dias contados") and Victor Erice ("The Quince Tree Sun). His work
on Alejandro Amenabar's "The Others" has won him enormous praise
around the world, as well as his fourth Goya award.
"Talk to Her" marks the fourth collaboration with with Pedro Almodóvar
for ALBERTO IGLESIAS
(Music), after "The Flower of My Secret," "Live Flesh" and
"All About My Mother" (for which he won a Goya Award). His work
in all of the films of Julio Medem, "Cows," "The Red Squirrel,"
"Earth," "The Lovers of the Artic Circle" and "Lucia and Sex," has
been widely praised and garnered him several prizes, including four
other Goya awards. He has also composed several pieces for the National
Dance Company.
PEPE SALCEDO (Editor) has been
the editor of all of Pedro Almodóvar's films, as well as the editor
of such films as "Nobody Will Speak of Us When We're Dead" (Agustin
Diaz Yañez), "Rowing with the Wind" and "The Detective and Death"
(Gonzalo Suarez), "The Fencing Master" (Pedro Olea) and "El desencanto"
(Jaime Chavarri) among others. He has won three Goya awards, most
recently for "All About My Mother."
"TALK
TO HER"
Director Pedro Almodovar
comments...
....Privacy
and Spectacle
"Talk to Her" tells a private, romantic, secret story, peppered
with independent, spectacular units. I'm referring, as well as to
the bull fights and the inclusion of "Shrinking Lover," to the collaboration
and presence of Caetano Veloso, who sings "Cucurrucucú paloma" live,
to Pina Bausch, the choreographer of "Café Müller" and "Masurca
Fogo," the pieces with which the film begins and ends. I'm also
grateful for the return to the stage in "Café Müller"of Malou, a
member of the original Wuppertal Tanztheater who now teaches youngsters
and who, out of sheer generosity, immersed herself in the stage
again and enthralled everyone.
...Shrinking Lover
It's the synthesis of a silent film, introduced half way through
the narration of "Talk to Her." The decision that it should be silent
and in black and white is due to the fact that this is the last
genre discovered by Alicia before her accident. An interest which
Benigno inherits from her.
As the film didn't exist, I had to make it. I'd already written
the story of a shrinking man, much more detailed than the one inserted
into "Talk to Her." Originally, it was a story of love and suspense.
The man who is shrinking leaves Amparo, the beautiful scientist,
and goes back home to a despotic mother whom he hasn't spoken to
in years. It's an opportunity to be reconciled with her. When Alfredo
measures only a few centimeters he moves into one of his toys and
lives there surrounded by his boyhood fetishes (books, comics, etc.).
Among the pages of one of his favorite books he discovers a letter
from his dead father; although it's addressed to him, Alfredo never
received it. In it, his dead father tells him about his mother's
growing insanity and warns him that if anything should ever happen
to him his mother will have been responsible. The mother senses
that Alfredo has discovered that she killed his father. Alfredo
is living inside his electric train and doesn't want to come out
for fear of his mother. In a fit of rage, his mother chases him
from carriage to carriage. Just then, Amparo appears (after discovering
where the mother lives). She saves little Alfredo and takes him
with her to the Hotel Youkali where she is staying.
For obvious reasons, I've only used the beginning and end of all
that melodrama. I really enjoyed making both fragments. For years
I've dreamed of the image of the lover walking around the body of
his loved one, as if it were a landscape. And now I've got it.
In order to prepare myself for the language of silent cinema, I
saw my favorite silent films again, Griffith, F. Lang, Murnau, T.
Browning... "Sunrise" was essential. I wanted to be true to the
narrative and form of the time. I found it more attractive to struggle
for accuracy than to break the rules. Except for some inevitable
license, all the shots were done with a tripod. I didn't use a single
traveling shot, in the composition of a shot the upper part of the
frame is usually empty, the actors walk into frame, the props are
authentic, from the mid-20s, and the acting is strictly expressionist,
with a lot of care taken to avoid the risks of overacting. I was
lucky that both Paz Vega and Fele Martínez could place themselves
effortlessly in that situation which is so close to parody without
ever succumbing to it. Their performances, naïf, tragic-comic and
accurately expressionist, are due solely to their intuition and
talent.
The music is also a key element. I didn't want the typical piano,
which is how they show silent films at the Cinematheque. Alberto
Iglesias suggested the idea of a quartet; I thought it ideal because
if there's one kind of composition which Alberto has mastered it's
the quartet. I have to confess I find the result very moving. In
the best tradition of musical cinema, the melody mingles with the
actors' movements, it gives a voice not just to the actors but also
to the captions. The few texts which appear acquire a voice, rhythm
and movement with the music. They're alive. But above all, the music
situates the story in the realm of emotion, and brilliantly avoids
the danger of obscenity and grotesqueness, both of which can hover
around a story like "Shrinking Lover." Thanks to Paz Vega, Fele
Martínez and Alberto Iglesias, "Shrinking Lover" becomes a lyrical,
emotive, profound fantasy, despite its apparent frivolity.
...Pina Bausch
In "All About My Mother" there was a poster of Pina in "Café Müller"
(it was hanging on a wall in Cecilia Roth's son's room). I didn't
know then that that choreographic piece would be the prologue to
my next film. At the time I only wanted to pay homage to the German
choreographer.
When I finished writing "Talk to Her" and looked at Pina's face
again, with her eyes closed, and at how she was dressed in a flimsy
slip, her arms and hands outstretched, surrounded by obstacles (wooden
tables and chairs), I had no doubt that it was the image which best
represented the limbo in which my story's protagonists lived. Two
women in a coma who, despite their apparent passivity, provoke the
same solace, the same tension, passion, jealousy, desire and disillusion
in men as if they were upright, eyes wide open and talking a mile
a minute.
Around that time, I saw "Masurca Fogo" in Barcelona and was struck
by its vitality and optimism, its bucolic air and those unexpected
images of painful beauty which made me cry, like Marco, from pure
pleasure. Not to mention the "sighing beginning," which I had to
reduce for narrative reasons. I'm referring to the beginning of
the piece: A woman (Ruth Amarante) appears on a diaphanous stage,
her hair is hanging loose and she's wearing an ankle length flowered
dress. She picks up a 70s style microphone and holds it up to her
mouth. It looks as if she's going to sing or talk, but she doesn't
do either. After filling her lungs with air in a suspense-filled
silence, she lets out a long, deep sigh. This is followed by another
sigh... and another.
"Masurca Fogo" begins with the sadness of the absent Benigno (the
sighs) and unites the surviving couple (Marco and Alicia) through
a shared bucolic emotion: several couples are dancing in the country
to the rhythm of a Cabo Verde mazurca, also accompanied by the sound
of a little waterfall which flows miraculously from the grass in
all its splendor.
If I had asked for it specifically I couldn't have got anything
better. Pina Bausch had unknowingly created the best doors through
which to enter and leave "Talk to Her."
...Caetano Veloso
At the height of the promotional campaign for "The Flower of My
Secret" we landed in Río de Janeiro, after dragging ourselves through
TV interview sets, premieres and crowded parties in New York, Los
Angeles, Miami and Sao Paulo.
With the enthusiasm of a zombie, I looked out my hotel window at
an explosive view of Río. I didn't want to move in the next hours,
I couldn't.
Worn out, brain damaged from various attacks of jetlag (overpowered
by the typical sensation of emptiness and in constant battle with
Rossy de Palma because she was really excited by Brazil and only
wanted to go partying), I was informed that we had a commitment:
we were invited to the home of Caetano Veloso. I already adored
Caetano's music although I didn't know him personally, but in my
physical and psychic state, the idea of moving, mingling with strangers,
talking or listening, meant an effort verging on martyrdom. I tried
to wriggle out of the commitment in the hotel, alleging an obvious
and real affliction; but Chema Prado, who was accompanying Marisa
Paredes, completely ignored my protests with that very Galician
deafness of his and dragged me to Caetano's house by force.
I'm grateful to him now. Caetano had just performed in Sao Paulo,
he'd recorded the concert which would become "Fina estampa ao vivo"
and, as a curiosity, he played for us his version (it's a reinvention
rather than a version) of "Cucurrucucú paloma" and suddenly all
my ills disappeared.
From that moment I wanted to include the song in one of my films.
That's the other dream that has come true. In "Talk to Her," Caetano
himself sings it live, accompanied by the maestro Morelenbaum. As
we couldn't bring the whole orchestra, the version which appears
in the film is even more stylized, heartrending and intimate than
the one he played in Sao Paulo.
...BENIGNO AND MARCO
Benigno (Javier Cámara)
Benigno's life has been spent around a bed. There was always a woman
in the bed. First it was his mother, then Alicia. His mother installed
herself in bed (and never left it again) when she still wasn't ill.
It was her way of celebrating the fact she'd turned forty. Her husband
had just left her and in the mornings the mirror had begun to hint
that her beauty, eternal until that moment, was showing the first
signs of its ephemeral nature.
Everything happened at the same time. If it hadn't been for the
help she got from Benigno (her son, a boy whose ugliness she never
quite understood), the mother would have died of negligence.
Benigno looked after her day and night, and even studied nursing
to learn how to take better care of her. He only left the house
to go to his classes. He also studied beauty care and hairdressing,
but he did that through a correspondence course. He didn't want
his mother to deteriorate, he wanted to see her always beautiful.
He guided her on her walks inside the house. He bathed her, dried
her, dressed her, did her make-up, fixed her hair and settled her
in bed as if she were on a throne. And after that, he'd look at
her. Despite all his care, his mother died twenty years later. The
short walks around the sitting room weren't enough for her heart.
Before she died, she asked her son (Benigno was now a man of twenty
five who had known neither female nor male): "What are you going
to do when I die, Benigno?" "Kill myself, I guess," he replied quite
naturally. If his mother weren't there, his life would be pointless.
After a flattered silence, his mother decided for him: "Well, you
have to live, Benigno. When you no longer have to look after me,
you'll have to look after yourself. Go out on the street, look out
the windows, travel. Out there you'll find a horrible world, but
you'll also discover things that will interest you and some of them
you'll want for yourself and you'll fight for them."
Benigno opened his little eyes, filled with amazement at his mother's
words. He went over to the window, pulled back the net curtain which
had gone out of fashion over twenty years ago and for that reason
now seemed modern, and looked out at the street.
He ran his eye over the buildings opposite, he looked at the Decadance
Ballet Academy diagonally across from his house, to the left. Placed
there by fate so that he could contemplate it at his ease.
That was the first day he saw Alicia dance. She was an adolescent
with very white skin who swayed in time to a soundless music (he
couldn't hear it). After delighting in contemplating her face, her
long neck, her shoulders, her breasts which were firmly outlined
beneath her lycra top, Benigno thought that he wanted that adolescent
for himself, and he admired his mother for her foresight.
...Javier
Cámara is Benigno. Totally and completely. I'm sure that if Javier
were to look for a job as a nurse he would get one (and also as
a manicurist, a beautician and an embroiderer; all skills which,
given the demands of the script, the actor had to learn until he
mastered them). As well as sewing, combing and cutting hair, doing
manicures, etc., he spent four months learning the many activities
involved in tending to and caring for a body as matter.
Bodies in a vegetative state need twenty four-hour care. Javier
applied the same joy and dedication to his work as the character
dedicated to Alicia in the story. His evolution from a slightly
chubby, naïf, bouncy nurse, with a certain femininity acquired by
his constant (and sole) contact with his mother, into a thin, bearded
man, prisoner of a tragedy which only Marco can understand, separated
from the only thing that keeps him alive, Alicia's presence... the
evolution which the actor imprints on the character is prodigious.
I fear that for a long time Benigno will accompany Javier Cámara
as his shadow.
...Marco (Darío Grandinetti)
Marco is the "man who cries," a good title for a film if only Sally
Potter hadn't thought of it first.
Marco is Argentinean, sentimental and mysterious, sick with nostalgia,
a traveler, a wandering journalist, a travel guide writer. In the
90s, he meets Angela, who is still under age, for whom he feels
instant passion.
Shortly after, he discovers that the girl has got problems with
heroin and soon they sink into a hell of aggression and lies.
Life in Madrid is unbearable and they start to travel in order to
keep Angela away from drugs and from Madrid. Their relationship
only works when they're running away. Marco makes use of the journeys
to write a travel guide of each place; once she's got over her withdrawal
symptoms, Angela is the best traveling companion imaginable. They
wander through Istanbul, Havana, the Ivory Coast, Mexico, Santo
Domingo, Brazil... always aimlessly. On each of the journeys they
are confronted with unexpected, marvelous images. Ever since then,
a sudden moment of unexpected beauty will make Marco cry because
it reminds him of Angela and because he can no longer share it with
her. After five years and seven travel guides, Marco leaves Angela
at her parents' house in her home town. With time, her parents manage
to separate her from Marco and from drugs.
It's a very sad story. There's nothing worse than leaving someone
you still love. That wound is never cured, or it takes ten years.
Marco has remained anchored in Madrid. He can't conceive of traveling
without Angela, he's even nostalgic about her withdrawal symptoms.
In a cardboard box, the kind used for moving house, he keeps hundreds
of photos with her. Years later, he still doesn't dare open the
box. He also keeps her notes apologizing to him each time he came
home and she wasn't there. He hasn't dared to read them either.
When he meets Lydia she has just put an end to a love affair which
is still beating strongly in her heart. Neither one knows the other's
secret, nevertheless the mystery draws them together, like creatures
of the same species.
Marco regains the pleasure of traveling. He accompanies Lydia by
car to all the places where she fights.
Inside the car, Lydia clings to his hand in silence and he looks
out at the countryside. And both feel relieved, leaning mutually
on the other.
...Dario
Grandinetti is Marco, undoubtedly the most complex role in the film
and the one with the least visible embellishments. Darío gives a
lesson in breadth of register. He has the greatest catalogue of
looks that I know (with the priceless help of the director of photography,
Javier Aguirresarobe. The density of the light and the shadows which
he has given to the close-ups of Darío are of an explosive richness).
Darío has 1,000 eyes and each one of them expresses a precise, different
emotion. His refined, virtuoso technique is fortunately the kind
that you don't notice. When Darío passes through the camera lens
he is beautified and enhanced. Just as Benigno is a character magnetized
by a bed with a woman in it, Marco is a traveler, mobile, a wanderer
(the few pieces of furniture in his house include a table with bicycle
wheels, and the only paintings he has are two hearts and a map of
the world which fills a whole wall). During the months that he remains
anchored in the clinic, we see him continually walking along the
corridors. Walking unhurriedly and almost always aimlessly, which
is the nicest way to walk.
The list of actors who have known best how to walk in front of a
camera (John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Robert Mitchum) will now have to
include the name of Darío Grandinetti. His slow way of walking along
the edge of the swimming pool, until he disappears into the darkness
of the far end of the porch where Caetano Veloso is singing, is
as moving as the tears he's trying to hide.
...Lydia (Rosario Flores)
Lydia's father was a "banderillero," but he dreamed of becoming
a bullfighter. He reared his daughter as if she were a man so that
she would achieve what he couldn't. The girl inherited his same
yearnings. But the bullfighting world is very chauvinistic. After
the death of her father, her great and only support, Lydia had to
face the prejudice and scorn of the professional bullfighters on
her own. Many refused to fight alongside her, for the mere fact
of being a woman. That was when the matador called "El Niño de Valencia"
offered not just to share billing with her but to accompany her
wherever necessary afterwards. They fell in love. This newsworthy
romance, rather than her skill, kept Lydia in the limelight and
she was able to fight regularly.
The couple appeared weekly in all the gossip magazines. "El Niño"
was delighted, but it sickened her. She didn't like becoming famous
that way, nor was it the kind of life she wanted to live with the
man she loved. They finally broke up. Lydia still loved him but
at that time her indignation was greater, or at least so she thought.
In a suicidal fit and given the lack of opportunities to fight,
Lydia decided to fight six bulls, on her own. Unaware of the danger,
or running to meet it, she longed for "El Niño" to be in the bullring
as a spectator, so that at least he'd feel guilty if one of the
bulls should charge straight into her.
But that afternoon, covered with sand and blood (bull's blood),
Lydia was a wonderful success. Marco was among the spectators...
...Rosario
In Rosario I looked for strength of character and those sad, innocent
eyes which go so well with a character defeated by abandonment.
I also looked for and found a body which was both athletic and feminine.
Dressed in the revealing bullfighter's breeches, Rosario looks like
a bullfighter in the style of Manolete. And poured into a design
by Dolce and Gabana, she is a stunning woman. Of all the female
artists I know, Rosario is the only one who, when dressed as a bullfighter,
looks like a bullfighter. Even the hat suits her.
But not everything in her is physical (although that's fundamental
for her character). Rosario's eyes and her voice, childlike from
the loss of her father, her only support in a world of chauvinists,
are linked directly to her heart, and she has given Lydia's character
authenticity, naturalness and a style which will undoubtedly be
more appreciated by those who don't know her.
In the film Lydia is killed by the bull of bad conscience. When
someone loves two people (in the end Lydia goes back to the bullfighter
when she's still with Marco) that doesn't mean the pleasure is doubled,
only the problems are. Lydia hates lying to Marco. When she finally
decides to tell him everything she doesn't have the chance... And
with that sense of unease she goes out into the ring.
A woman on her knees in front of the bull pen, ready to face the
bull in that position, shouldn't be thinking about anything else,
much less about two men. Because the bull can smell her thoughts
and her weakness.
...Alicia (Leonor Watling)
I know very little about Alicia. Only what is seen in the film.
At times, the writer knows the characters' past and their future,
far beyond the ending of the film. In this case, I have the same
information as the spectator. Alicia's real film begins at the end,
in the theater, when she meets Marco who has been so moved by the
sighs in Masurca Fogo. Perhaps, at some other time, I'll tell the
story of the two of them, Marco and Alicia, but first I'd have to
write it. Alicia's mother died when she was a child. Her father
is a psychiatrist and she is a dancer.
Her skin is white and her expression severe, as if her premature
development has made her mistrustful of the glances she attracts.
She always occupies the same place in the bar exercises, next to
a window, in the Decadance Academy. Her dancing mistress, Katerina
Biloba, an ex-ballerina and lonely like Alicia, adores her. Alicia
makes the academy her home and Katerina her most solid emotional
reference.
When Benigno sees her dance for the first time (from the window
opposite) he doesn't hear the music. Alicia seems to be absorbed
in an interior melody. That absorption will continue for years,
on the bed in the "El Bosque" Clinic, a two-story building which
looks like a detached house and in which Benigno is the model nurse.
Alicia's room is decorated with personal objects, things she had
in her bedroom at home until, one rainy day, she was knocked down
by a car. It was the first thing Benigno told her father: "Bring
me something of hers, something personal..." "What kind of thing?"
the confused father asked him. "Things that she has in her room...
so that when she wakes up she won't feel she's in a strange place."
In her house, before the accident, Alicia had lava lamps on both
her bedside tables. She was reading The Night of the Hunter (the
masterpiece by Davis Grubb) and page 115 was turned down at one
corner, as a marker. She also had an alarm clock and a photo of
her parents when they were young. And two tiny, brightly colored
boats, a souvenir which Katerina brought her from a trip she'd made
to Salvador de Bahía to see the Bahian women dance. And a photo
of Katerina. All these objects returned to her, on both sides of
the bed again, in her room in the clinic. The alarm clock was still
working but the marker in the novel hadn't moved from page 115.
The lava lamps (like the corridors and the treetops moved by the
wind) are a metaphor for the curdled passing of time. Their thick
bubbles, wandering ceaselessly in the depths of an oily liquid,
suggest the mysterious limbo in which the beautiful, recumbent Alicia
dwells.
...Leonor
She's wonderful playing the sleeping beauty in the "El Bosque" Clinic.
Her motionless body is so expressive and so moving! Anyone who thinks
that simulating a coma is easy is mistaken. It isn't enough just
to lie on a bed and close your eyes. Skin reacts to the slightest
contact, and the nurses never stop working with her all day (massages,
changing her position several times a day, checking her vital signs,
giving her rubdowns with rosemary alcohol, putting drops in her
eyes so they don't get dry, applying moisturizing creams, changing
the bedclothes daily with the patient in the bed, washing her body
every day, etc.)
In order to achieve the self control which allows one to disconnect
from the exterior world, Leonor and Rosario took yoga classes (Yyengar,
to be specific) for three months before the shoot. I wanted them
to be sunk within the very depth of their beings, an unfathomable
depth, and for that they had to be very relaxed. Although she has
scenes where she is speaking and is upright or with her eyes open,
Leonor's presence is more obvious and more powerful the greater
her absence. Let me put it like this. Leonor isn't playing dead,
something I don't think would be easy either.
(Buñuel first chose Fernando Rey because he liked how he played
a corpse in some film or other). Without words, without eyes, without
the help of the slightest movement, Leonor Watling's body withstands
the presence of two superb actors (Cámara and Grandinetti) without
the spectator ever losing sight of her. She shares the scene with
both of them and at times steals it and transports it to some mysterious
place which even I don't know.
Watling is Alicia living in the darkest part of the other side of
the looking glass. When, at the end, she looks at Marco in the theater,
her eyes show in silence the long, dark road she has had to travel
in order to be able to open them. Leonor Watling fills the screen
to overflowing with dreams and desires. The word is made flesh in
her and I shall always be grateful to her for her generosity. (Regarding
the preparation, there was one point when Rosario, Leonor and Javier
Cámara were spending the whole day doing classes of one kind or
another. As well as the daily practice of yoga (the Yyengar type)
Rosario had training and bullfighting classes every day with the
maestro Macareno and Leonor was slogging away at dance classes with
the ballet mistress Irena. In turn, Javier (along with the marvelous
Mariola Fuentes) was being trained in the countless details involved
in looking after a coma patient. Both Mariola and Javier did everything
"for real." From the script, I emphasized that the actors should
show their skill as nurses. Only in that way could one understand
the total dependence of a body in a vegetative state. As well as
nursing, Javier learned to embroider, to give a manicure and to
cut hair. All the while, he was also on a strict diet to lose weight.
And he did everything with an infectious joy and enthusiasm.)
...Illustrious Supporting Actors
Geraldine Chaplin has been one of the great discoveries of this
shoot. When I saw her in "Nashville" (Robert Altman) I already sensed
that she was an actress for me. I adore her accent, a mixture of
multiple accents, and her personality, lovable, simple, funny and
diverse. Although they may seem very different, she's in the same
line as Chus Lampreave, that kind of actress and woman who is made
up of innocence, lack of prejudices, a natural goodness (which makes
them very daring because they think that everyone is the same and
so they are unaware of danger) and a delightful sense of humor.
Both Chus and Geraldine can play any role, no matter how flamboyant
and outrageous it may be, and they always seem natural, believable
and affectionate even when they're playing unpleasant characters.
I've got a comedy pending with Geraldine. And another with Mariola
Fuentes (a future Carmen Maura if she's given the opportunity).
From the start I was convinced that no matter how small the parts
were, they would be played by professional actors. For me all the
phrases are important and all the actions. The fact that Loles León,
Chus Lampreave, José Sancho, Mariola Fuentes, Helio Pedregal, Fele
Martinez, Ana Fernández, Juan Fernández, Adolfo Fernández and Roberto
Álvarez, for example, undertook to play such small roles (as well
as showing a solidarity for which I thank them with all my heart)
fills out the characters, prevents them from being diffused and
gives them greater significance.
Among other novelties, the cast of "Talk to Her," with the exception
of Chus, Loles, Sancho and Mariola, is made up of actors with whom
I've never worked. The four leading actors are new for me and most
of the supporting actors too. And the experience has been very stimulating.
I very much liked working with the new life blood of Spanish cinema,
marvelous young actresses who have taken possession of the present
and the future: Paz Vega, Elena Anaya, Mariola Fuentes, Carmen Machi,
Ana Fernández, Beatriz Santiago, Lola Dueñas.
...The Warmth of Color
I also want to welcome to my filmography the director of photography
Javier Aguirresarobe, to whom I didn't have to explain the warmth
of color, because on reading the script he felt the story with the
same light as I did. Especially in locations like the clinic, which
cinema has portrayed so many times and where I wanted to avoid convention.
No coldness, no bluish tones, I told Javier. This clinic is a place
where the characters spend most of their time, they live there,
it's like their home. I didn't want the spectator to be faced with
an atmosphere of pain or illness. What I wanted to show was the
everyday life of some people who live in that place. We painted
the walls a siennamustard color and the corridors grayish-green,
with a kind of orange padded strip about three feet above the floor.
That was my idea. Curiously, there's a hospital in Bullit which
has the same colors.
Strindberg's biography says that Kafka refers to him in this way:
"I don't read him to read him, but to cling to his breast."
For me "Talk to Her" is (pardon the sentimentality) the embrace
I'd like to give to all the spectators, sinking against the breast
of each one of them as Lydia sinks against Marco's back, at the
party. And embraces must be warm, and the light that illuminates
them must also be warm.
...Pepe and the Narrative
The narrative follows a broken line which mustn't be noticed. That
was the most difficult thing in this never-ending shoot. I'm used
to mixing tones, genres, universes, but I'd never played so much
with time, a few kitsch (and Hitchcockian) flashbacks in "Labyrinth
of Passion," but not much else.
Here time passes in several directions, and the main action is interrupted
by the appearance of other actions with their own significance,
the dances at the beginning and the end, Caetano's performance,
the appearance of "Shrinking Lover," etc. All those elements had
me on tenterhooks until the last minute.
I never presume that things will turn out as I plan, however hard
I work at it and however much every member of the team does exactly
what I ask of him or her. I need to stick one image to another,
and that one to the next, in order to see that what I wanted to
tell is actually there. For better or worse, the editing is a box
of surprises. Broken time and a mixture of various narrative units
work better when the action is more mental or interior, or happens
in another dimension, as in David Lynch's films; in this kind of
fantastic neo-realism, or naturalism of the absurd in which I move,
plot ruptures can mean a jolt for the spectator who had become fond
of a character and a story, and then I pull at him, I drag him away
and force him to follow another character and another story.
Thanks to the wise and omnipresent editor Pepe Salcedo, "Talk to
Her" overcomes all those difficulties and is, or so I believe, a
complex film which, however, seems simple and transparent. For content,
I tend more and more towards emotions, and for the container, transparency.
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