Bitter Christmas (2026) Review

Few filmmakers have spent as much time turning their own obsessions into art as Pedro Almodóvar. Across more than four decades, his films have returned to grief, desire, identity and the blurred line between reality and fiction, with filmmaking itself often part of the subject. If ‘Pain and Glory’ found Almodóvar looking back at his life, ‘Bitter Christmas’ finds him examining the process of transforming that life- and that of those around him- into cinema.

‘Bitter Christmas’ tells two stories simultaneously. Set in 2025, one follows Raúl, a film director struggling to write his latest screenplay, drawing inspiration from events from his own life and the lives of those he knows. The other, set in 2004, is the story he is writing, centred on Elsa, a famous director prone to panic attacks who similarly mines the lives of those closest to her for material. As reality increasingly finds its way into fiction, where does one end and the other begin? When does drawing on the experiences of friends and loved ones become an exploitation of their pain?

It’s an interesting question, though the film fails to meaningfully engage with it. Almodóvar’s best works are witty, colourful, full of life- ‘Bitter Christmas’ is comparatively dead on arrival and strangely inert. The two timelines ought to illuminate one another, yet they frequently feel like separate entities, with the 2004 story overwhelmingly dominant.

This is frustrating, as the 2025 material contains the film's most interesting idea: Raúl cannibalising the lives of those around him for fiction. It offers obvious potential for comedy, discomfort and an examination of artistic entitlement, but Almodóvar doesn’t exploit it. The ethical dilemma is there, without the drama to make us feel its implications.

The characters are similarly underdeveloped. While they all have backstories, they feel strangely hollow; nicely painted husks. Their histories merely tell us what has happened to them rather than who they are. There is an unintended irony to this: a film about an artist reducing other people's lives to dramatic material does the same thing itself. Its characters are vessels for themes rather than fully realised people.

More surprising still is how little of Almodóvar's familiar energy there is. His melodramas are traditionally enlivened by humour, eccentricity and tonal unpredictability. Here, even moments that should be funny or devastating arrive without much sense of comic timing or dramatic escalation. Things just happen without impact. Calling ‘Bitter Christmas’ slow therefore seems too generous: it is simply inert.

There is but one scene, a confrontation between Raúl and his former assistant Mónica, that has the power, humour and drama one might expect. Suddenly there is pace and genuine friction, with Mónica's accusation that Raúl has lost his creative spark allowing Almodóvar turn the film's gaze back upon himself. Has autobiography become a substitute for invention?

For the first time, the film's ideas emerge from its characters rather than being imposed upon them. Almodóvar's wit and self-awareness return- it is telling that the film only really comes to life when he simply allows two people converse believably. It is almost evidence for the prosecution: right at the end, Almodóvar demonstrates he has the qualities to make this work, but hasn't brought enough of them to the film itself.

Technically, however, there is a lot less to fault. Almodóvar’s films have always been gorgeous to look at; ‘Bitter Christmas’ is no exception. The use of colour is particularly striking, with vivid greens and blues bursting from Lanzarote’s black-sand beaches, while pink bookshelves, orange sweaters and other splashes of colour give the interiors a distinctive vibrancy. The framing is frequently inspired, too, with Almodóvar and cinematographer Pau Esteve Birba finding striking compositions throughout. Paco Delgado’s costume design is similarly impressive, again making expressive use of colour, while Alberto Iglesias’s score provides some suitably stirring accompaniment.

The editing is less successful. Proceedings are frequently ponderous, editor Teresa Font allowing scenes to linger long after their dramatic purpose is exhausted. A lengthy stripping sequence early on is particularly self-indulgent, contributing little beyond slowing the film down. It is a recurring problem: in a film already struggling for momentum, the leisurely pacing occasionally feels less like deliberate contemplation than an indulgence the material simply hasn't earned.

The cast all deliver though. As Elsa, Bárbara Lennie does strong work, handling both the character’s vulnerability and determination astutely. She gives Elsa a convincing emotional depth, particularly in moments of grief, while also conveying her growing fixation on the people and experiences around her. It’s never entirely clear whether she is motivated by genuine concern or the prospect of using them as material- Lennie keeps that ambiguity alive throughout.

Leonardo Sbaraglia is similarly effective as Raúl, capturing the filmmaker’s anxiety and creative frustration while also hinting at the self-importance beneath. It is a difficult balance, given that Raúl is effectively Almodóvar’s stand-in, but Sbaraglia never turns him into a caricature. Aitana Sánchez-Gijón is a standout, bringing considerable depth and, when the occasion demands it, bite to Mónica. Her confrontation with Raúl gives Sánchez-Gijón the opportunity to cut loose. She makes the most of it, injecting the film with a spark otherwise conspicuously absent. Victoria Luengo also impresses as Elsa’s friend Patricia, as do Patrick Criado and Milena Smit in smaller roles.

Pedro Almodóvar’s ‘Bitter Christmas’ is a frustratingly uneven misfire. Its examination of where autobiography ends and exploitation begins is potentially fascinating, and there are minute flashes of the Almodóvar of old scattered throughout. However, those ideas remain just that- ideas, rather than the foundation for a compelling drama. Beautifully crafted and well-acted though it may be, ‘Bitter Christmas’ feels oddly lifeless, leaving one to wonder whether Almodóvar has become so preoccupied with the process of making art that he has temporarily forgotten how to make the art itself. A bitter disappointment, then.