What does it mean to be human? Is it to be loved, to face conflict, to make choices and feel their consequences? In Mica Levi’s score for Under the Skin humanity is anxiety, fear, and isolation. Those fleeting positive moments are routinely devoured, replaced by a cold emptiness.
Levi turns the familiar into the unknown. Ordinary string instruments become jarring, indecipherable, unorthodox, alien. This transformation makes the score all the more frightening; it upends our understanding of what can be done with otherwise common instruments. This is a particularly fitting companion to a film that similarly questions our understanding of humanity.
The unorthodoxy largely stems from two main motifs that build panic and anxiety. Layered, polyrhythmic strings stack on top of one another in ever-increasing speeds until they reach their equilibrium: an overwhelming buzz, like the hive of some otherworldly insect slowly burrowing into the listener’s skull. It digs deeper and deeper until it becomes almost overwhelming. The other recurring motif is a three-note theme, whose final note hangs in the air uncomfortably long, like a suffocating noxious gas cloud.
Both motifs repeat, approaching the unbearable before subsiding. The strings then slow down, becoming more ambient, giving the listener some space. But they always maintain their unsettling edge. Although you can never relax, you can take a breath and brace for the next salvo. Anxiety and discomfort are inevitable.
