All About My Mother

“They call me ‘La Agrado’ because I’ve always tried to make people’s lives agreeable,” says Agrado (Antonia San Juan) in the emblematic theatre scene of Todo sobre mi madre (1999), giving voice to the experiences of many cis and trans women who have historically been expected to please others and conform to societal norms. Almodóvar bluntly debunks these ascribed roles by reclaiming the agency of the pleaser and masterfully redirecting it towards care, friendship, and solidarity. As his signature mélange of vibrant colours, shapes, lights, and angles unfolds, we witness how he campily defies not only the conventions of cinematic genres but also those of gender, sexuality, and normalcy. In this queer gem, we once again immersed ourselves in the world of “Almodóvar’s women”, as in his previous landmarks such as Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988) and High Heels (1991) and The Flower of My Secret (1995) preluding this masterwork. And like them, Todo sobre mi madre is also a drama infused with unendurable tragedy, yet nurtured by spirited humour, joy and hope, creating a tragicomic labyrinth that allows us, the viewers, to transverse through the lives of its deeply complex characters.

The film, I would say, is a celebration of womanhood in all its forms, exploring the interconnected experiences of mothers, daughters, lovers, and friends while confronting complex issues such as single parenthood, child loss, terminal illness, drug abuse, pregnancy, sex work, precarious labour, fame, sisterhood, same-sex love, and gender destruction — all at once! Like many of Almodóvar’s works, it resists a linear, nutshell account of its story, instead unfolding in a rhizomatic fashion, interlacing past, present, and future while linking characters through emotional and narrative entanglements. Sorrow goes hand in hand with laughter, which in turn intertwines with distress and beauty. This intricate weaving gives the film its emotional depth, making us feel as though we are journeying alongside the characters through their triumphs, losses, and transformations.

At the centre of this journey is Manuela (Cecilia Roth), a transplant nurse, former actor, and single mother, whose life is shattered when her teenage son, Esteban, dies in a tragic accident on his seventeenth birthday. Aspiring to be a writer, Esteban is struck by a car while chasing after an autograph from his idol, the theatre actress Huma Rojo (Marisa Paredes), on a rainy night after her performance — an unmistakable homage to the iconic accident sequence in Opening Night (1977), featuring the legendary Gena Rowlands. Devastated by his death, Manuela travels to Barcelona to find Esteban’s father, Lola, a terminally ill transgender woman who never knew she had a son. Along the way, Manuela reconnects with her old friend Agrado, a trans sex worker, and begins working for Huma in the theatre, ultimately stepping into the role of Stella — a direct nod to Bette Davis in All About Eve (1951), a film that Manuela and Esteban watched together at the beginning of the film. Manuela also meets Rosa, a young nun who is pregnant and has contracted HIV from Lola, and later becomes a caretaker not only for Rosa but also for her child after Rosa’s death. As their lives intertwine, the women form a convoluted network of care in their strong presences. In contrast, the physical absence of Manuela’s son Esteban, almost the only male character of the film, becomes a haunting presence that drives the narrative as the main storyteller. The ghost of Esteban, along with his absent yet omnipresent father, Lola, binds the characters together, shaping their choices and life directions. Through this spectral presence, Almodóvar masterfully explores themes of loss, memory, and the lingering echoes of past events that haunt us throughout our lives.

In this complexity, care work is definitely at the heart of the film, portrayed as both an emotional labour of love and a societal expectation placed on women. Yet, Almodóvar refuses to romanticise caregiving; instead, he presents it as layered and, at times, burdensome. In doing so, he challenges conventional narratives of motherhood and femininity, celebrating the strength and resilience of women while also acknowledging their vulnerabilities. Similarly, while the film affirms sex work, it does not depict it as an inevitability for trans and precarious women; rather, it is one of many paths, neither demonised nor portrayed as inescapable. Instead, the film avoids the trap of victimisation, portraying its characters as agents of their own lives. Maybe, the early kerb-crawling scenes on the outskirts of the city, where Manuela searches for Lola, initially evokes fears of yet another sensationalised and stereotyped portrayal of queer and trans identities, but the film ultimately offers a far more intricate and groundbreaking representation.

In this regard, the aforementioned monologue of Agrado in the theatre scene is one of the most powerful moments in queer and trans* cinema. With her words, she not only introduces herself but also confronts the audience, demanding that they listen to her story. It is a radical moment of self-representation, where she exposes the costs — both financial and emotional — of being true to oneself. In doing so, Agrado breaks the fourth wall and makes the spectators choose whether to stay or leave, making them complicit in her narrative. Agrado’s monologue disrupts the binary between reality and performance, authenticity and artifice, reinforcing the film’s broader theme of identity as fluid and performative, where characters continually reinvent themselves. Nothing is flat or fixed; identities are mixed up, intersecting and evolving as the story unfolds.

In an era when transgender and non-binary individuals are once again facing erasure and the denial of their dignity, revisiting Todo sobre mi madre feels both urgent and comforting. This evergreen film remains a revolutionary affirmation and celebration of the plurality of identities, even after twenty-six years of its release. Overflowing with references to iconic female actors and gay writers, Almodóvar gifts us one of his most intricately woven narratives, dedicated “to all actresses who have played actresses, to men who act and become women, to all the people who want to become mothers,” and, of course, to his own mother. He reminds us — and the world — through Agrado’s words: “You are more authentic the more you resemble what you’ve dreamed of being.”