Bitter Christmas
Almodovar Turns the Camera on Himself yet Again
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Pedro Almodovar has an incredibly distinct style, in both his narrative tone, which plays with the melodramatic, as well as with his visuals and sets, which are vibrant and alluring. While the Spaniard has been making films for over four decades with this consistent signature style, he’s undergone several evolutions. He started as part of the “Movida Madrileña” cultural movement, with an extroversion of the artistic and social freedoms in democratic Spain. This evolved into an introversion as he began to explore elements of his and Spain’s past, looking at guilt, trauma, and memory in films such as All About My Mother (1999), Bad Education (2004), and Volver (2006). He seems to have undergone yet another evolution in the last few years, from introspection to reflection of himself as an artist and the legacy he is leaving. This began with Pain & Glory (2019) and now finds a spiritual sequel in Bitter Christmas (2026).
Bitter Christmas is a Russian nesting doll set of Brechtian stories. We begin with film director Raul Rossetti (Leonardo Sbaraglia) who is at a loss of what to make for his next film in 2026, and focuses his next script on the character of Elsa (Barbara Lennie), a film director facing a creative drought in 2004 (coincidentally a pivotal year in Almodovar’s evolution), who in turn begins to reflect on her life. The film shows both stories unspooling as both (or all three?) film directors start inspiring themselves on reality and the vulnerable moments of close friends and lovers; to the point that their creative process becomes a set of intersecting spirals, where you’re unsure where the fiction begins and ends.
Bitter Christmas is Almodovar’s strongest film since Pain & Glory, as his brief interlude into English-language fare proved rather stale with his signature wit and humor lost in translation. His latest is a return to incredible form and continues this latest stage of a reflective approach to his own process and life as a filmmaker. As such he is delivering his most vulnerable self as he divulges his deepest insecurities and demons on the screen. Bitter Christmas is also Almodovar’s most “academic” film in the sense that it’s a fascinating deconstruction of Almodovar’s own narrative style; which we see consists of a varied amount of guilt and pain, mixed with the ubiquitous theme in his filmography of irrational desire (is there any other kind?). Almodovar chooses to delve into the why and how of the creative process, as well, tugging and battling with his fictional characters in the meta narrative, of multiple levels of film directors attempting to overcome creative ruts and show something honest instead; call it Almodovar-ception.
At the root of Bitter Christmas is a debate of the ownership of stories. Almodovar has been credited with being such an all-encompassing director, that his name alone conjures up a style. Yet you sense an internal culpability in Almodovar, as he finds a toxic relationship in owning his films’ stories. The narrative in Bitter Christmas revolves around who controls whom, which character’s tragedies can be used for inspiration, and how the Quixotic delusion creatives have to impose control in their lives mirrors what they do on the page. It is explored and depicted in an unvarnished manner, to a stunning degree, especially considering how obvious Almodovar is placing himself as a surrogate with the characters of Raul and Elsa.
Yet this academic reading of Bitter Christmas doesn’t mean Almodovar isn’t able to also keep his signature melodramatic and Sirk-ian plot, we get his usual idiosyncrasies, from Elsa’s boyfriend (Patrick Criado) who is a fireman by day and stripper by night (yes, you read that right), a climactic moment occurring in an impeccably color-coded living room listening to rancheras (touchingly from the late Chavela Vargas, whose career Almodovar had helped revive), or Alberto Iglesias’ dramatic score with swooning strings. This latter element proves key to the meta reflection of the Manchegan’s filmography, as die-hard Almodovar fans will notice Iglesias reuses themes from previous films, such as Talk To Her (2002).
I was pleased to see expanded roles for Sbaraglia and Aitana Sanchez-Gijon (as Raul’s longtime assistant) as they had featured in bit roles in Pain & Glory and Parallel Mothers (2021). In Bitter Christmas they get a chance to show off their underused talents with the centerpiece being a confrontation in the finale, where you begin to note that they might be two sides of the same person. The exchange is amongst Almodovar’s greatest scene of dialogue in his filmography. Lennie is another particular standout, nearly stealing the entire film with her remarkable ability to withhold so many conflicting emotions in her face, hinting emotion to viewers with a teasing eyebrow twinge. Lennie is one of the finest Spanish actresses working today, and I’m glad Almodovar has had her join the ranks of Almodovarian women.
Bitter Christmas is Almodovar at the top of his game, showing himself as an artistic genius in complete control of his medium. It’s true that the film does begin to drag in its final act, but the Spanish auteur himself acknowledges this cheekily, by having his fictional screenwriter think of ending the film thirty minutes before. When it comes to such an intimate story, where you sense deep vulnerabilities, dilemmas, and creative debates are being exorcised, the only answer for any good writer, is to keep on writing. And please, Pedro, never stop.