

I’ve taken many unusual cinematic journeys with Pedro Almodóvar and enjoyed most of them, but I just didn’t care for The Skin I Live In. The filmmaker’s best work has always felt organic, even at its most outrageous; this one is burdened by an inescapable air of contrivance. One scene, in which an older female character unburdens herself and reveals a startling amount of expository information, actually plays like a—
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