The Man Who Sold His Skin

A few years ago, a forty-year-old Swiss man had an artist from Belgium tattoo a design across his back. He became a living canvas—quite literally his life's work, spending hours in museums with his back exposed for admirers to contemplate. Tunisian director Kaouther Ben Hania took this true story as her starting point, but she developed it in a strikingly different direction, using it to make a precise political argument. In The Man Who Sold His Skin, the one offering up his back is a Syrian exile who fled to Lebanon. As a human being, he cannot travel anywhere without a visa. But as a work of art—as merchandise—he gains access to Europe, specifically Belgium, where he wishes to go for reasons of the heart (the romance is less compelling than the premise, but necessary to give the film its emotional anchor). Yahya Mahayni, who won recognition at Venice for his role as Sam Ali, becomes deliberately a pawn in a cruel game, used as a novelty for consumption by an opulent Western society. Sam understands what he must surrender. But he also knows what he wants, aware that a human being—whatever art collectors and lawyers might think—possesses feelings and unpredictability that set him apart from any inanimate object. Sam Ali sells his body, but his dignity is not for sale. He is a real presence before the viewer; though he cannot be touched, his physical materiality makes something concrete that would otherwise remain a flat image in newspapers and on screens. It masquerades as a work of political art. But look more carefully, and it is something harder to reckon with: a real human being.