I never thought I’d say this, but Pedro Almodovar’s becoming a bit of a bore. Young Pedro would have made an absurdist-melodramatic volcano out of this material, and given it more emotional weight in the process than this weirdly self-serious, but rambling and static work. After promising at several junctures to soar, only Penelope Cruz (excellent, yes) shows fire, whether in Tony Perkins clean-up-the-murder mode, or singing flamenco. Occasional spurts of whimsy and collective joy – an Almodovar hallmark – merely show up the clumsy story, and the lack of real dramatic meat and younger Pedro’s earthy camp. A crushing disappointment.