Three decades ago, an impoverished young actor named Antonio Banderas was sitting with friends outside Madrid's National theatre when a curious figure happened by. The new arrival sported a backcombed goth bouffant and brandished a bright red briefcase that could only contain documents of national importance.
He ordered a drink, cracked some jokes then turned abruptly towards Banderas. "You have a very romantic face," he said. "You should do movies. Bye-bye!" And with that he was off, swinging his briefcase through the crowds on the Calle del Principe.
Nonplussed, Banderas turned to his friends. "Oh, that's Pedro Almodóvar," they told him. "He made a movie once. But he won't make any more."