Snakes and Ladders: Climbing in Style, Falling Without Ideas

Unfortunately, with Snakes and Ladders, Manolo Caro makes it painfully clear that he's still determined to play at being 1990s Almodóvar. His creativity seems confined to shamelessly copying the loud, unmistakable aesthetic that Pedro Almodóvar perfected in films like Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!, High Heels, and Kika. At the start of that decade, Almodóvar was pushing the transgressive legacy of Warhol, John Waters, and Fassbinder to its limits. His cinema was modern, provocative, sharp. Caro’s, by contrast, feels like a sterile attempt to mimic that irreverence—and the result is clumsy, derivative, and soulless.

It seems Caro hasn't realized just how much Almodóvar has evolved since those years. The Spanish director left behind his hyper-colorful comedies long ago in favor of complex, emotional, even epic dramas. Meanwhile, Snakes and Ladders doesn’t seem to have moved much past The House of Flowers, Caro’s previous Netflix project, where his bold but unoriginal creative voice was already apparent.

In Snakes and Ladders, Caro rehashes the same visual tricks: vibrant colors, exaggerated contrasts, stylized shots that scream “transgression” but no longer surprise. He leans on the same elements that have now become clichés masked as provocation: “scandalous” homosexuality, sexual deviancy as narrative ornament, unattractive women framed as oddities, a supposed cultural war, and a cartoonish portrayal of the hypocrisy of both conservative right-wingers and liberal progressives.

As for casting, Cecilia Suárez reprises her role as Caro’s personal Carmen Maura, and Marimar Vega plays a sort of “abstract” Rossy de Palma—but without the charisma or the cultural context of Almodóvar’s iconic muses. Perhaps the most disappointing aspect of all is Caro’s failed attempt at delivering biting social commentary. The series comes off as a stylized—and watered-down—version of Luis Estrada’s Herod’s Law, but without the sharpness or irony. What Caro puts on the table isn’t a well-thought-out provocation, but a collection of occurrences disguised as ideas. What once felt novel now plays like a joke that’s been told a thousand times—without timing, without punch.

The character development is painfully shallow. Caro attempts to tackle controversial topics, sure, but does so so awkwardly that he ends up closer to the exploitative sensationalism of Epigmenio Ibarra than to the brilliance of Almodóvar. Ibarra doesn’t portray diversity—he parades it like a carnival show.

One character—a chocolate tycoon—is portrayed as a ridiculous blend of Ricardo Salinas Pliego and Willy Wonka. Spaniards are depicted as unhinged ultraconservatives, heirs of the so-called Yunque, plotting to “reconquer” Mexico. Indigenous communities are used as mere backdrops for “artisanal” products meant for profit. The alt-right is painted as the ultimate opportunist, exploiting sexual diversity as a political marketing tool. And the class struggle… is simply mishandled—especially considering that Bong Joon-ho’s Parasites already tackled the same theme, with crushing mastery, over five years ago.

Sure, watching Cecilia Suárez recycle her cartoonish expressions can be amusing at times, but in the end, Snakes and Ladders feels like what it is: a faded copy, a kind of Herod’s Law in pseudo-kitsch, “modern” mode… and just as much a failure.