Review of The Skin I Live In (2011) by Blake P — 22 Apr 2015

There's a scene in 1943's "Old Acquaintance" in which Bette Davis flies into a melodramatic rage (surprise surprise). This rage, however, is different from all the other Oscar-baiting ones. She doesn't act like Alexis Carrington or some other miserable cat who has a way with venomous words; she instead uses every ounce of her conserved up hatred to grab the villain of the film (Miriam Hopkins) by the shoulders and shake her like she's a ketchup bottle with just a few droplets left to spare. Hardly subtle; lip-smackingly entertaining. We absorb it.

In an Almodóvar film, a moment like this is almost a given, in the most ironic subversion, that is. He enjoys Sirk, Hitchcock, and their cohorts, dramatizing their Technicolor guises and steroiding their hammy, soap operatic storylines. His movies sometimes go down dark paths, but they frequently drive 120 miles-per-hour through sickeningly funny ones too. No matter the brassy façade, though, they are always deliriously enjoyable, slightly bonkers but whip-smart, completely deliberate in their actions and definitely aware of how they're coming across. His best ("Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown", "All About My Mother") are masterpieces of gaudy style and sexual energy; his worst still contain gaudy style and sexual energy, but the results aren't quite so good at being, I don't know, enjoyable.

"The Skin I Live In" is not his best nor his worst; undoubtedly, it is his most grotesque. Whereas his past projects have included differing shades of erotic obsession and a wandering eye for the human body, "The Skin I Live In" combines the two with turbulent malignancy. Camp is to be found, and so is dark humor, but new to Almodóvar is the sheer repulsiveness that regularly comes to visit, unwanted most of the time. It also has a story that pushes the boundaries of the absurd (and for Almodóvar that's saying something), and it doesn't work as well here as it has in the past. However many issues the film has, though, it is still an aberrant thriller of merciless style; it works, warts, sex changes, face transplants and all.

At the center of "The Skin I Live In" is Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas), a brooding scientist obsessed with creating indestructible skin in the wake of his wife's fiery death. In an "Eyes Without a Face" twist, he is not testing on various young women but rather one, a beauty whom he calls Vera (Elena Anaya). Vera is kept locked in a wide-open room, wearing a flesh-colored body suit at all times, given food through a dumbwaiter. She is a guinea pig, albeit a well-treated one, to Robert's tests.

Also dwelling in this house of horrors is Marilia (Marisa Parades), his faithful servant who may have a few secrets of her own. But right when we begin to think that we have a grip on the relationship between these people, Almodóvar backhands some sense into us. Before we know it, things start to get complicated, more complicated than we ever could have imagined.

I wish I could complain to you about how ridiculous this movie gets -- it truly gets ridiculous -- but "The Skin I Live In" is much too visceral of an experience to spoil. The twists are not regular twists, rather drive-offs of 1,000 feet cliffs that land in the Mediterranean Sea. You have to see, hear, and feel them for yourself. Dramatic, yes, but cliffdroppers like this only exist in the season premieres of something like "Dallas" or the pop of a Korean soap. The music is static and technological (a surprise for an Almodóvar film), and the actors somehow manage to handle their director's just go with it attitude (in return, Banderas gives an underrated performance).

A film as well assembled as "The Skin I Live In" does not get an average rating in the normal sense; it gets an average rating by comparison to Almodóvar's other movies. It might not be as lovable as "Volver", let's say, but there is still plenty to appreciate. The work of an auteur always has something to behold, even if it's "Topaz" or "Passion". Fans will be pleased to find Almodóvar trading his usual reds and oranges for a more blued palette; newcomers will be stunned by the jarring cinematography and the overripe plot. It's certainly grotesque -- but at least it's masterfully so.