Almodóvar’s new film concerning, not groundbreaking

Antonio Banderas and Elena Anaya. Photo supplied.

Tonight, for the first time in my life, I walked out of a film.

In 22 years, I’ve seen my fair share of terrible movies. Painful plot holes? Awkward dialogue? Shaky camerawork? I’ve sat through it all. And while this film had none of the aforementioned qualities, there was something about it that forced me to get up from my seat and make that embarrassing walk toward the exit.

Pedro Almodóvar’s latest film The Skin I Live In made its world premiere at the Cannes Film Festival on May 19, 2011. Since then, it has been screened at film festivals across North America and the U.K. Critics have mostly given it favourable reviews, including The Telegraph‘s David Gritten, who described the film as “the work of a master near the top of his game.”

Now, due to a media embargo, I can’t give away too much plot information, but I will say this: As a young woman, I found the repeated scenes of violent rape and assault — inflicted upon teenage girls, I might add — to be not only disturbing, but entirely unnecessary. Almodóvar took a concept many are calling “years ahead of its time” and turned it into something unbearable to watch.

I decided at around the one hour mark that I couldn’t take anymore. So, I got up from my unfortunately located seat in the front row, and I left.