Art imitates life and life imitates art in an unending Möbius strip in Bitter Christmas, which premiered in competition at Cannes before playing at the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival, and is now playing in Prague cinemas (and with English subtitles at Kino Světozor, Kino Aero, Kino Lucerna and Bio Oko).
Don’t be put off by the lukewarm festival reception: bolstered by striking performances, gorgeous visual flourishes, intense editing and an operatic soundtrack, this latest film from Pedro Almodóvar works at the level of a Hitchcockian thriller and represents the director’s finest film in years, since at least 2019’s Pain and Glory or even 2011’s The Skin I Live In. The only thing that might keep some viewers from fully investing is a self-indulgent script that lacks narrative weight… or seems to, at least on the surface.
Still, in the genre of films about filmmakers, Bitter Christmas is a delicious puzzle box about the pervasive relationship between real life and fiction, presented with a wink by a filmmaker at the very top of his game.
Bitter Christmas stars Leonardo Sbaraglia as Raúl Rossetti, an acclaimed Spanish screenwriter who has reached a creative impasse. With no new project on the horizon, Raúl turns to his own life, and the lives of those closest to him, for inspiration, writing a screenplay that draws on the experiences of his longtime friend and assistant Mónica (Aitana Sánchez-Gijón), as well as his partner Santi (Quim Gutiérrez).
But most of Bitter Christmas centers on Elsa (Bárbara Lennie), the cult filmmaker at the heart of Raúl’s evolving script who has turned to advertising after a pair of unsuccessful movies. Living in Madrid in 2004, Elsa is dealing with migraines, panic attacks and the death of her mother while maintaining a relationship with Bonifacio (Patrick Criado), a firefighter who moonlights as a stripper. Her friends Patricia (Victoria Luengo) and Natalia (Milena Smit) provide further raw material as Elsa begins writing her own screenplay.
The layers keep multiplying: Raúl is writing Elsa, Elsa is writing about her friends, and the real-life people surrounding Raúl begin to recognize themselves in his fiction. Almodóvar keeps shifting between these narrative planes with considerable dexterity, gradually revealing how much of what we are watching has been borrowed, transformed or outright appropriated. Almodóvar beautifully weaves the fictional and real-life worlds together, allowing the audience to gradually work out what is actually driving the narrative and how the two stories reflect one another.
The catch is that there isn’t much surface tension outside of those moments of confrontation when characters recognize themselves in the fiction. The protagonists are largely dealing with creative and personal dilemmas that will have more resonance for writers, filmmakers and other artists than for audiences who don’t identify with the question of where the line between inspiration and exploitation should be drawn. The film is fascinating to watch, but it doesn’t always give us much to care about. But Almodóvar has constructed Bitter Christmas with such extraordinary precision that the film can carry us through its quieter stretches almost entirely on craft.
Cinematographer Pau Esteve Birba makes gorgeous use of widescreen compositions across urban Madrid and the volcanic landscapes of the Canary Islands, while production design and costumes turn virtually every frame into an immaculate composition. Almodóvar’s trademark use of color remains as vivid as ever, with bold reds, yellows, pinks and blues contrasting against the stark ashen landscapes of Lanzarote.
At a time when the look of so many contemporary movies has become increasingly dark, desaturated and generically digital, Bitter Christmas is a reminder of how powerful deliberate visual composition can be. Every location feels considered, every shot seems intentional, and the film has a genuinely cinematic quality that recalls the great Spanish director’s finest work.
The editing by Teresa Font is similarly impressive, particularly in the transitions between the film’s two timelines and narrative realities. Scenes often seem to bleed into one another, reinforcing the film’s central idea that life and fiction are never quite as separate as we might like to believe.
But the standout here is Alberto Iglesias’ score, one of the best of the year and easily deserving of awards consideration. His operatic compositions recall the kind of music Bernard Herrmann once wrote for Alfred Hitchcock, simultaneously heightening the suspense and seducing us into a story that sometimes lacks that inherent dramatic pull on the page. The music and images work together so beautifully that they occasionally manufacture tension where the screenplay itself does not.
Sbaraglia brings warmth and melancholy to Raúl, making his creative paralysis feel more human than the character’s self-absorption might otherwise suggest. Lennie is terrific as Elsa, giving the fictional filmmaker a prickly intelligence and vulnerability, while Sánchez-Gijón gets the film’s biggest opportunity to erupt during a late confrontation with Raúl.
For the film’s occasional narrative evasiveness, there is something exhilarating about watching Almodóvar engage so directly with the nature of his own art. Bitter Christmas may not have the emotional immediacy of Pain and Glory, nor the narrative propulsion of some of his most celebrated thrillers, but it is a remarkably assured work from a filmmaker examining his own creative process from multiple angles.
The result is both deliciously clever and deliberately elusive: a movie about artists turning other people’s lives into stories that is itself constantly turning stories back into life. The lack of conventional stakes may leave some viewers cold, and it can occasionally feel indulgent, but Almodóvar’s command of the medium remains impeccable. For viewers interested in the messy relationship between creators and their creations, Bitter Christmas presents a richly layered holiday feast.
