One of the scenes that epitomizes this, in Araki’s view, is the graphic depiction of a violent assault against Gordon-Levitt’s character late in the film. “When we were remastering it, I hadn’t seen that scene for years, and I was shocked by it,” Araki explains. “I was like, ‘Wow, this is even more intense than I remember.’ It’s brutal. But it’s so important for the movie and so important for that character. And Joe’s so fantastic in that scene.”
Equally as radical as the film’s portrayal of sexual violence is its profound empathy for those who survive it. Mysterious Skin finds no satisfaction in Neil’s and Brian’s suffering, passes no judgment on their coping mechanisms and puts no conditions on the compassion it holds for them (and, by proxy, for real-life survivors). In the movie’s final minutes, Brian and Neil finally confront the painful reality of their shared past, but Araki resists the indignity of tidy Hollywood catharsis: their wounds are far from healed.
That staunch commitment to authenticity is why Araki endures as an artist and Mysterious Skin endures as a film. It’s why, for every review like Paul’s that calls it “an amazing film I never want to watch again,” there’s another like Austin’s, who writes, “This film will likely hold a very special place in my heart for the rest of my life.” As Maura explains: “[There’s] so much art about trauma, but it’s kind of striking how little of it is about how long it sometimes takes simply to understand what exactly happened to you. But that’s what this film is about—for both characters, both the one who remembers and the one who doesn’t—and that’s why it feels so honest and true.” “Araki doesn’t flinch from showing the very human ways to cope with these horrors,” says Ian, while Avalyn (no relation) observes, “those moments of genuine connection take on the scale of the entire universe, even if our characters don’t know how to accept it.”