Portrait of the artist?“Pain and Glory” and the question of autobiographical art

FEDERICO FELLINI reckoned that “all art is autobiographical”. His masterpiece, “8 ½” (1963), told a whimsical story of a fictional film-maker looking back over his life as he struggles to complete a new work. Critics have long assumed that Pedro Almodóvar’s films have similarly drawn on his own personal history, partly because they have often centred on artists. He may well have taken some inspiration from Fellini for his latest movie, “Pain and Glory”, as it, too, follows an ageing film-maker in a creative rut. Mr Almodóvar initially insisted that the drama bore no relation to his own life. “I’m trying to convince myself I’m talking about a character,” he eventually conceded, “but deep down I know I’m talking about myself.”

Antonio Banderas—a longtime collaborator of Mr Almodóvar’s—plays Salvador Mallo, a celebrated director. In his twilight years, Mallo is suffering from a thousand minor maladies, including frequent headaches, back pain and the occasional coughing fit. To release him from his pain, he has developed a minor heroin habit. Unfit to work, and with no relationships to speak of, he takes refuge in memories of his childhood.

They come easily. Mallo remembers choir rehearsals at seminary school, where he first discovered his artistic talents. A dip in the swimming pool reminds him of his mother (Penélope Cruz) washing clothes in the river on a sunny afternoon. Mr Almodóvar employs a palate of bright primary colours in both timelines, avoiding the sepia tones that many film-makers use to connote memory. The past, as a result, feels as real and as vivid as the present.

As Mallo’s mind drifts back to the past, the past also comes back to meet him in a series of re-encounters. He visits an actor with whom he had a public falling-out—their relationship echoes the occasionally fractious real-life partnership between Mr Almodóvar and Mr Banderas—and lets him perform a one-act play he has been writing about an old lover. By chance, that lover (named Federico, perhaps as another sly nod to Fellini) sees the play and comes to Mallo’s home. As they catch up, they tiptoe around the subject of their regrets.

“Pain and Glory” is subtly crafted. It toys with the viewer, obfuscating and withholding information; links are clearly missing. Ms Cruz is introduced as Mallo’s mother in a flashback, but when the character reappears closer to the present day, she is played by a much older actress who looks and behaves nothing like her former iteration. The inconsistency draws attention to the imperfect nature of memory, as well as the warping effect of pain and opiates (though Mr Almodóvar later offers another explanation). The viewer is engrossed throughout, trying to fit the pieces of this puzzle together.

Mr Banderas makes the drama highly watchable by delivering an excellent physical performance. He moves gingerly, convincingly portraying a man betrayed by the body that once brought him, and others, much joy. When he crosses paths with a handsome man—any such man, even his doctor—he lights up with a youthful passion. With shy eyes that convey both coyness and pain, Mr Banderas reveals the sadness behind Mallo’s flirtatious nature.

Looking for insights into Mr Almodóvar’s life via the character of Mallo may well be a fool’s errand, and perhaps it makes for a simplistic reading. Yet Mallo’s primary compulsion is one that the director certainly shares. “Without film-making,” Mallo says, “my life is meaningless”. In “Pain and Glory” Mr Almodóvar critically examines a life lived entirely for cinema, and in his reverence of it, creates a new film worth celebrating.

“Pain and Glory” was released in America on October 4th