Pedro
Almodóvar's
latest, The Skin I Live In (La piel que habito) is not for the squeamish. Adapted from Thierry Jonquet's novel, Tarantula, Almodóvar steps delicately back and
forth between tones of medical melodrama and twisted thriller - the cumulative
effect ultimately laying somewhere between the chill of Cronenberg's Dead
Ringers and the
absurd mayhem of de la Iglesia's The Last Circus (Balada triste de trompeta). Elements of soap opera and indeed a touch of camp do little
to lessen the discomfort of increasingly disturbing revelations - and if there
is anything at which The Skin I Live In excels, it is its meticulously ordered
construction.
Given
the tone of the film, Antonio Banderas, starring for Almodóvar for the first
time since 1990's Átame (Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!), is note-perfect as Dr. Robert
Ledgard - a gifted plastic surgeon with a great deal of tragedy in his personal
history and a dubious grasp of the ethics of his profession. Throw in the excellent Marisa Paredes
as his rather amoral household manager, Marilia, and a complex and beautiful
performance from Elena Anaya as one of the doctor's more ruinous cases, Vera,
and you have a mess made in heaven, especially as Dr. Ledgard has repaired
Vera's face to resemble his deceased wife. Desire, familial loyalties, and madness vie for
accommodation in the doctor's sprawling estate and private clinic.
At
the opening night of the 2011 Vancouver International Film Festival, The Skin I
Live In had more than a few people feeling queasy and/or faint, due likely in
equal measure to the film's uncomfortable ideas and its bloodier moments. José Luis Alcane's cinematography is
appropriately surgical, never shying away from direct examination of location and
actors alike. Deliberately
avoiding the simplicity of torture-porn horror, Almodóvar finds a vast array of
reasons to torment his characters, and The Skin I Live In has no shortage of
means - be they physical, mental, or emotional - to do so. This is a delightfully creepy addition
to Almodóvar's oeuvre.