While is appropriately seen as the elder statesman of Spanish cinema, there was a time when Pedro Almodóvar was not only a young filmmaker, but a controversial one. Based on this current status, it is bewildering to imagine that there was a time when he regularly courted controversy, and seemed to genuinely enjoy scandalizing the audiences, who were not prepared for his particular brand of peculiarity. Looking at his earliest work, it is unsurprising that they retain many of the traits that would come to be defining of not only his career, but of many of the filmmakers that he inspired later in his career. However, this isn’t going to focus on some aspirational discussion on his impact in the industry, and how he influenced generations of artists. Instead, we’re going to be talking about his more gnarly days as an intentionally provocative filmmaker that paid very little attention to standards, and instead pursued his own avenue of storytelling, which ultimately led to his ascent to not only inarguably Spain’s most important filmmaker since Luis García Berlanga, from whom he inherited both a sardonic sense of humour and incredible command of the most bizarre subject matter imaginable. In this sophomore directorial effort, Labyrinth of Passion (Spanish: Laberinto de pasiones), Almodóvar is tackling a few subjects that will be familiar to anyone who paid attention to how his career developed, with this being a pioneering work that captures the spirit of rebellion that he defined the first half of his career (and which still plays a part in even his more elegant and complex dramas that have come to be associated with his later years), and a strong effort from a director who frequently challenged his audience to look beyond the surface and find meaning in the more unconventional aspects of life, which the foundation from which this entire film is constructed, and much like any of his films, it blends social satire with an absurd sense of humour, the kind that is distinctive of his earlier work, and which propelled every bizarre decision, making it all seem like it makes perfect sense, even when it forces us to abandon not only our logic, but moral grounding as well.

As is often the case with his work (especially his pioneering efforts), we can’t ever classify Almodóvar’s films as being adherent to any one category, or even a broad genre as a whole. His style as a director has always been to sample from as wide a cinematic palette as he could, borrowing and reconfiguring details and elements of the works that inspired him, which can make viewing any of his films not only enriching on a narrative level, but also in terms of discovering the aspects that played a part in their creation, which can be enthralling for those who pay credence to the idea of cinema being essentially many different references cobbled together to create something new. In terms of Labyrinth of Passion, Almodóvar was inspired by screwball comedies, citing Billy Wilder as the prime influence in this story, which is set within a very particular socio-cultural milieu, from which the narrative takes shape. Naturally, this is not a direct translation of screwball techniques, but instead a film that blends the director’s very unique style with those fascinating narrative elements that made those early Hollywood comedies so endearing. The result is a multilayered, deeply strange assemblage of moments, some of which don’t make sense out of context, but which ultimately create the distinct atmosphere that persists throughout the film. There is a sense of debauchery and moral turpitude that we find scattered liberally throughout Labyrinth of Passion, and Almodóvar is perhaps the only director that could make such unethical, borderline taboo subjects seem not only acceptable, but almost endearing. The subjects that he introduces throughout the film would be unbearable had they been under the direction of nearly any other filmmaker – but much like his friend and fellow provocateur John Waters (whose career briefly overlapped with Almodóvar in terms of off-the-wall provocation and unsettling of the status quo), it is not about the material, but rather what the director does with it that makes the most profound difference. Taking a few small ideas and bolstering them into a vibrant and energetic tapestry of the alternative lifestyles of those in the Madrid that he adored, Almodóvar captures such a specific sensation, and constructs this sprawling comedy from these controversial details, which is compounded by the deeply meaningful commentary that may not be foregrounded, but is a constant source of inspiration for the story.

Looking at his career in retrospect, and coming from a contemporary point of view, it may be difficult to register precisely how revolutionary Almodóvar’s work was when he was still an emerging filmmaker. Not only did he tell stories that were heavily steeped within issues surrounding the LGBTQIA+ community (at a time when that acronym was much shorter), but which were also gleefully perverse and undeniable in their libertine intentions, which was a stark contrast to much of the more conservative values that were being upheld as the standard for most films, While the 1980s were recent enough for us not to initially view its material as particularly shocking, since society had certainly grown much more progressive than the era in which the likes of Kenneth Anger and Andy Warhol were at their peak (and interestingly, this film was produced at the same time as Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s similarly scintilating masterpiece Querelle, with the ephemeral interchange between the two almost feeling like a moment in which one enormous important queer filmmaker passes the torch to another, allowing him to carry on his legacy), there was still some level of hesitation in how these stories were told. Importantly, Almodóvar rarely (if ever) took an approach that sanctified the gay experience or viewed it as something that warranted sympathy, when in reality he viewed it as something to be boldly celebrated. He may have reneged on this perspective later in life as he began to take a more tender, thoughtful approach to queer issues, but with something like Labyrinth of Passion, he makes a film that is unabashedly queer and celebratory, which was pioneering for a time in which even the very mention of homosexuality as a whole may not have necessarily been causing for major concern, but was still a source of much hesitation, with the general belief being that audiences quite simply would not be willing to spend two hours confronted by the most perverse queer subject mater imaginable – and this is the precise reason why Almodóvar took this very approach, since his intention was always to unsettle and disturb long before any of the more profound commentary that normally lingered beneath the surface of these films. There is nothing he enjoyed more than stirring controversy, and Labyrinth of Passion is undeniably one of his more forthright provocations.

To once again evoke the spirit of another filmmaker whose legacy lingers as a spectre throughout this film, we have to look at two directors in particular that were likely inspirations for Almodóvar’s vision. Berlanga, as we mentioned previously, was the most notable forerunner, being one of the most significant figures in the director’s development, even if only in the capacity of being a Spanish director who challenged conventions through exploring profoundly dark and quite controversial subjects. However, there was another filmmaker that played a part not only in Almodóvar’s career, but inspired Berlanga as a whole. Preston Sturges was a director of many talents, but his two most significant traits are the ability to make powerful statements through the most outrageous humour (which we have already discussed above), as well as the use of larger ensembles, which is something that many filmmakers subsequently employed in their own films. Ultimately, what we see with these films is essentially the fact that there didn’t need to be a central focus in terms of characters – each individual is self-governing and complete, and it is just a matter of placing them together in a way that at least makes some sense, while not necessarily explaining what they mean, should there be a narrative line that flows throughout the film. The challenge with Labyrinth of Passion is that it tries to be both – it has its leads (played wonderfully by Cecilia Roth and Imanol Arias, who portray the star-crossed lovers with wit and candour), but the most interesting characters are those that exist on the periphery, an assessment that the director himself has described as being one of the reasons he had been hesitant to reconfigure the film to reflect the details lurking beneath the supporting cast, who are the most compelling of the cast. The ensemble is sprawling, and whether we gravitate towards the Chicas Almodóvar (the recurring stable of actresses with which he worked throughout his career), or those new to his body of work, there will be at least one character that is valuable in terms of the role they play in the overall story. A more mature, attentive director would have paid more attention to these details, but as we’ve seen, the folly of youth inspires much more recklessness, which this film filters down to form a fascinating and captivating portrait of the myriad of souls that populate Madrid at this very specific moment in the past. 

Labyrinth of Passion is a film that exemplifies Almodóvar’s directorial style, presenting it to what I assume is the very first of his films many will encounter, but also merges it with some slightly darker subject matter, the kind that wasn’t supposed to be as obvious as it was, but forms the inextricable foundation of the film. It may not view certain subjects as taboo in the same way others would, but it all serves to create that feeling of uneasiness and despair, a vital component of this overall experience. As a whole, Almodóvar is not one to merely push boundaries – he entirely demolishes them, deconstructing them about as far as they can possibly go before losing their fundamental shape, and instead rebuilding them along his own rules. This is an intrepid act for any director, and for it to be as much of a novice as Almodóvar (whose previous feature-length film, Pepi, Luci, Bom) is an achievement all on its own. This is a film that came at a time when it was controversial to even suggest the existence of homosexuality, let alone depict them in as grotesque and bizarre a manner as possible. Yet, it all feels like it makes sense in the world in which this film inhabits – nothing makes sense in Almodóvar’s version of Madrid, which he portrays as not merely a bustling European metropolis, but as a carnivalesque assemblage of lives, all engaged in morally-questionable behaviour, but which ultimately serves to heighten the tension and create a very distinct tone. It’s a masterful film, one that contains so many hidden details, which it uses to bolster the fact that it is a film that exists, both narratively and emotionally, right at the edges of not only society, but of human sanity as a whole. Bitingly funny, deeply captivating and always entertaining to an inch of its life, Labyrinth of Passion is an extraordinary achievement, and one of the many reasons to celebrate Almodóvar’s early work, which may be far more harsh and jarring, but has the same amount of heart and compassion, just very well-hidden in the fringes of this deranged but magnificently charming dark comedy.