The character Scarlett Johansson plays in Under the Skin is a blank-eyed cipher, a predator without apparent motivation. There is no horror more visceral than the horror of the impersonal, so it makes sense that Mica Levi, composing the film's score, would turn to the master of elemental horror:György Ligeti, whose ability to gather masses of semitones into translucent wisps without a center made The Shining, which relied heavily on his work Lontano, the scariest movie ever made. (Watch that film with the music off, I still maintain, and it becomes a particularly caustic domestic comedy.)
The score opens with a locust plague of dry tremolos, the strings pressing down until the sound has reached a roar. It's a sound with tremendous menace and weight. From there, the roar shrinks into a whine, and enters a hazy nexus between digitally processed and live sound. It's an indeterminacy Levi worked hard to cultivate: "We were looking at the natural sound of an instrument to try and find something identifiably human in it, then slowing things down or changing the pitch of it to make it feel uncomfortable," she told The Guardian. Insectile, near-vocal sounds erupt across the tense, arid space of "Lipstick to Void," evoking either the Knife's berserker Shaking the Habitual or the processed strings from Britney Spears' "Toxic". It's an appropriate cross-section for the film, which veers between menace and sexuality and brilliantly cross-wires high-brain and low-groin impulses.
That hovering dust-cloud of strings, which Levi referred to as "like a beehive" in her and Under the Skin director Jonathan Glazer's recent Pitchfork interview, pops up repeatedly throughout the score with minor additions and tweaks representing the journey of Johansson's character: in "Meat to Maths", there are clanging bell-like sounds behind it, while in "Mirror to Vortex" it's half-submerged in the amplified sound of its own echo. In the context of the film, these additions feel like the messiness of lived experience muddying Johansson's template, the imprint of the lives she begins to grapple with as her time on Earth extends. The hollow knock of a single drum, like a single dragging foot, is another repeating theme, giving the score a reiterative, hesitant quality. Inasmuch as you can be invited into Johansson's character's head in Under the Skin, the music does the heavy lifting. The score has the feel of a thought process, albeit one conducted by a being you have no genetic relation to.
The music unfolds as deliberately and as unconsciously as the dreamlike film itself. Levi drops in an arching, three-pitch motif at various points, one that lingers on its highest pitch the longest, like a hanging doubt. In "Lonely Void", this figure is colored in briefly by a furtive patch of tonal harmony, a startling appearance of warmth that scrubs itself out as quickly but leaves a powerful impression. There are other brief hints of tenderness, particularly in the unearthly pairing of "Bedroom" and "Love", which lifts the score entirely free from anxiety and into something exalted and sorrowful. Here, Levi's work comes closer to Vangelis than to Ligeti, and completes the film's mysterious arc. Levi's commitment to the film's themes is all-consuming, and the score is so tightly woven into the film's DNA that it is difficult to detach and experience as an album. However, the gorgeousness of the quavering synths on "Love" ask nothing of you than to be enjoyed.
