Oh, that Almodóvar, a director so iconic he can start a movie by simply dropping his mononym in big, friendly letters in the first frame, and the audience will applaud with glee.
The Spanish auteur may be 76, but that hasn't slowed him down any. It's only been two years since his English-language debut, The Room Next Door, and now he's back with this vibrant and acerbic dramedy about people navigating the complexities of life – but also, in classic Almodóvar fashion, about him searching for meaning in his autofiction.
Bitter Christmas isn't really about Christmas. Only a part of it takes place during the holiday, and it's sunny and vivid throughout. At first, we follow Elsa (Bárbara Lennie), a commercial director who suffers from migraines. She lives with her doting boyfriend, Bonifacio (Patrick Criado), a stripper/fireman, and avoids her outgoing friends as much as possible. Years ago, she directed films, but the death of her mother has left her unable to pursue anything but capitalist exploits.
In another timeline, Raúl (Leonardo Sbaraglia), a famous gay filmmaker, is about to finish his latest story about Elsa, based on his long-time assistant, who exists as an amalgamation of Raúl's and his friends' experiences.
And that's just the start. If you're familiar with Almodóvar's previous films, you'll feel right at home. If this is your first, it's easier to let go of any logic and allow the emotional tide to carry you away. These are films best experienced, not reasoned with, and Bitter Christmas is the loveliest, sexiest, and most Almodóvar film in years.
Bitter Christmas is a metatextual, fourth-wall-breaking, and often impish film that somehow, despite all the baggage, is approachable and deeply humanistic. By now, Almodóvar is so familiar with this kind of material that it shouldn't be a surprise, yet his deft handling of the material and the cinematic magic tricks still delight.
For the first half of the film, I kept wondering where this was going and whether or not the auteur had finally stumbled in his excess. Then, out of nowhere, Almodóvar pulls out yet again one of his patented reveals, where he bares his soul and fascination with not just the process of storytelling, but his own shortcomings, and lets us rummage around freely. In many ways, there are few filmmakers as forthcoming with these emotions as Almodóvar, even if it borders on exhibitionism.
Bitter Christmas is also, true to form, very sexy and funny in the way that only Almodóvar can be. When we first meet Benificio, it is through an extended striptease that raises the temperature of any screening by a few degrees. Then, almost immediately after, he firmly lays down some ground rules about how he's more than just a piece of meat. He's also a fireman, but striptease pays better.
As Elsa travels to Lanzarote with Patricia (the impossibly talented and versatile Victoria Luengo), where the two argue about love and family as Elsa mines their relationship for her work. Another friend, deeply broken by the loss of her son, calls for help. Elsa, both available and hungry to include her in the writing, invites her along as well.
In the present, Raúl struggles to figure out where all of this is going. His gorgeous and much younger boyfriend dotes upon him, while his assistant is leaving to take care of her friend, who lost her son in a tragic accident. She has a copy of the script, but hasn't read it yet, and Raúl is terrified of what she'll think.
Bitter Christmas builds upon itself in layers and doesn't care if it makes sense or not. There is a dreamlike logic to everything, where Almodóvar trusts the audience to make the connections themselves, if they're even there in the first place. It feels almost comforting to be in the hands of someone so certain in their work. Even when the film offers no conclusions – like Almodóvar's other works, it exists as an island in time – there's never a sense we're getting something half-finished.
Is it an acquired taste? You bet. Like Almodóvar in general, it refuses to budge from that which is familiar. But I'm a sucker for visits to this world, and I love the way his mind works. It's like a wax museum of love and regret, where the vibe is as important as the content itself.
