Bad Education

Pedro Almodovar’s addition to the burgeoning sub-genre of films dealing with the Catholic Church and sexual abuse always promised to be a fascinating collision of subject matter and director. The great Iberian melodramatist may generally be more comfortable around the click of high heels – well, when the cameras are rolling anyway – but his cultural authority, his unrivalled grasp of sexual power and politics and his brilliance as a lurid storyteller are unique qualifications for tackling this thorny area. Besides, when was the last time Almodovar let you down?
Well, happy to report that Bad Education doesn’t deviate from form, for despite the grim controversy at the film’s heart, this is nothing like the sepia and (understandably) miserabilist approach taken by The Magdalene Sisters and Song For A Raggy Boy. It may be the former cartoonist’s most sedate offering since The Flower Of My Secret, but it’s still a whirlpool of gay noir, gaudy pop-art, heightened emotions and Hitchcockian intrigue – a bit like chasing a cosseted Montgomery Clift through the Guggenheim in a blonde wig.
The plot sees unforgivably purple-shirted, hot-shot director Enrique (Martinez) reunited with old school chum and first love Ignacio (Bernal) in order to shoot a movie based on their childhood. These less than halcyon days saw the latter boy sexually abused by a priest, inspiring double-crossings and deceptions as Almodovar strums up some noirish riffs and distorted book-within-the-film versions of the central characters.
The swift pacing and extravagant palate (check out the Warhol credits, the Hockney pool scene and the billions of crayons) doesn’t trivialise the protagonist’s plight whatsoever. The proceedings may be dressed up in what seems to be an old frock of Jane Wyman’s but the scenes depicting collusion between the Church authorities and their resident paedophile are genuinely chilling. This is a weepie in the best sense of the word then, and as with last year’s Far From Heaven, the queenish hysteria makes the film all the more affecting, while the trippy, slightly self-reflexive blackmail narrative is considerably more compelling than the usual litany of graphic abuse sequences. Indeed, nothing of the sort is depicted, but like the great sordid-but-covert incest dramas of classic Hollywood (think something like Suddenly, Last Summer or King’s Row – Ronald Reagan’s only splendid acting performance outside his political career) the lack of explicit visuals doesn’t make the film any less disquieting. Equally, though the typically mesmerising plot conveniently provides you with somewhere else to look, that’s not a bad thing in terms of art or entertainment.
This playful, seductive texture is fetchingly furthered by the principal boy. Gael Garcia Bernal’s doe-eyed garcon fatale sashays onto the screen like a select-breeding cross between Julia Roberts’ Erin Brockovich and Kim Novak’s trashier Judy incarnation from Vertigo. The Mexican firebrand completely justifies that current wave of adoration whether essaying a younger, naifish football fanatic, or putting out as a deadly, minxy prick-tease with a milkshake to bring all the boys to the yard.
Only Pedro Almodovar could fit that much wiggling and pouting into a film about Spain, religion and dreadful acts toward children. And remarkably you’ll still probably need tissues – or should that be eye-drops? – by the compassionate, tearful finale.