When Scarlett Johansson agreed to star in Under the Skin, she knowingly stepped away from safety. At the height of her blockbuster fame, Johansson chose a project many critics would later label “incomprehensible,” “distressing,” and even “seriously deranged.” What she found instead was the most transformative experience of her career—a film she continues to defend as a haunting masterpiece long after audiences initially recoiled.
Directed by Jonathan Glazer, Under the Skin is not a conventional science-fiction story. Johansson plays an alien entity disguised as a woman, roaming Scotland and luring men into a void-like oblivion. The film strips away narrative comfort, replacing plot with sensation, silence, and unease. For many viewers at its 2013 premiere, the result was alienating. For Johansson, it was liberating.
What made the production truly radical was how Glazer chose to capture realism. Johansson spent weeks driving a white transit van through Glasgow, wearing a dark wig and a scruffy fur coat. Inside the van were hidden cameras—custom-built “one-cams”—and a concealed film crew. The men she picked up were real passersby, unaware they were speaking to a global movie star. Consent was only requested after filming, once the cameras were revealed.
Johansson later described the experience as both terrifying and exhilarating. To perform convincingly, she had to suppress empathy and observe humans as if they were specimens. “I became a predator,” she reflected, “hunting souls through the cold, gray Scottish mist.” That mindset—seeing everyday human behavior as strange and fragile—became the emotional core of the film.
The initial reception was brutal. Festival screenings were met with loud boos alongside scattered applause, leaving Johansson visibly shaken. Financially, the film struggled, earning far less than its modest budget. Yet time has been kind. Critics began to revisit Under the Skin, recognizing its audacity and influence. Today, it is widely regarded as a cult classic and one of the most daring films of the 2010s.
A major part of that reassessment belongs to the film’s unsettling score by Mica Levi, whose scraping strings and dissonant rhythms reshaped how modern cinema uses sound to evoke fear and intimacy. The music, like Johansson’s performance, refuses comfort.
Now, in 2026, Under the Skin stands as a defining chapter in Johansson’s career. While she continues to balance mainstream success with new creative ventures, this strange Scottish experiment remains her artistic “North Star.” It is proof that sometimes the films worth making—and loving—are the ones that dare audiences to get lost in the mist.