Almodovar gets underneath THE SKIN I LIVE IN

      Pedro Almodovar is a filmmaker that doesn't believe in painting a subtle piece of work. Yes, paint splatters all over the canvas until our eyes can't take it anymore. His signature style involves pop use of bold colors, offhand plot structure, creative camera angles and sexually-charged images. We can understand more about the Spanish filmmaker as a person, than reading a case file. Actually, his films are his personal case file, and they express his sexual intuitions, fantasies, wicked sense of humor, and his undying love for film and theater. His characters are usually individuals who are shunned from normal society, but still, we always empathize. Almodovar, like auteur directors such as Quentin Tarantino and Brian De Palma (only when he writes and directs), is a playful filmmaker. He doesn't write for any particular audience, except for him. Put him in a sandbox, and he'll go all day, amusing himself. However, as long as he's amused, the audience is amused. Real film lovers can appreciate his scintillating concoctions, even if it borders on soap opera. The Skin I live In isn't his most fluid work; It's sort of a mess. Nevertheless, it's a mess that only a great filmmaker can make, and that hardcore Almodovar fans can appreciate. 

     The Skin I live In is a juicy, demented revenge thriller about a mad scientist (Antonio Banderas), whose life obsession is to create the perfect skin for a woman held captive in his home. On a societal level, the protagonist is a well-respected figure, but as usual, there’s a dark secret regarding the characters human nature. Now, this isn’t the entire storyline, but basically, the bulk of the premise. If I indulged any further in the plot, I’d spoil the film experience. The way Pedro Almdovar’s tells a story is like dropping a snake in mouse maze—it’s going to hit many corners, move back and forth, until it finally swallow its prize, but the real enjoyment is watching the sleek, unpredictable movements in the story.
        I’m a huge fan of Pedro Almdovar; he doesn’t hold anything back. In addition, one must admire a filmmaker who both writes and directs all of his work, and most of the time, it’s endlessly inventive. My main concern with this film is that there are too many back-story introductions behind every character. Sometimes, I think the viewers are bombarded with too much side information, and too many melodramatic plot twists, that it loses focus of the central story. As a result, the director’s intention toward the audience is abrasive; there’s a dark desire to convey shocking sexuality and eroticism, with little conviction and motivation.
    The Skin I Live In is a strange mélange of melodrama, thriller, noir, and a touch of horror. His recurrent themes of voyeurism, obsession, transgender, and sexual exploration are present in his latest effort. In addition, his central characters have an obsession for the human anatomy, most notably in Live Flesh (1997) and Talk to Her (2002) Almodovar pays homage to such horror classics as Eyes without a Face (1960) Bride of Frankenstein (1935), and other films that involve body parts or piecing together a human figure. 
    Besides the horror elements, there are influences from some of the greatest suspense classics, including Hitchock's Vertigo (1958) and Michael Powell's Peeping Tom (1960). For example, In Vertigo, Jimmy Stewart's obsession to change Kim Novack's physical characteristics to match a woman who he thinks is dead, is similar to Antonio Bandera's fixation to create the perfect skin on his captive guinea-pig. 
   However, The Skin I live In feels more like a campy melodrama than a horror film, and as fresh as his ideas are, he misses the suspense mark. I can’t say that I wasn’t entertained, because I was captivated by the provocative images. There are scenes of great power that feel like a highly-charged torpedo of conflicting sexual desires. His characters are sickly and deranged, but still, I wanted to see where they would end up in his obscure plotline. Overall, I think it’s worth seeing how far Almodovar pushes the envelope in his latest, kinky creation.

*** (out of four stars)

MARTHA MARCY MAY MARLENE is riveting from start to finish

            The cinematic interpretation of a cult can be dangerous territory. Filmmakers might feel compelled to take a controversial subject matter and veer off into the realm of sensationalism. Martha Marcy May Marlene is a haunting, beautifully shot film about a young runaway who’s lured into a backwoods cult. The writer/director, Sean Durkin, avoids any sensational attitudes toward the concept, bringing an indelible and humanistic approach towards this kind of surrogate family. The location is undisclosed, assuming that our protagonist, Martha, wonderfully played by Elizabeth Olsen, is not even sure where she is. We never see how she was picked-up and brought to the deranged rural community, and when she runs away, her only relevance of distance is that she’s three hours away from where her sister lives. The less we know, the more taunting the experience is.

           The film is essentially about Martha’s post-traumatic experience after fleeing the cult. The rural setting in the boonies is very similar to the infamous “ranch,” lead by Charles Manson in the late 60s. Actually, this film is probably the most realistic and empathetic interpretation of a cult experience, more so than any film about Charles Manson’s wrecked family of drug-induced followers. The writer/director doesn’t paint a family portrait of “evil-followers” per se, but instead, a keen observation of how our lost youth is brainwashed by a deceptively charming, patriarchal leader. First, we must believe, then, we follow.

            The narrative begins where Olsen escapes from the cult and reunites with her older sister and her wealthy husband. Her experience in the cult is told in flashback form; as her sketchy present behaviors become more apparent, the director explores how her past has shaped her paranoid mind frame. I absolutely love it when a film cuts back and forth in time without the use of screen titles and still follow a sensible format. There’s fluidity in the transitions, which reminded me of other films that smartly cut back and forth, from the present to the past, such as the impeccable Texas murder mystery, Lone Star (1996), and the heartbreaking deconstruction of a marriage in Blue Valentine (2010). The talent in these films’ structures lies in the script. The writers are carefully considering the audiences’ intelligence, especially when it comes to chronology. The flashback structure in Martha is cleverly outlined.  The director is saying that no matter how far the central character runs from her past, she can’t escape her haunted memories.

The cultish family is reminiscent of a hippie commune you might have heard about from the late 60s. We've read about Charles Manson and David Koresh, and have seen similar family settings in Easy Rider (1969); the people live off the land, spend their free time playing guitar and singing folk songs, and get by with the bare minimum. In a cult, there’s usually a leader. Indie-fave John Hawkes (Me, You, and Everyone We Know; Winter’s Bone) plays as the conniving patriarchal leader. He’s created a mysterious family full of youths who are brainwashed into believing in his preposterous society. On the surface, we think they are living a life based on pure existentialism, when in reality they are prepped to submit, both in violence and sex.

There are scenes of unhinged power that reveal the central purpose of the subculture.  Director Sean Durkin subtly explores Martha’s psychological damage. I love the look and feel of the film. The minimal approach to filmmaking best suites this complex subject matter. The cinematography is very natural, yet there’s a distinct correlation between light and dark tones in the images. The director wants the audience to observe the tiny details in the frame, and everything is meant to express Martha’s frightened reality. For example, there’s a scene in which Martha is sleeping on the floor in her bedroom. Her body is situated in the foreground. Suddenly, we see urine dampen her pink dress. In the background, a chair is propped against the door knob. This single image reveals so much about the character. Not only do we see that she suffers from nightmares, but according to the background detail of the chair, she’s beyond paranoid. This isn’t the kind of coke-induced paranoia Scorsese depicted in Goodfellas (1990), but the kind where the minute details spell out the protagonist’s present state of mind.

Martha Marcy May Marlene ends on a perfect note. The abrupt cut to black jolts our expectations, and leaves us craving for a clearer resolution. The film ends on a single idea, one that surmises the entire psychosis of the main character; paranoia follows wherever Martha goes, or are they really coming for her?

*** ½ (out of four)