Under the Skin
Under the Skin
6.383%55%
An alien entity inhabits the earthly form of a young woman who combs the roads and streets of Scotland in search of the human prey she came to plunder. She seduces her isolated and forsaken male victims into an otherworldly dimension where they are stripped and consumed. However, existence in all its complexity begin to change the alien visitor. She begins to discover herself as human with tragic and terrifying consequences.
Michael Heimgartner reviewedJune 8, 2025
A Hypnotic Descent into Alienation and Identity
Under the Skin is not a film in the traditional sense—it is an experience. Jonathan Glazer, known for his visually bold storytelling, crafts here what can best be described as a meditative, experimental science-fiction film that both fascinates and unsettles. It’s slow, strange, and abstract—and that’s exactly what makes it so powerful.
Scarlett Johansson delivers one of the most haunting performances of her career. As an alien figure navigating through Scotland in a stolen human form, she embodies both seduction and emptiness. Her gaze—curious, cold, occasionally questioning—anchors the film’s emotional ambiguity. She is often silent, sometimes almost passive, and yet you can’t take your eyes off her. Her portrayal is brave, enigmatic, and deeply effective.
Glazer’s directing style leans into minimalism and ambiguity. Much of the film unfolds like a documentary, with naturalistic scenes shot guerilla-style, blending real people with actors, and giving the film a raw authenticity. The viewer becomes a third party, an unseen observer—drawn in but never fully allowed to understand. This sense of distance heightens the film’s eerie tone.
But Under the Skin is more than just visuals and mystery. Beneath its chilling exterior, the film is a meditation on gender, identity, loneliness, and what it means to be human. It’s about viewing the world as a stranger. The alien doesn’t just look at humans—she tries to understand them, and in doing so, we’re forced to reflect on ourselves. There’s a terrifying beauty in watching her evolve—from predator to something more vulnerable, even empathetic.
Mica Levi’s soundtrack deserves special mention. Her score is unsettling, deeply original, and merges perfectly with Glazer’s imagery. The music is not just background—it’s part of the world itself. It hums, pulses, screeches, and envelops, creating an atmosphere that is claustrophobic and otherworldly. It’s not just sound design—it’s psychological architecture.
Visually, the film is extraordinary. Contrasts between the grimy realism of Scotland’s streets and the surreal, void-like black space of the “harvesting scenes” are breathtaking. There’s a rhythmic interplay between documentary-like sequences and symbolic, painterly tableaus—ocean waves, dense forests, blinking city lights. The sudden jumps in style are jarring, but purposefully so.
Glazer doesn’t offer answers. The plot is minimal, the dialogue sparse, and logic is not the priority. Instead, the film invites interpretation—everything from commentary on the objectification of women, to existential questions of self and soul. Its pace will test some viewers’ patience, but for those willing to go deeper, the rewards are profound.
Under the Skin is not a film for everyone—but for those open to something abstract, cerebral, and deeply atmospheric, it is unforgettable. A rare piece of cinema that bypasses the brain and lodges directly under your skin—hypnotic, grotesque, and strangely beautiful.