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 21st
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 2nd 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 3rd 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.
