Antonio Banderas is Robert Ledgard (straight from the Seth Brundle school of deranged genius), a driven scientist who is on the cusp of perfecting a tough and durable synthetic skin compound. At his country house (which also acts as his own private laboratory) he keeps a young woman (Elena Anaya) captive and wrapped up in what looks like a full body suit fashioned for a burns victim who has suffered extensive injuries.
All this is conducted in full knowledge of his middle-aged servant Mirilla. One afternoon when Robert is away, Mirilla’s wayward, criminal son turns up on the property, looking for a place to hideout for a few days. He spies the scientist’s test subject in the array of CCTV screens trained on her and proceeds to break into her room and attempts to rape her. Robert arrives back just in time and shoots him.
From there, Mirilla reveals Robert’s past to the young girl, and the fact that his work in his chosen field stemmed from his wife being tragically burned in a terrible car crash twelve years previously. This horrific turn of events caused the hospitalisation of the couple’s daughter, and upon her recovery, she too was subject to a tragedy of her own which is the key to his prisoner’s past and identity.
The Skin I Live In is one of those films in which to delve into the narrative too much, runs the risk of potentially revealing the astounding twist. Suffice to say, what starts out resembling to a surreal and bizarre thriller (with horror trimmings), develops into something else entirely.
Although in many ways a departure for director Pedro Almodóvar, like his best work, he still manages to take the more melodramatic aspects and weave together a touching and moving journey for the characters amidst the psychosexual undercurrent which permeates throughout. It’s an outlandish premise for sure, and may divide audiences (particularly those unfamiliar with Almodovar’s oeuvre), but despite this, he manages to keep a tight rein on the more perverse aspects, presenting an engrossing study of obsession and transformation.
The film also marks the return of Almodóvar back with his old muse Banderas (after a 21-year absence) and the actor has rarely been better. Acting and emoting in his native tongue is a contributing factor, but his compulsive yet quietly driven persona is central to the film’s success. This nuanced performance is really a welcoming sight from the actor, particularly after the number of below-par efforts he’s had to endure over on US soil.
The art direction too is incredibly striking, and the furniture and design of the holding cell (which is all stitched together using various materials) mirrors that of the scientist’s psyche, while the rest of the film is filled with Almodóvar’s usual lurid, velvety colour palette.
The simply-staged, yet quietly devastating finale is again testament to the director’s skill at wringing emotions out of his characters sometimes peculiar situations, and for anyone who is looking for a wild and challenging slice of genre cinema, The Skin I Live In more than adequately offers this.
[Rating:4/5]
