Most of us wouldn’t have the cojones to live full-time in a Pedro Almodovar world, but a visit to his new film The Skin I Live In provides enough of a rush to make the trip worthwhile. Antonio Banderas (long missed as the perfect male muse for Almodovar) stars as a plastic surgeon bent on revenge (his daughter gets raped, goes mad, commits suicide) but hamstrung by idolatry (he’s obsessed with a wife who died horrifically). The director’s signature tropes all but explode onto the screen: children who are lost (in many senses), abandoned or simply vanish; mournful parents whose motives veer from self-sacrificing to unsavory; perverse ambisexuality; murder and obsession. In a Hollywood film such elements would appear ridiculous but the deep, lush imagery (thanks to Almodovar’s longtime cinematographer Jose Luis Alcaine) makes it impossible to look away. Skin is cinematic opera, a plausible Grand Guignol pricked with humor, sensuality and intelligence. The twister will haunt your senses long after the lights come up—but then, you’d expect nothing less from this modern master. Go, and surrender.