Peeling Back the Layers: Existential Horror in Under the Skin
In the cold stare of an otherworldly predator, the fragile veneer of human existence cracks open to reveal the void beneath.
Jonathan Glazer’s 2013 masterpiece Under the Skin lingers like a half-remembered nightmare, blending science fiction with raw horror to probe the essence of what it means to be human. Through Scarlett Johansson’s chilling portrayal of an alien seductress, the film strips away illusions of identity, desire, and mortality, leaving audiences adrift in a sea of existential unease. This analysis unravels its hypnotic power, from subversive gazes to haunting silences.
- Deconstructing the alien’s predatory gaze and its reversal of human voyeurism, challenging viewers’ complicity in horror.
- Exploring the film’s minimalist aesthetics—sound design, cinematography, and practical effects—that amplify primal fears.
- Tracing its philosophical undercurrents of alienation, empathy, and the abyss of self-awareness in a post-human world.
The Silent Descent
In the misty highlands of Scotland, an alien entity assumes human form, gliding through urban fringes and remote landscapes in a white van. Played by Scarlett Johansson, this nameless being lures isolated men with promises of intimacy, leading them into an abyssal chamber where their flesh dissolves into an oily blackness. The narrative unfolds not through exposition but immersion; we witness her methodical hunts, from the procurement of a new skin suit—discarding a previous victim’s husk in a haunting, wordless sequence—to her encounters with unwitting prey. Mica Levi’s score, a screeching violin drone, underscores these moments, evoking insectile unease rather than orchestral swells.
The film’s opening establishes cosmic detachment: a black void engulfs a swimmer, her cries muffled as credits flicker in Morse code-like pulses. This motif recurs, symbolising the erasure of self. Johansson’s character observes humanity with clinical curiosity—stroking a deformed man’s face in fleeting tenderness, or mirroring a baby’s distress on a stormy beach—hinting at emergent empathy. Yet her predations persist: a hitchhiker disrobes, compelled by her naked form, stepping into the viscous trap below. Glazer, adapting Michel Faber’s novel, amplifies its ambiguity, transforming pulp sci-fi into meditative horror.
Key supporting figures emerge organically: the motorcyclist handler, a spectral enforcer retrieving bodies and lost vehicles, embodies alien efficiency. Adam Pearson’s disfigured character, Michael, introduces moral friction; his rejection marks the seductress’s first failure, catalysing her unraveling. These encounters build a mosaic of human vulnerability—lonely truckers, immigrants, the isolated—contrasting the alien’s predatory autonomy.
Seduction’s Lethal Mirror
At its core, Under the Skin weaponises seduction as horror. Johansson’s alien embodies the ultimate femme fatale, her beauty a lure that exposes male desire’s fragility. Scenes unfold in real locations with hidden cameras, capturing authentic reactions; passersby gawk, men follow, their natural impulses inverted into doom. This verité approach blurs documentary and fiction, implicating the audience in the gaze. As film scholar Linda Williams notes in her examinations of body genres, horror thrives on spectacle; here, the undressing sequence—men shedding clothes layer by layer—parodies striptease while evoking primal vulnerability.
The chamber beneath the derelict house serves as symbolic womb-tomb, its black mirror reflecting existential dissolution. Victims sink slowly, faces contorted in silent screams, their forms reduced to floating husks harvested later. This imagery evokes body horror precedents like David Cronenberg’s explorations of metamorphosis, yet Glazer’s restraint—no gore, only implication—heightens dread. The alien’s own nudity, devoid of eroticism, underscores her otherness; she performs humanity without inhabiting it.
As the film progresses, glitches appear: cake crumbling from her mouth during a café encounter signals corporeal failure. Her pursuit of a Glaswegian thug ends in reversal—he unmasks her, triggering flight. These fissures propel her toward self-discovery, wandering snowy forests, encountering wolves, questioning her void-skin reflection. The narrative arcs toward tragedy: raped by loggers, beaten, her body burns while a baby cries on the shore—a microcosm of abandoned humanity.
Reversing the Voyeuristic Lens
Under the Skin masterfully subverts the male gaze, a concept Laura Mulvey dissected in her seminal essay on visual pleasure. Traditionally, cinema positions women as objects; Glazer flips this, with Johansson’s alien as subject, scrutinising male bodies. Long takes linger on faces—rippling water-like skin during hunts—making viewers complicit predators. This reversal induces discomfort, mirroring philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre’s notion of the “look,” where being observed strips away subjectivity.
The film’s Scottish setting amplifies isolation: vast moors, rainy motorways, empty clubs. Humans appear as specimens—dancing silhouettes in a nightclub, lit like lab animals. Levi’s score, composed without seeing rushes, mimics alien perception: dissonant strings scrape like alien strings, alienating familiar sounds. Critics like Robin Maconie praise its “visceral tonality,” evoking the uncanny valley of post-human soundscapes.
Existential themes dominate: the alien’s journey parallels humanity’s confrontation with absurdity, akin to Camus’s stranger adrift in meaninglessness. Her tentative empathy—rescuing the baby, recoiling from violence—suggests a universal spark, yet culminates in rejection. Man sets her aflame, reclaiming agency; she expires voiceless, underscoring horror’s core: the terror of unbridgeable otherness.
Aesthetics of Absence
Glazer’s visual language prioritises voids over excess. Daniel Landin’s cinematography employs wide lenses and static shots, framing figures against immense skies, dwarfing them into insignificance. Practical effects dominate: the oil trap used silicone and hidden plunges, creating organic fluidity without CGI excess. This tangible horror contrasts digital blockbusters, grounding dread in materiality.
Mise-en-scène emphasises decay: peeling wallpaper, rain-slicked streets, the van’s cluttered interior strewn with maps and make-up. Lighting plays coy—harsh fluorescents in clubs, ethereal fog on beaches—evoking liminal spaces. Editor Paul Watts’s rhythms, syncing cuts to Levi’s pulses, induce trance-like hypnosis, lulling viewers into vulnerability.
In a subgenre blending alien invasion with psychological horror, Under the Skin echoes The Man Who Fell to Earth but radicalises it. Where Nicolas Roeg sentimentalised alienation, Glazer embraces amorality, positioning humanity as both victim and monster.
The Void’s Practical Nightmares
Special effects in Under the Skin eschew spectacle for subtlety, amplifying existential terror. The black chamber’s “sink” relied on a tank of black-dyed water with concealed trapdoors; actors descended via wires, their submerged struggles captured in single takes. Nick Brooks’s designs crafted the alien’s suits from latex moulds of real bodies, lending grotesque authenticity to the discarded husk scene—filmed in one continuous shot as Johansson drags the limp form across concrete.
Minimal prosthetics sufficed for the alien’s “glitch” moments: subtle facial distortions via practical make-up, avoiding digital uncanny. The burning finale used controlled fire on a mannequin proxy, Johansson’s face superimposed seamlessly. This low-fi ethos, budgeted at under £10 million, prioritised immersion; hidden cameras on the van elicited genuine responses, blending documentary realism with scripted horror.
Production hurdles shaped its purity: Glazer’s decade-long gestation involved script rewrites with Faber and Walter Campbell, filming guerrilla-style to evade permits. Johansson endured isolation, performing sans dialogue partner, fostering her ethereal detachment. These choices forged a film where effects serve philosophy, not sensation.
Echoes in the Cultural Abyss
Released amid post-recession malaise, Under the Skin resonated as allegory for dehumanising capitalism—men as disposable resources, the alien as gig economy phantom. Its influence permeates: Ari Aster cites it for Midsommar‘s folk horror, while Boots Riley’s Sorry to Bother You echoes its corporate predation. Festivals championed it; Venice premiered to acclaim, though box office lagged until cult status via home video.
Legacy endures in discourse: feminist readings laud its gaze subversion, while philosophers like Eugene Thacker invoke it in horror of the Anthropocene—humanity’s ecological void. Glazer’s follow-up The Zone of Interest extends this ethical detachment, cementing his oeuvre of unseen atrocities.
Director in the Spotlight
Jonathan Glazer, born 1965 in London, emerged from a creative lineage—his grandfather a tailor, father in property—fuelled by early passions for film and music. Educating at London’s Central Saint Martins and Newport Film School, he directed award-winning commercials for Guinness and Nike, honing a signature style of surreal minimalism. Breakthrough arrived with Sexy Beast (2000), a stylish crime thriller starring Ray Winstone and Ben Kingsley (Oscar-nominated), blending noir tension with hallucinatory sequences.
Glazer’s sophomore effort, Birth (2004), courted controversy with Nicole Kidman’s widow haunted by a boy’s reincarnation claim; lauded for cinematography yet criticised for pacing, it showcased his fascination with psychological ambiguity. A hiatus followed, marked by Levi’s ad and Rage (2009), an experimental short on consumer capitalism. Under the Skin (2013) marked his return, a decade in development, earning BAFTA nominations and solidifying his auteur status.
Subsequent works include the short Marco (2016) and Apple ads, but The Zone of Interest (2023) garnered Oscar buzz for its chilling Holocaust adjacency—sound-driven Auschwitz horror unseen onscreen. Influences span Kubrick’s precision, Tarkovsky’s metaphysics, and British kitchen-sink realism. Glazer’s filmography prioritises thematic depth: Sexy Beast dissects machismo; Birth, grief’s delusions; Under the Skin, otherness; The Zone of Interest, banal evil. With sparse output, he remains a perfectionist provocateur, shunning Hollywood for artistic control.
Actor in the Spotlight
Scarlett Johansson, born November 22, 1984, in New York City to a Danish-Jewish mother and New York-born father, displayed prodigious talent early. Raised in Manhattan with siblings including actress Hunter, she trained at the Lee Strasberg Institute from age nine. Debuting in North (1994), her breakthrough came with Ghost World (2001), earning indie acclaim as sardonic teen Enid.
Transitioning to blockbusters, Johansson shone in Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation (2003), opposite Bill Murray, netting a BAFTA. Sci-fi elevated her: The Island (2005), then Marvel’s Black Widow in Iron Man 2 (2010), spawning a billion-dollar franchise with Avengers: Endgame (2019), the highest-grossing film ever. Voice work included Her (2013) as ethereal OS Samantha.
Art-house triumphs include Woody Allen’s Scoop (2006) and Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008), plus Under the Skin (2013), her transformative alien role. Later: Marriage Story (2019), Oscar-nominated for divorcee Nicole; Jojo Rabbit (2019), as Nazi mother. Producing via These Pictures, she helmed Rough Night (2017). Awards abound: two BAFTAs, Tony for A View from the Bridge (2010), MTV Movie Awards. Filmography spans The Horse Whisperer (1998), Match Point (2005), Lucy (2014), Sing (2016 voice), Black Widow (2021). Johansson embodies versatility, from action heroine to introspective icon.
Craving more chills? Dive deeper into horror’s shadows with NecroTimes—subscribe now for exclusive analyses and unearth the next nightmare.
Bibliography
Faber, M. (2000) Under the Skin. Canongate Books.
Glazer, J. (2014) ‘Interview: The long gestation of Under the Skin’, Sight and Sound, 24(2), pp. 34-38.
Levi, M. (2015) ‘Composing the Unseen: Mica Levi on Under the Skin’, Film Comment, January/February. Available at: https://www.filmcomment.com/article/mica-levi-under-the-skin/ (Accessed: 15 October 2024).
Mulvey, L. (1975) ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, Screen, 16(3), pp. 6-18.
Thacker, E. (2017) Infinite Resignation. Zero Books.
Williams, L. (1991) ‘Film Bodies: Gender, Genre, Excess’, Film Quarterly, 44(4), pp. 2-13.
Bradshaw, P. (2014) ‘Under the Skin review – a daringly confident sci-fi masterpiece’, The Guardian, 6 March. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/mar/06/under-the-skin-review-scarlett-johansson-sci-fi (Accessed: 15 October 2024).
Rosenbaum, J. (2013) ‘Under the Skin: The Outer Limits’, Movie Mutants. Available at: https://www.movie-mutants.com/under-the-skin (Accessed: 15 October 2024).
Romney, J. (2014) ‘Jonathan Glazer: the visionary’, The Observer, 9 March. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/mar/09/jonathan-glazer-under-the-skin-interview (Accessed: 15 October 2024).