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Rating: I sum up the day, almost every night, in front of the television. It’s a kind of ritual, one of the few I allow myself. Whatever went wrong that day, I have the chance to focus the little attention I have left on a series of random images that I choose, presumably, as my last, confused memories. That must have been how it happened that Saturday night. After a lazy and mechanical overview of the programming, between a press review and a soporific talk-show, between a telepromotion and a pair of breasts for sale, for some reason I must have stopped on Rai Tre (in hindsight, it all became clearer). Enrico Ghezzi has the air (and the hair) of someone who has just woken up, while I can barely keep my eyelids open; it doesn't take much for his asynchronous arguing to become more effective than a cup of chamomile. A couple of hours later, I wake up stunned and numb; a background of liquid, vaguely jazzy piano, accompanies a chilling close-up of a female face in a catatonic state, if not outright lifeless. It is all very unsettling and at the same time hypnotic. I feel disturbed and find sleep again only in the early hours of the morning.
Some time later, I realize it was "Dans Ma Peau - In My Skin", a 2002 French film directed and starring Marina De Van, until then a perfect unknown to me. I think carefully before delving into watching the film; the memory of that sequence was vague, but the effect of its visual power was still well-defined. In the end, curiosity was stronger than any "psychological" hesitation.
The story itself is rather ordinary, and the routine depicted has something of the squalid and, at times, boring. Holding it up is a De Van of impressive skill (mimicry even more than acting in the strict sense), and a sound that corroborates the feeling of horror in the more graphic scenes. The absolute protagonist is Esther, with her mind and, above all, with her body. Esther is not a very attractive woman, yet perversely magnetic; she has a loving boyfriend, a friend she considers trustworthy, and a satisfactory professional career. At a party, she trips over some tools in the garden, but only realizes she has seriously injured her leg a few hours later; this event, initially perceived as irrelevant, will mark the beginning of the end. At the hospital, she refuses to undergo a skin graft that would remedy the unsightliness of the noticeable wound. Something has snapped in Esther’s mind; perhaps a resurfacing trauma, or simply the intimate and perverse discovery of deriving pleasure from hurting herself, beneath which hides a powerful, tearing inner discomfort. The spectator is not allowed to know the reality of the situation; throughout the film, they will wait in vain for even a single flashback that could clear up any interpretative doubts. The protagonist herself does not wish to give explanations, and there is too little time to look for them on your own. In the face of the initial perplexities of her friend (who shortly thereafter will become jealous of her promotion) and her boyfriend, Esther reacts almost stupefied, responding tersely and bewildered, yet somehow managing to elude further suspicion. Nevertheless, the young woman has now entered a tunnel with no light; she will end up alienating herself from any social and emotional dimension, losing and finding herself in the sole, hallucinatory, self-mutilation. According to a more or less shared explanation of the phenomenon of self-harm, it may be an extreme form of communication, where inner suffering finds an outlet through the bodily dimension, and where blood replaces language. But Esther's attitude, who jealously guards her wounds and consumes them in a strictly private ritual, complicates the interpretative work. And you, spectator, are as powerless as anyone else around her. If you want, you can stay there spying on her from the screen; you can furtively cross her icy gaze, you can imagine her pleasure while the blood colors her face, and you can petrify when a tear draws a steep and fleeting path on that same face, shortly before slowly being traced by the blade. Your participation, however, will only be voyeuristic. You know nothing about her pain; there is no empathy, and she does not seek your compassion at all. It’s her skin, and she does with it what she wants! She carves it, she likes to savor its texture, and when she wants to preserve its freshness, she tries to store it through rudimentary tanning treatment. All this without uttering a single groan of pain. It could also be autoerotic fulfillment pushed to the limits, and if that’s the case, why should you stop her?
Thus, there are numerous and open interpretations for this film balanced between the dramatic, without being tear-jerking, and, in the broadest sense of the term, horror, where a close-up of Esther's eyes equals all the over-the-top guttings of the latest genre films. It’s an ordinary story, as I said at the beginning, because, unfortunately, it could be that of many people. But it’s a drama that, rather than moving you, shocks you, makes your blood run cold. It annihilates you.
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