Are We Human?
The votes are in – Jonathan Glazer’s murky and misleading third feature Under the Skin topped our poll of the best British films of the 21st century. But what is it that makes it so special? Resident Scot Iana Murray investigates.
There’s a particularly haunting sequence in Under the Skin. It’s not the brutal fates that befall various men as they’re lured into a black chasm and crushed to paper-thin oblivion, or the chilling moment in which a helpless baby wails alone at a beach. It’s the sight of Scarlett Johansson, disguised in a tar-black wig, trawling a shopping centre in the heart of Glasgow.
It’s a testament to the unsettling atmosphere the film sustains that even the most innocuous images are tinged with menace. But whether viewers are willing to embrace Jonathan Glazer’s challenging, disturbing horror is another matter entirely. Its premiere at Venice in 2013, where it was met with cheers and boos alike, was only a precursor to a fiercely divisive response from audiences, despite acclaim from critics. (The film sports a 55% audience score on Rotten Tomatoes at the time of writing.) But with time, appreciation for the film has only grown, exemplified by its embrace by UK critics as the best British film of the 21st century. Glazer took a simple premise from the Michel Faber novel of the same name — an alien seduces and captures men across Scotland — and created a beguiling arthouse modern classic.
There’s also an amusing irony to this achievement, as the familiar Glaswegian streets that are patrolled throughout the film have never looked so otherworldly. Under the Skin is so riveting as a British film precisely because Scotland is unrecognisable. If cinema allows us to see the world through another person’s eyes, Under the Skin is a fairground house of mirrors, warping and distorting familiar streets into a sterile hunting ground.
Likewise, the people around Johansson’s character appear to be just as off-kilter through their interactions. In assuming the perspective of an extraterrestrial on the hunt for flesh, Glazer’s camera operates as an objective eye, observing passersby from the front seat of a white van as potential prey, more than humans. The complete apathy of Johansson’s alien drains her surroundings of emotion and livelihood, like NPCs roaming an open world video game. The opening images (set in Glasgow’s Buchanan Galleries) portray shoppers as ritualistic creatures. Scenes of patrons trying on clothes and testing lipstick play out with a clinical matter-of-factness that makes humanity feel monotonous. That may as well be the case. As the story reduces the population to robotic beings performing menial tasks, it demonstrates how simple it is for the alien to assimilate. She repurposes these actions as tools of seduction, as she assumes the identity of a human woman and harvests men for their meat.
The surreal tension at the heart of Under the Skin is only compounded by the casting of Johansson, a creative decision that not only works because the actress disappears into the role, but because it cleverly weaponises her star power. Sure, celebrities are just people, but the sight of an A-lister asking Glaswegians about driving to the M8 is the human equivalent of an extraterrestrial communicating with Earth. Foregoing professional actors, many of the conversations are genuine interactions with real people unaware they’re being filmed, heightening the strangeness of Johansson’s presence. The very fact that such a thing is so unlikely is what grants her invisibility.
Naturally, sight is key to Under the Skin. From the front seat of her van, the alien studies the world, and fittingly, the very first scene details the formation of an eye from a tiny speck of light to its final form, like a microcosmic Big Bang. But the film is made all the more texturally rich with its sound design and score by Mica Levi. (Notably, this is their first film soundtrack.) It’s a cacophonic hum of strings, pulsating as fast as the heart races when witnessing unsuspecting men meet their awaiting dark abyss. And then there are the central motifs — a whining violin, a singular beating drum — further accentuating the lurking menace of Johansson’s deceptively dangerous alien. In contrast, scenes of victims submerged to their deaths play out in silence, echoing the existential terror of complete nothingness.
This isn’t to say that Under the Skin is devoid of life. Through her interactions, the alien woman learns there is more to people than the meat on their bones. They’re naive beings who can easily be ensnared by a batting of the eyelashes and some red lipstick, but they also carry a great deal of empathy. When she trips on the pavement, strangers crowd to help her up, and an encounter with a man with facial tumours aids her in recognising her newfound feelings: she’s just as lonely as he is. Her decision to spare his life is the catalyst for her escape to the Highlands – apparently ready to accept humanity, but unprepared for the true depravity strangers are capable of.
Stories that ask questions about what it means to be human frequently look at the hopefulness of our species, and Under the Skin begins to hint at that before landing on a much murkier resolution. The safe refuge of a woodland shelter is where the alien is most vulnerable to the sexual advances of a logger who, using the same tactics as her, lulled her into security with directions to a path. In the end, we’re not so different from extraterrestrial life after all. Humanity can just be as malevolent as the film’s central succubus, as gestures of kindness hide ulterior motives. We can be kind and generous, violent and terrifying. Such an opaque film, naturally, doesn’t provide easy answers — but like the title suggests, the fact that humanity is composed of so much more under the skin is disquieting. That inability to predict whether the next person you meet will be a friend or a threat is just a way of life.
Read the full results of our Best British Film of the 21st Century poll here.
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