The Skin I Live In - Film Review

Bold, daring, brave and maverick, there's very little that reknowned Director Pedro Almodovar is afraid to touch, and as things go there's very little his fingers brush that doesn't turn to gold. Case in point, The Skin I Live In, very loosely based on Thierry Jonquet's novelella 'Tarantula'.

Plaudited as one of the films of last year, and winner of the Best Foreign Language Film Bafta, Almodovar's tale of revenge, conflicted souls, surreal normality and instability is quiet possibly one of the most shocking and powerfully thought provoking of the new decade.

Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas) is a highly successful, hugely rich plastic surgeon inhabiting a rolling estate outside of Toledo, one part his home and one part the clinic where he conducts his experiments into transgenesis (manipulating human tissue). Also sharing the house are a team of servants, led by old family friend and confidante Marilia (Marisa Paredes), who tend to the needs of the other inhabitant, a mysterious and beautiful young woman, Vera (Elena Anaya), who lives a strange life as a semi-prisoner, part captive and part treasured guinea pig of Robert.

A pall of ugly secrets and unspoken truths surround the house, and around Robert himself, especially after his most recent, ethically suspect ventures are shot down by his superiors. A widower, Robert's feelings towards Vera become complicated after his work on her is complete, at which point she is supposedly 'perfect'. It seems she cannot be allowed to leave, and faces life in a state of limbo in her master's possession.

This entanglement of emotion is thrown into chaos upon the arrival of Marilia's long lost son, Zeca 'The Tiger' (Robert Alamo), who forces his way into the home demanding treatment from the doctor, and becomes instantly enraptured by Vera, who he is convinced is somebody else...somebody that everybody concerned knows except Vera herself. After things come to a violent climax, Vera finds solace in Robert's arms, and as they share a bed, they think back to the chain of events which led them to that point, and the astonishing, devastating truth is revealed about just who the pristine girl truly is, and was.

It's best to note as early as possible that, although it's not a gimmicky twists and turns film, and certainly isn't presented as such, the plot revelation, which is a total game changer (and head spinner) that occurs over halfway through is what The Skin I Live In is fated to be best known for, and the implications of the shock moment are such that it's very difficult to fuly describe the film without revealing it, intentionally or otherwise. But, rest assured, the story this twist is tied into thrives because of it, rather than it being a boost of attention.

The plot itself, which deviates heavily from Joquet's source material but retains its basic traits, is a slow winding and human story, a dual character study for Robert and Vera, both of whom are fleshed out heavily but with subtlety. There is little judgement from Almodovar, despite the moral complexities and philosophical rigmarole, who like Mallick in Badlands instead chooses to employ a detached, objective focus on the two people at the centre of a windy, dreamlike tale.

We are introduced to both through Vera's dysfunctional existence, cut off from all but Robert in an isolated wing of the house, receiving food and clothes through a dumb waiter, while the questionable surgeon is giving talks about the power of reconstructive surgery. Her suicide attempts are not seen as out of the ordinary, and nor is her strangely loyal behaviour and utter dependance, the lack of resistance or fighting back. We learn small amounts through these dribs and drabs, though never quite as much as we'd like.

It's not until the flashbacks occur that we begin to understand the background of the pair, grasping the substance of their relationship and the origins, that clarity begins to make sense. It's here that the is a shocking, shuddering halt, a mind boggling event passed off as matter of factly as all that has preceded it, which completely changes the complexion of the film, drastically alters our perceptions and opinions, and adds nightmare fuel to the final stages when resolution comes a'knockin.

The way in which this is handled by Almodovar is extraordinary, with such natural storytelling poise that is lacking in modern day Directors. What would be pushed as the M.Night moment, or the Crying Game moment, by some is just treated as par to the course for the veteran with a sense of logical bluntness, as if he is saying to the viewer "What? You didn't know this already?".
Similarly, the scripting leading up to this event is so well paced and set that the whole transition is seamless, pressuring the audience to confront their own morality.

As the centre pieces, Banderas and Anaya are extraordinary, emoting such wide ranging thoughts and feelings, wildly differentiating states of mind with mastery, painting pictures of human beings that are physically sound but are fractured souls. It doesn't take long to establish that Banderas is something of an anti-villain, yet he is no preening megalomaniacal scalpel wielding monster, everything he does seems to make sense, simply because he is so assured and convinced. His true motives are buried deep, and the tears in his mind and heart are well concealed. He seems in total control, even when his actions suggest he is insane. Meanwhile Anaya, an actress sure to be talent spotted for big, big things in the near future, inbues deep, uncertain vulnerabilty, seemingly submissive but harbouring both doubts and agendas, holding back questions and hiding notions.

There's further support from Marisa Paredes as Marila, a character who's significance is unclear at first, but bears heavy burdens of her own, and certainly is part of the swirling, sinister emotion and ideals. Robert Alamo is highly effective and menacing in his brief but memorable and important role, while there is also excellent story building work from Blanca Suarez and Jan Cornet in the flashbacks. Alberto Iglesias's soundtrack veers from soothing and melacholy to dark and brooding at perfectly placed moments, in tandem with the story, while the cinematography is flawless, beautiful in places. There isn't a technical flaw to be found within the piece.

Ultimately, The Skin I Live In is one of those rare films that raise many questions that don't concern the plot. The unthinkable subtext the film brings up forces the audience to look within themselves further, as well as stunning them to the core. A perfectly plotted and placed psychological character study of two messed up people with one hell of a dark, sordid past, The Skin I Live In serves as a thoughtful, benign yet chilling and haunting horror film without the scares. Thundering in impact, yet quiet and musing in execution. And featuring one of the most loaded final scenes ever. Truly questionable, intoxicating, unmissable viewing.


9/10