The Skin I Live InAt what point does the act of medical experimentation and transfiguration go beyond "reasonably ethical" standards? What does it mean to "transform", to become something altogether different than what you were born as? For "Vera" (Elena Anaya), the transformation is physical, as she is cultivated, altered with an experimental, artificial skin, an arduous process that defines her as a living doll. For Robert (Antonio Banderas), the change is a mental one; over the course of The Skin I Live In, we slowly begin to understand the mindset behind his need to change Vera--and all the horrors that go with that.
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Both Robert and Vera are sympathetic in there own way, and its clear from the onset that both are entangled in a mutual knot of dependence, a symbiotic relationship on the surface. Robert's new breakthrough is a skin that repels insects and is heat-resistant, among other things. His apparently obsessive need to perfect his work makes him seem the part of the proverbial "mad scientist". It is not until much later that we begin to truly understand the extent to which he has gone to enact this. Beyond simply employing a controversial process of splicing DNA into the artificial skin he crafts--a process referred to as "transgenesis", a loaded word for The Skin I Live In if there ever was one--Robert has fostered a fascination with his patient/prisoner, Vera. While Robert does not come across as a superficial or vain man, there are enough signals to subconsciously make us feel that he is driven by his vices. He partakes in the opium that Vera requests to help her forget, and his antisocial reclusiveness is born from his single-minded focus on Vera. Robert's palatial house--which is at once both imposing like the castle of a mad scientist, and a warm, inviting hacienda--is decorated by several odalisques, an artistic representation of a reposing nude woman, a painting of a concubine or female slave. Robert is a voyeur of Vera, observing her in her gilded cage, although her flesh-colored, full body skin suit puts a deft twist on the idea of a "nude in repose". Robert strains to perfect Vera to his definition of beauty, altering her to resemble his dead wife, burned terribly in a fiery car crash. As he repairs and toils upon her skin, Vera's body is segmented, bearing no small resemblance to the layout of a butcher's chart, breaking down different cuts of meat. And Robert is no stranger to tragedy--his wife and daughter have both killed themselves in the same way, by throwing themselves out of a window--and he claims that by throwing himself into his work, he can work through his grief. But in the end, Robert's obsessive vanity as a skilled doctor, and as a vengeful father, craft a mask unto himself, one he stitches tighter the more he descends into his own abyss.
Vera--practically a living doll--is polished, altered, and modified into a resurrected simulacrum of Robert's dead wife, and that face carries with it more than the obvious complications. In fact, Vera's story--which descends upon us midway through the film--becomes all the more shocking and devastating once we have an idea as to Vera's true origins, ones which Robert is entirely aware of. Vera's imprisonment in Robert's home has not been entirely halcyon--she has a tendency to try to kill herself, though Robert's swift medical training and on-site operating room means that he is prepared for almost any eventuality. She passes her time in her isolated room working on artwork, layering strips of fabric--including from dresses she has savaged--as Robert has layered his crafted skin upon her body. This artistic side carries no small degree of irony, and her interest in fashion and art, such as that of Louise Bourgeois, deepens her character and is more fully justified as her story is unveiled. Vera's origins are from a surrounding that on the surface portend that her ultimate transformation--and her proclamation that she has "always been" what she is suggests that while her transformation was not one of consent, in the end she seems to acquiesce to the change. But just as Vera required the assistance of a literal mask in her transformation, it becomes apparent that it is something which she has come to accept as a fact of life, that we all wear masks. Another theme that coincides with this is that Vera is often used against her will, and is denied the right to protest that which is carried out against her. The message Vera is forced to acknowledge is that she is disempowered as a woman, and other men take advantage of her as a result. By the end of the film, Vera learns to stand up to this kind of subjugation, but the film manages to draw several lines of reasoning as a result, highlighting how some men use gender to exert dominance over women, and how by being a woman means that other men believe that they are entitled to that domination. Roughly halfway through The Skin I Live In, there is an extended flashback sequence, taking us back six years, via a shared dream between Robert and Vera. The nature of this story seems so removed from the first act, that we might forget just how it relates to the story as a whole; but the realization of its significance is both intriguing and shocking. During this flashback, a singer sings a song called "I Need to Love", a song which carries a negative connotation for Robert's daughter, Norma (Blanca Suárez), for whom the song is like a scar, burned into her mind, her reaction to it is the catalyst which sparks the entire mad journey to follow. The "need to love" is the emotion running through The Skin I Live In; but like Robert and his transgenesis-designed artificial skin, it is altered, changed, and barely recognizable from its original incarnation--a mutation.
Recommended for: Fans of the unnerving mesh of horror and melodrama, a twisted up almost-romance between a mad scientist who is not mad, and an imprisoned woman who is not...well, you'll just have to see for yourself.
Vera--practically a living doll--is polished, altered, and modified into a resurrected simulacrum of Robert's dead wife, and that face carries with it more than the obvious complications. In fact, Vera's story--which descends upon us midway through the film--becomes all the more shocking and devastating once we have an idea as to Vera's true origins, ones which Robert is entirely aware of. Vera's imprisonment in Robert's home has not been entirely halcyon--she has a tendency to try to kill herself, though Robert's swift medical training and on-site operating room means that he is prepared for almost any eventuality. She passes her time in her isolated room working on artwork, layering strips of fabric--including from dresses she has savaged--as Robert has layered his crafted skin upon her body. This artistic side carries no small degree of irony, and her interest in fashion and art, such as that of Louise Bourgeois, deepens her character and is more fully justified as her story is unveiled. Vera's origins are from a surrounding that on the surface portend that her ultimate transformation--and her proclamation that she has "always been" what she is suggests that while her transformation was not one of consent, in the end she seems to acquiesce to the change. But just as Vera required the assistance of a literal mask in her transformation, it becomes apparent that it is something which she has come to accept as a fact of life, that we all wear masks. Another theme that coincides with this is that Vera is often used against her will, and is denied the right to protest that which is carried out against her. The message Vera is forced to acknowledge is that she is disempowered as a woman, and other men take advantage of her as a result. By the end of the film, Vera learns to stand up to this kind of subjugation, but the film manages to draw several lines of reasoning as a result, highlighting how some men use gender to exert dominance over women, and how by being a woman means that other men believe that they are entitled to that domination. Roughly halfway through The Skin I Live In, there is an extended flashback sequence, taking us back six years, via a shared dream between Robert and Vera. The nature of this story seems so removed from the first act, that we might forget just how it relates to the story as a whole; but the realization of its significance is both intriguing and shocking. During this flashback, a singer sings a song called "I Need to Love", a song which carries a negative connotation for Robert's daughter, Norma (Blanca Suárez), for whom the song is like a scar, burned into her mind, her reaction to it is the catalyst which sparks the entire mad journey to follow. The "need to love" is the emotion running through The Skin I Live In; but like Robert and his transgenesis-designed artificial skin, it is altered, changed, and barely recognizable from its original incarnation--a mutation.
Recommended for: Fans of the unnerving mesh of horror and melodrama, a twisted up almost-romance between a mad scientist who is not mad, and an imprisoned woman who is not...well, you'll just have to see for yourself.