From Script to Screenplay: Almodóvar’s Figuring of 'A Streetcar Named Desire' in 'All About My Mother' | Isabel Soole-Sanchez

Manuela standing against a poster of Huma’s Blanche, aesthetically unified through the colour red. Symbolic perhaps of the grief they will soon share in the loss of Manuela’s son, Estaban, Huma in part culpable.

As an emblem of the political and social unrest which weighed all too heavily on a postwar America, A Streetcar Named Desire holds an enduring legacy. In its masterful capturing of collective responses to change, whether this be resistance or embrace, the 1947 play unarguably holds a certain timelessness, a temporal malleability. Amongst a slew of adaptations – most rendered unremarkable by an unwillingness on the part of their creators to engage either with the taboo present within the play, or the theatricality with which Williams explores with these difficult subjects – Pedro Almodóvar’s 1999 film All About My Mother sets itself apart.

Written and set in the post-Franco era of Spain, it explores a period of history where those in Spain were newly afforded access to culture beyond the stiflingly traditional culture of the Franco regime and prior. It is in this manner that Streetcar emerges as an emblem of American freedoms, its narrative serving to parallel that of the women of Mother as they navigate the various trappings of womanhood and the many ways it can be performed. As such, in displacing Streetcar of its setting, Almodóvar illuminates the subject of women, a concern which American iterations may have set aside in favour of the theme of conflict between the Old South and the New America. I will aim to examine Almodóvar’s rather unique understanding of Streetcar, and the changes he made in his imagining of the play in Mother.

It is perhaps unsurprising that the play appealed so to Almodóvar: it not only reflected the contemporary ideals of democracy and modernity which Spain seemed to be striving toward, but also Williams’ style appeared very well-suited to Almodóvar’s own. Influenced greatly by 1950s melodrama both in American and Latin-American cinema, and by Luis Buñuel's artful interplay of surrealism and social commentary within his filmography, Almodóvar possesses a rare understanding of the imperative use of theatricality in apprehending a grave and often untheatrical reality. It is through this elevation of the mundane that we are capable of scrutinising the conflicts of Mother and beyond, oftentimes masked by the quiet of everyday interaction.

Set against the violent urban landscape of Barcelona – a character in its own right as shorthand for the cruel brutality of the modern period – Streetcar is being performed at the time of protagonist Manuela’s return. Alongside modern Madrid, the play is rendered almost sombre beside the near lurid colours of Barcelona. It is the final scene of the play, in particular, to which Almodóvar returns as the production reoccurs night after night of its run, in which Blanche is removed from the play, undergoing a “death” of sorts.

This event of extraction occurs in a similar fashion both in play and film. What is interesting is the painting of the aftermath. Rather than Stella’s outward display of horror at her condemning of her sister to a mental institution, "sobb[ing] with inhuman abandon" as written by Williams, and the following reunion with Stanley through the medium of sex, Almodóvar instead adapts the ending of Elia Kazan's 1951 film production. In Kazan’s Streetcar Stella leaves Stanley after recognising his culpability in inciting Blanche’s descent into madness, taking their newborn son with her. This is notable given this ending was the product of censorship in light of the Hays Code. While this would seem in stark contrast to Almodóvar’s efforts to highlight the disreputable underbelly of Spain, defiant of conservative tradition, in focusing on Stella's portrait as the newly emancipated former housewife Almodóvar reframes the intentions behind the Hollywood censorship. This is furthered by his employment of the vibrant colours central to traditional Spanish culture: Almodóvar makes use of its connotations to highlight the often-obscured defiance ever-present in Spanish culture, the emphasis on sexuality, the emancipation of women, and the politics of queerness being at the forefront.

Rather than depicting the triumph of a new culture as Williams strives toward, Almodóvar’s vision of progression in Spanish culture does not lie with men but rather in following generations of women. His central character Manuela embarks upon a journey of motherhood and alliance with other woman following a prior abandonment of this urban Spanish culture. This is demonstrated through the removal of the voice of Stanley in the final line. Both the memorable "This game is seven-card stud" – an appeal to the masculine sphere of poker now dominant in Williams’ play – and the desperately imploring "Hey, Stella!" leave the audience with the new American man. In Almodóvar’s reworking, we instead hear Stella’s decisive "Never!" in the final moments, centring the woman, Stella or Manuela, as they assert their own agency. Marking the point at which the women begin an emancipated life, the opening of the film rather than the close. A new era of post-Franco Spanish culture is inaugurated, an abandonment of traditional paradigms in favour of modernity.

Rather than compelling his women to choose between this dichotomy of the Old South and New America, as represented by Blanche and Stanley, Almodóvar illuminates a new space for women, a space absent from the scrutinising gaze of men, in which women may explore the bounds of womanhood and what it signifies to each individual. This is reinforced in the early death of Manuela’s son, her loss of status as mother, and an absence of men, prompting her to evaluate her identity in relation to the other women she encounters, rather than through the men in her life. In including such varied representations of women throughout the play, Almodóvar notably adding Stanley’s remonstrative "Watch your language!" in his address to Stella, beginning a script infused with phrases intensely and unashamedly crass, Almodóvar demonstrates his willingness to allow women to probe at the bounds of their gender expression and identity.

The lives of the characters of Mother occur concurrently with the final scene of the play are, vacillating between a borrowing of and divergence from Williams’ narrative. As mentioned prior, Stella’s character works to offer an understanding of Almodóvar’s Manuela, an Argentine woman living in Spain, who, much like Elia Kazan’s Stella, runs away with her son due to her dissatisfaction with her husband’s character and habits, whom she nevertheless holds a deep affection for. We are made aware of Almodóvar’s desires to bring this likeness between the two in Manuela’s fondness for the character and playing the same role in both the earlier production of her youth, and the later one also. Though we know little of Manuela’s origins, Almodóvar seemingly unwilling to introduce discussions of class lest he diminish his central focus upon womanhood, both she and Stella are alike in the malleability of their identities, Manuela assimilating with relative ease both in the urban and rather harsh Barcelona, and what one may assume is her near suburban life as mother and nurse. As Manuela herself professes when asked of her qualifications as an actor, "I can lie very well, and I'm used to improvising." Perhaps this is true of all the women of the film, the majority engaging both in social and stage performance (though maybe the two are indistinguishable).

Our Blanche figure is Huma Rojo, the actress in the stage production, along with Agrado, a transgender sex worker who aligns herself with Blanche. Blanche’s character archetype is artfully crafted by Almodóvar: both Huma and Agrado feel the need to explain the significance of their names in relation to their identity, a parallel to Blanche’s own declaration that "It's a French name. It means woods and Blanche means white, so the two together mean white woods. Like an orchard in spring!" This is particularly interesting in considering Almodóvar’s understanding of the performativity of womanhood. While perhaps our first inclination would be to label this use of false names artifice, Almodóvar conversely emphasises the use of a name in order to affirm one’s identity – one must keep in mind his interest in autonomous gender expression and a departure from the demarcations of the two sexes, indicated by his depiction of transgender people in several works.

In a particularly evocative speech Agrado talks of crafting her identity as a woman through her exterior appearance, declaring that "you are more authentic the more you resemble what you've dreamed of being." Though simple in its sentiment, this is perhaps the film's greatest attribute: the women's willingness to embrace such unabashed sincerity, their forging of mutual connection only possible through utmost honesty. Amid this honesty is performance. The two are to be received together, performance functioning as an avenue toward authenticity. Thus, we may be prompted as audience to consider Blanche in a different light, as we may were she granted the support and belief of Stella, who is a woman complicit in the same social performance though she may be unwilling to admit it. Blanche is an honest woman, performing a womanhood most authentic to her being.

In his tribute to the unrecognised importance of women – mothers, actresses – in societal and narrative progression, Almodóvar crucially puts aside the patrilineage Streetcar professes to be a portrait of postwar America, uncomfortably similar to its past male hegemony. In its stead is an exploration of matrilineage, the varied lives of women outside of the scrutinising gaze of men. Almodóvar thus reframes Streetcar, and the end dedication of his interpretation reads: "To Bette Davis, Gena Rowlands, Romy Schneider…To all actresses who have played actresses, to all women who act, to men who act and become women, to all people who want to become mothers. To my mother."

While Williams makes concentrated attempt to engage with the performance intrinsic to womanhood, much is lost in his portrayal of the primeval battle between man and woman, and it would seem we are far too willing to deride Blanche for her attempts at "magic" over realism. Almodóvar seems to posit that there is no better understanding of gender than within that magic, within the fantastical instances in which men are absent from a narrative. Women’s minds and lives are illuminated against mundane settings made vivid by the people who occupy them: the performers.