It is not true that one cannot prepare for death. Its eternal suddenness can be broken down in time to face it as an old friend. It approaches throughout life; we are aware of it, and it waits for us with great understanding. It seems that Martha (Tilda Swinton) knows a little more about death than others. War reporting was her professional passion, and death was her obsession. She refers to the war in Bosnia as her “favorite” war because she empathized with the suffering of traumatized, attacked people defending themselves against a well-organized and better-armed army. It is evident that Martha spent a significant amount of time in the company of death, observing it from the sidelines and being fortunate that death did not yet take a seat at her table. All the beauties of the view from her New York apartment, the sun’s rays on her skin, were carefully appreciated after the war in Bosnia—how much more so after wars that were merely professional duties for her.

Martha does not take life lightly, which is why she wants to end it while still beautiful and whole. These are her standards, her conviction. The refusal to adhere to a natural departure is proof of Martha’s free will, which she wants to use unconventionally, making it her transgression. Her act, though not her decision, is seen as a rebellious assertion of will, regardless of which human-made or human-understood perspective is applied. However, in nature, Martha’s decision and ultimate goal are neither good nor bad, as humans do not hold the ultimate authority there.

Almodóvar overlays Martha and Ingrid (Julianne Moore) with his characteristic aesthetic of ribbons and shadows—principles that do not necessarily validate human morality—likely emphasizing his authorial stance and the final permissive dimension in which Martha, under Ingrid’s supervision, prepares to take the euthanasia pill. Like a wounded animal seeking peace and a dignified end, Martha chooses a house in the forest as her final dwelling.

The film does not speculate about the journey of the soul to another world, nor does it dwell on questions of existence beyond the cessation of breathing. Instead, it presents, like pieces of a mosaic, different perspectives on voluntary death. The most vocal critics in the film are men, and it is evident that Almodóvar favors women in this narrative setup. Martha and Ingrid are shown in scenes where they sit at a desk doing what they love most—writing—or preparing food, or sunbathing on the porch, surrounded by trees, birdsong, and above all, breathtaking natural landscapes. In nature, they are at their most relaxed, particularly Martha, who in these scenes is firmly resolved to take the pill. Predictably, these serene moments contrast with scenes in hospitals, restaurants, and even private homes. Restlessness vanishes in nature, where Almodóvar offers Martha the support she needs to say a final goodbye.

Another form of comfort is the presence of books, particularly the bookstore setting, where Martha’s and Ingrid’s inner worlds are openly expressed through deep conversations about the past. With their faces reflected in the glass, merging with nature, Martha and Ingrid seem to understand that women, as the bearers of life, might also have the right to take it from themselves. Through her profession, Martha understands war. She sees it as a tragic excess. However, her former lover and the father of her daughter, Fred (Alex Høgh Andersen), is a man permanently broken by his participation in war and his belief in it. Martha speaks about war from the perspective of a witness seeking to understand the victim’s position. She is not a destroyer; she creates and amplifies the voices of others, fully aware of her privileged position. She opens up to Ingrid, even allowing her to take her war diaries as inspiration for writing.

In other words, Martha permits Ingrid to use her, asking in return for only one thing—her presence in the room next door. Moreover, Ingrid “mothers” Martha, raising the question of whether Ingrid is, in fact, too good a friend. For instance, Ingrid never seeks permission within the pact she makes with Martha; she simply reacts, takes, speaks, and moves at her own discretion, violating the secrecy of their agreement. She first appropriates Martha’s war diary and only then asks for permission. It seems she plans to use Martha’s memories and experiences even before she is allowed to. The most striking moment in the film occurs when, during the search for the misplaced pill, Martha is presented with the possibility of a natural death—the kind that almost all characters deem to be the “correct” one. Ingrid finds the pill and hands it to Martha, becoming a direct accomplice in her intent and later in her act. From that moment on, Ingrid might bear part of the “guilt” for Martha’s suicide. This ambiguity regarding guilt is further emphasized by Martha’s frequent admissions that she suffers from memory issues due to chemotherapy.

Almodóvar gently suggests that Martha may not be crafting her departure plan with complete clarity. The possibilities for different paths to death continuously unfold before her, from her years of witnessing and reporting on death to the setbacks that disrupt her plan. Martha’s nonconformist style of dress elevates her above her surroundings, making her stand out even more, as if she is already halfway to the other side. The decision of when to go, however, is solely hers. Like an angel on borrowed time, Martha’s calm and deliberate movements shock Ingrid multiple times, making her momentarily believe that Martha is already dead. Thanks to her dignified consistency in both appearance and speech, Martha’s armor—through which Ingrid tries to break—is impenetrable. They prefer to discuss what has already happened rather than what is yet to come. Their pre-death topic is sex, not God. That tangible, time-stealing sensation, which molds the passing hours in its own way, defies the countdown to death. Martha’s and Ingrid’s fondest memories are of such moments.

These alchemists, however, suffocate under the weight of a social structure predominantly shaped by male decisions, ultimately becoming conventional criminals in the eyes of society. Despite Martha’s problematic relationship with her daughter, she is, through her actions, a mother of people, just as Ingrid is a mother of books. Both engage in “mothering”—through creating life, nurturing, or searching for the right words within themselves. As characters who experience life with intense awareness, they contrast with the men in this film, who are dark, radical, and self-destructive in all spheres of experience—like Fred, who tries to save people who do not exist. These men either rage, judge, or abandon. Their help is useless when it is finally offered because Fred does not save people; he inadvertently saves Martha from a dormant existence she never wanted. By imposing his trauma upon her, he changes Martha’s life forever, intriguing her to the point where she, too, goes to witness war firsthand.

Almodóvar does not give Martha a son but a daughter, whose appearance after Martha’s death—along with her striking physical resemblance to her mother—embodies the continuity of life. After death, the body returns to nature, but life is not over. Thus, Martha does not truly die—she remains in the forest. And in the books.

Author: Lemana Filandra Muslić
February 23, 2025