When it comes to finding the truth of the human condition and all its earnest complexities, few directors are more adept than Pedro Almodóvar – his influence not only in his native Spain but in the entire film industry as a whole, is something that can never be overstated, to the point where his work has allowed him to be credited solely by a mononym, indicative of his status as one of the great artists of our time. It goes without saying that Almodóvar makes films that speak to the roots of existence, intricate dramas driven by ordinary characters in extraordinary situations, where his extraordinary understanding of the small peculiarities that govern life are navigated with the effortless ease that the director has shown himself to be fully capable of. The only disadvantage of being considered such a maestro of the cinematic art means that there’s always going to be some contention as to what the individual’s greatest work is – and while Almodóvar has certainly made numerous films that could qualify for this title, few of them come as close as Volver in demonstrating all of the filmmaker’s unique talents – his penchant for darkly comical humour, his understanding of the idiosyncrasies that define contemporary life and his tendency towards blending genres and convention in order to bolster the underlying intentions of his story. Volver is a powerful film, one that is simultaneously funny and heartbreaking, beautifully tender and unsettlingly jagged at times. A poetic tale of six women and their various secrets, Almodóvar has made a true masterpiece with Volver, which is relentless in its intelligence, beauty and overall brilliance.

One of the most distinctive qualities of Almodóvar’s cinematic career is his ability to write female characters – there aren’t many male filmmakers of his generation who seem to be so adept at constructing women who aren’t just mere archetypes or built from a set of literary conventions, but multidimensional, compelling characters all in their own right. It’s something that has defined his career and made the director responsible for some of the most fascinating characters in arthouse cinema history. Volver is one of his ensemble-driven films, and at the core we are presented with a set of women – sisters Sole (Lola Dueñas) and Raimunda (Penélope Cruz), her teenage daughter (Yohana Cobo) and their dementia-stricken aunt (Chus Lampreave), both of which share the name Paula. The older woman is aided by Agustina (Blanca Portillo), her sympathetic neighbour who has always been close to the family. However, beneath this seemingly tranquil veneer of a modern Mediterranean community lies a dark secret, which manifests in two events – the death of Tia Paula, and the arrival of Irene (Carmen Maura), the mother of Sole and Raimunda, who seemingly rises from the dead after having perished in a fire years before. Suddenly, the secrets that have been tightly-guarded by each of these women start to come forward, with the tensions that arise when they’re revealed threatening to do irreparable damage to the seemingly-strong relationships they share. Each of the six women harbours some piece of information that could profoundly change the lives of those who they’re closest to – the challenge is determining whether or not to make these facts known, with the promise of liberation conflicting with the risk of long-lasting despair.

Almodóvar’s work is almost incongruous from what we normally see from the kinds of films he makes – every aspect of his filmmaking is so impeccable, and he shows himself to be fully in command of his craft, which means every moment of his work is meticulously crafted. Volver sees many elements of his filmmaking career converging, creating a film that features the outrageous concepts of his earlier works, which often flirted with the transgressive, with his later films, which were defined by their melancholy approach to looking at life. Almodóvar has always been a filmmaker who has thrived on his honesty, and he is one of the few modern directors whose growth as an auteur we can clearly see – his maturation from adventurous provocateur to the masterful elder-statesman of modern European cinema doesn’t suggest a dulling of his style, but rather a growth of his perspective. Volver is the perfect intersection between the two sides of Almodóvar, with the director finding the delicate balance between them, and building a truly remarkable piece of storytelling from it, a film that ventures deep into the spirit of being, in a way that is moving without ever being overwrought. There is a reason why this is considered one of his defining masterworks, as it finds the filmmaker at his most creative, utilizing all of his skills as an artist to paint a compelling story that feels both bold and resonant, showing us a side of life that is rarely demonstrated with such profundity, heart and intricacy. Even the most discerning viewer will have trouble finding any trace of inauthenticity anywhere in Volver, as Almodóvar masters both the art of absurdism and magical realism, to the point where we are far too captivated by his beautifully unconventional perspective on life to even notice the moments of artistic liberty he so elegantly embraces.

In order to understand this film and the director’s intentions in telling this particular story, we can simply look towards the title – Volver means “to go back”, which seems to be a common theme throughout the film. There are a number of moments of returning that form the core of the film – the main plot centring on two sisters returning to the small village where they grew up, and being confronted with the overly-religious, superstitious mentalities that heavily contrast with their more urban lives. There’s the character of Irene, who returns from the dead (or so it would seem), seeking forgiveness from her daughters and the chance to make right all the misdeeds she did throughout her life. More than anything else, there’s a return to family, which is the driving force of the film, where the six women are driven together by the magnetic pull of familial bonds – even Agustina, who is not directly related to the rest of the characters, plays a pivotal role in showing how these character go back to the past in order to find answers to their specific quandaries, all of which are unexpectedly related. Almodóvar carefully curates the concept of returning in various ways, using it as a multilayered theme that permeates the film in both moments of everyday minutiae, or broad events that represent a seismic shift for these characters and their perspective. The centrepiece of the film is, unsurprisingly, a flamenco sung by Cruz entitled “Volver, Volver”, where she laments on the importance of returning to the past, because regardless of what pain it harbours, it tends to define us and how we view the world. This concept is imperative to the film, which isn’t only an effective family drama, but also a deeply compelling story of the metaphysical crossroads between the past and the present in the journey towards the future.

Of course, as tends to be par for the course for his remarkable films, Almodóvar composes an incredible cast, most of whom are part of his repertory group of regular collaborators, to interpret his magnificent story. Penélope Cruz, in her breakthrough performance, plays Raimunda, a woman broken by the past, quietly trying to rebuild herself despite the discomfort she feels towards her formative years. Cruz demonstrates all of her greatest qualities in this performance – her intensity that never comes across as forceful, but rather incredibly powerful, her unique sense of humour that is only bolstered by the character being caught somewhere between a neo-realist protagonist and the heroine of a cheap telenovela, and the sincere elegance that creates a truly unforgettable performance by one of the greatest actresses of her generation. She is joined by five other remarkable women, all of which give captivating performances on their own. Lola Dueñas is excellent as usual, taking on the more submissive, but far from inferior, character of Sole, who often tends to take the more rational position, even if she herself has her own individual problems that she endeavours to solve, often struggling due to her more reserved nature. The film is mostly told from the perspective of these two characters, and some of the most interesting commentary is that which isn’t particularly clear – the roots of their family do form the core of the film, but their actual relationship as sisters raised in two different homes, is strategically underplayed, with Almodóvar deliberately keeping their feelings vague – the film doesn’t thrive on their hostility, but on their shared differences, and it’s in the moments where the story implies certain facts about their past – such as Irene’s decision to reveal herself to Sole rather than Raimunda – gives the film a certain aloof mystery that forces us to look deeper, rather than having Almodóvar provide us with all the answers.

The rest of the cast is also excellent – Yohana Cobo is a revelation as the teenage daughter of Cruz’s character, demonstrating a maturity far beyond her years, and being responsible for some of the most poignant moments of the film. Blanca Portillo is terrific as well, taking on a role that may only start making an impact towards the end, but certainly leaves a lingering sense of almost ethereal melancholy, mainly due to the character being the bride between reality and speculative imagination. Of the veterans, Almodóvar casts two of the finest collaborators from his earlier work – Chus Lampreave may only appear for a few minutes, but is just as warm and endearing a presence as she always was, bringing an adorable sincerity to a character who exists mainly as a plot device than anything else. However, it’s Carmen Maura who dominates the film, playing the revenant mother who comes back from the dead to put her affairs in order and find solace from her two daughters, who she left behind after a tragic accident. It isn’t difficult to see why Maura was such a pivotal part of Almodóvar’s earlier films, and why their reunion was so significant – very few performers are able to grasp the intensity of the director’s work quite like her, with her natural vigour and mesmerizing personality allowing her to take on any of Almodóvar’s unconventional characters. Volver thrives on using Maura sparingly – her character is the emotional core of the film, and thus makes the most impact when she’s not overused. In fact, the film works because it divides the attention amongst all of the characters – oversaturation of a particular character often becomes a problem in ensemble films, with one or two figures dominating, but in this film, Almodóvar deftly avoids any bias in how he prioritizes these individuals – it’s a true ensemble effort, and a beautiful piece of acting from a gifted cast of veterans and newcomers.

Then, having all these independently brilliant elements, the magic of Volver comes in how Almodóvar puts everything together. His career has always been defined by his tendency towards telling ordinary stories in a very challenging way, and this film doesn’t deviate from this trend. The difference is that while he is once again taking on one particular aspect of the population in this story, this is one of the rare excursions where the director’s own background, even in something as marginal as the villages from which he originated, forms the core of the film. Almodóvar’s later career has many instances where he uses his own personal experiences as a way of constructing a story, not necessarily being autobiographical (with the exception of Pain and Glory), but as a way of creating a natural progression of the plot. He’s spoken out about the perception that he uses art as a therapy, and thus detaches this film from being entirely personal, but also not too distant to avoid it holding some semblance of the truth. It all goes towards creating a film that is filled with warmth and pathos but isn’t too focused on the theme of family to prevent Almodóvar’s exploration of some more difficult themes. Making a film composed of a set of very flawed characters is not easy, and to make them compelling without resorting to cliche is a challenge, but something the director proves himself more than capable of. There’s a certain nostalgia governing the film that can only be derived from a director who is fully in control, and whose artistic intentions are so natural and profoundly real, there’s no need to doubt the gravitas of the story.

Every filmmaker strives to achieve the profound ease Almodóvar demonstrates in his films – he makes the most complex and intimidating stories seem so simple and beautiful, weaving a colourful tapestry of the human condition that is as heartwarming as it is poetic. Very few filmmakers can attest to consistently capturing the cultural zeitgeist at the time of each of their films, but no one has proven to be more capable of this than Almodóvar, whose work never relents from a certain striking beauty that makes them singularly unforgettable experiences, and Volver finds him working from various sources of inspiration, drawing from memories of a particular kind of place that gives the film its warmth, as well as embracing his more transgressive style, where controversial topics such as deviant sexuality, murder and infidelity aren’t treated as enormous scandals, but rather realities that these women have to confront throughout the course of their lives, and live with the ramifications (especially if the guilt that comes with getting away with it isn’t enough). It’s a quiet but beautifully complex film that manages to find the humour in even the bleakest of situations and proves that there’s no one quite like Pedro Almodóvar when it comes to making films that enchant and provoke, often at the exact same time.