filmbore pick of the week - The Skin I Live In

The Skin I Live In (La Piel Que Habito)

Director: Pedro Almodóvar
Screenplay: Pedor Almodóvar
Starring: Antonio Banderas, Elena Anaya, Marisa Paredes, Jan Cornet, Blanca Suárez, Roberta Álamo
Year: 2011
Language: Spanish
UK rental release: January 2012

IMDb
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I know. I've already finished my awards themed season. It just so happens that this week's pick, The Skin I Live In, could have easily fitted within the string of incredibly gong-themed films I've pointed your way recently. It was nominated for the Palme d'Or in 2012, while taking the BAFTA for Best Film Not In The English Language in the same year. Let's sift through one of the calmest horror films ever made.

Toledo, 2012. Vera (Elena Anaya, Room In Rome, Talk To Her) is cooped up in her room in a doctor's mansion, spending her time with patch work models and perfecting her yoga. She has a tendency to hurt herself, even attempting suicide at times, which is one reason why she spends her time in a contoured skin suit.

She is the result of experimentation: the mansion's doctor's attempt to make the perfect woman; perhaps in the guise of his wife who died burning in a car crash some years ago. Robert (Antonio Banderas, Desperado, Frida) is a expert in the field of plastic surgery, including the progression and success of face transplants. Yet, this isn't where he's pouring his talents in fully.

Robert is growing synthetic skin, a venture he knows can change the face of medicine forever. The project, named "Gal", involves the use of pig cells to mutant human ones, generating an artificial skin that's hard to burn and impervious to all insect bites. It's a revelation of modern science but controversial in its methods.

In on the secret experiment, on both the skin and Vera, is Robert's house maid Marilla (Marisa Paredes, The Devil's Backbone, All About My Mother). She isn't completely on board with the situation however, no matter how loyal she is, suggesting that Robert gets rid of Vera before it goes too far.

One day, Marilla's son Zeca (Roberto Álamo, Family United, Football Days), a jewel thief on the run, decides to pay a visit to his mother for hopeful sanctuary. Yet, not only is he on the run from the authorities but wants Robert to use some of his abilities to work on his face. Marilla wants her son to leave, but on espying Vera on the security cameras he has other plans...

Six years earlier, and Robert is attending the wedding of one of his clients with his daughter, Norma (Blanca Suárez, I'm So Excited!, Shiver). Here, she meets Vicente (Jan Cornet, Looking For Eimish, Tasting Menu), a young man who works at a vintage clothes shop in the nearby town. Across the hall, they catch each other's wandering glance, making a brief romantic connection.

Norma is undergoing treatment for social phobia. Yet, even though she seemed ready to attend the event, something happens to her that takes her over the edge, starting Robert down a dark path that he can't ever return from. No scalpel can ever fix what he has already damaged.

Many will watch this film and consume it as a uniquely built piece. For those more in the know, especially those of you who are fans of classic cinema, you will easily draw similarities to Georges Franju's Eyes Without A Face, yet this feels like an altogether different film. Yes, besides the obvious captive patient, the plastic surgery element being so closely matched, paired with the sense of claustrophoia and paranoia such a tale would share and carry, this picture does stand alone. The source material adapted for this piece in particular is Thierry Jonquet's Mygale, lending different perspectives and making these resemblances feel more coincidental, even if Almodóvar has admitted being inspired by the Franju's 60's horror-noir.

Some of you know how I feel about remakes (here's a reminder in case you forgot), so I don't say all of this lightly. This is an altogether invigorating and enticing story, comprised of impeccable design and fused with a wonderfully dramatic score by Alberto Iglesias.

Really driving all of this craft is its overall look. As expected from an Almodóvar movie, each shot is painstakingly crafted, also thanks to the breathtaking cinematography of legendary DP José Luis Alcaine, a long time collaborator with the director. Sensationally lit with perfect framing for each scene, whether locked-off, panning or a combination of the two, the visual splendour on show is a masterclass of lens work. There's a kinetic feel to each shot, and with such sharp imagery there's an inherent beauty throughout.

You cannot mention beauty without considering our female lead. There's no doubt that Banderas, as consummate as ever, doesn't own his moments, but there's something intrinsically magical about Elena Anaya here. Vera is a great role for Anaya to play, which she executes so well she clearly deserves the Goya Award she won for her performance. Child like but strangely wise, she also has an endearing quality to match her allure.

It's important to feel such attraction to her character in this, as it mirrors the desire that Robert feels towards her as the story unravels. There's a subtlety in some of the voyeurism, where your unsure of his intentions, considering his profession as well as his yearning for her. The fact that he has sculpted her in the same vein as his wife opens deeper inclinations of his needs which, when some of the twists raise their head, is more apparent than you may realise.

A clever ploy by Almodóvar is the awareness of our leading lady. Vera seems to know when someone is watching her on camera, exposing the unequivocal magnetism in voyeurism, drawing in the longing that a man needs for a mutual stare. It's bewitching to witness, also accentuating the light horror tones dressed over the piece.

This exciting taboo in lust and deep-seeded wishes is also represented by the film's key prop: the iconic synthetic skin suit. It's presence is attuned to the clinical properties of the room that Vera is currently jailed in. She may be locked within this domesticated cell, suppressed from even expressing herself fully, but it's her "skin" that is her true prison.

The skin doesn't always stay on, however. There's a lot of nudity in this piece, and when Vera is naked you will see two extremes. At points she is, strangely, more reclusive even though freed from her skintight cell, yet when her situation alters this liberty is expressed more fully in her confidence to bare her real skin, even though this is manufactured also.

It's quite blasé about sex actually. If an openness of bedroom antics isn't your bag, I'd avert your eyes at a number of occasions. Yet, its brutally honest approach to sex is where the film's personality is truly revealed. It's its calling card, allowing intercourse to become as normal an experience as eating your dinner. It's confidently perverted in a classy way, so don't expect a string of depraved acts here. It's just nicely kinky.

Some may, wrongly, see The Skin I Live In as an excuse for fetishistic desire. It's also quite a dark story, that may disturb some of you. Keep an open mind though and, instead, you'll be greeted by is a tale of an honest descent into the ownership of the soul through forced redemption. Marvel at the delicate design, savour the delicious score, absorb the performances and sensational lens work and you'll get to enjoy a maverick of film: a story of revenge and restoration.

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