Ever since Scarlett Johansson went from indie darling to A lister, she's generated inexplicable resentment. True, Johansson's made some risible movies (The Black Dahlia anyone?) but the snob backlash has disquieting overtones. Critics often dismiss her as a lightweight sex bomb, as if doing The Avengers is a mortal sin. How dare an actress be talented, pretty and successful!Praising Johansson's the easiest way to approach Under the Skin (2014). Jonathan Glazer's sci-fi show is profoundly unsettling, abstract to the point of incomprehensible. Amidst the enigmatic imagery and sound design, the disturbingly deadpan Johansson provides a compelling hook.
Early scenes introduce an extraterrestrial being who assumes the form of Scarlett Johansson. This entity cruises Glasgow, picking up young men and luring them back to her apartment for nefarious purposes. But Johansson's detachment gradually turns to empathy. She spares several potential victims and even experiments with human emotion. Yet as might be expected, her self-discovery has tragic consequences.
It's futile to reduce Under the Skin to plot points. From its symbol-heavy introduction, flashing lights giving way to interlocking spheres, it's a surreal nightmare that eludes classification. Frazer's most frequent image involves victims stripping nude, then sinking into a pitch black floor. There's an obvious sexual metaphor, and indeed Skin recalls Species (1995), a decidedly non-cerebral film about an intergalactic honeypot. Yet Under the Skin's more like The Man Who Fell To Earth (1976), from its imagery to Glazer's determination not to cast his alien as a misogynist bogey.
The alien's calculating but gets no pleasure from her work. From the onset, she selects victims without friends or family who will miss them. This could just be a way to avoid detection or to lessen damage from her actions. When she encounters a disfigured man, she discovers pity and understanding, unable to see him as another victim. Gaining curiosity about her humanity, she stops behaving like a monster; yet it's implied it violates her very nature.
Glazer mixes bizarre sights with Kubrick-esque detachment: master shots and long takes of hillsides and beaches, closing in for unsettling effects like a bawling infant. Rave clubs, quaint diners and picturesque forests become as unsettling as the alien's lair. The Glasgow scenes occasionally skew docudrama; it's said many of Johansson's conversations were unscripted interactions with non-actors. Mica Levi's score undercuts this, all eerie strings and electronic buzz adding menace to the most banal scenes.Under the Skin is an absorbing experience with few signposts for its audience. The alien's motives become clear enough, but the sparse dialog and nonexistent story seem designed to frustrate engagement. Arresting as many images are, they occasionally seem indulgent or repetitive. Characters are victims or background noise while key threads are left hanging. Notably, our heroine's boss/collaborator tools around on a motorcycle without doing much. Not to mention the damp squib ending, which plays like Glazer wrote himself into a corner.
Scarlett Johansson provides a dispassionate intensity that's hard to quantify. She speaks with posh English accent, enough warmth to flirt without breaking her essential coldness. She subverts her sex bomb image, with several nude scenes that are anything but erotic. Later on she develops subtle glances and mannerisms, evincing more curiosity than "humanity"; Johansson's alien remains an outsider to the end.
Under the Skin likely requires repeat viewings to absorb. Highbrow cinephiles should enjoy teasing meaning out of its endless abstractions. Others will find it an infuriating waste of time. My own first impression is admiration mixed with puzzlement - though I'm filled with renewed appreciation for its star.
