It’s rare when a ripped-from-the-headlines adaptation fails to capitalize upon the wilder, weirder aspects of its real-life counterpart. Yet that’s what happens in the case of director Austin Peters’ “Skincare,” which, to be fair, only claims to be a fictionalized version of the true-crime story of a successful celebrity aesthetician who allegedly hired a hitman to take out her competition. What’s there borrows from the real scandal to lightly explore the feminine rage, jealousy and paranoia festering underneath a girl-boss gloss so prevalent in the early 2010s. Through slick aesthetics bolstered by a sensational soundscape, the filmmakers build an entrancing, atmospheric mood piece. But given a few of its omissions, it’s questionable why the storytellers didn’t go in for the kill.
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Skin is fragile (it’s the largest organ in the human body), tasked with keeping us healthy and in one piece. It’s no wonder the first image we see is an extreme close-up of harried Hope Goldman’s (Elizabeth Banks) face — more specifically, the cracks in the makeup foundation caking it. It’s a fitting metaphor for the wrinkles in her plan for world domination.
She had her life laid out perfectly just two weeks prior: One of the top aestheticians in town, servicing the supple skins of the hottest celebrities and the wealthiest housewives, her business is on the verge of breaking through to the next level. However, stress bubbles to the surface. She owes the landlord (John Billingsley) back rent on her studio, located in Hollywood’s charming Crossroads of the World shopping complex — a storybook location befitting this fairytale gone awry. The imminent launch of her home skincare line (“from Italy,” the running joke exclaims) is majorly dependent on the press she’s courted. And the self-proclaimed “glow-getter” is overly anxious about staying booked and busy.
Just when Hope thinks she has things aligned, a new tenant moves in across the way and upends her life. Angel (Luis Gerardo Méndez) is a scrappy upstart in the beauty world, and their first meeting is prickly at best. Soon after, Hope’s tires are slashed and her email is hacked, allowing someone to send explicit emails to her entire contact list. As Hope finds herself on the receiving end of threatening text messages and in-person sexual harassment, she enlists the help of flirty, tanned and toned 20-something Jordan (Lewis Pullman), with whom she recently reunited when a client (Wendie Malick) brought him into her studio. She suspects Angel is the culprit responsible for this deliberate sabotage. But as the menacing events escalate, Hope spirals, calling in her muscle, Armen (Erik Palladino), to extinguish her competition.
Peters and co-writers Sam Freilich and Deering Regan aren’t just skewering beauty as an industry. They’re also skewering the lifestyle’s exquisitely polished shellac, which coats the business’ darker dealings with fickle trends, insatiable media cycles and predatory people. Peters displays an assured sense of vision, weaving in character details along with an unsettling atmospheric unease, lightly borrowing from masters like Kubrick (a stalking by an intimidating bald man echoes “Eyes Wide Shut”) and De Palma (during an interrupted break-in at Hope’s house). Hope and Angel’s clashing sensibilities are reflected in the opposing color schemes of their inner sanctums, hers coated in serene light blue and eggshell white, and his in outrageous, youthful dark teal and fuchsia. Fatima Al Qadiri’s score, which ranges from the sort of haunted harp instrumentals you’d expect to hear in a soothing spa to thumping industrial beats, folds in beautifully with the eclectic soundtrack cues.
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Among the movie’s more visible flaws, Hope’s assistant Marine (Michaela Jaé (MJ) Rodriguez) is severely underwritten, coming across as barely one-dimensional. She has no internality or arc, solely servicing the contrived needs of the screenwriters to get Hope from one pivotal place to another. The filmmakers are sloppy at handling the reveal of who’s behind Hope’s cyberbullying. The points when we figure it out (ages before any of the characters do), when the filmmakers show us (which is an hour in) and when Hope figures it out (which is late in the third act) come at staggered intervals. Had these details aligned, there could have been an impactful denouement.
Banks delivers a fine performance, despite having been cast in similar roles before (most recently in “The Beanie Bubble”). Had this material risen to the talented actress’s capabilities, it might’ve allowed her to explore deeper facets of the hallucinatory toxicity into which Hope was sliding, à la “Repulsion” or “Black Swan.” With razor-sharp specificity and a ripped physique, Pullman (perhaps channeling a bit of his father Bill’s scene-stealing brilliance as a himbo in “Ruthless People”) nails the sort of cocky dimwit that circles the drain in this town. Méndez also turns in strong work, smoothing his character’s rougher edges with a sophisticated subtlety.
While it’s expected that creative liberties will be taken, especially given its roots as a tabloid-style news story, it’s surprising that the filmmakers chose to leave out details that would have enhanced their portrayal. Not only was the inspiration for Hope, Dawn DaLuise, more of a complex, deeply flawed human, she was someone who seemed to believe in giving folks second chances, as evidenced by her associations with convicted criminals, one of whom was Nick Prugo of “The Bling Ring” fame. The detectives handling the investigation failed to believe her — an aspect left shockingly unexplored in a film with such a noticeable feminist bent. In addition, by making Hope’s assailant an amalgam of two figures, the filmmakers muddle the bully’s motivations for targeting her: Is it pure greed, preying on lonely women of a certain age, or simple revenge? Maybe none of this ultimately matters, and that in itself is the sentiment packaged and sold for our consumption. But it makes for a vapid read of showbiz.
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