More than half a century before Oscar Wilde committed pen to paper in order to write The Picture of Dorian Gray, we had a similarly-themed story on behalf of the equally important literary genius Honoré de Balzac in the form of La Peau de chagrin (commonly translated as “The Magic Skin”), which is also focused on the subject of degradation and decay on both the personal and societal level, but which takes a few more bold strokes in how it examines these themes through the lens of what the writer saw as a cultural epidemic in his native France. His work has been translated to screen in the form of The Skin of Sorrow, in which celebrated journeyman director Alain Berliner revisits Balzac’s world, telling the story of a young man who is given a magical skin that can grant him any wish he desires, but will shrink depending on the size of the request, which will also considerably shorten his own life, with the idea that moderation is the key to both longevity and happiness, rather than instant gratification. The film, which is a relatively conventional combination of period drama and classical fantasy, is always very captivating, with both the broad components and small details being perfectly captured by Berliner, who works closely with the original text to develop on its multitude of promising ideas, each one fascinating and reverent to the author’s primary ideas. A simple but very effective work that both honours the original text while being fascinating in its own right, The Skin of Sorrow is a tremendous surprise, a film that may be small in scale, but has an earnestness that makes it incredibly compelling, even if it does resemble a variety of other similarly-themed works produced over time.

Stylistically, a film like The Skin of Sorrow is always going to be worth watching. While he may not have as much experience making period dramas as some of his contemporaries, Berliner is something of a directorial chameleon, someone who can easily adapt his style to fit a specific kind of narrative. Arguably, a lot of the film’s proverbial heavy-lifting is done by the design teams responsible for transporting us back to Paris in the mid-19th century, during its industrial heyday, the period of both social and technological enlightenment, which serves as the backdrop to much of the narrative, even if it is not foregrounded as themes of any real consequence. It’s certainly true that one doesn’t need to do too much work to transform Paris to appear like it did in previous centuries, since so much of it has remained untouched in terms of the architecture (or at least has maintained its general structure), so there wasn’t too much work to be done in showing the beauty of this city, nor was there too much in terms of the costumes, which are gorgeous but quite simple, which is perfect for the story being told, especially since it is primarily about the importance of looking below the surface and not focusing on the vestments, but rather the people behind them. The Skin of Sorrow is a very striking film in terms of its visual composition, but it only achieves this through smart choices, the director working closely with his colleagues in the various creative departments to curate an image of the past that was authentic but also beautiful, the balance of the two being fundamental to the overall success of the film, and the reason it looks as genuine as it does, with the small touches of abstraction serving the film extremely well. 

However, as fascinating as it may be as a historical document (which is initially what Balzac set out to write), The Skin of Sorrow is still a fantasy film, so those elements should not be dismissed at all, and are proven to be some of the more intriguing aspects of the narrative. This is a film that thrives on the viewer’s ability to leap onto its wavelength and understand its smaller touches of more abstract content, which are contained to a few moments, rather than driving the narrative in a way that distracts from the more genuine components. The original text was also designed to be a fantasy, but where these elements were used more as allegory, with the author being insistent that everything had a deeper meaning, based around his perceptions of society at the time, which correlates to the fact that Europe was undergoing significant change in terms of political and social reform and development, as well as the rise of new forms of economic development. Using the metaphor of an ancient textile that grows smaller the greedier its possessor becomes is quite intriguing, and serves as the foundation for the film, which is frequently searching for deeper meaning in a way that is engaging and adherent to the overall intentions of the source material, to which Berliner smartly closely follows, at least in how he approaches the thematic content driving this film. Always captivating but never limited in how it examines its primary themes, The Skin of Sorrow is quite unique in terms of its aesthetic and narrative approach, which leads to a spirited adaptation of something that needed to be viewed as much more than just a fairytale brought to life on screen.

In terms of the characterization, The Skin of Sorrow is not necessarily a film that required too much development, since it is already very compelling without needing to be overly complex in the delivery of its characters and their quirks. However, this did not preclude it from having several very good performances embedded right at its core, which help Berliner bring the story to life. The ensemble consists of an intergenerational set of actors, some of them newcomers and others seasoned veterans, all assembled to pay tribute to Balzac and his incredible writing, as well as telling a profoundly compelling story. Thomas Coumans is a terrific lead, taking the role of Raphaël de Valentin, who could very easily just be viewed as a figurehead to represent the primary themes of the novel, but who is given so much complexity by an actor who truly commits himself to finding every detail lurking beneath the surface of the character. The same can be said for the rest of the cast, which includes Annabelle Hettmann and Mylène Jampanoï as the two love interests pursued by the protagonist, Julien Honoré as his close friend and, perhaps most notable of all, Jean-Pierre Marielle as the nameless, blind shop owner who appears throughout the film, most likely as an apparition representing the dark forces that envelop the protagonist, being the catalyst for the events of the film. It’s a strong ensemble, which is quite surprising for a film that seems so simple in scope, but which is given a lot of earnest complexity by these dedicated actors, who work as closely with the text as the director, unpacking every word and finding the hidden nuances contained within it and representing them perfectly on screen.

The Skin of Sorrow is a truly compelling film, the kind of well-made period drama that is objectively strong on both a creative and narrative level, but goes entirely unnoticed, whether as a result of diminished viewership (it would appear as if this was distributed on television rather than in theatres, so there is a sense of it being a film that is playing to a much smaller audience in terms of scope), or the fact that it seems so extremely traditional in its sensibilities. However, it doesn’t take too long to realize how vibrant and unique this film is – the story may be deeply traditional and steeped in the past, but its the small details that make it feel so incredibly modern and invigorating, especially in the areas that the written word cannot capture, such as visually representing this era, which is as important as the themes being explored throughout the story. Berliner is not a particularly well-regarded director, and outside of a couple of marginal successes, he remains quite obscure. However, his filmmaking style is consistent and quite rich in how he handles certain material, evocative in ways that we may not expect from what appears to be a run-of-the-mill period drama that contains broad overtures of fantasy, both thematically and visually. It’s a wonderful combination of fairytale and social parable, but with vigour and charm, the likes of which we don’t often encounter in such a memorable form. It has its moments of profound meaning, but it is mostly an exercise in exploring Balzac’s world, focusing on the themes that fascinated him, as well as the social milieux in which he was writing. This is all so perfectly captured on screen throughout The Skin of Sorrow, a far more compelling film than it seems on the surface.