Movie News & Reviews

'The Skin I Live In': a revolting hash of sex and violence

Antonio Banderas is a plastic surgeon and Elena Anaya his patient in The Skin I Live In.
Antonio Banderas is a plastic surgeon and Elena Anaya his patient in The Skin I Live In.

An artist, the old saying goes, is someone who pounds the same nails over and over again.

For the great Spanish filmmaker Pedro Almodóvar, those nails include the boundaries of sexual identity and sexual perversion, and his "mommy issues." All are touched on, and one gets quite the going over in The Skin I Live In, a rare unpleasant evening at the movies from the director of Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown and Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down. It's as disquieting as it is unsatisfying, a slog through gender issues, surgery and violence, sexual and otherwise.

Antonio Banderas plays a brilliant plastic surgeon and scientist with issues all his own. He has developed a way to grow artificial skin that threatens to cross the lines of medical ethics. But in his mansion in suburban Toledo, Spain, he has his own lab where he can experiment far from the prying eyes of his peers.

That's where he keeps his greatest creation, Vera (Elena Anaya) under what resembles house arrest. There appears to be an intense attraction between them. No, he's not home when his thuggish half-brother drops by and rapes her. But the attraction is discomfitingly still there in Almodóvar's world.

In a long flashback, Almodóvar, adapting a Thierry Jonquet novel, tells us the Gothic story of how this bizarre situation came to be, of the tragedies in the doctor's past, the first time he crossed paths with Vera. It's a real eye-roller of a personal history.

In the present, Vera flirts with the doctor with "I'm made to measure for you," while the housekeeper (Marisa Paredes) casts dark warnings — "If you don't kill her, she will kill herself."

It's a film of crime and punishment, guilt and madness. And it's all a bit much, even for a director who gained his name through perverse excesses and sexually off-putting juxtapositions. Blood, death, and sex and surgery aren't meant to be titillating when run through a blender together, but that seems to be Almodóvar's challenge.

Watch these two beautiful actors , with the stunning Anaya often filmed in see-how-perfect-she-is close-ups, and try not to see them in bed together. Since we guess, fairly early on, why that's not a good idea, The Skin I Live In plays like a prolonged wallow in revulsion, a movie that has us thinking "Ewww" no matter what the subtitles translate on the screen.

Yes, he's pounding the same nails he always has. But Skin makes it seem that the nail Almodovar is most intently pounding here is the confused and put-off filmgoer.

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