In his latest movie, Knight of Cups, Terrence Malick asks us to join him, for the third time in a row, on a journey through the meandering thoughts of people lost in life, confessing their innermost moral quandaries to the cosmos as they stumble and crawl across god’s green earth and bask in heavenly sunlight. This time, the setting is Los Angeles, photographed in all its concrete, Art-Deco grandeur by trusted Malick collaborator (and Oscar darling) Emmanuel Lubezki. We follow and listen in on the thoughts of fading movie star Rick (Christian Bale) and, occasionally, his famous friends, as Malick lays out another unbearably thin narrative that’s as deviously frustrating as a 500-piece puzzle with 450 pieces missing. The eminently respected auteur clearly has a firm grip on the art of filmmaking—at his best, he’s one of the greats—but with his work becoming increasingly nebulous and less inviting to audiences, it’s come to the point where patience for his vagaries grows dangerously thin.

In an almost wordless onscreen performance (we hear his voice, but mostly in the form of narration), Bale drifts down the streets of L.A., occasionally jumping in thought to memories from Las Vegas, Century City and Santa Monica. Rick is in a perpetual state of punch-drunk spiritual crisis, surrounded by gorgeous women who glom onto his status, wealth and handsome looks until his emotional ineptness becomes too much to bear, at which point they make way for the next batch of girls to grab at his pants.

Rick’s fleeting romantic partners are played by a dizzying crowd of famous faces: Cate Blanchett, Natalie Portman, Imogen Poots, Teresa Palmer, Freida Pinto, Isabel Lucas and more can now add a Malick film to their resume. The roles are thin—Blanchett plays his ex-wife, Portman plays a fling—but isn’t every role thin in a Malick movie these days? Antonio Banderas makes an appearance a Hollywood playboy who throws a swanky house party littered with real-life celebrities playing themselves (“Look! It’s Joe Manganiello! Nick Kroll! Danny Strong! Wait…Danny Strong? Huh?”). Banderas takes over narration duties for a bit, spouting twisted, misogynist philosophy. “Women are like flavors,” he says in his sumptuous Spanish accent. “Sometimes you want raspberry, but then you get tired of it and you want strawberry.”

Malick does a good job of laying out the monstrous, indulgent allure of showbiz that pulled Rick in and broke him down into the wandering, pulp of a man he is. He’s become a phony, just like all the other soul-sapped leeches overpopulating the trashy town that bred them (to be clear, Angelenos, I mean Tinseltown, or the idea of it, not L.A.). Similarly swallowed by the city is Rick’s brother (Wes Bently), a non-famous drifter whose short temper is inherited from his and Rick’s late father. The particulars of the family drama (and, in fact, most of the particulars of Ricks life) are left for us to imagine on our own, but the quality of Bale and Bentley’s performances helps to form some semblance of an emotional arc.

Some (this writer included) would consider it a duty of a true movie lover to meet the filmmaker halfway when a film’s concepts or ideas are challenging or obscure. But with Malick’s recent work, it feels like he’s not meeting us halfway. We can only give so much of ourselves over to him before his movies start to feel like tedious chores. What’s so tragic about this is that, on a cinematic level, he’s phenomenal: he and Lubezki’s imagery is sweeping, evocative and immaculately conceived. Some moments—like a ground-level shot of Bale taking a knee on the concrete as an earthquake shakes the buildings and people around him—are so exquisite you could cry. But without a deeper sense of cohesion, these cinematic feats start to feel hollow as they pile on top of each other for two hours straight. As with Malick’s last movie, To The Wonder, Knight of Cups topples over, leaving us to sift through a mess of pretty pictures in a desperate search of some morsel of meaning. Like his characters, maybe it’s time for us to wake the hell up.

Shortly after the announcement that Knight of Cups would have its World Premiere in competition at the upcoming Berlin Film Festival, the latest project written and directed by Terrence Malick has followed up with a first-look trailer. Full of strangely framed shots from renowned cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki (who last worked with Malick on The Tree of Life, make sure to watch our video essay on the Screen Poetry of Terrence Malick), several of them upside down, the Knights of Cup trailer gives brief glimpses at the infidelity and celebrity status that the film might ultimately be about.

Starring Christian Bale, Cate Blanchett and Natalie Portman, the well-known cast extends well beyond its three leads including names like Brian Dennehy, Antonio Banderas, Freida Pinto, Wes Bentley, Isabel Lucas, Teresa Palmer, Imogen Poots, Armin Mueller-Stahl, the voice of Ben Kingsley and others who may or may not survive the final edit. Knight of Cups’ official synopsis is about as cryptic as the trailer:

Once there was a young prince whose father, the king of the East, sent him down into Egypt to find a pearl. But when the prince arrived, the people poured him a cup. Drinking it, he forgot he was the son of a king, forgot about the pearl and fell into a deep sleep.

Rick’s (Christian Bale) father used to read this story to him as a boy.

The road to the East stretches out before him. Will he set forth?

The Knight of Cups trailer is available online through FilmNation, watch it below:

Sci-fi thriller Automata’s obvious parallel – so obvious that it has dominated press publicity — is with I, Robot, both the film and the Isaac Asimov novel it was adapted from. But it is instructive to consider where the two works deviate. Automata is a flawed film, but it succeeds – or, at least, tries to succeed – in a number of places where the I, Robot film fails significantly.

Automata starts in a similar setting to its film twin, establishing a dystopian future where automatons have become an essential, natural part of human life. Additionally, the film also has these robots start to slowly gain consciousness – to the simultaneous fear and puzzlement of the humans. The robots are governed by a set of protocols that are highly reminiscent of Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics. Robots can’t intentionally cause harm to humans and they can’t alter themselves or other robots. Automata’s central dramatic tension arises out of the robots somehow finding a way to avoid following the latter of these two rules.

I, Robot used a similar premise to create an action film, featuring Will Smith as the hero who wards off a robot uprising. Automata has its moments of action, but it’s more fundamentally philosophical. As directed by Gabe Ibáñez, and written by Ibáñez, Igor Legarreta, and Javier Sánchez Donate, Automata has Big Questions to pose about identity, technology, and humanity.

Granted, the film poses these questions in blunt, on-the-nose ways. There are too many elements that exist purely as reductive symbolism. Protagonist Jacq Vaucan’s (Antonio Banderas) wife (Birgitte Hjort Sørensen) is pregnant with a child who represents hope for humanity’s future and fear of our inescapable decline. Dialogue like “Life finds a way” or “Self-repairing implies some kind of conscience,” painfully underline the themes of the film – themes that are fairly easy to discern even without the extra nudge. But, that said, these themes remain interesting even if they feel a little overdrawn. The multiplex is lacking in not only good science fiction, but is sci-fi without any original ideas or relative ambition. It is to the film’s credit that its ambitions fall short of its grasp, rather than never being there in the first place.

This begins with the narrative tact the film takes to contextualize these themes. Solar storms have destroyed the majority of humanity and turned the Earth’s surface into an inhospitable, radioactive desert. The robots have been created in order to build and maintain barriers and defenses for one of Earth’s last remaining cities. The company that has constructed the robots, ROC Robotics, has come to dominate society, and outside of its workers and shareholders, humanity lives just above the poverty line. This has been exacerbated by humanity’s exponential reliance on the company’s robots. The robots have insinuated themselves into all elements of human life, making it difficult to survive without owning one.

Jacq Vaucan works as an insurance agent for the company. He investigates possible criminal activity related to the robots. Some of this turns out to be people lying to get a desperately needed cash payout, but increasingly Jacq finds himself dealing with inexplicable cases where manipulated robots attack humans. Jacq plays a Rick Deckard-like role — a cynical and skeptical man thrown into a complicated investigation of rogue robots, revealing dark truths about human limitations.

Automata borrows heavily from Blade Runner for much of its visual design. Its cityscape is a dark, crowded tangle: equal parts grime, smoke, and neon glow. The way Ibáñez, specifically, films the city at night heavily evokes Ridley Scott’s vision, sleek and luminous yet sinister – especially in regards to the famous shots of Deckard in a ship flying past the skyscrapers and digital billboards. The films of Neill Blomkamp appear to be another source of visual inspiration. Beside the class divides that connects their works, the other noticeable parallel is the gritty, burnt-out way Ibáñez shoots the film.

Ibáñez’s visual sensibility is easily the film’s best feature. Ibáñez began his career as an animator, primarily for a few gruesome films —The Day of the Beast deals with cannibalism and the anti-Christ, among other things – and it shows. The film looks really good, especially for its estimated budget of $15 million. It has polish and even manages some grandeur. But Ibáñez is also able to imbue wonderful, idiosyncratic touches – like an indistinguishable Dylan McDermott as a corrupt cop straight out of some pulp novel.

These notable flourishes often come from the film existing in a post-apocalyptic world with a regression in technology. That requires the robots to be advanced but also slightly retrograde. Their design is wonderful. They are slow and clunky, and they don’t have proper faces, just two lights to suggest eyes. Ibáñez allows us to see their full movement – in a manner not quite seen since Pacific Rim. Their voices come out like the speech generating device that Stephen Hawking is known for. Even Javier Bardem, who plays an important robot credited as Blue Robot, has his voice made somewhat unrecognizable.

In the early proceedings, the film does some nice world building, filling it with all sorts of these weird, specific touches. It’s here where the film uses a subtler, gentler hand in depicting just how similar the robots and humans are. Robots exist in all corners of this place and in all various manners of ways. There are homeless robots, robot beggars, disabled robots. There are even robot prostitutes in brothels created to satiate humanity’s odd fetishes.

This last robot, Cleo (voiced by Melanie Griffith), is eventually retrofitted by Dra. Dupre (also played by Griffith) with technology Jacq discovers from altered, self-aware robots. Late in the film, Cleo saves Jacq’s life and brings him into the desert surrounding the city. The second half of the film finds Jacq crossing the desert with reconfigured robots. This is where the film decidedly slags. Ibáñez plays up how long and miserable the journey is for Jacq, who is in such bad physical condition that he needs to be dragged by the robots in a former car-seat. This probably goes on longer than it needs to.

It’s here where being the thoughtful man’s I, Robot does a disservice to Automata. The film wants to be both philosophical and thrilling, and doesn’t always quite know how to effectively split the difference. It’s never exciting enough to make up for how simplistic it feels and it isn’t insightful or contemplative enough to smooth over how lacking in action it is. There are some interesting ideas being considered here, but they are no more compelling or complexly engaged than their uncited, but not-so-secret, source material.

Automata trailer

When approaching my critique of Machete Kills—Robert Rodriguez‘s second entry into the eponymous character’s bloody B-movie saga that started with a fake trailer and continued in 2010’s Machete–I made the firm decision to not deny my inner 9-year-old that was having an absolute blast in the theater. Sure, I could poke and prod at the film’s cheap-o special effects, poor acting (only in some cases–there are strong performances here), and asinine plot, but wouldn’t that be missing the point? To be distracted by the film’s “faults” (many of which, like in other Rodriguez offerings, imbue the film with a sense of big fun) would hinder me from mining Machete Kills‘ many riches–spectacular violence, gleefully shameless cameos, tasteless zinger-happy dialog, a bad-ass anti-hero, and a villain who is more fantastic than he has any right to be.

Machete (Danny Trejo) is recruited (against his will) by the president of the United States (Carlos Estevez, a peculiarly familiar face…) to stop a maniac Mexican warlord (a scene-stealing Demian Bichir) from launching a nuclear strike on Washington D.C. He’s been promised–if he’s successful–U.S. citizenship and a clean record. On his action-packed mission, he encounters allies and enemies both new and old (all played by a bucketload of A and B-list celebs) and wreaks blood-splattered havoc along the U.S.-Mexican border. The killing spree leads Machete to the mastermind behind it all–a diabolical tech wizard played earnestly and hilariously by an on-point Mel Gibson.

Again, I’m not going to deny my inner child in my critique, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give the film’s flaws a pass. I acknowledge that Rodriguez’s game isn’t to make movie Mona Lisas, but even if we play by his rules, he fumbles the ball quite a bit. A lot of the gags–including a lot of the one-liners Trejo unenthusiastically mutters (“Machete don’t text”)–aren’t funny, period. In an awful scene, Michelle Rodriguez–playing Machete’s old ally, Luz–sniffs him (after he’s gotten busy with a girl hours earlier) and says she smells “fish taco”. Lady Gaga, Cuba Gooding Jr., Antonio Banderas, and Walton Goggins play the same character (an un-cleverly conceived villain called El Camaleón), and with the exception of Goggins (he’s good in everything), the cameos are an utter waste, amounting to a parade of idiotic posing (Gaga) and a lame joke of against-type casting (Gooding Jr. and Banderas) that’s clichéd and isn’t funny for a second. Sofia Vergara plays a sadomasochist who yells and shoots bullets out of her tits and vagina, a gag that was much funnier in Austin Powers 16 years ago.

The good news is, the major players in the film–Trejo, Gibson, Bichir, and a sizzling Amber Heard–are unbelievably entertaining, committing to the material with all their hearts. Unlike the rest of the cast, they don’t play it like a joke; from Bichir’s mad-man schizo lunacy, to Heard’s luscious sexuality (and perfect Spanish accent), to Gibson’s Oscar-mode performance, the quality of work these actors offer up is, frankly, surprising. Gibson is so good at being evil here one wonders why he hasn’t been cast in the villain role more often. Trejo’s dialog delivery isn’t on-par with his top-tier co-stars, but visually, physically, he embodies everything a testosterone craved moviegoer wants in an action hero.

With a title like Machete Kills, the death scenes had better be spectacular, and boy do they deliver. Rodriguez’s Mortal Kombat style violence engages the same twisted area of the imagination young boys use when blowing their action figures to smithereens with bb guns or melting their army men to puddles of plastic with matches in the backyard. It’s sadistic, sure, but it’s all in good fun. Heads roll, bullets rip flesh, innards explode (courtesy of a sci-fi gun that turns objects inside-out), and faces get melted (just like the army men!), but the most entertaining kills are the inventive ones. My personal favorite is one in which Machete latches himself to a spinning propeller of a helicopter with a grappling hook, sticks his machete out (there’s a dick joke in there, for sure), and lobs of the heads of a dozen or so baddies like some sort of gruesome, demonic carnival ride.

Rodriguez cleverly avoids showing graphic sex (be sure to bring your 3-D glasses!), though there are plenty of scantily clad ladies running around to satiate all you horn-dogs out there (I, as an esteemed journalist, am obviously not interested in such naughty things). The film bookends with trailers for the next film in the series, Machete Kills Again: In Space, keeping the spirit of the original “fake” trailer alive while nostalgically recalling the days of grainy VHS tapes, and I’ll be happy to make the trip out to the theater to watch Machete hack and slash again. The appeal of Rodriguez’s ’70s grindhouse influenced films like Machete Kills is bound to wear thin one day, but not today.

Returning to his absurdist comedy roots after taking years off, Pedro Almodóvar keeps it (mostly) playful with his unfiltered, druggy, cocktail-crazy sex party in the sky, I’m So Excited.

90 percent of the film is set on an airplane stranded in the clouds—one of the landing gears has been damaged (by the bumbling Antonio Banderas and Penelope Cruz in the film’s brief tone-setting prologue). The pilots search desperately for a solution for their dire predicament while three unflappably optimistic, gay flight attendants (Javier Camara, Carlos Areces, and Raul Arevalo, like a bitchy three-headed dog of fabulousness) attempt to keep the business class passengers’ spirits high despite the morbid situation that needles them. The economy class passengers? They’ve been drugged to sleep, ignorant of the impending danger (Almodóvar’s take on the Spanish proletariat).

Now, back to the business class folks. They’re a pill-popping, sex-starved freak show of sleaze. Lola Dueñas, an Almodóvar alumnus, plays a perpetually grinning 40-year-old-virgin psychic who can “smell death” and enhances her “powers” by groping a pair of male genitalia like a forklift driver. The rest of the weirdos include an assassin, a whore queen, and young newlyweds who have sleepwalk-sex right in their seats. “Shhhh!” the young husband—afraid his wife will be jostled from her sleep-state—snips to the vocally curious Dueñas, who is sitting right by them, fascinated by their lovemaking. From her inexperienced sexual perspective, she sees the couple’s amorous display as an impromptu sex-ed class. “What is it?!” the husband snips, hilariously, in between moans. “Are you doing it from the front or the back?” inquires Dueñas. That’s Almodóvar for you. Bawdy moments like this are plentiful and infectiously funny.

The film’s title refers to its brilliantly camp, wildly choreographed dance number performed by the three flight attendants, set to the classic Pointer Sisters tune. The trio is so committed to their flamboyance and semi-synchronized dance moves that you’ll be dying to jump into the screen, grab a Valencia cocktail, and join in on the fun. It’s joyously sloppy Cabaret.

Theatricality is the name of the game here, as all of the scenes on the plane feel like a filmed stage play (in a good, kinetic way, though not terribly cinematic). Almodóvar feels like early ‘80s Almodóvar, the guy who directed outlandish shock-fests like Pepi, Luci, Bom… This is a good thing, but while the in-your-face crudeness of his early work is very much present and potent here, the dramatic beats—there are more than you’d expect—don’t leave a lasting impression. The scattered tender moments (however melodramatic) are constantly elbowed aside by the gags, which are tastier and easily digestible. Even the parabolic commentary on Spain (something Almodóvar spends much time on) is overshadowed by the raunchy, “Fuck you, you’re gonna love this shit” humor. There’s a love story mixed up in here somewhere, but all I can think about is the scene when Lola Dueñas rapes a guy (gasp)!

Has Almodóvar’s filthy comedic mind lost its edge during his extended respite? No—his edge is sharp, and he’s still fiendishly provocative, no question. He had me constantly shaking my head in disbelief at the dirty things he got me to laugh at. What keeps I’m So Excited from being one of his very best is that the narrative threads running throughout the film, while ambitious and well-acted, ultimately add very little to the overall experience. Though the film’s half-hearted narrative is underwhelming, the rowdy airborne shenanigans, bitch-fest dialog, and irresistible cast will grab you by the face and give you a big smooch you won’t soon forget.

From the directors of Little Miss Sunshine comes Ruby Sparks, a whimsical film about a struggling writer who falls in love with a character he makes up. The film was written by Zoe Kazan who plays the lead role of Ruby Sparks. It is slightly ironic considering the film is about a writer bringing a character to life; which is essentially what she has done here for herself. You might go in expecting a standard romantic comedy and if so you will be pleasantly surprised that it is more than just that.

At one point (I will not say when) a character says “Just don’t tell me how it ends”, which is what I intend to abide. It is not really an easy film to spoil because the big “twist”, if you can call it that, is not really spoiling it. I do not believe it is a spoiler if that is what the entire film is about, enough to where they include it in the official synopsis and trailers. But thankfully, Ruby Sparks is much more serious than the trailers let on. However, if you are an absolute purist; which I would doubt you would be if you made it this far, then you should stop right here and read nothing more about the film. As always, I never try to ruin a film in my reviews for anyone who has not seen the film yet.

Calvin Weir-Fields (Paul Dano) is a famous writer who is struggling to find both inspiration for his next novel as well as romance in his life. The highly-acclaimed novel that made him famous is now ten years old and he has not made a very successful follow up since. So now he is currently working on what he hopes to be his next big hit and prove to himself that his career has not peaked. Not helping his confidence is his agent when he admits that living up to your first work is hard when it is a mega hit. And that “sophomore slump” syndrome does not happen when you are mediocre to begin with. Not wise words to tell someone when they are having a writer’s block.

Calvin mentions early on that he does not want to use his fame to get girls because he knows that they would not really like him for who he is. Instead, he uses some clever tricks suggested to him by his therapist to meet people such as, getting a dog so people stop to talk to him on the street. He is inexperienced in the dating world as he has only had one serious relationship in his life. Add that fact that he is awkward and shy makes it hard for him to meet someone.

It is not until Calvin starts having dreams about the character he made up for his new book that he gets inspired to write. Calvin creates Ruby Sparks (Zoe Kazan), as the girl he has always wanted to be with, the perfect girl in his eyes. He gets so inspired that he cannot stop writing. Then he realizes that the reason he wants to write so much is because he fell in love with the girl he created. Which is healthy for his career but not for his personal life.

Ruby shows up in his dreams more and more until one day he no longer has to dream about her because she suddenly shows up in his real life. Of course, he believes she is imaginary because how could she exist? It is a writer’s fantasy to create someone who is perfect for you then magically you meet that person. As time passes he realizes that she may not be completely perfect as he was expecting.

The great moral of the film is that even the perfect girl from your dreams is going to have faults and to try to change them is both dangerous and wrong. As the old adage goes, be careful for what you wish for, it just may come true. There are major drawbacks to trying to play God. Calvin’s brother pointed it out to him at the beginning of the film when he said that the honeymoon phase of a relationship does not last; women are different up close.

There is a great scene where we see Calvin on a sofa talking to himself. Or at least that is what it appears. There is a deep voice that seems like it is coming from his head until it is revealed when he lays down and the shot opens up to spot the man who was sitting in front of him. The man ends up being his therapist. The reason why this short scene is so interesting is it is before we start seeing the character he makes up appear in his life. So it sets the stage, if you will, for what was to come later in the film.

Ruby Sparks could have been a very different film if it had chosen to focus on what I feel like a lot of filmmakers would have focused on, which is the gimmicky part of the film. Instead, it pleads with you not to try to make sense of it because it does not even bother to explain how it happens. Similar to what Midnight in Paris did, it just embraces the magic of it all and asks you to imagine what if it could be true. Besides, the best part of the film is not the person he creates but rather the person he becomes.

Haywire is the new icy cold globe-trotting film from veteran director Steven Soderbergh. It’s a lean and mean thriller that starts in Upstate New York and works its way all over the world. From Barcelona to Dublin to the desert of New Mexico and back to New York again, Haywire is everywhere. I personally saw Haywire as a great throwback to spy and espionage thrillers of the 70’s. Everything from the music, to the cinematography and editing seemed to be celebrating that generation of secret agents.

Former real life MMA fighter Gina Carano takes lead in the film as Mallory, a freelance black ops operative who seeks revenge against her employers who betray her after a rescue mission in Barcelona. She is beautiful, mysterious and most of all, deadly.

The film begins with Mallory sitting in a booth at a small café in Upstate New York. She sits. She waits. Suddenly a man walks in and sits down at her table. The man is played by Channing Tatum. He asks her to turn herself in. Make it easier on herself. She declines and the within seconds Mallory is fighting for her life.

Mallory escape the café brawl with a young man in tow. They take his car and flee the scene. While this happens the movie cuts to the Barcelona job where we Mallory leading a team of operatives to the aid of a hostage. This team includes Tatum’s character with whom Mallory hooks up with after the mission is complete. This makes the opening scene all the more interesting.

Once the Barcelona job is done, Mallory returns to the States only to be recruited on another European mission by her employer played by Ewan McGregor. He is a snaky and sly person who seems to never be telling the truth with anyone. Mallory is sent to Dublin to meet up with another secret agent. He is name is Paul and is played by Michael Fassbender. Fassbender is having one hell of a career at the moment. He seems to be everywhere.

In Dublin, Mallory and Paul are in Dublin pretending to be a married couple. We soon find out that Mallory was sent there to be killed by Paul. This leads to an extremely brutal fight in a hotel room between the two. I can’t remember the last time I saw a fight on film that was so barbaric. The first that comes to mind is the climactic fight in William Friedkin’s The Hunted. They beat each other to a pulp.

At this point Mallory discovers she has been set up and sets out to exact revenge on those who betrayed her. After Dublin, she is back in the U.S. And now in terms of the plot we are back at the beginning of the film in New York.

Haywire if anything is a very efficient thriller. Like I said earlier, it’s extremely lean. The movie doesn’t concern itself with anything other than its main objective, Mallory’s quest for revenge. The movie is edited in a very slick manner. Cutting back and forth between previous missions and present time, the movie is constantly alive.

Soderbergh uses different colors and hues to distinguish which setting we are in. This makes it easy for the audience to figure out where in the timeline we are. Barcelona uses a warm palate, Dublin more of an icy blue.

The cinematography (by Soderbergh himself) is very well done. The brighter scenes have really nice warmth to them, reflecting the sunny locations of Barcelona and other parts Spain. When the blues are present they crisp and cold, hinting at the loneliness of the life of a secret agent.

The big talking point about Haywire seems to be Carano and her acting. When the film began I’ll be honest I wasn’t that impressed. But as the movie wore on, I honestly couldn’t picture anyone else in the role. Carano is a good choice because she isn’t known as an actress. She doesn’t know how to be a flashy movie star. She’s known for kicking butt, something she does very well in this film. Soderbergh doesn’t give her a lot of dialogue to begin with, but when she has some she delivers it just fine.

Another person I want to bring up is Channing Tatum. A few years ago I could not stand him as an actor. He seemed so awkward on camera, almost as if he didn’t belong there. But recently his choices of films have been great for his career. He’s having a great 2012 at the moment. He was first in Haywire. Then The Vow, which even I thought was pretty decent. Then he did 21 Jump Street, which was a critical success. Next he’s in a film called Magic Mike by none other than Soderbergh.

Haywire is smart, brutal and at times very fun. It’s a very confident spy film that doesn’t insult its audience. It plays to its strengths and has almost no weaknesses. The film has no fat on its bones and moves along at a consistent enough pace to keep the viewer interested and like most great espionage films has a lot of style.

The Skin I Live In is a foreign psychological thriller from the highly acclaimed Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar. His work is often compared to Alfred Hitchcock’s and it is easy to see why. Even though it was shot and set in present time the film looks like it could be from the 60’s when Hitchcock was around. As the title slightly suggests, the film is about how you still remain the same inside even if your outside has been completely changed.

Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas) is a brilliant plastic surgeon according to his colleagues. His specialty is facial and skin transplants. Brilliant he may be but we soon find out that his work closely resembles that of Frankenstein. The goal of Robert’s experiment is to create the perfect female body, he calls her Vera.

Vera Cruz (Elena Anaya) is locked up in a room in Doctor Robert Ledgard’s large mansion but we do not know why. She receives her food and reading material via a dumbwaiter. Surveillance cameras watch her every move and he handles her with tremendous care. She tries to commit suicide but again we do not know why. We must wait for Almodóvar’s masterfully crafted narrative to unfold for answers to such questions.

The new artificial skin Robert has created is resistant to every insect bite thus it can prevent diseases such as malaria. This is because it smells different from normal human skin so it repels mosquitoes from wanting to bite it. Also it cannot be burned easily due to using some pig cells to strengthen it. After he reveals his secret of using pig cells, the president of the institute of biotechnology informs him of how the bioethics of doing such a thing is forbidden then threatens to report him if he continues with this experiment.

While Robert is pondering what to do with Vera as her skin has been successfully healed from his transgenic therapy experiment, another part of the storyline develops. The primary servant of Robert, Marilia (Marisa Paredes), is reunited with her son Zeca (Roberto Álamo) who is trying to hide from local police for stealing jewelry. Zeca’s plan is to have Robert operate on his face so that he will not be recognizable by the police but Marilia quickly scolds him saying that Robert would never do the operation.

You get a sense that Marilia is afraid of her son just by their conversation which is then confirmed when she pulls a gun on him and instructs him to leave. She says to him, “You’re not my son. I just gave birth to you.” Zeca grabs the gun from her and notices Vera on the surveillance screen. Somehow she looks familiar to him. This is one of many plot thicken scenes that keep you engaged until the credits roll.

The difficult part of doing this review is not to give away any big clues. As with any good thriller/mystery, figuring out what happens is what makes it so entertaining. Almodóvar tells the story in a beautiful yet crafty way methodically giving you clues here and there. The thriller at times treads close to the line of horror but never quite crosses the line.

Almodóvar’s previous work has proven him as a cinematic artist whose eye for beauty is rarely surpassed. The Skin I Live In is no exception to that. It would be hard to walk away from the film without vivid images burned into your head, the styling is top notch (the perverse nature of the film adds to this as well).

The Skin I Live In would have ended better if it did not explain itself in the very last scene. I did not think it was needed, unless you were not paying attention during the film as it was alluded to on multiple occasions. That is really is my old compliant, and a small one at that, it ended about a minute too long. The film is an amazing yet bizarre thriller that involves a mad scientist creating perfect beauty as a way of filling a void in this life that results in a disturbing vengeance.