My column is about Pedro Almodovar's Broken Embraces, wherein I make good on my pledge made in this blog to draw in the waspy wisdom of the late La Sontag:
"Almodovar’s cinema is quite often ‘camp’, in the playful, discerning, hyper-aesthetic sense that was famously hymned by Susan Sontag. And yet camp, as Sontag also showed, is quite inimical to tragedy. Where it can excel is in conveying a kind of wistful regret for the transience of sexual passion and physical beauty. Almodovar does inject some of this feeling into the latter stages of Broken Embraces..."
As it happens, I saw that Pedro Almodovar walking through Leicester Square a fortnight ago, shortly after I had left an Esquire party, speaking of devils. He didn't look too cheery, but then maybe he'd had a bad flight, or a bad meal, or was in general finding the London summer altogether less appealing than Madrid's.