Matador (1986)

Matador is Almodóvar in full, fearless bloom: a lurid, elegant fever dream where desire and doom circle each other like dancers who know the music is dangerous and can’t stop anyway. It plays like a thriller shot through with wicked humor and surreal electricity, turning taboo impulses into something strangely poetic, propelled by the magnetic push-and-pull between Assumpta Serna and a young Antonio Banderas. The film’s gift is how confidently it commits to its own heightened reality—every glance, color, and gesture feels charged—so you’re not just watching a story, you’re surrendering to a mood. It’s definitely not for everyone given the explicit sexuality and violent themes, but if you’re on the fence and curious about provocative cinema that’s alive, mischievous, and unmistakably auteur-driven, this one hits like a darkly romantic jolt.

Matador is Almodóvar in early, feral mode: a lurid erotic thriller that’s trying to fuse desire, guilt, and death into one operatic fever dream. When it works, it’s stylishly perverse and oddly hypnotic, with committed performances (including a young Banderas) and a bold, taboo-poking energy that doesn’t apologize for itself. But it’s also convoluted and intentionally extreme, with a zig-zagging plot and shock-first sexual violence that can feel more like provocation than insight if you’re not on its wavelength. If you want a grounded thriller or you’re sensitive to explicit sex, attempted rape, and the whole sex-and-death fixation, this will likely feel sordid and alienating rather than thrilling.