A van cruises the darkened streets of Glasgow. The driver is a woman in a fur coat, with lustrous hair and red pillows for lips. Sometimes she pulls up next to men and asks for directions, chit-chats a little with them, and, if they turn out to be alone, headed to nowhere in particular, offers them a lift. Then there’s some flirtation, an invitation back to her place, which leads to a sultry slow-walking striptease, in which she retreats into the darkness and the men, tumescent, follow her, stripping in their turn. It’s only when they’re naked that the floor beneath them turns viscous, then liquid, and they sink away into the dark — their eyes, until the liquid closes over them, still fixed on her.
She is Scarlett Johansson. She is also a space alien.