Mysterious Skin: One of the Most Important Films You’ve Never Heard Of

I like to view myself as a chronic film obsessive and a fairly knowledgeable Cinephile, but I had never heard of Gregg Araki’s Mysterious Skin until I happened to come across it on a routine Netflix search (to alleviate the guilt preying on my mind of having not done any revision). It was rated very highly, and purported an original and intriguing premise; a gay prostitute and a man who believes he was abducted by aliens are inexplicably linked. It pricked my curiosity, and two hours were to pass revision-free.

If you have Netflix, I strongly suggest that you watch it either right now, or as soon as physically possible, as I intend to discuss the film’s narrative and its thematic implications quite thoroughly, and Mysterious Skin is far more visceral knowing nothing about it beforehand. If you don’t have Netflix, then buy the DVD. Otherwise, I don’t know, do something with your life. Please watch it, it’s disturbing, unsettling and terribly hard to watch, but, like Schindler’s List and Come and See, it’s a film that demands to be seen. The spoilers start now.

After mulling over my viewing of Mysterious Skin I believe it to be one of the most powerfully intimate, yet profoundly resonant, films of the 21^st century. There have been films that have dealt with paedophilia before, (Kubrick’s underrated adaptation of Lolita springs to mind, as does the equally underrated The Woodsman, as well as the painfully heavy handed, yet not completely terrible, Perks of Being a Wallflower) yet never has it been as ferociously unsentimental, controversially uninhibited and astonishingly objective as it is here. In most of the films I’ve seen previously on the subject, it follows the story of the paedophile; either as a vindictive, sadistic villain or as a morally distressed anti-hero struggling to come to terms with and defeat his psychological ‘disease.’ The few films I’ve seen which have dealt with the victims of paedophilia directly use their horrifically traumatic experiences as an insensitive plot twist to shock or provoke an emotional response from the audience.

In Mysterious Skin, the incomprehensibly awful experience these two boys share as 8 year olds isn’t a plot twist, it’s the film’s MacGuffin; it is the plot device that the entire narrative revolves around and its consequences formed the two protagonists’ characters, in other words, it is the movie. In fact, it is literally every reel, its influence seething through the cracks of every scene, every shot, just as it would subtly influence the psychology and actions of both boys for the rest of their lives. The opening twenty minutes describe the events which build up to the act in question without explicitly stating or showing what happens, the grown-up pair narrating the perplexed, convoluted thinking of their eight-year-old selves. The 2^nd act follows the (notably contrasting, but that will be discussed later) boys as they grow up, their actions and motives (and personalities) indirectly determined by their shared experience. The 3^rd act involves the reunion and reconciling of the two boys, both incited to do so by that horrible incident’s continuing headlock on their lives and their capacity to move on. Paedophilic abuse and its repercussions isn’t used as a lazy tragic backstory or a contrived plot twist, it is the film. Mysterious Skin’s script doesn’t adhere to any Hollywood dramatic plotting structure involving multiple sub-plots, thematic exposition and scenes of comic relief, it doesn’t condescend the real-life victims of such abuse by pretending there’s anything more. It’s the first film I’ve seen which seems to grasp just how fundamentally, disgustingly inhumane the concept of child sex abuse is, that it deserves an entire film to itself. Paedophilia dictates the film because it absolutely ruins lives, and the film understands that. It is a no-holds-barred, gut wrenching 100 minutes. It is exhaustingly uncomfortable and distressing, its imagery horrific, but that’s what makes it so significant. It sits you down and forces you to witness the permanent pain and misery of such barbarism; because that’s the only way it’ll have a lasting effect on the viewer.

As stated previously, both characters are hugely different. Neil McCormick (Joseph Gordon Levitt) knew he was gay since he was very young and was actually attracted to his abuser. In fact, this attraction convinced Neil to be ignorant of the immorality he was suffering. Since the age of ten he used sex to get his own way. At the age of 15 he became a gay prostitute, a profession he prided himself in until he was brutally raped in New York when he was 19, instigating an epiphany about the consequences of, and factors behind, his excessive, nihilistic hedonism. I don’t need to tell the reader that this isn’t the ordinary sexual growth of a boy. Neil remembers everything about his summer of abuse, but almost seems indifferent towards it until the final scene. Obviously, his experience as an 8 year old deeply damaged Neil and caused a premature and recklessly hungry sexual awakening. Neil is a sexual exhibitionist, he proudly claims to have had sex with every man at a bar, and claims to have had sex in various (unorthodox) locations. This isn’t sexual liberalism though, it is profoundly disturbing. It isn’t satyriasis or sex addiction, it’s just an apathetic compulsion, like eating or sleeping, or a narcissistic tool to achieve his goals. Joseph Gordon Levitt is incredible, brilliantly playing against his current ‘type’ as the Indie scene poster boy (see also Brick, for another excellent pre 500 Days of Summer performance), he’s indefatigably charismatic and endearing, despite his obvious vacuous heartlessness. His overwhelming sexuality draws a striking parallel with the second boy, the equally brilliant Brady Corbet as Brian Lackey. Brian is shy, withdrawn, compassionate and, to paraphrase one of the secondary characters, ‘gives off a real vibe of asexuality.’ Brian has no recollection of his experience, just vague images and memories, believing, initially, that he suffered at the hands of probing aliens, because there just seemed no other explanation. At no point does Brian convey any sexual feelings. In fact, the very idea of sex appears to terrify him. In one scene, when a girl starts to unzip his trousers he shoves her away, screams and runs into the corner, repulsed by her touch. It is an extremely effective contrast between the two characters; they both shared the same devastating encounter, and it damaged them irreparably, but in wholly different ways. Neil is irresponsibly and heedlessly sexual, an emotionless sociopath, Brian is comprehensively asexual and a social outcast. Their sexuality is so integral to their psychology that it defines their characters, and their characters define the film.

The climax of Mysterious Skin is tremendously compelling and horrifyingly upsetting, as Neil reveals to Brian what they went through in the setting of their abuse, their old coach’s house. It is one of the most powerful moments you’ll ever see in any film. It pulls no punches; what happens in the narrative is shown in the footage of the flashback, because it has to be. It is disturbing, devastating, genuinely affecting. When Brian, sobbing, rests his head on the expressionless Neil’s lap, it becomes perfectly clear that, despite what Hollywood would tell you, you will never recover from paedophilic abuse. It destroys you and the ones you love. There is no happy ending, no light at the end of the tunnel. That is the message Mysterious Skin provides, and that is the message people need shoved down their throats.

No film has come close to communicating with such unmitigated honesty on a subject so intensely, importantly relevant, since Elem Klimov’s Come and See.