Under the Skin is for waxed-mustached, skinny jeans wearing, douche bag hipsters and the French. If you are either of those you’re gonna love this garbage. If not, avoid like your mother-in-law.
Why garbage? Two reasons.
First, this is a film where story and plot are eschewed for mood and atmosphere. In other words it’s like watching paint dry as told through interpretive dance. The first five minutes of noise, darkness, and finally incoherent images of… something, lets one know they have been duped by the marketing machine.
Second, and most importantly, even with Scarlett Johansson, one of the most desirable women on the planet today, naked, THREE times, this film is not worth your precious time, much less whatever the price of admission. And this is coming from an uncouth moron who appreciates a film for the T&A it uses to keep him interested.
It’s not Scarlett’s fault. She does a wonderful job. As does the director of photography. There are shots of Scotland which are equal in beauty to Ms. Johansson. Still, a turd’s a turd no matter how much polish you put on it.
I can now understand why this film has a limited playing engagement. The only place it is truly fit to play is in the flaming fury of Hell to torture Hitler and Jack the Ripper and Quentin Dupieux. (I know Dupieux isn’t dead, but one day he will be, and he’ll burn in Hell for that God forsaken puddle of diseased diarrhea, Rubber.)
Please, for the love of Christ, save yourself some anguish. Watch your fingernails grow. Eat a light bulb. Pick ticks off a baboons ass. Just pass on Under the Skin. Trust me.
In summation, just so I’m clear: Not. Worth. It.