Under the Skin Is Alluring, Creepy, and Great

The promise of seeing Scarlett Johansson fully nude is probably enough to lure lots of people into Jonathan Glazer’s alien-among-us fantasy Under the Skin, and the vision doesn’t disappoint: Her figure, seen in long shot, is a grand and glowing thing; she has one of those butts shaped, adorably, like an upside-down heart. But her nakedness is the opposite of a sleazy thrill. As Glazer presents it to us, an Eadweard Muybridge nude miraculously come to life, it’s so unadorned and purely human that it’s entrancing on a whole other level. That Johansson’s character is not human at all only adds to the pathos, and the terror, of it all. She is, as we learn early on, a killer from another world masquerading in womankind’s touch-me skin. In her nakedness, she hides everything and nothing; she’s treachery and softness rolled into one.

You could say the same of Under the Skin itself, a science-fiction rhapsody laced with thorns. Adapted — though maybe “morphed” is a better word — from Michel Faber’s 2000 novel of the same name, this is the story of a girl who fell to Earth, or who was, perhaps, put here to do a job. The exact motivation of Johansson’s character is never made clear, though she seems to be harvesting male flesh for either herself or her race. Really, very little in Under the Skin is clear at all. Its secrets unspool in mysterious, supple ribbons, but that’s part of its allure, and its great beauty. This picture is often mesmerizing and sometimes almost unforgivably cruel: The image of an infant crying on a cold, savage beach appears onscreen for just a few seconds, though it takes much longer to shake it off. But if Glazer is only just resurfacing with his first movie in 10 years (the last was the 2004 arty-elegant reincarnation romance Birth), at least he’s coming back with a great one. Along with his actors, cinematographer Daniel Landin, and composer Mica Levi, he’s made a work of quiet audaciousness, half-soothing, half-jolting. This is a dream-state movie that’s always fully awake and alive.

Johansson’s character has no name, and though she speaks in a reasonably proper English accent, she seems to have come from nowhere. This enigmatic creature, with her short crop of dark curls and mischievous half-moon of a smile, drives around Scotland’s bramble-gray countryside and its chattery, bustling cities, using her sexual magnetism to lure men to their doom. She wears everyday mall clothes — skinny jeans, a faux-fur jacket — and banters casually with her marks to determine how much they’ll be missed by anyone at home, or if they’ll be missed at all. They’re all regular guys, sporting jerseys of their favorite football teams, some of them rabbiting on in such thick Scots that they may as well be speaking the language of another planet. Our alien beauty leans in close to hear what they’re saying, to determine if they’ll suit her purposes. Some of them immediately remark on how pretty she is; others seem to avoid even looking at her, before stumbling to tell her they find her attractive.

What Johansson is working here is “glamour” in the original and ancient sense of the word, not the Hollywood one, a point brought home by Glazer’s working methods. Most, though not all, of the men in the film are non-actors, unaware that they’re being chatted up by a bona fide movie star, the proceedings captured by a small hidden camera. On the surface, at least, it’s an approach that invites some moral queasiness: Even though all of these “performers” were clued in after the fact, and signed the required release forms, it doesn’t seem right to make human beings the unwitting pawns of movie artistry. But I think the way Glazer uses these performers is ultimately respectful. We’re on their side — we can’t blame them for falling for this not-quite-Scarlett Johansson, because we’ve fallen, too. Watching them respond to alien Scarlett is fascinating; some of them are so shy they seem reluctant to look at her directly. But watching her coax them into her net is the real wonder here. When she’s being observed only by us, the character’s stare is simultaneously hungry and blank. When she’s working her wiles, her eyes are bright and reflective: “I’m far more interested in you than I am in myself,” they seem to say, and weirdly, tragically (for the alien’s quarry), she’s not even lying.

There are dozens of mysteries in Under the Skin that don’t cohere in any logical way but work like gangbusters on the imaginative subconscious. Where, exactly, does alien Scarlett lead her victims? Who knows? But we do see them, following her lead, stripping themselves naked as they stride deeper and deeper into a pool of what looks like inky black oil. They sink, while she pads across the surface with a panther’s muscular grace. What happens to them after that is the stuff of Francis Bacon paintings, a loss of self that Glazer captures with disturbingly hypnotic imagery. And Levi’s score is a small, weird miracle in itself. The opening sequence, in which an orb of light is used as a kind of visual shorthand to fill us in on some otherwise incomprehensible alien backstory, is accompanied by a chorus of anxious violins like 1,000 obsessive crickets. This is the music of unease, the sound our neurons might make if we could listen in on their workday.

Alien Scarlett goes through one man after another, until one of them, a young man with a facial disfiguration (played by Adam Pearson), touches a seemingly human nerve in her. She never voices the thought, but we can see her wondering: Could she ever live as a human? Could she feel desire, and make real love with a man instead of destroying him? This particular pick-up, thinking he’s hit the jackpot by finding a woman who’s sexually interested in him, pinches himself to make sure it’s all real. “Dreaming,” he says numbly as he follows in her deadly footsteps; he can barely bring himself to articulate the question mark. In her molten honey voice, alien Scarlett answers the half-asked question: “Yes. Yes, we are.”

At this point, which is also, incidentally, the moment Johansson finally strips bare, Under the Skin becomes less sinister and more about some unnameable longing. Alien Scarlett seems annoyed by Earthlings at first — they’re a necessary inconvenience — but the longer she wears the skin of a human, the more she yearns to become one. She doesn’t have penis envy; she has soul envy. Even in her not-human state, she wants what we all want, and just like us, she has no idea how to name it. Maybe the key is to just keep walking toward it. Dreaming. Yes, we are.


Mica Levi’s Tweaked Take on Pop

On Friday, Merrill Garbus’s band tUnE-yArDs—whose spellbinding, genre-and-gender-bending album w h o k i l l won the most recent edition of the Voice‘s Pazz & Jop poll—will headline the cavernous Terminal 5. The midtown venue has definitely improved since opening a few years back, with the room’s sound-swallowing properties being minimized and its crowds behaving more fun and less like thrashing extras in the hyper-aggro video for Nine Inch Nails’ “Wish.” And truth be told, even if it did still have those problems, Garbus would probably conquer them anyway. She’s a skilled performer who knows how to draw crowds of all sizes into the palm of her hand. Her shows aren’t rote executions of her recorded material as much as they are chances for communion, an opportunity for concertgoers to whoop and wail along with her as horns bleat.

Opening that show will be another act that takes the underlying concepts of pop—most importantly hooks, beats, and passion—and treats them like a twist tie: Micachu & the Shapes. The multi-instrumentalist-slash-composer-slash-mixtape auteur Mica Levi leads the London-based band; Friday’s show will be its first in the States since 2010. In the interim, Levi has performed with the London Sinfonietta, released a mixtape with fellow Londoner Kwes (their second), and been given an artist-in-residence slot at the Southbank Centre, situated right on the Thames. The way she shifts not just between genres but between instruments and styles and idioms is a testament to her musical omnivorousness; she’s what Questlove has referred to as “shuffle culture” made flesh, bingeing on any piece of music she can find so that she can remake it in her own image.

In July, Micachu & the Shapes will release Never (Rough Trade), their second studio album and follow-up to 2009’s sharply drawn Jewellery. The first Micachu song I heard was “Lips,” off Jewellery, and despite it not even being 90 seconds long, it struck my ear instantly. It was so arresting in part because of Levi’s approach to her tools, which goes far beyond their ability to produce musical notes; her guitar playing on “Lips” is as much about showcasing the instrument’s ability to sound like cats clawing at a closed-to-them door as it is about making the yowling notes that make up its melody. She treats her vocals similarly—she sing-talks the verses of “Lips” in a droning, monotonous alto, while the chorus consists of her getting up close and personal with the microphone and making a big smooching sound that’s almost buried in the chaos surrounding it. The end effect is disorienting in the best way, a brief starburst that puts a microscope on the way the human touch is essential to making music.

Which isn’t to say that Micachu’s music is the audio-only equivalent of, say, the down-the-hatch video of Steven Tyler’s vocals in action. (In that clip, the Aerosmith lead singer allowed a camera to burrow down his throat while he sang the lighter-waving power ballad “Dream On,” letting the world see just how that song’s yowls and pleas were physically manifested.) “Golden Phone,” also from Jewellery, is a quickstepping pop song turned on its ear, with a hyperventilating intro leading into its singsong hook and a snappy, hip-shaking beat that might very well have been inspired by a 45 that was skipping at just the right stutter.

Never is similarly studded with up-close-and-personal takes on noise; some of the music summoned sounds completely otherworldly, which is probably attributable to the fact that Levi takes the idea of “making music” to its logical end of making instruments as well. (The “chu” appended to her name refers to a hammer-modified guitar; last year she created the Chopper, an instrument derived from a wooden CD rack.) “Are you sure you’re OK? . . . If you’re not, that’s OK,” goes the hook on “OK,” which has a beat that manages to be simultaneously dreamy and methodical, thanks in part to its being punctuated by bleats that could have come from a malfunctioning phone. The downtempo “Low Dogg” snakes around a hook that sounds like someone stopping up a speaker at regular intervals, with Levi singing a descending vocal line in such a way that the whole thing meets M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes” at some smoke-suffused middle point. (If the rumored sequel to Pineapple Express does come to pass, perhaps “Low Dogg” could soundtrack its trailer.) The musical bed of “Holiday” could have been summoned by a smeary watercolor of a hurdy-gurdy, but the chorus is pure sugar, with Levi’s longing for a break being greeted by a joyous harmony—it’s like the feelings of optimism and hope that get summoned by looking at a calendar with a circled-for-importance day. And “Nothing” is the Enchantment Under the Sea dance made almost painfully literal, a slow dance submerged under bubbly distortion that almost, but only almost, cloaks the hair-raisingly vulnerable lyrics.

I suspect that as I listen to Never more, I’ll find more aural Easter eggs, each of which will be a testament to how much pleasure Levi and her bandmates derive from making music; the album is nervy and sharp-elbowed and brimming with vitality. Micachu & the Shapes do offer a more intimate reframing of pop than Garbus’s huge-tent approach—there’s a reason that the clip for “Lips” has Levi in extreme close-up for much of it—but it’s one that demands a closer listen, especially underneath Terminal 5’s high ceilings.

Micachu & the Shapes play Terminal 5 with tUnE-yArDs and Delicate Steve on June 1.


Micachu & the Shapes

For now, at least, 21-year-old Surrey girl Mica Levi has decided to forgo her conservatory roots in favor of skewed pop on homemade instruments. While she might be an ideal candidate for the Wordless Music series someday (hint, hint), it was an interesting move to rope in techno producer Matthew Herbert to help provide the right element of disorientation for Jewellery, her debut. The restless, schizo nature of her tunes might be off-putting to some but, in the right mood, they can also be pretty damn bracing. With the Grates, Leona Naess, and Brasstronaut.

Wed., March 25, 8 p.m., 2009