The Skin I Live In | Film review

Maybe there’s something about insane medical scenarios that brings out the best in El Pedro. The Skin I Live In, which stars Antonio Banderas as a deranged plastic surgeon who keeps a lithe beauty (Elena Anaya) imprisoned in his home, is Almodóvar’s most purely enjoyable film since the coma-centered Talk to Her (2002). The reasons for that, however, have less to do with the movie’s profundity than its reveling in what he does well. Having made his mark in the ’80s with a deft hand at kitschy melodrama, the director, under the weight of international acclaim, has since struggled to become a Serious Artist.

But perhaps snubbed at too many Cannes awards ceremonies, Almodóvar has done an about-face here and made a twisted erotic thriller. It may or may not have something to say about the duality of human nature, the importance of environment on behavior and the cinematic legacy of the French classic Eyes Without a Face (which it sometimes resembles). The main thing is that it’s a tense yarn, told with Almodóvar’s distinctively bold visual style and more than enough twists to keep you on your toes. About those, better not to go more than skin-deep, as various surprises are the bulk of what the movie has to offer. But the star turns are deft as well: Banderas projects an unwavering menace, and the stunning Anaya (Savage Grace, Room in Rome) has a poise that seems almost dangerous.