In VOLVER—[“to return” in Spanish], the dead and the alive are striving for a return, maybe to correct the past, maybe to relive it, or maybe because that’s the only thing they know. The husband who stays in the freezer and the mother who stays under the bed have their reasons. They are here because they are needed.
Cruz’s change in behavior after the sudden death of her husband felt perplexing, to say the least. She started cooking, feeding, and singing as if she had killed off a cumbersome tumor that had formed deep within her. When we finally learn the truth of what she went through with her own father, it all makes sense. Her husband repeated the same cycle of abuse, but her agency in responding to the situation this time around was the closure she needed. But that wasn’t the only wound.
It says a lot that there are barely any men, but their harm has caused enough trauma for all these women to suffer for life. And it says a lot that despite the perpetrator being the father, it’s the mother who’s held to estrangement by the daughter. It’s almost as if hurting and healing can be possible only when with another human who shares the same body and mind, who bleeds the same blood, and cries the same tears.
The women are everyone and everything—daughters, mothers, sisters, wives, and often playing multiple roles simultaneously. But it mostly hinges on Cruz, who bares her heart, with watery eyes, summery dresses, and layers of melancholy, regret, retribution, nurture, and love.
Almodovar’s portrayal of womanhood paints it as a communal mode of living where despite the insurmountable woes, they never let their spirits down. They could be carrying dark secrets, but they’ll wear them under bright, enriching colors. A world where red is omnipresent, but love is hard to find.
“I'm alone, like always”
“Not anymore”