Isolation has had its way with us all now for a year. We have spiraled. We have made ill-advised phone calls. We have felt like the last person on earth for days on end. Perhaps we have not gone power tool shopping in dark sunglasses and then taken our new axe to the clothing an unscrupulous ex-lover left hanging in the apartment. But that’s where Pedro Almodóvar’s newest short film, showing on a double bill at the Music Box with the Spanish auteur’s classic Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988), invites us to go—and in these loneliest and strangest of days, it is a shorter leap than ever. All the standard ingredients of an Almodóvar fable of deviant morality are here: pills, opulent décor, the color red, and a murder weapon. Tilda Swinton steers her extended lyrical speech over a bad cell phone connection as close to the sun as it will go, then crashes it into bathos, then twirls it back to life: “Your letters? No! How could I burn them? I’ve put them in a little Chanel case.” Almodóvar’s language and story make free use of Jean Cocteau’s 1930 play The Human Voice, also a source for Women on the Verge and the director’s earlier Law of Desire (1987). Cocteau’s format, the monodrama, always iffy territory in movies, feels not just inevitable but captivating here. Swinton’s exquisite performance would have been a gift to watch in any year, but it is especially welcome now as a study in loneliness, hers and ours.