“A rich tapestry, filled with late-era Almodóvar humanism.”

When artists already have long careers behind them, it’s easy to perceive their latest works, at least to an extent, as rearrangements of elements that already appeared in the previous ones. Whether that results in pointless repetition and self-indulgence, or in the deepening and expansion of ideas already explored is something that can depend on the eye of the beholder, but also on the actual talent and rigor of the artist.

With a career of 46 years and, before his latest title Bitter Christmas, 23 feature films that include many artistic peaks, Pedro Almodóvar’s talent is not to be doubted. So most beholders’ eyes should welcome his latest offering, which indeed rearranges familiar elements of his oeuvre into a new collage that not only casts a new or different light on them, but also makes them feel vital and profound all over again. At one point in the film, whose openly autobiographical content shouldn’t surprise anyone at this point, there’s even a self-deprecating acknowledgement that many of these issues have been raised before, by Raúl (Leonardo Sbaraglia), the latest doppelganger for Almodóvar. The story follows him, but mostly his fictional creatures, Elsa (a splendid Bárbara Lennie, an actress that the director should use more often) and some of her friends and lovers. Elsa, partially a doppelganger of the doppelganger, is a film director who has mostly retreaded to making TV ads in the face of an industry that isn’t too eager to finance her idiosyncratic “cult movies”. She is going through hard times due to migraines and unexplained panic attacks. But her job and the people she loves don’t make it easy for her to focus on herself and try to heal, as they come to her with their own various problems (mourning, depression, infidelities, or feelings of being left aside). In typical Almodóvar fashion, the narrative jumps back and forth between these stories (and the flashbacks within them) and that of Raúl, the director who’s writing them, as well as the stories around him that inspire the ones he’s writing about. It may sound convoluted, but it should come as no surprise that Almodóvar navigates the complex, nesting-dolls structure with the ease of a consummate storyteller who knows quite well how to guide an audience through his personal labyrinths.

This brief summary of the plot should have already given a hint that we’re in familiar territory: the need of artists to keep doing what they do best, the way they will use anything they know for their art (Bad Education, Broken Embraces, Pain & Glory), the loss of parents and children and the hard process of mourning (All About My Mother, Volver, Julieta), the value of communication, human connection and art for healing (Talk to Her, All About My Mother again). And another one that had always been there (that sublime ending of Volver) but in particular came to the forefront in his previous film, The Room Next Door: the importance of helping people when they most need it, but also the difficulty of doing it, and how much it takes of one’s life to give aid to another person. It is here, and in the metafictional aspects of the story, that new light is cast on these subjects: when Elsa tries to help someone, or even herself, she sometimes has to leave aside other people who also need her; many other times she has the will, but crosses boundaries and ends up hurting the people she wanted to help. The storyteller often wants to play God and lead her characters to a desired outcome, but sometimes that’s intrusive, and some other times she’s actually selfishly serving herself, vicariously trying to force onto others what she desires for herself. Yet in other isntances, she realizes fiction solves nothing real, no matter how the storytellers, aggrandizing themselves, want to think otherwise. The way all these issues are woven together makes for a rich tapestry, filled with late-era Almodóvar humanism, and with emotion that becomes particularly moving in the film’s second half.

The limits of fiction as a healing tool, though, and the possible selfishness of the fiction-maker are ultimately addressed in a risky scene near the end that, without spoiling anything, threatens to fatally break the film’s tone right at the denouement. It’s a gambit that puts into perspective what has come before perhaps a tad too much, but it pays off because it’s Almodóvar at his most naked and self-deprecating: he’s saying, “What you see is what you get, what has come before has to be seen in this light, and whether that makes you doubt all those emotions and ideas or not is up to you”. It’s the humor that saves this moment, and it must also be said that, excluding I’m So Excited‘s failed attempt at returning to comedy, Bitter Christmas, despite its title, is the most humorous Almodóvar film since his All About My Mother and Volver days. It’s a welcome respite, with many very funny moments peppered throughout the drama.

That the film ends on this lighter note doesn’t negate all the depth, intensity and emotion that came before, but, more importantly, it reaffirms Almodóvar’s desire to continue to tell stories. A desire he has openly talked about in recent promotional interviews, which makes us, especially considering how great Bitter Christmas is, impatient for his next offering.