2011. Dir: Pedro Almodóvar. Starring: Antonio Banderas, Elena Anaya, Jan Cornet, Marisa Paredes and Blanca Suárez. ●●●●○
What is horror? Random House Dictionary defines it as "an overwhelming and painful feeling caused by something frightfully shocking, terrifying, or revolting; a shuddering fear", and that rigid explanation helps to conjure up the typical horror film audience, spellbound, dumbstruck, petrified in their seats. Desperate to dry out and defend the lonely teenager however transfixed by the seductive power of the knife-wielding, supernatural maniac.
The rules of the genre, as typified in the self-parodying chatter of the Scream franchise, are deceptively simple; open to reinterpretation, sure, but constant in their structure. It's therefore surprising that more established auteurish directors don't dip their toes, turning to genre exercises to stretch their skills in the way that Pedro Almodóvar does with The Skin I Live In.
Perhaps it's just a snobbish contempt for the form, after all many low-budget indies use tired horror cliches and over-egged metaphors and any idiot with a jump-cut can effectively startle an audience. Personally I expect it's more complex, there's a fear of making horror endemic in cinematic circles, there's a sweat inducing terror because making an effective chiller is a Herculean task. In our post-Gorno world where every sick fantasy imaginable has been seen audiences seem to need something extra to bring them to the edges of their seat (of course in reality it's the slow creep of dread that's always worked best for scaring crowds and that has nothing to do with the buckets of blood). It's a shame as Pedro here proves there's plenty of life in horror yet.
It's true to say Almodóvar has created a horror movie, with snatches of obsession, guilt and Stockholm syndrome, as well as drawing on modern body horror and the Frankenstein legend, it's equally true the film doesn't overplay the graphic sexualisation of violence - that is not to say there is no blood just that it feels like a natural conclusion to the action not the point of it - and could therefore be watched by even the most squeamish of genre avoiders.
Explaining the plot is a tough nut to crack, you may have notice I've been putting it off, mainly because it's a dense tale full of the melodramatic familial connections and soap-style revelations that we've come to expect from Almodóvar. There are also twists upon twists and to say much will spoil the feelings you get from the movie as it washes over you (not that the twists are especially shocking, they even feel natural and obvious in the moment, but to let the cat out of the bag before will deny you the opportunity to find out the delicious truth at the right time). Suffice to say the movie opens in a large isolated Spanish mansion housing an obsessive skin doctor (Antonio Banderas), his over protective housekeeper (Marisa Paredes) and a mysterious catsuit-wearing patient, practising yoga in a locked room (Elena Anaya). You can see the Frankenstein connection already. Why is Banderas have an enormous TV screen in his bedroom just to watch Anaya sleep? Why does Anaya relate to the sculpture of Louise Bourgeois? Who is the tiger at the gate? Is Banderas more obsessed about his wife that cheated on him, his daughter who was raped or the connected suicides of them both?
Some, but not all, of these questions will be answered satisfactorily. Others will come and go, getting lost in the ridiculous lines "I have madness in my entrails" and lost subplots (the artificial skin Banderas has been perfecting for Anaya seems like just an excuse to let him interact with other scientists). That said both Banderas and Anaya do fantastic work, as does Jan Cornet in a minor role I won't spoil, there's a moment we laugh out loud at his predicament yet when a tear roles down his cheek the entire audience went silent.
Of course I found problems with this movie, Almodóvar can't help being himself. The frame is gorgeously vibrant and exciting, the action perfectly paced and gripping, but full of melodramatic meanderings that could have come from any number of his other pictures. Some of which aid the story, others have no business being there.
Overall I would highly recommend this picture to horror geeks and non-fans alike for the genre busting and interesting departures Almodóvar makes. But remember it is Almodóvar making those departures.
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
The Skin I Live In
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger
2010. Dir: Woody Allen. Starring: Gemma Jones, Anthony Hopkins, Naomi Watts, Josh Brolin and Antonio Banderas. ●●○○○
There's a sense of trepidation that sinks in whenever Woody Allen releases another picture. Where will it fit in the canon? How many times will I laugh? Will I regret the ticket price? Will it be better or worse than his last picture (like a neverending higher or lower card game)? Well the answers for You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger are as follows: Pretty low. Very few. Yes. And this is both better and worse than Whatever Works - better because the characters and morality is nowhere near as repugnant and worse because there isn't the experimentation and concepts that drove his previous film.
The overstuffed plot follows couples Gemma Jones and Anthony Hopkins and their daughter Naomi Watts with Josh Brolin as their relationships breakdown and they find themselves back on the dating game with (respectively) Roger Ashton-Griffiths, Lucy Punch, Antonio Banderas and Freida Pinto. Each of these relationships seems to be doomed to failure for the exact reasons that they are brought together - a mix of ennui and foreshadowing covers the players clearly indicating their individual fates.
The performances range from the reasonably entertaining - Antonio Banderas gets away with a hesitant charm and a tendancy to prevaricate - to the downright offensive; Lucy Punch doing to English high-class hookers what Mira Sorvino did for her American contemporaries only making it sound like a Catherine Tate impersonator. With some of the others barely registering. Anthony Hopkins in particular needs to get a new phone to deliver his performances through.
Of course this smorgasboard of talent would be forgiven if the writing was clever or witty. Unfortunately there's little realism in the script - nearly everytime Naomi Watts as the patient Sally, trying to remain sane as everyone else falls apart, speaks I found myself screaming inside "But no-one talks like that". Recrimination led arguments come and go with no sense of tension around them, mildly offensive chat-up lines seem to have the female cast gazing tenderly into their male counterparts eyes.
The are whole sub-plots that appear and drift away with no real meaning or connection to the whole including Brolin's writing career, Pinto's engagement and the dead son of Hopkins and Jones which seems to exist only to make a cheap psychological connection to forward momentum of Hopkins. All this would be forgiveable if the central fortune telling storyline (featuring the delicious Pauline Collins hammily doling out phoney advice to the neurotic Gemma Jones) was given the necessary room to breathe and develop.
The design is fine, location shooting fine and the jazzy score fine - but nothing we haven't seen before from Allen and it's not a London that I recognise that's for sure.
I wouldn't bother with this one, if I were you, just cross your fingers that Woody will find form again with his next picture so I can ask those leading questions again.
