- To be successful, films predicated on huge plot twists must walk a very fine line. If the twist is easily anticipated, then it hasn't worked, almost by definition. If the big surprise is impossible to predict, it's tough to make it relevant to the rest of the film. The worst situation, however, is a plot twist that the viewer both anticipates and dreads. It's like sitting around waiting for the reaction to set in after discovering that you've eaten something you're allergic to. That's exactly how I felt while watching The Skin I Live In.
- Don't get me wrong, this is a very well-directed film. Director Pedro Almodovar frames shots and uses backgrounds and color as well as any director I've seen in a while, and there are moments of great beauty here. There are also moments of rape, one involving a man in a tiger suit (Roberto Álamo) and another that victimizes a mentally ill girl (Blanca Suárez). If that isn't brutal enough for you, rest assured that there are a couple of suicides, too. And then there's...well, let's just toss the term "involuntary vaginoplasty" out there, shall we? In other words, plenty of cringe-worthy material.
- The film's best moments focus on the increasingly weird relationship between master surgeon Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas) and his captive subject and idée fixe Vera Cruz (Elena Anaya). As Ledgard, Banderas gives a career-topping performance as a scientist whose quirky mix of optimism, determination, and talent aren't hindered by the usual ethical considerations. Anaya, too, is excellent as a patchwork quilt of strange behaviors that only begin to make sense after we get to know her male counterpart, the existentially adrift Vincente (Jan Cornet). Oddly enough, the closest thing to a moral center in the film is provided by the ineffectual Marilia (Marisa Paredes), who seems content merely to wag her tongue while her sons do all manner of deplorable things.
- Ultimately, I suppose my negative reaction to The Skin I Live In stems as much from its unrelatable characters as from the distastefulness of its big reveal. Although the film was clearly strongly influenced by Vertigo and A Clockwork Orange, Almodovar isn't nearly as adept as Hitchcock or Kubrick at manipulating the audience into identifying with its unprincipled protagonist or strange victim. On the other hand, it's probably not fair to complain that any director is not as good as those two, and there's no point in denying Almodovar's considerable talents. If he made a film that was as visually arresting as The Skin I Live In but less thematically ugly, I'd probably love it.
