‘Pedro x Javis’: A Tribute That Falls Short

As witnesses, we cannot lie: Pedro x Javis is a charming documentary, but it leaves you wanting more. The three-episode series about Pedro Almodóvar, directed by Javier Calvo and Javier Ambrossi, does not promise more than it delivers: it is a warm and empathetic tribute — and at times somewhat hagiographic — to the director who changed the course of Spanish cinema and also of a society emerging from the shadows. However, instead of delving deeply into the meaning of his cinema, the Javis tend towards trivial notes and unqualified admiration. It’s a legitimate choice, although perhaps not the most stimulating.

After a brilliant first episode, the following two leave a feeling of a missed opportunity. The presence of figures like Penélope Cruz or Antonio Banderas translates into a series of endearing anecdotes, but scarcely revealing. “What is your favorite memory of Volver?” the Javis ask the actress with an excess of lightness. The series is structured around six central themes in Almodóvar’s work — friends, mothers, law, desire, death, cinema — which may remind one of the great video installation created by Almodóvar himself for the Academy Museum in Los Angeles, where some of these motifs were explored without the need for words, with the image as the only language. Here, on the other hand, the three-episode format falls short: too brief to allow for a thorough reading, yet too long not to demand more depth.

Nevertheless, Pedro x Javis contains some memorable moments. The best intuition of its creators lies in updating Almodóvar’s repertoire through live musical performances and luxurious set designs, capsules of suspended emotion that reference the melodramatic roots of his cinema. The appearance of Luz Casal at the end of the first episode — with a rougher, almost raw version of Piensa en mí — is unforgettable. Just like Nathy Peluso with Puro teatro, Guitarricadelafuente with Cucurrucucú Paloma, or Amaia singing Volver in the final segment, while Penélope Cruz watches her from a car with tears in her eyes. It is in those moments, brief yet vibrant, that this tribute touches the pure feeling of Almodóvar’s cinema.

Despite its successes, the series presents a parallel between master and disciples that is not always fortunate, as if a shared sensitivity were enough to justify the analogy. The Javis themselves admit that their filmography consists of only one feature film — La llamada, a pop reinterpretation of Almodóvar’s religious imagery that pales in comparison to the audacity of Entre tinieblas — and three series (of high quality, it should be noted). “I don’t want to talk about envy, but there was a strange clash,” says Almodóvar about his relationship with the Spanish public in the eighties, when he went from being a wild figure of the Madrid underground who shot in Super 8 to being nominated for an Oscar. Ambrossi sees himself in him: “When it seems like a joke, everyone is supportive. But when it starts to be a serious career, some people see you as competition.” A more demanding analysis of the scandal of his work, its cultural blasphemy, and also its enormous artistic ambition is missed. In that sense, the comparison between the two trajectories does not hold.

Behind the Scenes

The staging adopts an informal and spontaneous tone, with dynamic shots, changing backdrops, and constant access to behind-the-scenes, evoking the festive and creative chaos of the early Movida. This disordered air allows for avoiding the tired resource of the talking head, but its expressive potential does not articulate clearly. The most valuable aspect of the device is that it allows the occasional, discreet yet always stellar appearance of Brays Efe, whose voice — along with that of his co-writer, Paloma Rando — hints at the origin of the best observations made by the Javis, such as the recurring presence of police in his cinema or the director’s identification with the feminine. “Like Tennessee Williams, Antonio Gala, and Lorca,” Almodóvar confirms, admitting to seeing himself reflected, more candidly than usual, in Pepa from Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios.

Among the many talents of the Javis, being great interviewers is not one of them — and it’s almost better that way: one appreciates that they leave something for others — but they take advantage of their closeness to their protagonist, allowing them to gain certain confidences. Almodóvar acknowledges that Kika and Los amantes pasajeros are among his least successful titles. He champions his first three films as the foundations of an unparalleled filmography, but identifies his turning point in Todo sobre mi madre, Hable con ella, and La mala educación, which he describes as “the three jewels of my crown,” without false modesty. There are also nods to his mother — who reveals that she was paid for her appearances in his films — and to his father, a figure who remains elusive, evoked here with tenderness: a muleteer, a man of the field, an animal lover, hidden behind the scene of the sick horse in ¡Átame!.

The series features everyone who was supposed to be there: Rossy de Palma, Bibiana Fernández, Loles León, Julieta Serrano, Leonor Watling, Lola Dueñas, Carmen Machi, Alberto Iglesias, José Luis Alcaine, Agustín Almodóvar… Only two essential figures are missing: Carmen Maura, whose absence we still experience like traumatized children from our parents’ divorce, and Victoria Abril, without whom the Almodóvar map remains incomplete. We leave the series with an impression: it is hard to understand that at this stage, there is still no essential study — be it a book or a documentary — that has tackled Almodóvar’s cinema in all its complexity. This was neither the mission nor the ambition of Pedro x Javis, which acts as a friendly substitute, a summer refreshment suitable for all audiences, awaiting a more lucid and penetrating reading that explains why Pedro Almodóvar is not just an important director, but the most luminous and radical anomaly in the history of Spanish cinema.