Bitter Christmas — NYFF Review
Source: Sony Pictures Classics
While watching Pedro Almodóvar’s Bitter Christmas, I found myself thinking that it’s an enjoyable, sufficiently entertaining movie, but it definitely ranks lower than the vast majority of the auteur’s filmography. The funny thing is, Almodóvar himself seems to be cognizant of this and addresses it through the film’s self-reflexive humor. It’s a film that’s meta on multiple levels, almost to a fault. Almodóvar uses its layers of filmmaking-within-filmmaking to examine his own creative process and legacy, resulting in a film that is fascinating to think about, albeit forgettable. Bitter Christmas feels simultaneously deeply personal yet detached from the qualities that have often made Almodóvar’s films so distinctive and memorable.
Source: Sony Pictures Classics
The film follows Raúl Durán (Leonardo Sbaraglia), a celebrated filmmaker, as he struggles to write his next screenplay, Bitter Christmas. The film-within-the-film is partially based on his own life and the people in it. Set in 2004, it follows Elsa (Bárbara Lennie), a director who now works in advertising but is suddenly struck with the inspiration to write her next movie. However, the premise of a film about someone writing a film about someone writing a film can often get as convoluted as it sounds. Almodóvar does a great job of ensuring viewers can distinguish between the different storylines, but the structure makes it difficult to become emotionally invested in the characters.
Source: Sony Pictures Classics
What adds another layer to the film’s self-reflexive nature is how clearly Raúl seems to serve as a stand-in for Almodóvar himself. There’s an amusing irony in watching these characters struggle to write their respective screenplays while it feels as though Almodóvar was struggling with the idea for this film as well. At times, Bitter Christmas seems to blur the line between Raúl’s experiences and Almodóvar’s own career. For example, when Raúl’s assistant Mónica (Aitana Sánchez-Gijón) is angry with him for writing a character that feels a little too close to someone in her life, she tells him he should cut that storyline and make a short film instead, suggesting that it could be released through a streaming service like Netflix and that he could get by on the prestige of his previous work. It’s hard not to read this as a cheeky nod to Almodóvar’s short film Strange Way of Life (2023), which Netflix distributed.
Despite its clever meta-structure, the film’s constant self-awareness makes it feel as though it’s keeping the audience at arm’s length. Bitter Christmas still possesses Almodóvar’s signature melodrama, but it feels much more muted here. Perhaps constantly calling attention to the act of writing a film also makes it too obvious that the characters themselves are fictional, making it difficult to become fully immersed in their stories. As a result, the emotional beats don’t land as effectively as they do in some of the director’s best work. It’s funny, but not nearly as over-the-top and riotous as Almodóvar’s earlier films. Instead, most of the humor here is self-referential, but there isn’t quite enough of it to keep the audience laughing consistently. There are heartbreaking moments, too, but the film’s layered structure prevents them from having a substantial impact.
Source: Sony Pictures Classics
Visually, however, Bitter Christmas is unmistakably an Almodóvar film. The colors are rich and saturated throughout, with the production design and costumes lending the film a vibrant visual identity synonymous with Almodóvar’s work. It’s ironic that Elsa works in advertising, because the film made me want to go out and buy big, cozy sweaters in every color of the rainbow. Pau Esteve Birba’s cinematography is striking and makes sure the bold colors really pop. Almodóvar also teamed up with his frequent collaborator, composer Alberto Iglesias, whose score adds another layer of emotion and theatricality to the film.
Source: Sony Pictures Classics
At one point, Mónica tells Raúl that he has lost the spark in his eyes he used to have when he was obsessed and passionate about a story. It almost feels as though Almodóvar is acknowledging that the spark wasn’t there when he wrote the very film we’re watching. Bitter Christmas is still a solid film, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is missing. It’s an interesting exercise in autofiction and self-reflection, but it lacks the emotional intensity and outrageousness that make many of Almodóvar’s films unforgettable. It may not be his most memorable film, but it offers a fun meta-examination of the creative process and a filmmaker’s legacy.
Bitter Christmas will have its U.S. premiere at the 64th New York Film Festival on October 6, 2026.
