Michelle Trachtenberg

Mysterious Skin is undoubtedly Greg Araki’s most respectable film to date. A cult filmmaker in the strictest sense of the word, he spent the nineties developing a style so distinctive that ultimately you either got his films or you didn’t. Yet having reached some kind of nihilistic peak with The Doom Generation and Nowhere, he subsequently disappeared before making a drastic change in tact. The result was 1999’s Splendor, a teen movie so anonymous it made you suspect that there was another Araki on the scene; same name, entirely different approach. Yet this was Araki and whilst Splendor may have been unrelenting in its awfulness, it did at least teach its filmmaker a lesson. Araki, it seemed, didn’t have to work solely within the confines of The Living End, say, or Totally F****ed Up, but could conceivably branch out to newer terrains. Indeed, Mysterious Skin finds him taking on Scott Heim’s novel of the same name, one in which child abuse and male rape, amongst other things, receive a sensitive treatment. Now “sensitivity” isn’t a word we’d hitherto associated with Araki, yet remarkably he pulls it off. He doesn’t shy away from the material, as you’d expect from his CV, but then he’s certainly moved away from his little niche.

Not that Mysterious Skin feels like a complete disavowal, however. Its central setting of 1991 was a key year for Araki, this being year zero for the “New Queer Cinema” movement; the time in which Swoon and Poison and My Own Private Idaho attracted a great deal of attention and saw Araki begin work on his breakthrough picture, The Living End. As such it comes infused with a nostalgic glow, perhaps even a yearning for the period, which gives it a remarkable dreamlike quality. With a score by ex-Cocteau Twins Harold Budd and Robin Guthrie, plus a soundtrack peppered by the likes of Slowdive, Curve and Sigur Rós, Mysterious Skin achieves a lushness which accentuates its moods and moves the film into a more artful, not to mention artificial, realm. Just as “New Queer Cinema” compatriot eventually moved from Poison to Far From Heaven, so too Araki has made the switch from more transgressive practices to heightened melodrama, though the traces of past leave a different inflection. You could almost dub it “white trash magic realism” - it’s a world populated by gore cinema and alien abductions, but at the same time incredibly beautiful and inviting.

What’s so interesting about this is the manner in which it interacts with both the sensitive subject matter and Araki’s past as a filmmaker. Mysterious Skin, unlike his previous work, find the director visibly courting a mainstream audience as opposed to playing for an exclusive set. And as such we find a new care and attention. Essentially, the film traces two characters from their childhoods in 1981, 1983 and 1987 before catching up with them (for the bulk of the narrative) in 1991. Brian, a shy kid with giant spectacles, believes he was abducted by aliens in 1981 and has been suffering nightmares, nosebleeds and blackouts ever since. Neil was sexually abused during this same year by his ‘little league’ coach, eventually growing up to become a gay hustler who works his way through their small Kansas town. Of course, this brings with it certain considerations, yet Araki’s handling is terrifically adept. He remains provocative, as you’d expect from a film dealing with paedophilia, but without heading into the spurious territory he’d previously occupied. Yet whilst this places Mysterious Skin on a similar plain to The Woodsman, say, or Todd Solondz’s Happiness, it remains fresh owing to the fact that it approaches the subject from the victim’s point of view. If anything the results are more forceful and immediate as the startling final scene will no doubt testify.

Furthermore, Araki’s control proclaims itself throughout. Whereas The Doom Generation, say, would throw in a Heidi Fleiss appearance for a quick dose of sensationalism, here the cameos feel fully formed and worthwhile. Erstwhile direct-to-video star Billy Drago is remarkable in his tiny role as Zeke, one of Neil’s johns during his stay in New York, and it demonstrates just how coherent everything is. We may initially wonder quite where Drago has caught our eye before, but this is a passing sensation - we’re soon immersed in the character and concentrating on more important things.

Indeed, Mysterious Skin has an uncanny ability of keep us enrapt throughout. Everything falls into place - the subplots, the manner in which the twin narratives of Brian and Neil interweave - with only a handful of misjudged performances breaking the spell (the early scenes with Lisa Long suggest we’re heading into more Lynchian territory than is ever the case; Michelle Trachtenberg doesn’t hold a great deal of weight and suffers from an extremely wobbly accent). If there is a failing then it’s that the oft-mentioned “unfilmable” nature of Heim’s novel translates into the occasional loss of direction. If we take the film as a mystery revolving around what happened to Brian in 1981 (which we’re inclined towards on an initial viewing at least), then the early revelation does itself some harm. Subsequent scenes have more than enough going for them and as such keep us fully occupied, but on occasion don’t quite hold together in narrative terms and do leave us to question quite where we’re headed. Certainly, Araki never loses sight of the emotional markers - especially in that aforementioned final scene - which leaves us to wonder whether the flaw is inherent in Heim’s contribution rather than the director’s, but nonetheless Mysterious Skin falls just short. What we’re left with is still a remarkable, rich experience and one which demonstrates great promise for things to come. After all, it’s worth seeing its effects once Araki heads back into his own material.

The Disc

Though Mysterious Skin has thankfully escaped the NTSC-PAL transfer which blights so many Tartan releases, it’s presentation isn’t quite what we should expect from such a new production. The print itself contains minor damage, whilst the transfer has produced occasional instances of heaving artefacting and edge enhancement. Thankfully the rich colour scheme has been handsomely maintained, but nonetheless it’s hard not to feel disappointed. As for the soundtrack, here we find the original Dolby Stereo flanked by optional DD5.1 and DTS mixes. Interestingly, though technically sound, neither of these latter choices quite leaves up to the effect of the original. They feel much less detailed and expressive and as such should be ignored; you only need sample the credit sequence and its lush scoring to notice the huge difference.

In terms of extras, the disc comes nicely packed, though this does mean a certain amount of repetition. We find individual interviews with Greg Araki, Scott Heim, and (jointly) Brady Corbet and Joseph Gordon-Levitt in the typical Tartan style. As such this means sizeable durations (see right-hand sidebar) and all of the key questions coming up with regards to the film’s preparation, production and reaction. Indeed, all you could want to know is contained in these pieces, with Heim’s contribution being especially welcome for those who have yet to sample to novel. Moreover, it also renders the other two additions somewhat superfluous. The London Film Festival Q&A session with Araki and Heim understandably covers much of the same territory, as does the commentary which teams Araki, Corbet and Gordon-Levitt. The latter, of course, provides a greater detail than the interviews (and in being scene specific allows us jump straight to the relevant discussions as we so wish), though the core elements are repeated and as such many may wish to stick with these shorter, more concentrated pieces. Nonetheless, Tartan should still be congratulated for making the effort of the extras front, and no doubt fans will be extremely happy to find such rich material. (Rounding off the package we also find the theatrical trailer and the usual grab bag of promos for other Tartan releases.)

Unlike the film itself, there are no optional subtitles available for the special features.