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!
College kids, strippers and vampires—those were Donald P. Borchers’ only requirements when he approached Richard Wenk about writing and directing a movie for New World Pictures. As requested, Wenk cooked up Vamp (1986), a tailor-made blend of the decade’s teen movie craze as well as its horror boom.
Grim and earnest stories were still very much a part of the ’80s horror landscape, yet Vamp is something of a comedy. One difference between it and, say, Saturday the 14th, though, is the former avoids using schtick. Wenk’s movie proves that horror comedies also don’t have to subtract thrills from their recipes. Of course, it takes a minute before reaching that point; college antics and culture shocks preface this one macabre misadventure.
Vamp‘s initial setup is apt for a typical college-set, sex-driven comedy; to bribe their way into a fraternity house, two pledges (Chris Makepeace, Robert Rusler) go looking for some adult entertainment. Without wasting time on any further exposition, the characters embark on an all-in-one-night trip that quickly detours into terror.
To procure their elusive MacGuffin—a stripper willing to gyrate for some frat boys—Keith (Makepeace) and AJ (Rusler), plus a third wheel named Duncan (Gedee Watanabe), trade the safety of their remote college campus for the seediness of some unnamed city. The setting is recognizably L.A. by day, but as soon as night falls, downtown, along with the characters, slips into a kind of surreal universe. Director of photography Elliot Davis gave this early entry on his prolific résumé an unusual yet distinctive look; that Mario Bava-esque, magenta-green lighting is omnipresent, so much so that it’s almost its own character.
Chris Makepeace and Robert Rusler in Vamp
The faint comparisons to Martin Scorsese’s After Hours are merited, although not just because of Vamp’s distinguishing nighttime aesthetic. Save for the primary characters, the supporting roles in Wenk’s movie are also quite colorful and transactional in their behavior. The difference here, though, is the additional urge to ruin Keith and his friends at every turn. Some of that harm is humorous and tolerable enough, whereas the moment Vamp dishes out its first fatality, it’s abundantly clear how this movie qualifies as horror.
Vamp falls into that category of horror movie that reveals its genre with a scream rather than a series of whispers. The opening scene can function as a hint of what lies ahead—things are not at all what they appear to be—but otherwise, Wenk is more than happy to hold off on the horror. When that time does come, though, it catches the viewer off guard. In addition to the pure shock value is that sudden decision to upend the movie’s foremost feature. Or so it would seem.
If afraid of major spoilage, those new to Vamp would be wise to stop reading here. There’s just no skirting around the fact that the central fellowship in this buddy movie hits a serious snag when AJ is killed. That development causes the story to become more of a “long, bad night” journey for Keith and his romantic interest. So while Wenk scores points for subverting expectations, there is also a touch of sadness in his decision. Because if Vamp does anything well, it’s making the characters likable.
Something that comes easily to Vamp—and other teen horror movies from this same era—is its ability to invent young characters worth caring about, or at the very least, are interesting and not so immediately off-putting. More impressive is how Wenk did all this without actually fleshing out those characters. Still and all, Keith and his kind are a grade above cookie-cutter, and in some cases, aren’t completely devoid of growth.
Grace Jones in Vamp
Vamp appeals with an assorted cast of characters. No two are the same, nor are they operating on the same wavelength. The cinematically extroverted AJ, whose actor conveyed charm and vulnerability in near equal amounts, comes alive when he’s at his most undead. Makepeace then makes the chronically cautious Keith a sympathetic fellow, even as he’s more and more affected by the night’s bizarre events. Meanwhile, Duncan is indeed the designated loser of the whole bunch, but Watanabe still manages to humanize him. As a bonus, the role didn’t require him to pull a Long Duk Dong.
As for Dedee Pfeiffer, she is plain adorable as the mysterious After Dark server nicknamed “Amaretto”. She spends all night fixing her dress strap while at the same time trying to get Keith to remember how he knows her. As their offbeat romance grows, it becomes another highlight of this movie. Whether or not Pfeiffer’s character is really a vampire also creates some welcome tension in the story.
Like a lot of its contemporaries, Vamp went on to become a bit of a cult classic. That current status is determined by several factors, but without a doubt, the casting of Grace Jones is the most considerable. The image of her writhing on that unique-looking chair, a Keith Haring original, springs to mind whenever this movie is brought up.
Chris Makepeace, Billy Drago and Paunita Nichols in Vamp
Prior to that first display of unequivocal horror, local vampire queen Katrina (Jones) took to the stage and delivered a strip show like no other. One would expect nothing less from that renowned model and performance artist. By now reports of Jones’ tardiness on set are no secret, yet it’s also hard to deny her commitment to the part of Katrina. It was, in fact, Jones who took charge of her character’s appearance—on top of Haring painting her body and that now-iconic chair, she had Andy Warhol handle her costuming. And not too many actors could seize a room’s attention without saying a single line of dialogue.
In 2022, Vamp received a retrospective novelization from Encyclopocalypse. This literary union of preexisting source material—Wenk’s original screenplay—and new ideas from author Christian Francis amounts to a more comprehensive visit to the After Dark Club. The basic story there is no different than what’s shown on screen; however, Francis gets creative with the characters’ origins and designs, and he enhances a number of key scenes.
The novelization expands on the urban and social decay of the main setting, and supplies a background for the After Dark Club. Sandy Baron’s character, Katrina’s emcee and familiar, is given ample motivation for sticking around; up until the fiery end, he is loyal to his friend and former business partner “Squeak”, who looks like he was “fed through a combine harvester, and left as nothing more than a heap of mangled remains”. Then there is Billy Drago’s character Snow, the leader of a street gang called The Dragons. His reason for menacing Keith and AJ is more altruistic than in the movie; he and his peers act tough to scare off any potential food for the vampires.
Lisa Lyon in Vamp
If not for all the backstories, Francis’ Vamp would be a hell of a lot shorter. Instead, this tie-in read dives into how AJ met Keith—the orphaned Anthony Joseph hailed from a broken home back in Brooklyn—and how their friendship flourished over the years. Keith’s archership is no longer just an assumed part of his entire being; it’s a confidence-building extracurricular for a boy who got picked on before coming into the protection of the new kid in town. These supplemental, in-depth looks at the protagonists, plus their close connection, are maybe unnecessary. The movie already did a fair and concise job of addressing their platonic intimacy without the need for flashbacks and insights, specifically in that scene where AJ lays it all out as he sacrifices himself.
Where the novelization gets off course is its approach to the minor characters. Intermittently backstorying the likes of Katrina’s indentured servants, Seko (Leila Hee Olsen) and Vlad (Brad Logan), ends up disturbing the flow of the writing. Was it absolutely essential that readers know Vlad was the Grand Duke of the House of Romanov, or how Snow’s accomplice Maven (Paunita Nichols) became so dentally challenged? No, not really. However, one’s mileage with these random biographies may vary.
The novelization is a more substantial experience, but for a movie like Vamp, less is more. And as plentiful as they are, it never simply coasts on its campy charms, either. The character work sits comfortably in that realm between cursory and meticulous, the script is sharper than first realized, and Greg Cannom’s vampire makeup is straightforward yet effective. Most of all, the movie didn’t squander its out-of-the-box concept. Richard Wenk made his vision of a “comic nightmare in which just about anything that can go wrong does” come true, and it is very enjoyable.
You must be logged in to post a comment.