Almodóvar on his new film 'Broken Embraces'

"I finished the first draft of the script of “Broken Embraces” in the week of October 21 last. And now, I’m writing this on a peaceful Easter Saturday morning, I’m on the sixth version," writes Pedro Almodóvar on his blog.

He joins a select band of directors who choose their own blogs to break the news first. Shekhar Kapur is among the pioneers. The director of ‘Volver’, ‘Talk to Me’ and countless other award-winning classics over the last 20 years has decided to exploit the power of ‘blogosphere’ in expressing his thoughts on cinema and his work, particularly on his forthcoming film, ‘Broken Embraces’ starring Penelope Cruz, once again. She was sensational in his previous film 'Volver'.

He says on his blog: In my notebook it says that Deborah Kerr died on that same week in October. “Deborah Kerr dies without knowing she is Deborah Kerr”, was the headline in the paper where I read the news. I imagine there can be no greater loneliness, no greater feeling of emptiness than to die without knowing who you are, but perhaps I’m wrong, I hope I’m wrong.

"It took me a long time to appreciate the talent and singularity of that actress. When I was an adolescent (because of the austerity of La Mancha, I guess) I was a prisoner, excessively so, of the glamour and excessiveness of the Hollywood actresses, and Deborah Kerr was too discreet for my feverish state back then. It was in adulthood that I discovered the complexity, richness, intensity and sense of humor that resided beneath her apparent discretion.
Although Deborah Kerr had an amazing filmography, after I read the news of her death, the first character who came to my mind was the one she played in “The Night of the Iguana”, the film by Huston based on a play by Tennessee Williams.

To be specific, I remembered her scene with Richard Burton, when he is tied to a hammock in the throes of an attack of delirium tremens. Hannah Jelkes, Deborah Kerr’s character, is an eccentric virgin spinster (a kind of hippy nun) traveling with her poet grandfather, who is in his nineties, and she makes a living doing carbon sketches of tourist she meets on her wanderings (it takes courage to play a character like that without becoming ridiculous, but that sensation of “being on the edge” is common in Tennessee Williams’ characters).

For the alcoholic, aggressive Reverend Shannon (Richard Burton) that woman is the nearest thing to an extraterrestrial. Nevertheless, it is she who tries to calm him down with an infusion and a “self-possessed” talk, after Ava Gardner’s two mulatto boys have overpowered him by force, until his fit of rage, impotence and helplessness has passed.
In these circumstances, Shannon asks Hannah if she has ever had any love experience. It’s a spiteful question, to which she answers with disarming naturalness. And in a monologue that is a marvel of charm and subtlety she explains to him in detail about that experience.
“I was in Hong Kong”, explains Hannah.

In the patio of the hotel where she was staying, she had just done a portrait of a fat, bald, insignificant and unpleasant man whom she had tried to flatter with her pencils. The fat man in question was Australian, an underwear salesman. The poor man was so flattered by the drawing that he gave her a good tip and invited her to take a ride with him on a sampan, which she couldn’t refuse. When they were alone on the sampan, the man got very agitated.

He moved closer to her and, in a trembling voice, asked her if she could do him a favor, an enormous favor. She said yes, to cheer him up. Then the man dared to make his proposal: “If I turn my back and don’t look, would you mind taking off some of your clothes and tossing it to me? Just so I can touch it.”
Burton is looking at her, wide-eyed. He has practically forgotten his attack of delirium tremens and the fact that he is trussed up like a sausage and tied to a hammock.

Intrigued, he asks Hannah:
“Did you do as he asked?”
“Of course”, she replied. “He didn’t look when I took off the garment, and I didn’t look when he took it.”
“And you call that sad, dirty little episode a love experience?”
“Yes, I do”, replies Hannah-Kerr.
“You mean you weren’t disgusted by it?”
“Nothing human disgusts me, Mr. Shannon, unless it’s unkind or violent.”
This outrageous and moving monologue, delivered with complete naturalness, without any fuss, was the first thing I remembered when I read of Deborah Kerr’s death.

But why do I mention it now? What relationship does it have with the shooting of my next film?
Apparently none, except that I finished the script and decided “I’m going to devote the next two years of my life to this” the same day I read the news about the English actress’s death. And even though it seems a bit farfetched, Deborah Kerr’s monologue made me think that there’ll be a monologue in my film too, the one delivered at the end by the character played by Blanca Portillo.

“The Night of the Iguana” isn’t the best Williams, nor is it the best film by Huston, nor even the most important performance by the actress Deborah Kerr (in any case, it’s a fascinating film) but it is a film where its director isn’t afraid of words. The film is based on a play and, with very good criteria, Huston didn’t want to de-theatricalize that golden moment of the conversation between the alcoholic ex-priest and the eccentric itinerant spinster. He could have filmed a flashback in Hong Kong, showing us the scene that Hannah describes, in all its sordidness, but he preferred to trust in Deborah Kerr’s power. And it wasn’t a decision in favor of a stage approach, it was purely cinematic.

In cinema, we have something for that kind of moment which the theater lacks, the close up, and the medium shot of two characters.
When a character has captured our attention and decides to tell us something intimate, something he has never confessed to anyone, there’s nothing better than letting the actor act. There are no digital effects, no frantic editing that can compare to the intensity of an actor’s face.
I detest and reject confessions in real life, but I enjoy writing them for my characters, and especially directing the actors in that kind of scene.

In all my films there is an extreme moment when one of the main characters, or two of them, deliver a confessional monologue. In that sense, “Broken Embraces” won’t be an exception.
I like films in which the characters talk, or listen.

In “Broken Embraces” a lot of things happen, in fact of all the scripts I’ve written to date it is the one with the most plot, but there are many moments when the characters express themselves through words, and silence. It is a film of characters, a film of actors.
I am excited about the cast for the main roles: Lluis Homar, Penélope Cruz, Blanca Portillo and José Luis Gómez. It’s what gives me the greatest feeling of security when it comes to breathing life into this story. Them.....

Courtesy: Pedro Almodóvar
Excerpts from Pedro Almodóvar's blog: http://www.pedroalmodovar.es/

Please visit his blog where you'll find the English version as well as lots of personal photographs.