Under the Skin: A Review

I promised myself that I wouldn’t do reviews: anyone and everyone can do reviews, and they so rarely offer any insight into the film itself, but simply just another set of stars to attach to the poster, or another ten reasons why this film isn’t ‘fun for all the family’. But once in a while, a film comes along which warrants this 1000 odd words of praise, a film which stands out among the rest, and I have to say that film this year is Under the Skin.

Jonathan Glazer’s third film (after Birth and Sexy Beast) is a truly unique, mindblowing, and utterly thrilling piece of filmmaking which has blown me out of the water. A science fiction thriller, based on the cult novel by Michael Faber, based in Scotland isn’t necessarily the most recognizable film trope, but one which proves its worth tenfold. The film benefits form a successful two act form, divided between the urban turmoil of Glasgow, and the relative harmony of the Scottish highlands. The first act finds us in the most innovative and thrilling segments of the film: we join the recently landed extra-terrestrial as she trawls the streets of Glasgow looking for lone males to lure in, seduce, and eventually harvest for their flesh (a process which isn’t explicitly explained but can be worked out). Through the use of hidden cameras and an extremely confident Johansson, Glazer and co managed to entice random members of the public into the white van: a tiresome procedure, I can imagine, but one received well by the more cocksure alpha males who perhaps fancied their chances. The second act contrasts, as the alien escapes from her motorbike mentor (an enigmatic character to say the least) to the Scottish highlands, where she witnesses both heights of human kindness, and the horrors of human lust and desire. The film benefits well from this change of pace, with a smooth transition from urban to rural ensuring that the film doesn’t become monotonous, particularly with the introduction of new themes.

At the centre of the show, we find an almost unrecognizable Scarlett Johansson, the beautiful Hollywood actress hidden underneath cheap make-up and a jet black wig, which renders her almost anonymous among the scenes of Glasgow’s main shopping precincts. The stone-cold Johansson is utterly compelling and eternally watchable, a resolve which is intensely satisfying considering she remains in the camera frame for almost the entire film. The actress has shown her worth beforehand, both as the loveable ‘girl next door’ in Lost in Translation, and more recently lending her delightful tones to the operating system in Her: in Under the Skin, however, she is unrivalled. Consistently convincing as an alien hidden behind the false visage of the human body, Johansson has mastered the emotionless stare, as if nothing lay behind those big wide eyes. In the seduction scenes, she successfully conveys the animalistic desire for flesh, staring down the prey with the same cold eyes, seeing not a human but rather a target. Most shocking is her unflinching gaze upon a terrifying beach scene, as a man and his wife both get swept out to sea, as she pounces on the Czech tourist who attempts to save them: as she drags away the body, the cries of the baby left behind fill the screen, while Johansson’s emptiness appears nothing but oblivious to this ultimate state of fear of abandonment.

Most impressive about Johansson’s performance, however, is the gradual transition towards empathy, a trait which appears more and more towards the second half: after luring in a grossly deformed man, she appears to take pity on his sense of loneliness and isolation, allowing him to leave the lair unharmed. Her journey into the Highlands, furthermore finds her drawn in by an incredible hospitable Samaritan: we gradually see her affection towards him, as her curiosity with the human race, as well as the contours and features of her own naked body, grows. Essentially, however, she is reminded of the fact that she is not human, and does not belong here: she spits out food in disgust, and jumps away hastily mid-sex. Her ultimate demise is that she finds love for the human people, but can never truly be one, and it is this tragedy which Johansson so effectively carries throughout her performance.

The comparisons to other directing greats has been drawn from all angles: heralded as the ‘heir to Kubrick’, using the same unflinching cinematography and slow movement as the 2001 director. The opening three minutes of space, psychedelic colour, and transformation evoke the ‘acid trip’ finale of 2001: A Space Odyssey, while the use of monochromatic reflective surfaces, especially in the alien’s lair, remind us of the space age technology first imagined by Kubrick. The Observer film critic Mark Kermode draws the inspiration from Nicolas Roeg, in particular his Man Who Fell to Earth, citing the same tale of stranger in a strange land gradually finding solace among the human people, a weakness which eventually proves to be his downfall. To draw these comparisons, however, I feel would be inaccurate, and perhaps even unfair. Glazer here has carved his own style: too real to be Kubrick, and too convincing to be Roeg, Glazer manages to toe the line between reality and fantasy without ever falling too deeply into both. Accompanying the eery visuals is Mica Levi’s chilling score: an immensely powerful exposition, the scratching of strings and trembling of keys unsettling throughout, interwoven perfectly with the imagery on screen.

Glazer’s film is by no means an Oscar-winning film: one can assume he deliberately brought it out at this time to avoid the whole annoyance of Oscar punditry and prediction. It is, however, a piece of art and science in itself: a powerful exposition of stunningly crafted camerawork, a phenomenal central performance, and a fascinating insight into human nature and experience, and the true meaning of what it is to be a stranger.

Fade to Black and White

A worldwide phenomenon of retro-ism is having its effect in all spheres of the media. Bands have begun to shun the digital revolution, releasing and rereleasing albums on the more crackly vinyl. The VHS tape is making a comeback, if not minimal, notably through the apt release of the film ‘V/H/S’ on the clunky format. I mean, walk along the street and stare at people’s feet: Doc Martens and Converses galore adorn the feet of the backward-looking youth, as if we’ve all just jumped in a DeLorean and gunned it to 88 miles an hour. It seems a taste for the finer, simpler things in life has been rediscovered, a backlash to the over-digitalisation of our every day life: we can’t spend five minutes without staring at the brightly lit colours of our laptops or our smart phones. Even in the cinema, we can’t sit in peace for an hour or two without gleaming explosions and Tom Cruise’s fluorescent orange skin being thrust in our face. To no surpise, and certainly in keeping with the retro phenomenon, we have seen a considerable fade to black and white.

By this, I of course refer to the return of the basic, original format of cinema, absent in colour and packed to the brim with good old fashioned shadow and contrast. The reappearance of something simpler, something fresher, something cleaner. The popularity of the post-colour B&W stretches back to the seventies, at a time when colour was a new found concept, bringing much needed excitement and vigour to the dying cinema industry. People were, unsurprisingly, bored with staring at the same old grey screens every time they went to the pictures: colour injected a new life, as cinemagoers had a Dorothy-esque experience, opening the door and finding themselves in a world of magical colour only found previously in post-conversion or in Disney’s animations. Among all this excitement, David Lynch found himself with two terrifying projects, and an ambition to stick by the old format: what was produced was the bone-chilling Eraserhead and the magnificent The Elephant Man, both complemented considerably by Lynch’s use of shadows and contrast, hiding the unknown in the darkness and producing a whole new kind of fear.

Ever since, directors have tentatively tried their hand at the colourless, producing surprisingly fascinating (and fantastic) results: ranging from the completely colourless, such as Kevin Smith’s cult classic Clerks and Tim Burton’s bizarre debut Ed Wood, to the B&W tinged with the odd bit of colours, such as noir-homage Sin City and the gutpunching Schindler’s List, its momentary flash of colour producing one of the most heartwrenching moments of Spielberg’s holocaust tragedy. Over the past few years, the output has rocketed, following the success of the Oscar winning The Artist: director Michel Hazanavicius showed exactly what we were missing about cinema, leaving out cheap dialogue and flashy action scenes, bringing to us a (near) speechless comedy relying on fantastic acting, courageous cinematography, and a riveting score.

What is it about the Black and White that keeps drawing us back? Firstly, simplicity. Flashy 3D and brightly colour animation so often leaves the audience under-satisfied and nursing the mother of all headaches; the soothing aesthetics of a B&W is unusually satisfying, its simplicity speaking volumes for what some colour films will never do. The sad tale of George Valentin in The Artist is told all the more successfully by ditching other flashy elements and focusing purely on the acting prowess of Jean Dujardin (a role he also won an Oscar for). Secondly, beauty. Wading through the trashy, off-hand cinematography of current blockbusters, B&W auteurs use the format to paint a picture, focusing their effort on understanding what is coming out of the camera, and making sure every shot the make is interesting enough to hold the viewers attention. Alexander Payne’s recent Nebraska showed how the film is an art form, each frame a painting and telling its own story behind the central characters. The Black and White is loved for the reason that it brings back what we love about films: the story and the image in its rawest forms, untainted by colour and eye-aching imagery.

To predict that the Black and White was going to replace the colour would be absurd: I would be lying if I said colour is still a fantastic format when used correctly, in the same way that a CD can be as equally enjoyable as its vinyl counterpart. And how can we be sure how long this retro ‘phase’ will last: perhaps we’ll sober up one day and realize that actually 80s fashion does still belong in the 80s, and will send it back were it came from. In my heart, however, I will always have a place for the old format, a remnant of the golden age of cinematic storytelling: perhaps what we all need, after all, is a fade to black and white.

Quick Top 5: Best Recent B&W Films.

5. Frances Ha (2012)

Kookiness hits epic volumes in Noah Baumbach’s delightful Woody Allen homage, starring his wife Greta Gerwig as the out-of-luck titular heroine.

4. A Field in England (2013)

Up-and-coming Ben Wheatley produces one of the most visually stunning and confusing films in years: a surreal shrooms trip set in the middle of the English Civil War.

3. Nebraska (2013)

Black and White never gets better than in this Oscar-nominee, a touching relationship of father and son set against the bleak but beautiful setting of the Mid-Western state.

2. Much Ado About Nothing (2013)

Joss Whedon abandons colour and goes back to basics following his eye-popping efforts in Avengers Assemble: invites his friends round, throws some Shakespeare at them, films in black and white. Brilliant.

1. Clerks (1994)

The original slacker comedy, Clerks finds two bored store assistants wasting the day away with some side-splitting dialogue, the simplicity captured perfectly in Kevin Smith’s black and white, stationary cinematography.