The credits unspool, “Un film de Almodóvar” appears on-screen. For audiences, this card is a guarantee of quality—a promise backed up by a fistful of masterpieces: “Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown,” “All About My Mother,” “Talk to Her,” “Volver,” “The Skin I Live In,” among others. Pedro Almodóvar’s latest work “Pain and Glory” arrives at the Cannes Film Festival following its April premiere in Spain, and he’s delivered yet another masterwork. Laced with autobiographical details, his new film is a beautiful, full-hearted celebration of the craft of filmmaking, as well as queer and maternal love.
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“Pain and Glory” features Antonio Banderas as Salvador Mello, a Madrid-based filmmaker standing is as an analog for Almodóvar himself. The famed director’s best days are behind him and he’s paralyzed by pain. Salvador is tormented by both physical ailments and what he describes as “pain of the soul”—crippling depression and anxiety. After the restoration of one of his classic films, Salvador reaches out to its lead actor Alberto (Asier Etxeandia) to make amends, having had a falling out 30 years prior. When Alberto reenters Salvador’s life, he shares his heroin habit, as well. This newfound demon brings about a moment of reflection for the director, looking to the past for a reason to move forward.
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The structure of “Pain and Glory” is less motivated by its narrative beats than it is the emotional milestones. Part meditation, part heroin-induced, flashbacks to Salvador’s youth are threaded throughout the narrative. As is the case with “Bad Education”—the Spanish master’s other biographical effort, structured like a Russian doll—“Pain and Glory” reveals its truth by peeling away layers, with thick cinematic artifice acting as a barrier to the raw nerves beneath. Unlike the earlier film, which is as an exorcism of unthinkable trauma, Almodóvar’s latest is grounded in love. There are twists and turns like any good melodrama; the surprises, however, come in the form people and objects that re-enter Salvador’s life to fill it with grace and meaning.
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In the role of Salvador, Banderas enters the pantheon of unforgettable Almodóvar performances. Salvador’s invalid condition may be introduced via a fabulous Saul Bass-inspired graphic interlude, but the burden is on Banderas to carry the agony of the maladies in his performance. It’s not just pain that’s expressed; in an unexpected encounter with a former lover, the totality of a relationship is communicated in a close-up of watery eyes and a gentle smile. When Salvador has a change of heart about the restored film, his doting assistant Mercedes (Nora Navas) remarks: “It’s your eyes that have changed. The film is the same.” Banderas’ turn shows us both the new and the old without uttering a word.
In the part of Salvador’s mother in the flashbacks, Penelope Cruz’s role is small but essential. One of the first images finds her alongside other women from the village, washing clothes and singing at the riverbed. Later carrying her family through a hardship that lands them in Paterna, she brings warmth and color to their new home. Cruz’s depiction is heartfelt and affectionate without being overstated or schmaltzy.
Almodóvar is well-known for the punchy, color-blocked art design of his films, and “Pain and Glory” delivers right from the gorgeous paint swirl opening titles. The film is breathtaking to watch, even with the action confined to a handful of locations: the Paterna cave dwelling of Salvador’s childhood, the starkly red-and-black theater in which Alberto performs, and the screening space of what is surely the funkiest cinémathèque in the world. It’s not just eye candy; the vibrant sets often serve as a counterpoint to Salvador’s physical anguish or the heroin-induced haze. Almodóvar’s Madrid on the whole, even without overstated establishing shots, is a legendary city of cinema; it’s a centerpiece here just as it is throughout his filmography.
Of course, the filmmaker has never shied from queer themes in his work, but never have they manifested with such warmth and intimacy. While not a coming-of-age film per se, “Pain and Glory” gestures towards young Salvador’s moment of self-recognition. As an adult, his identity as a gay man is discreet, the absence of a fulfilling romantic life both a symptom and a consequence of Salvador’s pain. Critical of her creative son lifting inspiration from real love, Salvador’s mother sharply notes, “I don’t like autofiction.” The degree of posterity and self-reflection on display in “Pain and Glory” suggests it’s a film that’s could not have come without suffering, and one Almodóvar could not have made without crossing the threshold of self-accepting salvation. [A]
