The Art of Pedro Almodóvar

As a new book on the bold visual style of the Spanish auteur hits shelves, Almodovar's creative director Juan Gatti explores the makings of a singular director-designer partnership

A Pedro Almodóvar film is instantly recognisable. “That sensibility for saturated colours, boldness, lack of aesthetic prejudices and kitsch wasn’t acquired on my travels, I was born with it,” says the director in his foreword to Almodóvar Art: The Art in the Films of Pedro Almodóvar, a new book released by Rizzoli this month.

Exploring the design of his films from pugnacious early gems like Dark Habits to mature masterworks like Volver and All About My Mother, the book has been lovingly compiled by his creative director, Juan Gatti, whose partnership with Almodóvar is one of the most prolific director-designer relationships. Together, they have created a saturated, madcap world that values expression over naturalism, mood over narrative. “Pedro conceives of his films as a complete aesthetic experience,” says Gatti, “so much so that he has created [his own] style. How many times have we seen something and thought, ‘This is so Almodóvar!’”

Almodóvar’s iconic visuals place him in the front rank of cinema’s auteurs. In his foreword, the director cites “the nouvelle vague, arthouse cinema of the early 70s, the black-and-white posters for Czech and Polish films” alongside “glam,” “trash” and “the easy listening aesthetic” as kindred spirits to his work, and his overweening sensibilities are key to what makes his work tick. “Pedro treats the colour of the wall, a vase or a lamp as if they were actors in the film,” says Gatti. “He feels that what surrounds the action and the costumes reinforces the identification of the characters. I think Pedro is the postmodern version of Visconti and [celebrated costume designer] Piero Tosi.”

Reflecting Almodóvar’s ability to absorb influences across disciplines, the book features artists from La Movida Madrileña, the countercultural movement that emerged in the years following Franco’s death in 1975. From the exuberant imagination of Guillermo Pérez Villalta to the dreamlike juxtapositions of Dis Berlin, the movement embraced experimentation, irreverence and creative excess, providing the political and cultural backdrop to Almodóvar’s vibrant and often audacious visual style.

That spirit of invention runs through Gatti’s posters, which distil each film to its emotional essence rather than its plot. “I detest those posters that try to tell the whole story of the film with photos of the actors, airplanes at the top, cars crashing in the middle and a city in flames at the bottom,” he says of modern photographic realism. Instead, his work embraces artifice and collage to create simple yet powerful iconography, combining bold colours with playful typography. “What interests me most is conveying the mood of the film,” he explains. “What I always try to do is convey the maximum with the fewest possible elements.”

Gatti’s poster for High Heels (1991) is a masterclass in visual economy. It features a single stiletto, the heel replaced by the barrel of a pistol. “The idea came to me on a flight,” Gatti recalls. “I sketched it on a paper napkin, and when I arrived in Paris I told the stylist, [Numéro magazine founder] Babeth Dijan, to run to Rue Saint-Denis and buy me a pair of shoes.” Gatti found a photo of the gun the next day, and the poster was born.

For Gatti, High Heels remains one of his finest collaborations with Almodóvar. “It is attractive to the public without revealing too much,” he says. It also embodies the pair’s shared rejection of the literal and the decorative. As Almodóvar writes in his foreword, “The aim of our aesthetic rule is that the objects, the works of art, even the actresses’ profiles, should be expressive, should have force. They should say something.”

Gatti’s book lays bare the painstaking level of precision that goes into every scene in Almodovar’s oeuvre, from the striking set designs of production designer Antxón Gómez to Gatti’s own logo concepts for the dance academy in Talk to Her (2002). Almodóvar’s interiors operate as psychological extensions of his characters with bold palettes, distinctive furniture and carefully selected objects shaping the emotional temperature of each scene. “They often go unnoticed because they’re sitting on a bookshelf,” the director explains. “I don’t show them in close-up, but I know they’re there.”

It’s this commitment to his craft that Gatti credits as the enduring force behind the collaboration. “We each remain interested in what’s happening, in what surprises us, and always in the desire to create something new.” But that does not always mean the process is smooth. “My relationship with Pedro is like that of an old married couple,” he explains. “It has its ups and downs, but it remains based on mutual respect.”

Forty years and 16 collaborations later, Almodóvar shows no sign of slowing; his latest feature, Bitter Christmas, opened in UK cinemas last month. Looking back, Gatti sees a clear evolution in their partnership. “When we were young we were more irreverent, carefree, and had a very active social life, closer to street life,” he says. “Now I see that we are increasingly withdrawing into ourselves, though without losing the rebelliousness and nonconformity that characterise us.”

Almodóvar Art: The Art in the Films of Pedro Almodóvar is out now, published by Rizzoli