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'You're pulling my leg,' says one character when the events of Almodovar's seventh movie are explained to him: suffice to say this is a frantic screwball farce (with the odd serious moment), involving a voice-over actress, a cell of Shiite terrorists, the least successful viewing of a rental property in Spanish history and a jug of gazpacho soup spiked with tranquilisers. Starts slow, but accelerates rapidly once it gets into its stride.

Almodovar is coming into his stride as a film-maker and his classic style has more or less appeared by this point: the film is full of strong but vulnerable women (the men are feckless or stupid and generally not worth bothering with), the whole thing is bursting with colour and compassion, and the plotting is rather preposterous even before we consider the outrageous coincidences peppering the film. Very entertaining; if not quite one of Almodovar's best movies, then an important step on the way there.