Reseñas de la crítica

Rape (three, actually), bondage, fratricide, extreme fetish, incest, voyeurism, forced sexual reassignment, plastic surgery: only Almodovar could make it all seem so sexy, and make us totally emotionally invested in the characters to boot.

The key themes and organizing principles of Pedro Almodóvar's career get their clearest expression in this superbly-crafted and somewhat crazy sci-fi revenge thriller about a plastic surgeon (Antonio Banderas, in what just might be his finest performance) who keeps a patient (Elena Anaya) prisoner in his mansion.

Almodóvar has a body of work as rigorously personal as any out there, and, even with its flaws, he wears this latest Skin rather well. In its best, creepiest moments, the film certainly got under mine.

Though I usually take pleasure in Almodovar's sexy darkness, this film induces queasiness... [The Skin I Live In] looks so silky. Few directors have used colors, especially red, as joyfully as Almodovar. Every scene vibrates.

The result is an inventive set-up that wanders around, as if Almodóvar just wanted the opportunity to move away from the dramatic turf where he has resided of late. If nothing else, “Skin” illustrates that a throwback doesn’t necessarily equate with a return to form.

There are times in “The Skin I Live In” when it feels as if the whole thing will fly into pieces... Despite all these moving, spinning parts, Mr. Almodóvar’s control remains virtuosic and the film hangs together completely, secured by Vera and Ledgard and a relationship that’s a Pandora’s box from which identity, gender, sex and desire spring.

A scary, sexy and terrifically twisted horror film... [Yet] Almodóvar never lets the creeping terror obliterate the bruised humanity of the characters. Few directors have Almodóvar’s skill at swerving from outrageous camp to unspeakable terror without tipping into absurdity.

[Almodóvar is] a little too clinical in his approach to deliver real shocks, even with all the blood and blade-work that runs through the story. Then again, there’s something fitting about a movie that’s so concerned with the cosmetic looking so pristine. Thematically—and visually—Skin works, even when it falls short dramatically.

Perhaps The Skin I Live In is an attempt by the director to question the depth of his own artistry, by making the very look of his work suspect. But it lacks the one thing that would turn this from a sterile exercise into a true cry from the heart: emotional clarity.

The story of a plastic-surgeon-turned-mad-scientist unfolds with a clinical chill we’re unaccustomed to feeling in this director’s films. The Skin I Live In is a math problem, not a poem. Still, what an elegant proof it is.

Almodóvar has long been praised for his visual flare, but here the auteur willfully pulls back on his cheeky sense of humor to create his most harrowing film to date. Herein lies no campy performances or saucy nuns. Instead, Almodóvar fuels his melodrama with an influence new to his blend of high and low brow elements: horror.

There will be some who find this film rather too absurd, with a whiff of shaggy dog, and some critics have found it essentially heartless. I would agree that it might not have the passion and empathy of, say, Volver, perhaps because women are sidelined. It is rather a tissue of surfaces, styles and images. That tissue gives a gorgeous caress.