I see it as a kind of fetish love, the most advanced, most evolved, and the most primitive of all forms of love. From the infant's fascination with the breast, before it knew there was a mother and itself; to a man's fascination with a certain image of a woman, or a woman's fascination with a certain image of a man, someone wiping the gloss on the tip of his nose (Lacan often liked Using this example), love is, after all, fetish.
Almodovar can't help but say that it is unreasonable, and it has always been difficult for me to accept. I don't know why, but this one can convince me. Maybe it's my father's obsession with his deceased wife, his incestuous desire for his daughter, and maybe some hidden homosexual tendencies that connect with me. Not so bizarre.
Spanish itself contains a crazy energy, I don't know if you realize it. Between the voices, there is killing intent. Death is everywhere, in every corner of Almodóvar's stories, when the words and actions of every character clash.
And then I'll tell you that this is the most sublime state one can achieve - to surrender oneself to instinctual drives, to death, to madness. This is the ultimate creative experience and the maximization of vitality. If you don't believe it, you don't have the courage to believe it.
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