Editorials
Horror Queers: Dissecting the Moral Dilemma of ‘The Skin I Live In’
Each month in Horror Queers, queer writers Joe and Trace tackle a horror film with LGBTQ+ elements, a high camp quotient or both. As a genre, horror has historically been an outlet in which to hide and/or explore subversive narratives. For lifelong queer horror fans like Joe and Trace, there’s a delight in deciphering the lingering glances, identifying with out-and-proud and secretly closeted characters alike and reading between the lines. Join us for a monthly dissection of the ups and downs of queer horror, but know that at no point will we be getting Babashook.
***SPOILERS for The Skin I Live In to follow.***
Synopsis: Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas), a brilliant plastic surgeon, haunted by past tragedies, creates a type of synthetic skin that withstands any kind of damage. His guinea pig: Vera (Elena Anaya), a mysterious and volatile woman who holds the key to his obsession.
Queer Aspect: It is revealed that Vera is actually Vicente (Jan Cornet), a man that Robert kidnapped and performed gender reassignment surgery on after he discovered that Vicente may have raped his daughter Norma, who committed suicide shortly after the incident.
Joe
I caught The Skin I Live In when it started to garner awards attention in the Winter of 2012 and I’ll confess that I never considered it a) a horror film or b) a queer film. Looking at it through fresh eyes for this piece, I can’t believe what I overlooked on that first viewing, probably because I was so invested in trying to piece together the mysterious connection between Robert and Vera. Of course the sex change twist remains front and centre as the film’s climactic lynchpin, but on a second viewing it feels less sensational and more ingrained in the film’s examination of complicated questions of morality.
It’s clear that Almodóvar hasn’t simply structured The Skin I Live In to hinge on the shocking revelation that Vicente and Vera are one and the same; rather the whole enterprise feels like a slow motion car crash of inevitability. Right from the very first scenes, as the prisoner and captor set-up is introduced via Robert’s ridiculously voyeuristic screen, it is evident that their relationship is unhealthy and messed up. The fact that we eventually discover that these terrible events are part of a seriously twisted revenge scheme that (in some part) arose from a misunderstanding makes The Skin I Live In even more disturbing. It’s amazing, but so, so dark.
To me, there are two elements that redefine the film as queer horror. One is the sex change without consent, which essentially makes this a heterosexual nightmare of epic proportions. This isn’t simply the emasculation of a straight man – it is the complete inversion of traditional gender dynamics that finds Vicente transitioning from a slightly cocky stud to a female prisoner with no freedom who is repeatedly raped by men.
The other (and to me much ickier) queer element is the sexual relationship between Robert and Vera that arises in the film’s third act. There are multiple layers to unpack here: Robert’s sexual interest is attributed to Vera’s physical resemblance to his dead wife, but that doesn’t change the fact that both we and Robert know that he’s fucking the man he considers responsible for his daughter’s suicide. Once the truth about Vera’s real identity is revealed, it’s impossible not to reevaluate the sexual nature of his relationship with Vera through a queer lens (ie: Robert is, for all intent and purpose, revenge fucking this man). Add to this a trans reading: technically Vera is, anatomically speaking, no longer male, a fact that is reiterated multiple times throughout by dialogue confirming that Robert is one of the world’s best plastic surgeons.
I’m fascinated by my repulsion to the revelations of the second half of the film because the horror in The Skin I Live In isn’t in a queer or trans reading of Robert and Vera’s relationship. It is the twisted combination of Vicente’s forced sex change and the realization that Robert is a demented mad scientist who has fallen in love with his creation (a spin on Frankenstein with a modern science twist) that makes the film so unnerving. In this way, Almodóvar has crafted a morally complicated puzzle film that requires audiences to constantly shift their point of identification as new information comes to light. It’s fascinating.
Trace, what’s your impression of the film? How did you respond to the shift in sexual identities in the second half of the film? And considering Almodóvar’s very public sexual orientation, do you perceive a gay authorial voice?
Trace
It’s interesting you say that you didn’t initially consider The Skin I Live In a horror film, because while I was watching it (for the first time, I might add) I couldn’t help but think “The first comment on this article will be about how this isn’t a horror movie.” But you know what? It’s about a mad scientist performing the most horrific experiments on an unwilling patient, going so far as to perform a fucking gender reassignment surgery on him. Is there anything else that is more terrifying to a man than the removal of his manhood? This is a horror film through and through and I loved it. I hesitate to say that I enjoyed watching events transpire in The Skin I Live In, but I couldn’t look away.
Anyway, the film is absolutely structured around the gender reassignment reveal. I actually feel that when conceiving the film, Almodóvar started with that idea and wrote a plot around it. It’s Eyes Without a Face with a transgender twist. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I find it hard to believe that that plot development originated as a “mad scientist holds a woman captive” concept.
While the gender reassignment surgery is undoubtedly the most memorable aspect of the film, what I couldn’t stop thinking about during the film’s first hour was the themes of male dominance and control. Before you know that Vera is Vicente, you must endure her brutal rape at the hands of Zeca, Robert’s half-brother. Zeca also binds and gags his mother Marilia and forces her to watch the rape on Robert’s monitors. Pair this with the overall plot of a man holding a woman (well, someone who is a woman now) hostage and it’s just repulsive. Almodóvar adds a few other small touches to really emphasize this theme, like the super gross visual of Zeca licking Vera’s image on the television screen (not once, but twice!).
Now about that twist: I can’t deny that it makes for a compelling viewing experience. My mouth was hanging open from the moment that I realized what was going on all the way through Banderas’ dildo presentation which, admittedly, I laughed at simply because the visual of Antonio Banderas standing in front of a bunch of increasingly large dildos is humorous. It’s equally horrifying though because he is trying to train this newly transformed woman how to use them to deepen her vagina! The last hour of the film is so engrossing, and not just because of how shocking it is, but because you are so wrapped up in Vicente’s story.
Unfortunately, Vicente’s loss of identity and mental transition into Vera didn’t fully ring true for me. I almost wish that the surgery wasn’t treated as a reveal, but was rather the end of the first act of the film. I would have preferred the film spent most of its time with Vicente in captivity as we watched him slowly lose his identity and become Vera. In the film’s current iteration it just sort of happens over the course of a few scenes. I still enjoyed The Skin I Live In, but I can’t help but feel it would have been even more effective as a character study as opposed to a soapy body horror film.
What I loved about the film was how it flips the rape-revenge sub-genre on its head. It could be argued that Vicente didn’t rape Robert’s daughter, Norma (there is ambiguity there because while his intent isn’t malicious, he doesn’t immediately stop once she starts saying “no”). For the sake of argument let’s look at it from the stance that he did rape Norma. First you have Robert getting revenge on Vicente for raping his daughter by removing the appendage that makes him a man (this in and of itself could be viewed as a form of rape). Then, as you mention, you have Robert revenge fucking Vicente (as Vera) in the third act of the film. I mean, what? How did this get made? There are so many layers to this film that there is no way to do it justice in a 3,000-word article.
In regards to a gay authorial voice, I can certainly see it. One thing I have always appreciated about Almodóvar’s films is the frank way he handles sexuality. I grew up in a semi-conservative Catholic household and sex was not something we often talked about, so whenever I see it handled so matter-of-factly in a film I get the warm fuzzies. Not that this particular film gave me the warm fuzzies, but Almodóvar’s films often do. He is an auteur through and through, and his queerness absolutely guides his filmmaking style. One particular instance of Norma retreating to the closet when he walked into the room stuck me as particularly on the nose. It actually reminded me of the infamous South Park episode “Trapped in the Closet.” The character isn’t a lesbian, but she is hiding from the man that she believes raped her. Can this be seen as Almodóvar making an observation that LGBTQ victims of abuse often hide in the closet as a way of protecting themselves? I think so.
One issue I wanted to touch on before I turn it back over to you is an issue regarding the MPAA and queerness. The film is rated R for for “disturbing violent content including sexual assault, strong sexuality, graphic nudity, drug use and language.” I don’t know if you’re as much of an MPAA nut as I am, but usually when “Graphic Nudity” is included in a rating reason it means that the film usually includes a shot of genitalia, be it male or female. If I’m remembering correctly, The Skin I Live In does not contain any full frontal nudity. There are shots of Vera’s breasts and some Banderas booty, but no genitalia.
I’m wondering if the term “graphic nudity” was used in reference to the breasts of a transgender woman? The MPAA is notorious for being harsher on films with LGBTQ+ subject matter, but it has gotten better in recent years (that this film didn’t receive the dreaded NC-17 is a sign of progress because it absolutely would have 15 years ago). What do you think: it is because of the subject matter? What makes the nudity in this film so “graphic”?
Joe
That’s fascinating because you’re absolutely right that there is nothing in this film that should qualify as “Graphic Nudity” (the key word being “should”). If anything, I would attribute the rating to the repeated rapes, particularly Zeca’s attack on Vera early in the film since it is so uncomfortable to watch. Considering that the MPAA’s website clarifies that their ratings are driven by protecting children and “family” viewing experiences (ie: won’t somebody please think of the children?!), you would think that their issue with The Skin I Live In is that it repeatedly features a woman being raped and spied on.
If part of the film’s rating is due to the sight of a transgender woman’s breasts, it would not only be ridiculous and disconcerting, it would also be incredibly offensive. And yet here we are speculating about it. This is a good opportunity to plug This Film Is Not Yet Rated, Kirby Dick’s great 2006 documentary about the ridiculousness of the MPAA and its shadowy cabal of reviewers. It’s a Must Watch for anyone who has ever looked at the rating of a film and thought “was that person high?”
I’d like to pivot back to your point about the speed of Vicente’s transformation into Vera and how the film might have been better served spending more time with him in the cave. That’s interesting because The Skin I Live In is based on a French novella called Tarantula by Thierry Jonquet. In book form, the narrative is divided into three separate storylines: one featuring plastic surgeon Richard and his captive Eve, whom he prostitutes out to men at parties; one of Vicent locked in a cellar by a madman, and lastly Alex, Vincent’s old friend, who kidnaps Eve in order to blackmail Robert for plastic surgery following a robbery.
As you might expect, the three timelines are not happening concurrently and the climax of the novel is quite different. Instead of Eve confronting and shooting Richard, the novella reveals that both Vicent and Alex were responsible for the assault on Richard’s daughter, Viviane. Alex is shot by Richard and Eve has an opportunity to kill Richard, but demurs, resigned to the realization that she can never return to her old life. It’s never explicitly revealed to be love; it is more akin to acceptance that their lives are now forever intertwined.
What interests me is how the lack of a wife for Richard and the larger role for Alex/Zeca affects the reading of the novella compared to the film. There is no suggestion that Eve has been made to look like Richard’s dead wife and he doesn’t fall in love or sleep with her, which dramatically alters a queer reading. There is a suggestion that Alex plans to rape Eve, which plays a bit like an ironic comedy of errors (he almost fucked his friend!) but the horror of the situation is removed because Alex never learns Eve’s true identity. The kidnapping, as a result, does feel more organically woven into the narrative compared to Zeca’s arbitrary appearance at the mansion in the film, but the novella’s climax loses the intimacy of the film by focusing less on Eve and Richard and more on Alex.
Before we can wrap this up, we need to discuss the ending. To me, the novella’s depressing, Stockholm Syndrome-esque end feels more in keeping with the themes of the film. Despite the ickiness of their situation, Eve and Richard ultimately can’t escape each other. The film, on the other hand, feels more classically Hollywood: the climactic shoot-out of a rapist and the safe return to family clearly identifies Vera as the “hero” that the audience is meant to sympathize with. This is also made palatable by the suggestion from the flashback to Norma’s attack that Vincente didn’t rape her (sexual assault? Yes). This is in stark contrast to the novella, where it is confirmed that he did (though Alex is painted as more of a villain because he sodomizes her). The end of The Skin I Live In feels decidedly “audience friendly,” a feel-good moment on which to end a rape-revenge film, despite lingering questions what Vera’s life will look looming in the silence of the film’s last few seconds.
Trace, what do you think of the film’s ending? Does the novella sound like it has a more appropriate end? Or am I being ridiculous to suggest that there’s anything feel good about the end of The Skin I Live In?
Trace
Full disclosure: I had no idea this was based on a novella, so that’s on me. But it does sound a bit different and, just based on the sound of it, I prefer the changes the film made. I think I prefer the film’s ending if only because I think the whole idea of “did Vicente rape Norma or not?” promotes a necessary discussion for the audience to have. This isn’t a black-and-white issue that we are talking about here and it needs to be discussed. Nevertheless, that ambiguity makes the bittersweet ending of the film easier to swallow (bitter because Vera has to come to terms with being Vera, sweet because she murders the bastard that did it to her). Yes, it’s sort of a fairytale ending, but I’m okay with that. Might the film have been stronger with the novella’s ending? I think so, but I enjoyed the catharsis that the film’s climax allowed. I don’t think you’re being ridiculous though. This is some dark shit.
I do find it funny that you mention Zeca’s arbitrary appearance, because that randomness is a usual occurrence in Almodóvar’s films and one of the main reasons I love them. He weaves seemingly unrelated narrative threads together and watching it all unfold is simply magical. I actually prefer the film’s use of Zeca and his absence in Norma’s assault to the way the novella utilizes the character.
I do admit that I think we bit off a bit more than we could chew by choosing The Skin I Live In. It is a fantastic film, but it deserves a more thorough dissection than what we were able to give it in this post. That being said, I’m really excited to continue this monthly series and hope that it resonates with some of our readers. On that note, what do you readers think of The Skin I Live In? Joe and I will be making “Horror Queers” articles a monthly event and will be joining in the discussion in the comments as well so we welcome your input!
The Skin I Live In is available to stream on Amazon Instant Video for $3.99.
Next Month’s Horror Queers film: James Wan’s Insidious: Chapter 2 and its cross-dressing villain!
Horror was permanently changed in 1984 when Wes Craven’s A Nightmare on Elm Street unleashed Freddy Krueger on the world. This brutal boogeyman pushed horror to exciting new places, but so much of the character’s impact is the result of Robert Englund’s quintessential performance.
Englund has a long and storied career as a performer that’s covered far more than horror alone. However, there’s such a sublime, sinister synergy between Englund and this heightened genre that’s made him one of horror’s most revered names.
Englund is set to scare audiences again as a malevolent reimagining of Jiminy Cricket in Pinocchio Unstrung, but he’s also been responsible for many more macabre monsters.
The Cricket (Pinocchio Unstrung)
Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey has somehow spun a morbid experiment in public domain exploitation into its own cinematic universe, the Twisted Childhood Universe. There’s been increasing promise in the TCU’s various films, which has also led to a growing list of capable horror guest stars, such as Roger L. Jackson, Richard Brake, and now Robert Englund. Englund is by far the most impressive name to attach himself to one of these movies, and Pinocchio Unstrung certainly doesn’t squander the opportunity to have him on board as its terrifying take on Jiminy Cricket. Englund’s performance as “The Cricket” in Pinocchio Unstrung becomes a sinister subversion of the classic character who is meant to function as Pinocchio’s conscience and moral compass.
Englund’s Cricket is instead the ultimate instigator who perpetually pushes Pinocchio into greater violence that condemns humanity and its many misgivings, rather than idolizing all the “real boys” in the world. Pinocchio Unstrung is a love letter to practical effects and old-fashioned animatronics and puppetry. This means that Englund just provides the voice for Cricket, but it’s still a deeply sinister performance and one of the most unnerving characters to appear in the Twisted Childhood Universe. Once again, Englund is careful not to just repurpose his Freddy Krueger persona, and he instead develops an original voice that plays into past renditions of the character. There’s a palpable rage and disdain in Englund’s Cricket that turns him into a threatening loose cannon and makes the audience forget that he’s only a few inches tall.
The Phantom of the Opera (The Phantom of the Opera)
The Phantom of the Opera is a foundational horror story that’s still being explored over a century later. 1989’s cinematic adaptation of Gaston Leroux’s 1910 classic doesn’t always get the respect that it deserves, despite it containing one of Englund’s most nuanced horror performances. Directed by Dwight H. Little, who previously helmed the underrated Halloween 4, The Phantom of the Opera operates as a gorier take on Leroux’s source material that feels like a lost Hammer Film picture. The titular Phantom is the perfect role for Englund following A Nightmare on Elm Street, and his participation in the picture was initiated by Englund promising his agent that he’d do another horror project after Elm Street’s success.
Englund was excited to tackle an iconic character who had previously been portrayed by formative horror legends like Herbert Lom, Claude Rains, and Lon Chaney. Englund beautifully fits the mold and is sublime casting for this ‘80s take on the character. Englund taps into a powerful dichotomy between the Phantom’s brutal and tragically sympathetic nature. It’s a role that’s significantly deeper than Freddy Krueger and better explores Englund’s range as an actor, which helps get him away from cheesy one-liners. It also doesn’t hurt that Little concocts a uniquely twisted take on the Phantom’s disfigurement, which was achieved by sewing human skin onto Englund’s face. The modern-day sequences that bookend the film were meant to tie into a planned sequel, The Phantom of the Opera 2: Terror in Manhattan, which unfortunately never came to fruition.
Victor Creel (Stranger Things)
Love it or hate it, Stranger Things assembled some impressive guest stars that took advantage of their respective legacies as ‘80s genre legends, such as Linda Hamilton, Matthew Modine, Cary Elwes, and Robert Englund. Englund’s turn as Victor Creel in the streaming hit’s fourth season is one of the series’ best performances and a role that rises above the mediocrity around it. Victor Creel is an opportunity for Englund to actually subvert expectations and play against type. It’s brilliant casting that initially conditions the audience to be wary of Creel and view him as a frightening threat. This perception is reinforced when Creel is encountered in a psychiatric ward and horrifically blinded.
Creel’s disturbing eye-gouged appearance is revealed to actually be a symptom of his tragic life and the psychological torment he received from Vecna. Creel is hard to look at, but there’s nothing to fear about him. He’s led a sad life that’s filled with inescapable guilt. He’s more like one of Freddy Krueger’s victims than Freddy himself. Englund goes above and beyond as Victor Creel, and the emotional monologues that he delivers are among some of the actor’s best work and proof that Englund’s still got it.
Marquis de Sade (Night Terrors)
Tobe Hooper’s Night Terrors is a particularly forgettable ’90s horror film that faced a litany of production problems and changes that certainly didn’t do it any favors. The story is a mess, even for a Cannon Video production, but it provides the novelty of Englund pulling double duty as the cruel Marquis de Sade and his modern day descendant, Paul Chevalier. Night Terrors banked on the novelty of Hooper directing Englund as one of history’s greatest monsters, and his performance is easily the best thing about this movie.
There’s an unabashed glee to Englund’s work as the Marquis de Sade that’s reminiscent of Freddy Krueger’s twisted jubilation over his creative murders, yet it doesn’t just feel like a carbon copy of Englund’s iconic role. There’s an appreciated degree of restraint going on before the film goes off the rails and incorporates supernatural elements and abstract dream sequences. Chevalier and his modern cult worship the Marquis de Sade as a deity of torture and liberation. The nightmare sequences that involve the Marquis de Sade are the most chilling and make this figure look as frightening on the outside as he is on the inside. There’s enough to latch onto here, even if the film as a whole is a mess, and Englund doesn’t squander the opportunity to play two sides of the same creepy coin.
Scarecrow (Injustice 2)
Robert Englund is no stranger to voiceover work, and he’s voiced his share of macabre and memorable characters over the years. That being said, one of his most inspired roles is the work that he did in NetherRealm’s dark DC Comics-based fighter, Injustice 2, where he plays Jonathan Crane, better known as the Scarecrow. There’s a certain tongue-in-cheek brilliance to having Englund voicing the Batman rogue who is the self-appointed “Master of Fear.” There’s certainly a meta quality to Englund’s casting here, right down to how some of his dialogue explicitly references Freddy Krueger one-liners like “Welcome to your nightmare” and “Now I’m playing with power.”
Englund doesn’t just phone in this performance or replicate his work as Freddy. The actor cultivates a unique voice for Scarecrow that cuts to the core of this character in a menacing manner. Englund’s Scarecrow is raspy, erratic, and honestly one of the better takes on Dr. Crane. It makes one wonder what he’d be able to accomplish if he were playing the part in live-action. He takes a simple role and breathes fresh life into it. Curiously, it’s not his first time playing a Batman villain. He does comparably interesting work as The Riddler in The Batman and the more obscure sorcerer, Felix Faust, in Justice League.
Evil Bloodthirsty Brian (The Hughleys)
There’s a surprising relationship between horror icons and sitcoms, with Robert Englund being no stranger to adding a devious dose of terror to a farcical comedy. Englund shows up as a playful take on Lucifer in Married…with Children, but he also provides a genuinely chilling performance in the first season of The Hughleys. Season one’s “Storm O’ the Century” is centered around the Hughleys and Rogerses getting stranded at a seemingly haunted hotel during an intense blizzard.
“Storm O’ the Century” functions as a proper love letter to horror fans, with genre guest stars that include The Addams Family’s John Astin, The Shining’s Shelley Duvall, and Robert Englund as the comically-named Evil Bloodthirsty Brian. The episode certainly prioritizes its comedy, but it manages to also be legitimately creepy thanks to a locked-in performance by Englund. He’s used sparingly, but always to punctuate a particular scene and function as a jump scare. Evil Bloodthirsty Brian sports a ghastly scar and has a look that’s just frightening enough to be included on a ’90s sitcom. Anyone who is curious about Englund’s performance can check it out for free on Tubi.
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