Directing: A-
Acting: A-
Writing: B+
Cinematography: A-
Editing: B

There is so much that can be unpacked with Pedro Almodóvar’s latest film, Pain and Glory, it’s potentially exhausting. But, it really depends on how much of a film nerd you are; how much you know about Almodóvar himself as well as his film history; and how much you care about “autofiction,” a term which gets mentioned a couple of times in the film.

For the average viewer of the film—not to mention the average reader of this particular review—how much of Pain and Glory is fictionalized autobiography on the part of its director perhaps means little. These are the things that get widespread attention in critical responses, but for you and me, how much does all of that matter? Perhaps it could be said that “it’s unlike anything else” is a phrase that gets bandied about a lot among critics (including me), and still this film takes that notion to a different level. As in, nothing else would be like this, given its incredible specificity: this is Antonio Banderas’s eighth collaboration with Almodóvar since their first in 1982, giving them a longstanding relationship with a kind of intimacy all its own; now, even if in the context of “autofiction,” Bandaras is basically playing Almodóvar, while also being directed by him.

As you can plainly see, context can really make a difference in meaning, and these sorts of details are undeniably fascinating, at least to anyone with a particular interest in film, or in film history, or in the body of work of Pedro Alomdóvar in particular. But, what interests me more is how Pain and Glory plays completely on its own merits. What if you watched this movie having no idea that it was “autofiction” at all? What if you didn’t even know who Almodóvar was, and just happened upon this movie, or went to see it just because the trailer piqued an interest? I would argue the film’s is of much greater value if it works either way.

So, what’s the answer, then? I can’t say with absolute certainty, since, even though I am far from an Aldomóvar expert (I have seen about ten of the 22 feature films he’s directed), but my sense is the answer is yes, it works. It just doesn’t work quite as well, doesn’t have the same gravitas, without the knowledge that this is a meditation on a long career and how a man’s past informs his present, both on the part of the main character and on the part of the director.

Antonio Banderas does not play a character called “Pedro Almodóvar,” but rather a very, very similar character by the name of Salvador Mallo. Salvador is well into the fourth decade of his career, now stalled, in large part due to an array of health ailments, most of which cause chronic pain. A re-issue of a film from the beginning of his career prompts him to reconnect with said film’s star, Alberto Crespo (Asier Exteandia), as they have both been invited to co-present. They don’t “make amends” so much as allow each other to appear in each other’s lives again.

In signature Almodóvar style, the story unfolds at a very purposefully steady pace. Pain and Glory moves relatively slowly, and is pretty short on action. It is almost entirely composed of quiet conversations, even as Salvador slips into a worrying habit of casual heroin use as a means of dealing with his chronic pain. It’s the same with the many flashbacks to Salvador’s childhood, in which Penélope Cruz (this being her sixth Almodóvar film) plays his mother, who is self-conscious about their poverty.

These flashbacks ultimately culminate in a subtle revelation about Salvador’s (and, ultimately, Almodóvar’s) sexuality, as does a present-day visit by an old flame. In time, Pain and Glory reveals itself to be largely about Salvador as a gay man, although it’s also almost pointedly sexless about it, even with a full-frontal male nude scene among the flashbacks, and a present-day passionate kiss that is far more romantic than erotic. But, sex is beside the point. Salvador’s sexuality is merely one of several avenues on which he must reconcile his past with his present.

It seems clear that Pain and Glory, with its signature meticulousness in both writing and visual storytelling, would benefit from multiple viewings. That is, if a film like this is of interest to begin with. A whole lot about this film is very typical of Almodóvar films, not least of which is its cinematography (by José Luis Alcaine, who has also been collaborating with Almodóvar since the eighties), with its many visuals characterized by solid colors on costumes and interiors. In this case, it’s a lot of solid red. In any case, Pain and Glory serves as a rich visual tapestry, with nothing seen anywhere in frame ever being an accident. Every single detail, every color, every placement of an object, every movement and every word spoken, is all fraught with purpose.

Like any filmmaker with a large body of work, the quality of Pedro Almodóvar’s films has varied a great deal. I found Volver (2006) and Broken Embraces (2009) to be near-perfect expressions of cinema; I also found Talk to Her (2002) and The Skin I live In (2011) to be impressive cinema yet uncomfortably problematic. I’m So Excited! (2013) was a genuine disappointment. The one common thread among all of them is the clear deliberateness of anything seen onscreen.

With Pain and Glory, though, the concern is almost entirely with a filmmaker’s beginning and where he is now, and not so much with anything that came in between, at least in terms of his artistic output. It’s about where a person comes from, and how that informs where he is now, on several fronts. And really, as with most Almodóvar movies, it is much more for Almodóvar fans than it is for fans of film in general. It’s possible, of course, that an Almodóvar novice could be introduced to his work via this film, and if they like it, then be compelled to explore his other work. You could certainly do worse than that.

*Looking back: on fiction, on nonfiction, on “autofiction.”*

Overall: B+