The Skin I Live In

There is a thin line between genius and madness. Pythagoras believed beans were evil. Dr. Kellog argued Corn Flakes would prevent children from masturbating. Nikola Tesla was terrified of pigeons. And as we all know from the portrayal of the brilliant but troubled mathematician John Nash in A Beautiful Mind… the Academy was batshit crazy for awarding that film Best Picture.
But when it comes to combining the inspired with the unhinged, Pedro Almodóvar’s arthouse horror The Skin I Live In not only takes the biscuit, but turns said biscuit into a nightmare-infused flying-saucer of sheer craziness – and promptly brains you with it.

Reunited with his muse Antonio Banderas for the first time since 1990’s Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! , Almodóvar revisits his oft-explored themes of sexual identity, familial breakdown, lust, death and violence – all while letting his gaze linger on a beautiful woman. Banderas plays Robert, a wealthy plastic surgeon who performs face transplants on burn victims and advocates the use of transgenics to toughen skin.
He also sees no ethical quandary in keeping the beautiful Vera (Elena Anaya) imprisoned in his home in order to experiment on his submissive Bride of Frankenstein. When not surgically enhancing Vera’s perfect body, he projects its image onto the walls of his majestic home, basking in the beauty of this living art, his own personal masterpiece.

To reveal any more about the plot would be a disservice to Almodóvar’s love of shocking twists and turns, of which there are many, each more outrageous than the last. Much like Robert’s experiments, The Skin I Live In is a terrifying, outrageous and repugnant idea, wrapped in a package of such heightened beauty that it is at once deeply seductive and equally unsettling. Combining rich, lush sets of vivid colours, slow panning shots, quirky tiger costumes and a haunting classical score, the striking visuals and unrelenting tension display a finesse that greatly surpasses his earlier work.