‘Women on the Verge’ Takes Viewers Over the Top

Bad days come and go, but the one Carmen Maura has in “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown” is a doozy.

Her boyfriend is on the loose, chasing down a new affair. Pepa (Maura’s character) can’t find him, no matter how hard she tries. His wife pops up, carrying a gun and using the “b” word like a mantra.

Then his son makes an improbable entrance with a cranky fiancee in tow. This Spanish gazpacho gets thicker (and spicier) when Pepa’s nutty friend appears, telling of an assassination plan by Shiite terrorists that she’s unwittingly become a part of. Did we mention the bed catching on fire? How about the phone flying through the window? The suicide attempt from the balcony?

Whew. Pedro Almodovar’s 1988 comedy (screening Friday night as part of UC Irvine’s “Love and Madness” series) is a fully loaded, sprint-paced farce, reminiscent of Feydeau or Moliere but with a contemporary swing. Coincidences and contrivances bounce into each other freely in Almodovar’s movie, but they generate sparks of pleasure and insight.

The best thing about it is Maura, who has appeared in other Almodovar films as a transsexual, a wacky nun, a housewife and other odd incarnations. Regular patrons of UCI film programs saw her last May when “Law of Desire” was screened (she was the flamboyant transsexual in that one), but her performance in “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown” even eclipses that turn.

As Pepa, she’s a small-time Madrid actress who dubs foreign films and appears on TV. She’s acquired a little fame in her continuing role as the mother of a mass murderer in a detergent commercial. Pepa, holding the box of suds proudly, shows how clean she’s been able to get her son’s bloody shirts after a big night of mayhem. The police break in, wanting the shirts as evidence. Pepa shrugs; what’s a mother to do?

That gives an idea of Almodovar’s wit. Spain’s most fearless young director is brazenly, sometimes scandalously, playful at tweaking our perceptions and the conventions of filmmaking. When it all works, you get the sense that you’ve seen a uniquely personal point of view. Almodovar is one of those directors--like Orson Welles or Frank Capra--who has an unmistakable style.

There’s intelligence in the details, and particularly in how Pepa reacts to the slap-happy situations that arise. The burning-bed scene is remarkable, simply because it surprises with its audacity but also communicates the imploding nature of Pepa’s mental makeup.

After the bed flames up, she hesitates, just watching it. Pepa is mesmerized by the beauty and the symbolism (her lover was in it hours before), and her entranced face shows how much she’s savoring the moment. After she finally comes to and races for the hose, there’s a shade of disappointment on her brow. Why not let it spread? Now, that would solve all her problems.

But she’s a woman possessed. She has to find her man (not only to resolve the relationship, but also, we learn at the end, to give him an important bit of information), and that’s the main goal. Pretty soon, Pepa’s back on the street, tracking him down, the bed still smoldering on the floors above.