Malaparte’s novel is a collection of extraordinary scenes. Set at the conclusion of the Second World War, it contains all the decadence of a dying continent, measured against the brash optimism of the ‘invaders’, the US troops who the narrator, Malaparte himself, has been seconded to as a translator, as they make their way up through Italy from Naples, then Rome, towards the Alps. The novel is composed of 11 chapters, each one effectively a set piece, dealing with one or another aspect of this clash between brave new and decadent old worlds. What we get is a decidedly anti-heroic vision of the war, perhaps appropriate given that it comes from the point of view of the losers, but this anti-heroicism spills over to the US troops as well. There are no heroes in this dystopian landscape, only survivors or the dead. Malaparte comes from a European tradition of scandal and shock. Names like Pasolini or Celine might be placed alongside his. He seeks out the venal in humanity in a bid to touch the base notes of this thing called civilisation, which is so close to barbarianism. Those who fail to recognise the connection between the two states of being are either stupid or hypocrites. Another touch note reading the book was Von Trier’s Europa. In the UK we have been overwhelmed with a glorified and false vision of this war. The Skin is more than a corrective, it’s an enema, extracting the blood and guts of all the grotesque and disgusting detritus of war and placing it on full display.
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