The Skin I Live In


Even when I don't love the films, I love Almodovar.  You have to if you're interested in the politics/psychology of identity.  Or if you love melodrama and fine (mostly female acting).  The Skin I Live In is his first exercise in Body Horror, a genre whose big names include Davids Lynch and Cronenberg.  


Almodovar's films are always carefully crafted and often highly stylized.  This film leans heavily on it's mis-en-scene with meticulously crafted shots and sets that sometimes give you that sense of looking at a mesmerizing photograph or painting.  While the beauty and sense of detachment achieved by this technique is powerful,  it leaves me a bit cold.  Artists often separate the esthetic from the emotional.  Films that are esthetically neat are often unsatisfying and ultimately unimaginative.    A strange critique of Almodovar, and especially of this film, which nicely turns sexual identity inside out.


The film offers another stunning performance by Marisa Paredes, a veteran of numerous Almodovar films.  Antonio Banderas is good as the arrogant plastic surgeon, but I found myself thinking his part had been underwritten.  His doctor stands in too clearly as the representative of male arrogance.  Almodovar usually, if not always,  sides with women in the battle of the sexes, which is natural.  That doesn't excuse stacking the deck against male characters;  drama depends upon balance.


All my quibbles aside, I love Almodovar and recommend this film purely on esthetics, if not on its ability to sway emotions.