Matador

Essentially seen by many as a warped sex fantasy that uses the codes and conventions of the detective thriller to disguise a darker, more psychological film about the wayward perversions and sinister desires of a seemingly affluent area of contemporary Madrid; Matador (1986) can also be seen as a not-so-subtle comment on the nature of modern-day relationships, aspirations and obsessions in a meta-textual form that makes continual use of its titular, bullfighting motif. Although it does have some slight thematic problems, particularly in terms of the overall tone of the film and eventual motivation of the characters, it is, nonetheless, one of Almodóvar's most interesting and perplexing films of this particular period; featuring a refinement of many of his earliest interests and characteristics from films like Dark Habits (1983) and What Have I Done to Deserve This? (1984), as well as being the film that signalled the move into the second phase of his career.

As the implications of the title would suggest, the film's narrative is bolstered by numerous references, both spoken and visual, to the obvious role-play and iconography of the bullfight. It is also a film about violence, and the sexuality of violence; an uncomfortable idea that is reinforced by the film's provocative opening sequence, in which we find the central matador of the title, Diego Montes, masturbating to violent scenes of exploitation cinema. The scene establishes the nature of the matador, both as a character and as a social phenomenon, as well as introducing the link between sex and death that will come to form an important thematic strand to the narrative. As the story progresses, the mechanisms of the drama conspire to throw together two separate characters that come to complement the unspoken desires and murderous lust that they seemingly share with one another, with the eventual courtship and inevitable seduction presented by the director as a surrogate bullfight in its self.

Where the film falls apart slightly is in the presentation of the character played by Antonio Banderas, a hyper-sensitive, implied homosexual who idolises the matador to the extent that he actually attempts to rape his young, fashion-model girlfriend (an act that eventually leads him to confess to a string of serial killings as a result of his mother's enforced, catholic guilt). It is a complex character, impeccably performed by the young Banderas, but his appearance ultimately sends the film off on a tangent that detracts from the central crux of the drama. Though the inclusion of this subplot does allow Almodóvar the chance to make a satirical comment on the nature of everything from fashion, to religion, sexuality, etc, these themes often feel like they've been handpicked from a completely different film, not always complimenting the central story, and too often leading it in directions that in the end feel unfinished or slightly unformed. Many of these loose ends can be glossed over, while some (the last minute implication of "second sight" as suggested by a solar eclipse) really seem to come out of leftfield.

Nevertheless, these are minor criticisms that don't necessarily destroy the ultimate intentions of the film - which really only become clear in the final scene - or the fantastic direction of Almodóvar and the performances of his cast. Although Matador certainly has its flaws (not to mention its detractors), it is, in my opinion, a fine little film and one of Almodóvar's most original and audacious creations. The performances are all incredibly committed, including the central pairing of Assumpta Serna and the late Nacho Martínez, as well the fine support from Banderas, the gorgeous Eva Cobo and Almodóvar regulars Carman Maura and Eusebio Poncela; whilst the central idea behind the script and the bold stokes of the director's intuitive grasp of the various film-making processes further refines and develops a number of themes that have come to be at the forefront of Almodóvar's career for the last twenty-five years.

If you're a fan of Pedro Almodovar, you'll love this one from 1986.. filmed in Madrid, it has all the usual elements: offbeat characters who meet up and get even crazier, like atoms smashing together. when a young matador Angel (Antonio Banderas at 26) thinks his heroes have committed crimes, he confesses to them to take the fall. watch that opening scene.. .pretty rough stuff: (simulated) sex, nudity, and murder, all in one. his lawyer has her own kinky issues, and wants to defend Angel. Look for the usual Almodovar cast, with Carmen Maura and Chus Lampreave. Assumpta Serna is the sexy, flirty, over-sexed Maria. and the gory bullfights, which play a big part in the story. Secrets. everyone has their secret. which ones will come out? Liaisons... more secrets. will the police find the real killer(s)? it's very good. intrigue.

Matador is one of the strangest, darkest, (and yet compelling) early films from Spanish master filmmaker Pedro Amoldovar.

It is completely nuts.

Pour in equal measures of sadism, masochism, bullfighting, perverted sexuality, and sexual violence. Add in a splash of comedy and soupcon of star-crossed lovers (if, for a moment, you thought pairing Tybalt and Lady McBeth qualified as star-crossed) and you have what passes as characterisation. Mix dark nights with gaudy flamenco colours and you have some striking cinematography. I'll come to the plot in a minute…

Amoldovar was clearly enjoying Spanish cinema's new-found, post-Franco sexual and artistic liberalism. The prudish among his audience might suggest he was positively wallowing in it. Whatever the truth, Matador is a masterpiece of his style, if not, indeed, a whole style in of itself.

The plot – or possibly a better description, the tapestry over which the characters move – is a murder hunt. Very few prizes will be won, however, for guessing the culprit/s. Two people are quickly in the audience's frame because they are shown… er… murdering people on camera. A third person (Banderas, in to my mind his best Amoldovar role) confesses to the murders in a fit of insecurity and remorse over an attempted rape ("some girls get all the luck" comments a female duty officer dryly, proving that feminism wasn't that big in Spain back in the 1980s). Nevertheless, the net soon closes on the crushingly obvious culprits (who in the meantime have developed quite a crush on each other). As previously mentioned, completely nuts.

Matador's strengths are in its characterisation and its sheer bare-facedness. Amoldovar has, as usual, assembled a character list of freaks and proceeded to humanise all of them – to the point where there is a genuine whiff of tragedy in the final act. To mention the great performances is really to rehearse the cast list. Assumpta Serna, Nacho Martinez, Antonio Banderas and Eva Cobo are all excellent. And it really is worth seeing, just for the young Antonio.

There are some interesting points made in the film about outsiders, liberalism, sexual politics and gender politics (as always with Amoldovar). I'll let you pick through them. It is, though, not so much a film as a giant red rag to the raging bull of conservatism, deftly whisked aside to the ragged applause of an admiring, if somewhat perplexed, audience. A positive Jimi Hendrix of a film, unpolished, with some definite dud notes, but undeniably the work of a genius. 8½/ 10

The connection between sex and death is not a novel one. Elizabethan poetry would occasionally use the latter as a metaphor for the former. Pedro Almodóvar's sixth feature is about three people who have erased the line between the two: Nacho Martinez, a matador gored in the ring, who now teaches students on the art; Antonio Banderas, one of his pupils; and Assumpta Serna, a lawyer defending Banderas who is charged with raping and killing two girls.

In other words, it's one of Almodóvar's movies about the weird kinks of the world. This time, however, he is not concerned with the people at the edge of Spanish society, but at the center of the normal world... assuming there is such a thing. We are all weird, we all act outside the norms, and the people we respect can be the most bizarre.

It's rather slow-moving for one of his movies, probably because this is not one of his shock comedies - although there are comic elements. Visually, it is sumptuous, with a focus on colors, particularly bright reds that draw one's eyes. Miss Serna is a sharp dresser, and she wears a cape in several scenes, which she whirls like a bullfighter going in for the kill.

Is Almodóvar decrying bullfighting? Or in favor of consensual activity of whatever sort? Has he simply presented his bizarre story, and left his audience to draw the moral conclusions it chooses? Or is this simply the sort of story he likes to tell? I think the last is true, but there's nothing simple about it.

I am not sure what to expect when the opening scene is a man masturbating to torture porn, a term that was probably not even invented in 1988.

From there we go to alternating clips of Antonio Banderas asking the ex-bullfighter Nacho Martínez about women and he compares getting a woman to bullfighting, while we watch someone do exactly that. We are no, of course, prepared for the necrophilia twist in that encounter.

We find our boy, Antonio, and he is a boy in this film, in a strict Catholic household. I would have to guess that his mother was Opus Dei. He attempts to rape his neighbor and confesses to four murders which we know he did not do. This is just Almodóvar's take on religion and repression. He revisits that subjects again in the film, so it must me a theme for him.

But, then the story shifts to Nacho and Assumpta Serna, with Eva Cobo in a minor role. This is where the story gets interesting with the police trying to solve the four murders and the real murderers trying to lay it on Antonio.

It gets bizarre at the end with Antonio seeing the killers in his mind and leading the police to them. But, they arrive too late as the climax of sex and death occurs simultaneous with an eclipse. How weird is that?