– As in Pain & Glory, Pedro Almodóvar once again turns to autofiction, this time to explore delayed grief, vampiric artistic inspiration and a professional crisis
Leonardo Sbaraglia and Quim Gutiérrez in Bitter Christmas
In Bitter Christmas [+see also:
trailer
film profile], which premieres in Spain on Friday 20 March, distributed by Warner Bros, Pedro Almodóvar draws, as he did in his previous film Pain & Glory [+see also:
film review
trailer
interview: Antonio Banderas
Q&A: Pedro Almodóvar
film profile], on elements from his own personal experience to construct a narrative split into two strands: the reality of a filmmaker in crisis and the screenplay he is writing. Through this structure, he explores the pitfalls of drawing inspiration from other people’s lives and the different ways of coping with grief. Yet the entertainment, excitement and humour – despite a couple of promising flashes at the start – are buried under a heavy mix of intensity, melodrama and pretences.
Of course, the film contains beautiful, signature shots (particularly in the scenes shot on the photogenic island of Lanzarote, which also appeared in Broken Embraces [+see also:
film review
trailer
interview: Pedro Almodóvar
film profile]). However, the fact that its characters inhabit immaculately decorated mansions makes them feel more like museum pieces than humble human beings with whom we can empathise.
The protagonist is Elsa, a cult filmmaker plagued by persistent migraines who has yet to regain her inspiration (played by Bárbara Lennie). She is in a relationship with a firefighter named Bonifacio (Patrick Criado) and is friends with a girl trapped in a toxic relationship (Victoria Luengo) and a model who has lost her son (Milena Smit).
This is essentially the plot of the opening minutes of Bitter Christmas: a parade of low points that is not even lifted by the energetic striptease performed for the audience by the good-natured – in every sense of the word – fire-fighter. Everything seasoned with over-the-top, sorrowful and supposedly profound dialogue that explains the myriad anxieties tormenting these women on the verge of tears. Alberto Iglesias’s ever-present score leaves no room for silence in which to calmly take in so much terrible information.
With a title reminiscent of a song by the great Chavela Vargas (who is mentioned twice), Bitter Christmas takes a turn for the worse halfway through. Argentine actor Leonardo Sbaraglia appears transformed (as Antonio Banderas was in Pain & Glory) into an almost identical double of Pedro Almodóvar, a celebrated film director with the efficient Mónica (Aitana Sánchez-Gijón) as his personal assistant, living in a colourful villa with a swimming pool alongside a younger man (Quim Gutiérrez), who must stoically endure his temperamental moods.
What follows is a cold and hurried cinematic work, in which the two plotlines fail to blend harmoniously. Almodóvar quotes, recites and pays tribute to himself without restraint. The filmmaker from La Mancha, who has gifted world cinema with unforgettable and marvellous works, now seems intent on apologising to those who inspired him (something we have known since his earliest films, portraits of the freedom blossoming in Spain, and of his friends) to craft his original screenplays. This holds no interest for viewers who are not fans blinded by love. Beneath it all lies the self-absorption of an artist who, like the two central characters in his 24th film, appears to have lost the ability to create work that is interesting, fresh, moving and, crucially, entertaining.
Bitter Christmas is produced by El Deseo, with sales handled by the Spanish company Film Factory Entertainment.
(Translated from Spanish)
