Mostly Spanish directors Pedro AlmodóvarHis work is about the raw, immediate aspects of life: love, sex, longing, regret. He has had some strange digressions throughout his extraordinary career, but always returns to the pulse, the passion, the drama of the human experience. Lately, however, his tone has become colder, his work—more like Parallel Mothers And Pain and Glory—slows down to consider the end of everything. In his new film Next doorpremiered at the Venice Film Festival on Monday, Almodóvar confronts death head-on, with strange and heartbreaking results.
The film is adapted from the novel by Sigrid Nunez, What are you going through?may or may not have been involved in the death of Susan Sontag. Like Sontag, the character Tilda Swinton Almodóvar’s adaptation of the play is about a formidable writer facing her own death with a kind of analytical amazement. Martha is a former war correspondent suffering from cervical cancer, which experimental treatments have failed to cure. So she decides to end her life on her own terms: with a pill she buys on the dark web, in a gorgeous modern house she rents in upstate New York.
Despite her independence, Martha did not want to spend her final days alone. She reunited with an old friend, novelist Ingrid (Julianne Moore), and asks if she will stay and keep Martha company until the day Martha decides to take the medicine and trudge off to wherever we are headed. It seems that at times Ingrid may not be entirely convinced that Martha will do so, although her doubts may be more for her own comfort than a reflection of Martha’s beliefs. Ingrid agrees to this bleak and gloomy vacation and the two head north, settling into a cozy routine as Martha reassesses the world and laments what she has lost.
This was Almodóvar’s first feature film in English, which gave him the opportunity to work with two great actors, both of whom were well suited to his style. (Swinton had previously appeared in an English-language short directed by Almodóvar.) But translating from Spanish to English had its challenges. Much of the language in Next door seems forced, too formal. The characters speak in a manner that is expository, without the slang and truncation of everyday conversation. Their ideas seem to come from a page rather than from their imaginations.
It all takes some getting used to. But once you get used to the film’s particular rhythm, Next door permeates and grips. They speak in a stilted way, but what they say is profound and universal. Almodóvar lets his film sit and soak in the enormity of Martha’s decision, exploring every aspect of its implications. The thoughts that arise from that consideration are alternately terrifying, sad, and hopeful. The fear of death is not subdued, but acceptance and even wonder are allowed in.
There is a powerful scene in which Martha bitterly explains that she has lost much of her interest in life. Her consciousness, still affected by chemotherapy, is too exhausted to read or listen to music. She is a creature of ideas, but it seems that the doors of her mind have been closed forever. Who is she (and perhaps Almodóvar) without the curiosity and longing that have long defined her? It is a sad notion to sit there, that any of us might one day become strangers to ourselves – that our tastes, our preferences, our passions may not be as fixed as we think. If Almodóvar was experiencing something like that, it is not evident in his recent work. We can take some comfort in that.
We can also find solace in a scene where Ingrid and her ex-lover, John TurturroThey have lunch and discuss the fear that seems to hang like a thick, low cloud over so much of life today. He is particularly concerned about the environment, driven by a fatalism about the future. He chides his son for having a third child, angry at the irresponsibility of bringing any new people into a dying world. We sense the harsh pragmatism of his outlook, but there is also something stirring, perhaps realistic in its own right, in Ingrid’s response that there are all sorts of ways to live amid tragedy and disaster. She opts for a routine optimism that may not fix anything, may not prevent any impending devastation, but at least it allows for fleeting moments of grace.
Such a moment could be funny, like the scene where Ingrid visits a local gym—which is actually very nice for somewhere in the Catskills, and run by suspiciously pretty Spaniards—and her trainer sighs indifferently that he can no longer deal with clients directly because of “lawsuits.” It’s a strange and silly interlude, hinting at a sad story we’ll never know. Of course, it’s also Almodóvar poking fun at what he might see as the rigid and anxious normality of the younger generation. Even this funny scene is sad.
The film, however, is not meant to depress the audience. Instead, it is a relief and a catharsis to see these terrible themes chewed over and over again and turned into exquisite poetry. It is, in fact, an act of communion, Almodóvar drawing us in to say that yes, yes, he shares our sad anxiety. Perhaps it will be a little less sad, a little less frightening, when we are reminded of how common it is, that in a way, we are all on the road together. And then, in Next doorSomething exciting happens, or there’s a beautiful image with vibrant colors—and we get caught up in it, reveling in the great distraction of being alive.
