All About My Mother feels like a throwback in a lot of ways. It telegraphs tragedy from a mile away, like in the old war movies when a soldier would show his buddy a photo of his wife and new baby, so you knew he was going to die in the next scene. It's old-fashioned melodrama and soap opera, sprinkled with very au courant elements like transsexual hookers. That's where the "I laughed" part comes in -- the tragedy is deftly leavened with comic relief, mainly in the form of La Agrado, the transgendered best friend of our heroine, Manuela. She's terrific, funny as hell, kind but ballsy (literally -- she's kept her male genitalia, despite the evident dissonance with her breast implants, because, she says, men like their women "pneumatic and well-hung" -- oh, so that's why I can't get a date), revitalizing the hoary, clichéd, tell-it-like-it-is gay best friend.
It's odd -- looking back on the movie, I can identify so many clichés, like the ones I've noted above, that normally would irritate me, but they didn't. I pride myself on not giving in to cheap sentimentality, but yes, I did indeed cry -- a couple of times. (Many of you will no doubt be as shocked as Tiffany was.) I respect and admire a movie that makes me cry because I like and care about the characters, not because it manipulated me with maudlin music cues. I think I'll have to make a place for All About My Mother on my best-of-the-year list.
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