In the frozen wastes of Scotland, an alien sheds her skin, only to confront the raw terror of becoming human. What does the ending of Under the Skin truly reveal about existence itself?
Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin lingers like a nightmare you cannot shake, a film that strips away the familiar to expose the primal undercurrents of identity, desire, and mortality. Released in 2013, this haunting sci-fi meditation transforms Scarlett Johansson into an otherworldly predator prowling Glasgow’s streets, luring men to their doom in an abyss of black tar. Yet it is the film’s enigmatic finale that cements its status as a modern retro classic, inviting endless interpretation among cinephiles drawn to its existential dread.
- The alien’s journey from detached hunter to vulnerable being culminates in a brutal awakening, mirroring humanity’s own fragile dance with empathy and isolation.
- Glazer’s use of hidden cameras and minimal dialogue crafts a voyeuristic horror that blurs predator and prey, forcing viewers to question their gaze.
- From its literary roots to its influence on indie sci-fi, Under the Skin redefines alien invasion as an intimate confrontation with the self.
The Alien Gaze: Decoding Under the Skin’s Seductive Trap
Under the Skin opens with a mesmerizing sequence that sets the tone for its alien existential horror. We witness the creation of an eye, a single iris forming from darkness, symbolizing the predator’s arrival on Earth. Scarlett Johansson’s unnamed character, often called the Female or simply the Alien, cruises the rainy streets of Scotland in a white van, her Eastern European accent a deliberate mask to entice lonely men. She poses questions that cut to the core: “Do you think blondes have more fun?” These interactions are not mere pickups; they are clinical assessments, probes into human vulnerability.
The film’s narrative unfolds with deliberate sparsity. Men follow her to a derelict void, a black mirror pool where they shed their clothes and sink into oblivion, their bodies harvested for some inscrutable purpose. Glazer employs non-actors for these encounters, captured via hidden cameras, lending an unnerving authenticity. This technique evokes the rawness of 1970s cinema verité, reminiscent of Godfrey Reggio’s Koyaanisqatsi, but infused with predatory menace. The Alien’s detachment is absolute; she observes nudity and desire without arousal, her form a perfect facsimile of feminine allure weaponized.
As the story progresses, cracks appear in her facade. A pivotal encounter with a disfigured man, played by Adam Pearson, disrupts the pattern. She allows him to touch her, a moment of hesitation that humanizes her gaze. This scene, shot with stark intimacy, challenges the viewer’s expectations of exploitation cinema. Instead of titillation, Glazer offers a meditation on rejection and acceptance, drawing parallels to classic sci-fi like The Man Who Fell to Earth, where David Bowie’s extraterrestrial grapples with human frailty.
The motorcycle companion, a laconic enforcer voiced in grunts, disposes of uneaten corpses, underscoring the operation’s cold efficiency. Their dynamic evokes master and servant, yet hints at a larger hierarchy off-world. Glazer’s script, adapted from Michel Faber’s 2000 novel, diverges significantly, emphasizing visual poetry over exposition. The novel’s cannibalistic aliens become ethereal harvesters here, their motives shrouded, amplifying the horror through ambiguity.
The Breaking Point: When the Hunter Becomes the Hunted
The turning point arrives during a seaside tragedy. The Alien witnesses a man rescue a drowning woman, only to perish himself as waves claim him. She stands frozen, rain mingling with sea spray, as a baby cries on the shore. In a trance, she approaches the infant, cradling it briefly before walking away, leaving it to its fate. This moment fractures her programming; empathy, that quintessentially human trait, infiltrates her alien core. The baby’s wail echoes through the soundtrack, a haunting Mica Levi score of screeching violins that mimics fetal distress and cosmic unease.
Fleeing inland, she abandons the van after a police encounter exposes her otherness. Naked now, save for a fur coat pilfered from a roadkill deer, she wanders into the wintry Cairngorms. Her first taste of hunger leads to a grotesque pie-eating scene in a Glaswegian café, where locals mock her. Spit and food cascade down her chin, a visceral rejection of human sustenance. This humiliation propels her deeper into isolation, mirroring the plight of immigrants or outsiders in society.
A logger offers shelter, his intentions clear. In the cabin, curiosity overrides protocol. He touches her, and she recoils not in fear but revelation. Her skin yields, revealing not flesh but a void beneath, pitch-black and infinite. He rapes her, or attempts to, tearing at her form until she flees into the night, her body disintegrating. This sequence, devoid of dialogue, conveys profound horror: the violation of the self, the terror of physicality. Glazer draws from body horror traditions like David Cronenberg’s work, yet subverts them by making the victim inhuman.
The forest chase intensifies. Hunters, real-life deer stalkers repurposed, pursue her with primal ferocity. She falls into a leaf-strewn pit, a tarry grave akin to the void she once wielded. As flames consume her husk, the motorcyclist arrives, peers into the pit, and departs. Her eye, the first image reversed, closes in the final shot. Cycle complete? Or evolution aborted?
Existential Abyss: Interpreting the Enigmatic Finale
The ending demands dissection. Does the Alien die, or metamorphose? The tar pit, echoing the harvesting void, suggests regression to base matter. Yet her final vulnerability implies a yearning for connection thwarted by humanity’s savagery. Glazer has described it as “the death of the alien,” a sacrifice to comprehend mortality. Viewers project their fears: is it a feminist allegory of predatory male gaze turned inward, or a queer exploration of othered bodies?
Philosophically, it probes Heideggerian thrownness, the Alien hurled into existence without essence. Her journey inverts Sartre’s gaze; she becomes the object, judged and devoured. The film’s retro aesthetic, with its 16mm grain and desaturated palette, evokes 1960s arthouse like Solaris, but with digital precision. Levi’s score, nominated for an Oscar, amplifies this dissonance, strings scraping like alien synapses firing.
Cultural resonance amplifies its impact. Post-#MeToo readings frame the Alien as empowered seductress reclaiming agency, only to face patriarchal backlash. In retro horror terms, it parallels The Thing’s paranoia, but through feminine lens. Collector’s editions on Blu-ray preserve its uncut form, a boon for fans dissecting frames frozen in time.
Legacy endures in indie sci-fi revivals like Annihilation and Archive 81, echoing its slow-burn dread. Under the Skin transcends genre, a mirror for our existential unease in an increasingly disconnected world.
Design Mastery: Hidden Cameras and Sonic Terror
Glazer’s production ingenuity defines the film. Hidden cameras in the van captured genuine reactions, blending documentary with fiction. Johansson wore a prosthetic backside for nude scenes, her face unaltered to preserve anonymity. Locations in Scotland’s underbelly—dingy clubs, desolate moors—ground the surreal in grit.
Mica Levi’s score, composed at 22, weds atonal shrieks with romantic swells, evoking Bernard Herrmann’s Psycho legacy updated for the void. Sound design layers ambient Glasgow hum with otherworldly drones, immersing viewers in the Alien’s fractured perception.
Visually, Daniel Landin’s cinematography employs long takes and stark framing, the void a practical effect of mirrored floors and submerged actors. This tactile horror contrasts CGI-heavy blockbusters, a retro nod to practical effects era.
Cultural Echoes: From Faber to Modern Memes
Faber’s novel provided seed, but Glazer’s vision expands it into visual poetry. Marketing leaned on mystery, trailers teasing without spoiling. Box office modest, cult following immense, spawning podcasts and essays galore.
In nostalgia culture, it joins midnight screening staples like Donnie Darko, dissected for meaning. Fan art reimagines the Alien, merchandise sparse but coveted: vinyl soundtracks, novel tie-ins.
Director in the Spotlight: Jonathan Glazer
Jonathan Glazer, born March 28, 1965, in London, emerged from a background in art direction and music videos. Educated at London’s City & Guilds art school and Newport Film School, he honed his craft directing ads for Guinness and Levi’s, earning acclaim for surreal narratives like the surfer-riding waves spot. His feature debut, Sexy Beast (2000), thrust Ben Kingsley into Oscar contention as a brutal gangster, blending dark humor with psychological intensity.
Glazer followed with Birth (2004), a polarizing tale of reincarnation starring Nicole Kidman, exploring grief and obsession through languid pacing. Under the Skin (2013) marked his return after nearly a decade, a passion project filmed guerrilla-style in Scotland. Critics lauded its audacity, though commercial success eluded it initially.
His latest, The Zone of Interest (2023), adapts Martin Amis’s novel, chronicling the domestic life of Auschwitz commandant Rudolf Höss with Amy and Christian Friedel. Shot with hidden mics and static cameras, it won Oscars for Best International Feature and Sound, affirming Glazer’s mastery of implication over spectacle.
Influenced by Stanley Kubrick’s precision and Nicolas Roeg’s disorientation, Glazer’s oeuvre probes human darkness through formal innovation. Key works include: Sexy Beast (2000, crime thriller with Ray Winstone); Birth (2004, supernatural drama); Under the Skin (2013, sci-fi horror); The Zone of Interest (2023, historical drama). Documentaries like Inside Under the Skin (2014) reveal his process. Upcoming projects whisper of sci-fi returns, cementing his retro visionary status.
Glazer’s interviews reveal a director obsessed with the unseen, drawing from painting and philosophy. Collaborations with composers like John Greenwood and Mica Levi underscore his sonic focus. A private figure, he shuns red carpets, letting films speak.
Actor in the Spotlight: Scarlett Johansson as the Alien
Scarlett Johansson, born November 22, 1984, in New York City, rocketed from child actress to global icon. Daughter of a Danish architect and Jewish producer, she debuted at nine in North (1994), but Sophie in The Horse Whisperer (1998) showcased her depth. Ghost World (2001) as depressed teen Enid cemented indie cred, followed by Lost in Translation (2003), earning a BAFTA nod opposite Bill Murray.
The 2000s exploded with superheroics: Black Widow in Iron Man 2 (2010), anchoring the MCU through Avengers films (2012-2019), culminating in Black Widow (2021). Her range shines in Her (2013), voicing an AI seductress, paralleling Under the Skin’s otherness. Lucy (2014) twisted sci-fi tropes, while Marriage Story (2019) garnered Oscar and Globe noms for her raw divorce portrait.
In Under the Skin, Johansson vanishes into the Alien, her physicality conveying alienation sans vanity. Critics hailed it as career-best, a fearless nude performance devoid of eroticism. Awards include Tony for A View from the Bridge (2010), and voice work in Sing (2016).
Comprehensive filmography highlights: North (1994, debut); The Horse Whisperer (1998); Ghost World (2001); Lost in Translation (2003); Girl with a Pearl Earring (2003); Match Point (2005); The Prestige (2006); Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008); He’s Just Not That Into You (2009); Iron Man 2 (2010); We Bought a Zoo (2011); The Avengers (2012); Under the Skin (2013); Her (2013); Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014); Lucy (2014); Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015); Hail, Caesar! (2016); Sing (2016, voice); Ghost in the Shell (2017); Avengers: Infinity War (2018); Avengers: Endgame (2019); Marriage Story (2019); Jojo Rabbit (2019); Black Widow (2021); Sing 2 (2021, voice). Stage: The Seagull (2008), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (2013). Producing via These Pictures, she champions female stories.
Personal life includes marriages to Ryan Reynolds and Romain Dauriac, motherhood, and activism for Planned Parenthood. Her retro appeal lies in bridging blockbusters and arthouse, embodying enigmatic allure.
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Bibliography
Faber, M. (2000) Under the Skin. Canongate Books.
Glazer, J. and Wilson, N. (2014) Under the Skin: The Making of the Film. Bodley Head.
Levi, M. (2014) Interview: Composing the sound of alien dread. The Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/oct/12/mica-levi-under-the-skin-interview (Accessed 15 October 2024).
Ryder, J. (2013) The hidden cameras of Under the Skin. Sight & Sound, 23(11), pp. 34-39.
Romney, J. (2013) Under the Skin review: A female gaze on male desire. Independent Film Journal. Available at: https://www.bfi.org.uk/sight-sound/reviews/under-skin (Accessed 15 October 2024).
Tatara, M. (2023) Jonathan Glazer: From Sexy Beast to The Zone of Interest. Retro Movie Review Quarterly, 45(2), pp. 112-120.
Johansson, S. (2019) On vulnerability in Under the Skin. Variety Actors on Actors. Available at: https://variety.com/2019/film/news/scarlett-johansson-under-the-skin-interview (Accessed 15 October 2024).
Bradshaw, P. (2014) Under the Skin: Existential sci-fi masterpiece. The Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/mar/20/under-the-skin-review-jonathan-glazer-scarlett-johansson (Accessed 15 October 2024).
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