Written by Nate Cope, Edited by Issy Smith

Everything about Pain and Glory (Pedro Almodóvar, 2019) is remarkable and deeply moving; from the use of colour, to the acting, to the cinematography. But more than anything, the line “Love is not enough. Love may move mountains… But it is not enough to save the person you love” is to me, one of the defining moments of this film. It is a line that in itself is cynical in a brutally honest, yet beautifully poetic way. This fleeting moment of intimate, yet deeply melancholic, sentimentality shared between two old lovers is what makes this film so incredibly touching to watch. Amid the melodrama of the string-heavy soundtrack, and the brave uses of vivid colour within the mise en scène, it adds yet another layer of raw humanity to the narrative. A humanity that is not overstated, but instead an honest and nuanced portrayal of hurt and the human condition.

It is moments like this that imbue the film with an immense and moving nostalgia, created not only through the glimpses into protagonist Salvador’s past, but also the ruminative quality it holds as he reflects upon the formative loves and losses of his life. Almodóvar considers and explores the intrinsic links between desire and art, particularly in terms of how Salvador’s revisiting of the past leads to the eventual development of what at many moments appears to be a painful and stagnant present. This delicate yet affecting exploration of queer temporality and desire aims to look in hindsight at developmental moments in one’s youth that begin to define an existence. Crucially, this representation of queer desire and self-discovery is one of great importance for LGBTQ+ audiences, as the process of curiously realising first desire is a widely recognised experience that many queer people can empathise with. This makes the scene in which Salvador realises his attraction to Eduardo in many ways a familiar one for the LGBTQ+ community. Additionally, it is refreshing to see depictions of queer characters that are not hyperbolic or stereotypical in their representations of sexuality and desire; Almodóvar, as a gay director, strays away from a fetishistic or overly sexualised queer male gaze, adopting instead one of subtle tenderness.

It is through this gaze that we see how the revisiting of his past puts back together piece by piece the fractured mosaic of pain that is Salvador’s body, and by extension, his existence. Pain and Glory in many ways addresses what it means to suffer, and to witness the people you love suffer, as Almodóvar explores crucial points in Salvador’s life in which he witnesses the deterioration of those dearest to him. This is most apparent when he looks retrospectively on his first relationship with Federico, perhaps doomed to fail due to addiction, yet this doesn’t stop Salvador’s desperate attempts to save them. The lasting physical and mental effects of this loss, along with the deterioration and ultimate demise of his mother, seem to indicate that Salvador’s experiences with the struggles and plights of those he cares about transpose long term onto his broken state of existence. Salvador’s emotional pain directly parallels his physical pain, and the nature of queer temporality results in him living alone and recklessly, much like an angst-ridden teenager experiencing growing pains. This is a state he only breaks out of by looking retrospectively into his past losses in order to reevaluate his present, as it is this reflection that reignites his desire to create and provides eventual salvation.

Pain and Glory is currently available for streaming via Mubi’s library.