With a shock of sound and a slap of vision, the enigmatic Under the Skin suddenly springs to life, not with a splutter but with a modest scream. Its contents are immediately foreign, then suddenly familiar: whiteness then hillsides, darkness then city life, cycling into a pattern of bold starkness then increasing detail. A hum persists, adding a vibrating timbre to the shrieks of the hauntingly melodic score and the busy acoustics of the streets.
Within the distinctive landscape of audio and visual assaults, a figure emerges, to be posed and dressed and set on her not-so-merry way. A lone female (Scarlett Johansson, Chef) prowls the bleak and rainy expanse of Scotland, her gaze expressionless but her banter soft and friendly, when it comes. She avoids contact with groups in public places, preferring to chat to the men she finds as she drives her van across the country, and desiring prey on their own. The lonely and forlorn, she singles out and seduces, but theirs is not a night of ecstasy.
That there is something different about the womanly creature is made apparent early in Under the Skin; her interactions feel slightly irregular, her dalliances see her partners descend into the depths of blackness, and her actions and outlook are precise and calculated. The film shares the same traits, ostensibly about an unusual traveller but steeped in the subtleties of science fiction and the psychology of horror in each and every mysterious, mesmerising, meticulous frame.
In the manner of a moodier The Man Who Fell to Earth, it is then all the more striking that a feature marked by its steely alien viewpoint becomes one of embracing humanity and its fragility, a shift that is purposefully disconcerting – as much off screen as on. An awakening takes place within a figure at first ill at ease in her body, but slowly accepting of its form and feelings. Brief encounters pave the way to revelation: men talking about mundane lives, a tragedy on a rocky beach, an uncharacteristic victim that elicits sympathy, and a stranger who offers kindness.
Almost a decade has passed since writer/director Jonathan Glazer made his last film, but the newest offering from the helmer of Sexy Beast and Birth is more than worth the wait. With first-time co-scribe Walter Campbell, he adapts Michel Faber’s novel of the same name into an unnerving thriller both elusive yet immersive. Its remote yet refined beauty seems out of reach, but texture writhes through its aesthetic and emotional palette. Dual methods of capturing its images, both with the usual pristine polish that looks from afar and with the intimacy of handheld hidden-camera shots in claustrophobic scenes with non-professional performers, make the contrast more pronounced.
Of course, Johansson possesses the poise of training that further makes her stand out in a sea of naturalistic turns, as does her mere presence. She is as unusual in her surroundings as her character, a fact unable to be forgotten while watching. That she conveys much of the tale without saying anything is both a testament to her effective aloofness, and indicative of the true star of the show: the sensory onslaught. Words are barely needed to communicate the lust and longing, the hunger and hope, and the despair and disgust that comprise the main sentiments.
Instead, debut film composer Mica Levi’s aural compositions do more than set a foreboding tone – they express everything that the scant dialogue does not. An orchestral array echoes, not of instruments but of the atmosphere of the film, with Under the Skin otherworldly in its almost industrial clatter and ordinary in its traffic and crowd chatter all at once. This is a feature that speaks of connection, catharsis, isolation and invention, as much as in its soundscape as in its story.
Rating: 4 ½ out of 5 stars
Under the Skin
Director: Jonathan Glazer
UK, 2013, 108 mins
Release date: May 29
Distributor: Roadshow
Rated: MA
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