A complacent harvest of unsuspecting trust, seduced, submerged, packaged, preserved in an hallowed solution, embryonic bliss, conscious of the terror, mesmerizing intake, dangling, merged, afloat, neither here nor there, masqueraded glacial transience, luminescent molecules, directions, paste, a ride, seraphic insulation, enraptured salutation, like a liquified libidinal glaze, slowly processed, then drained.
This film really does get under your skin.
It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.
And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.
But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.
Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.
Habituated disbelief.
A monster.
Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.
Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.
It's still there.
Haunting.
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