Live Flesh

The last thing you'd expect from former maestro of the mischievous Pedro Almodovar (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown): one of those competent, not unpleasant films that leaves virtually no impression on you whatsoever. What now appears to have been his transitional picture, 1996's rather somber melodrama The Flower of My Secret, still featured welcome flashes of the old Almodovar spirit; Live Flesh, by contrast, feels somewhat generic--it's the first Almodovar film in which his signature isn't apparent on every frame. The serpentine story of the aftermath of a shooting that paralyzed a young cop (Javier Bardem) and wrongly imprisoned a brash would-be Romeo (Liberto Rabal), it's consistently interesting yet curiously remote. The actors are first-rate, the direction is assured, the plot is intriguing, and yet, for all of its surface pleasures, Live Flesh struck me as cinematic calisthenics--a way for Almodovar to keep his directorial muscles toned while he waits for his muse to start whispering. No law against that, and I'd hate to see those muscles atrophy, but this isn't one for the time capsule, I'm afraid. Optional. (M. D'Angelo)