Mark Reviews Movies: SKINAMARINK

Skinamarink, IFC Midnight

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Review by Mark Dujsik | January 12, 2023

There's a distinct but difficult-to-describe feeling that comes with watching writer/director Kyle Edward Ball's Skinamarink. The movie comes across as some lost or forbidden artifact, as if we're watching a video tape recorded in secret by someone who doesn't want to be caught—for reasons either innocent or, perhaps, sinister.

It's all very mysterious, which makes the movie inherently fascinating as some kind of experiment in intentional obfuscation. It's all also very much a mystery in a way that's inherently distancing, incomprehensible, and frustrating.

There is more or less a story here, with Ball definitely seeing "less" as the more enticing option. It takes place in a single house, possibly over the course of a single night and maybe within a couple planes of existence and perhaps in different states of consciousness. The only solid pieces of information we get are that it's 1995 and that the house is occupied by a family of four.

Then again, it might only be occupied by a family of three and haunted by a lost fourth member, or for that matter, the parents might be non-entities in the lives of their kids for whatever reason. Another alternative is that only one character actually matters, and the rest of these figures are simply memories, the workings of a mind in some state of dreaming, or a spirit caught between the realms of the living and the dead. Take your pick, because Ball certainly isn't giving away that information.

The four-year-old son of the family is named Kevin (Lucas Paul) and his older sister, who ends up alone in the house with the boy for an indeterminate amount of time, is called Kaylee (Dali Rose Tetreault). Dad (Ross Paul) has left the house for unknown reasons, which might have to do with an accident or general negligence or something far more insidious, and mom (Jaime Hill) is absent, too, and has been for a longer amount of time.

The kids simply hang out in the house and do what kids do. They plant themselves in front of the television, playing a collection of decades-old cartoons that become the eerie soundtrack for events. The two play with toys on occasion, with Kevin being quite fond of plastic building bricks. The brother and sister go exploring, too, when they're feeling courageous.

By the way, there are no windows or doors leading outside in the house anymore. Those exits have disappeared, and a voice or two or three—or a singular voice that can alter its shape and tone at will—call to the children. Sometimes the voice wants a kid to look in a particular room. As the night or nights progress, the requests are more dangerous and the punishments for not following them might be just as bad.

If all of this makes it sound as Ball has established a clear narrative with a set purpose and clear consequences, let it be known that he has and hasn't. It's easy enough to get a broad idea of what's vaguely happening here, but beyond that and especially when the story reaches its final stretch, the specifics remain out of reach.

That includes a lot of basics, too, such as characters and plot—and beyond even those elements. The cinematography here (by Jamie McRae) isn't actually in black-and-white, but the lights are so bright amidst the deep shadows within the house that the images might as well be. The audio sounds as if it's being recorded through an old microphone stuck inside a tin can, with the resulting tape being scratched after the fact. It's all intentional, of course, giving the whole thing the creepy sense of a video tape that has been buried for years.

Meanwhile, Ball frames, not people, but things as the central focus. We mainly see walls, doors, furniture, and light fixtures. The shots are from a low angle, too, suggesting a subjective perspective (A couple of scenes, notably some involving a flashlight, are definitively first-person accounts). To whom—or, maybe, to what—does that point of view belong, though? At times, it's obviously Kevin or his sister, but at others, it might be or suggest someone or something else.

When people come into frame, only their feet, legs, or backsides are visible. We see faces only twice—once an innocent profile and another time, well, showing something not-at-all innocent. The characters speak on occasion, too, but the words are often mumbled or indistinct on account of obstruction or distance, although Ball includes subtitles because he does want to communicate some things, at least. Even so, some key pieces of dialogue or action, which might or might not help us to understand what's actually happening in terms of story, suddenly stop in the middle of a word or just as something potentially significant is about to happen.

The main point, perhaps, is that constant sensation of uncertainty, insecurity, and feeling as if we're watching something that wasn't meant to be seen in the first place. Skinamarink demands attention in its scavenger hunt for certain images, bits of information, and some meaning. In terms of basic storytelling, though, the movie doesn't reward that attention.

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