The hardest movies to write about are good movies. The hardest franchise entries to write about are originals. Alien is going to be a major challenge! All this immediately following a former IMDb Bottom 100 masterpiece (Meatballs 4).
Let’s start where screenwriter Dan O’Bannon did, with the basic concept, for Alien is at times a minimalist enough film to be defined by its premise. Basically put, Alien is a horror movie – in space. Some would ascribe the sci-fi label to it first, but I believe the tone of a horror film trumps a sci-fi setting as Alien’s fundamental trait.
Alien really is a modernist updating of many old ideas; truly, there’s not a single true original idea in the film. Rather, by O’Bannon’s own admission, it is a perfect storm of borrowed elements, a fairly generic movie that is still notable enough to create its own subgenre. To someone with movie predilections like my own, and Internet access, several influences are instantly noticeable.
The oldest, and thus best, influence is the B creature feature movement from the 50s, great pieces of nonsense with their rubbery monsters and can-do optimism. The broad outline of Alien can famously be found in It! The Terror From Beyond Space, another movie about a crew of astronauts who accidentally pick up an “it,” which creeps creepily around their creepy ship offing the crew. To reconsider that film now, one is stricken by how shiny sci-fi was in the 50s. I love old sci-fi for that reason, but it really does make it unrealistic. The central innovation of Alien is to give the exact same idea a serious treatment, with a realistic, lived-in future, a scary monster, and a healthy dose of 70s cinematic cynicism.
So a strong argument could be made that Alien is merely a good rubber monster movie.
Alien is also a Jaws knockoff. This was an incredibly common phenomenon in the late 70s, after the success of Spielberg’s shark movie (we’ll explore that further one fine day). This is again something that O’Bannon admits to, summing Alien up as “Jaws in space.” The difference between Alien and all other Jaws rip-offs is that it isn’t a literalist plagiarist. The restimitated Jaws’ nature-run-amok approach, as well as its broad plot strokes such as the imperiled tourist resort. Alien instead was a learner rather than just an imitator, mimicking Jaws’ successful (if possibly accidental) monster delay to generate maximum suspense and horror. The alien is treated to the same buildup as the shark, and what’s better, the alien is itself worth the wait.
So a strong argument could be made that Alien is merely a good Jaws descendant.
With the tonal maturity the horror genre experienced throughout the 70s, it is also natural to consider Alien a slasher movie. It slightly predates the major influx of those things, but it still follows prime formula trendsetters like The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Halloween (also like Halloween, Alien has a brilliantly simple title that just had to get used some day). By modernizing and escalating the monster movie formula, Alien happened upon the slasher tactic of culling off the entire cast until there was a final girl, a Final Girl. This assertion, that Alien lies within the slasher confines, is the most controversial notion; many people who notice the similarities try to argue them away. After all, Alien is intelligent, populated by a surprisingly mature cast, and set in a unique location. Furthermore, the alien monster is ostensibly a phallic rapist as opposed to a castrating prude, like most slasher villains. These are all decorative arguments, though, for the plot structure of Alien is entirely like a slasher (and also like their shared antecedent, "Ten Little Indians").
So a strong(ish) argument could be made that Alien is merely a good slasher flick.
So Alien is just a really good example of a lot of questionable cinematic trends. Why is it widely considered a classic in the medium? Because it’s damn good. Every single major member of the cast and crew added unique elements, endlessly heightening Alien’s impact. Writing, directing, cinematography, editing, acting, and a supreme example of production design all combine into something far greater. And in the heady heyday of Star Wars, Fox was willing to invest A-list talent in order to get any sci-fi picture into theaters. Alien was the only spaceship script they had, so bleak, R-rated horror story or no, it would be a major blockbuster.
We’ve already (briefly) considered O’Bannon’s script creation, without dwelling upon the intelligent side details that sell his new universe (such as a sideways reference to Earthbound civilizations in the Antarctic). Let us now consider the contributions of sophomore director Ridley Scott, today a hugely respected A-list director of box office bombs. He was by no means the first director considered, with Walter Hill and David Giler both considered first. Scott’s work on The Duellists, though, drew the attention of Giler and Hill as producers. Scott was not too intrigued with the initial notion of science fiction (ironic, since he’s possibly the genre’s greatest director). He was unimpressed with sci-fi’s anemic sets and artless shininess. What Scott was then largely responsible for in Alien was the creation of the new future aesthetic, a “used future.” Even more so than Star Wars (then actually considered dirty sci-fi), Alien is in a grimy, blue-collar future with all of today’s worst hardships and social problems transposed into it. Really, the vast majority of the details in Alien are instantly recognizable; a boon for character identification.
Something else to consider on its own before finally moving on to the movie is the production design. The smartest move in the film’s production, and one I don’t often see praised, was the choice to use separate designers totally independently of each other (but under Scott’s guidance) to create the totally distinct features of the movie. For the alien elements to seem truly alien, they had to be as distinct from the human environments as possible. H. R. Giger’s alien design is justly famous, a hideous bit of bio-mechanical body horror that is now an icon on par with Dracula and various mummies. It has no eyes, a tasty eggplant head, and a mouth on its tongue – that ain’t right!
Ron Cobb’s work on the human environments of the good ship Nostromo is less celebrated, but as important to the film’s impact. This is as good a segue as any to enter into the movie proper, so let’s do so now. The atmosphere is off the bat suitably eerie and otherworldly, complimented by the fact that Alien is a bracingly patient movie. Lengthy shots showcase the practical models that make up the Nostromo’s exterior, an opening that clearly harkens back to Star Wars (again, steal from the best and steal well). Scott’s camera prowls the ship’s vacant, dusty interior, setting the stage for most of the film. We are nicely guaranteed not to be lost, even on this overly large interstellar cargo ship – Or is it more of a tug boat?
An idea of the film’s stifling claustrophobia: Star Wars used old airplane movies as the basic for its space action; Alien is a submarine movie, with the lack of glamour that suggests. It is also slow, but in a very confident way – I consider it suspenseful, but I’ve known others bored to tears by this film. They don’t deserve it. Hell, I’ve never had a good screening with others – those who aren’t bored instead ask “Is this one of those movies where everybody except her dies?” They instantly discredit it after that. Ugh! I know a lot of people with bad taste.
Two paragraphs into recapping the movie, and only now do any characters present themselves. And not only that, but we get the entire cast all at once. In a lesser film I’d call this the “Meet the Meat,” except Alien features one of the strongest ensemble casts of any horror movie (or maybe movie in general). A mysterious distress call rouses the ship to life, opening the sleep pods in which our characters are hibernating. Let’s run through the cast as actual individuals, shall we?
Captain Dallas (Tom Skeritt), bearded and no-nonsense, but prone to rash decisions.
Executive Officer Kane (John Hurt), about whom we don’t learn much else, because (spoiler) he is the first to learn aliens love the gamey tang of human flesh.
Warrant Officer Ripley (Sigourney Weaver, then-unknown), a responsible crew member who follows the rules when others wouldn’t. A female.
Science Officer Ash (Ian Holm), a cold, clinical thinker…and something more. And I blame this film for the fact I’ve somehow never been able to distinguish between Ian Holm and John Hurt.
Navigator Lambert (Veronica Cartwright, the little girl from The Birds, now old enough to be legitimate monster fodder), the easily frightened “feminine” presence, and by design my least favorite element of this film (except for the damn cat I haven’t mentioned).
Chief Engineer Parker (Yaphet Kotto, former Bond villain and therefore awesome), who’s both blue collar and black – Oh, he’s gonna die first, right?
Petty technician Brett (Harry Dean Stanton). Average line of dialogue: “Right.”
Oh yeah, and Jones the cat, Communications Officer! Seriously, what is this feline doing on this ship – apart from satisfying awful horror conventions? I’ll have some words to say later about this beast.
Quick quiz! Out of all those characters, which one do you think will survive? (Okay, sure, we know who now, but play along.)
This is where sequels can ruin some of a film’s joy. The Alien franchise revolves around its survivor as much as it does its monster – a unique and privileged position in the horror genre. Still, it’s disheartening to go into Alien knowing Ripley survives (as does the cat). Without this foreknowledge, she’s totally middle-of-the-road and unassuming, while we’d expect either the heroic Dallas type or an underdog like one of the technicians, or really, anyone else to survive. And while the Final Girls of slasher films survive due to distinguishing personality traits just as Ripley does, it’s not for the same traits. Her moral position (re: virginity and recreational drugs) never enters into the equation; rather, Ripley is the most professional member of the Nostromo. Many of her early choices, actually implemented, would have actually minimized crew casualties.
It’s safe to say, though, that Ripley’s gender is never the reason for her survival. The horror genre is often astoundingly sexual, but for all its viral rape imagery, Alien always strikes me as a bit asexual. Sometimes a slimy, hulking egg-layer is just a slimy, hulking egg-layer. Allegedly, O’Bannon’s script specifies no ornamental character details such as gender or race, allowing the casting directors to dictate these decisions. Ripley is a person first, and really only a female towards the end when Scott gets desperate and wants some flesh up on screen. It’s telling she wouldn’t even get a first name until the sequel – and late in that sequel.
This plot recap seems to have stalled irreparably. But we must go on, as Ash would say. (It’s clear I’ve seen this too many times when I think that is recognizable dialogue!)
Alien does an admirable job of shirking practically all subplots, denying romantic partnerings or any such nonsense. Rather, the crew is quickly (by this even-paced film’s definition of “quickly”) on their way towards the source of this mysterious radio signal – a nameless, dead planet, like Ripley not to be further christened until the sequel. The drop ship Narcissus disgorges from the Nostromo (O’Bannon had a Joseph Conrad mania – sadly no sequel invokes a Lord Jim ship…that I can recall). The planetary landing is depicted through a mixture of nice model work and hideous 1970s computer interfaces. Computer screens always age badly in sci-fi films – there is no way around this. The landing is harsh, stranding the Narcissus on this inhospitable rock. Already our characters are in a pretty bad way, long before any hint of the alien (apart from a never-explained roar on the soundtrack).
Dallas, Kane and Lambert suit up to head out on foot towards the nearby signal. This atmospheric movie becomes literally so on the surface of the planet, one of the most convincing depictions of an entirely unearthly wasteland – no Star Wars-esque anthropomorphism here! Ash watches their process from the Narcissus’ vaunted pilot’s seat like a German expressionist villain, while Ripley behaves responsibly and tries to get the ship’s computer “Mother” to translate the signal.
The trio of spacesuited astronauts enters Giger’s major set, the interior womb of a strange alien craft. “Ah,” think 1979 audiences with no foreknowledge of the series, “this is the spaceship of the titular alien.” This seems a justifiable thought, as the long-dead “Space Jockey” alien found in the central core is certainly something worthy of further exploration (which Scott may be considering now with his ill-advised prequel). Strangely, this thing’s chest is wide open, punctured from the inside. This really is a nice and slow reveal of horrifying elements.
Ripley delivers Ash part of Mother’s translation – the signal was not an SOS, but a warning. Ash is nonplussed…hmm.
Half an hour in, and we get our first true sign of the titular alien species. Dallas’s band climbs into a cavernous chasm in the ship’s womblike bowels, a cave “of some sort.” It is populated by a field of awful leathery eggs, very convincingly organic. The smaller alien creatures really are slimy and gross because I think they used real animal organs – why, why, why don’t filmmakers use this technique more often?! It’s cheap and effective! Kane, arguably driven by horror movie stupidity first and foremost, chooses to investigate one of these eggs a little too intently, in time for the first genuine scare – something leaps at his face. Cue screams over the ship’s exterior, a standard cutaway for cinematic murders.
Dallas appears with Kane on a stretcher before the Narcissus’ entry bay. This is where Ripley truly shows her character, refusing them entry in favor of a sane (in retrospect) quarantine policy. Ash physically overrides her, so in comes Kane.
Gathered in the infirmary, Ash removes Kane’s helmet to reveal a new facet of this mysterious alien species – a “facehugger” creature firmly embracing Kane’s face-hole. The occasionally bizarre biology of the alien is very believable, without necessarily being realistic, one way Alien distinguishes itself from its rubberier brethren. Ash tries to cut into the loveable facehugger, learning another of the alien’s attributes: acidic blood melts down through several floors, a potential threat to the hull. This means, when the alien is at its worst, our under-armed crew can’t even risk killing it, lest they destroy their ship anyway. Brr!
Scott cuts away to other scenes long enough to then reveal Kane, groggy but awake and completely healed. Ah, but we know better, if due to the running time if nothing else! Ripley leads the charge in further debate about quarantining Kane, but the demands of horror film stupidity win. Ash is the main proponent of this apparent foolishness, but he has ulterior motives – this is a clever way of justifying generic necessities without making the movie suffer for it.
The Narcissus reattaches to the Nostromo, and all are ready to go into another hyper-sleep. There’s just one thing to do first – Dinner Scene! Only the most iconic scenes in film history can earn such tags, like the Shower Scene or…that’s pretty much it. Man, what point is there in even trying to explain this in words? Ah hell, here’re some pictures…
The cat’s out of the bag, that is, the parasite’s out of the torso! And shut up, oh ye of little faith, it’s a good little hand puppet.
Though we shall soon see the alien again in a larger and scarier form, this is really the climax as far as the careful development of the alien mystery is concerned. From now on the stakes shall continue to rise, not by the ever-developing nature of the alien, but by the steady whittling down of the cast. Well over halfway through, Alien becomes a body count film. (A good one.)
The crew separates into two search parties to track down the presumably cat-sized chestburster. This is where Jones the cat really starts to piss me off; his function late in the film truly marks this as the lesser part of Alien. Whose fault was this cat?! I hate to admit it, probably O’Bannon’s. And why is this cat here? In genre terms, it’s so he can leap out at Ripley for a cheapo shock – the hoariest of all horror tropes. Then Jones flees shrieking, allowing Brett to go off alone and get killed horribly, er, I mean, get the cat back. Yeah.
Jones blows, but the lead-up to Brett’s death is a perfect example of a horror stalk sequence as lengthy foreplay and sudden climax. Brett makes his way into a striking set filled with dangling chains and dripping water, like Pinhead’s guest room. Lengthy, quiet shots accustom us to the sound effects and atmosphere, as an enormous, bone-like tail slowly hovers behind Brett. Behold the alien, in its full grown glory! It’s a brilliant design, but I’m of two minds about it. Its sudden growth spurt from “cat” to “hulking Nigerian stunt man” is hugely unlikely, and the practical demands of an alien suit make it too human. The footage in the final film (as opposed to the lesser deleted scenes) deemphasizes that fact, but it is somewhat unavoidable. This is one of those minor nitpicks that the sequels would eventually correct, even while making huge mistakes. Then Brett dies.
Alien’s latter half is really a series of lengthy death sequences, buffered by the merest of breaks so our cast can regroup. Dallas secludes himself inside Mother’s core to ask the computer’s aid. Mother, that bitch, remains coy. This is a nice scene, setting up Dallas as our hero rather than the next victim.
Without the aid of his computer, Dallas fashions a monumentally stupid scheme (believable considering how people function when the Internet’s down). Apparently, Dallas’s plan is to go all John McClane in the ship’s spacious air ducts, in an attempt to “flush” out the beast. In his mind, it’s an excuse to play with a flamethrower! The crew can watch on remote, tracking the movement of Dallas (and beastie) through a series of pre-Pac-Man blips. This is a nice technique to keep the alien present but off screen, like Bruce’s fin on the waves. But then monster nears, Dallas spins, and – Lights out!
Ripley is next in command now that Kane and Dallas are dead, so she gains access to Mother. She proves smarter than Dallas in her line of questioning, and is able to get a definitive answer about the alien and the Nostromo’s nebulous Company: “Priority one insure return of organism for analysis. All other considerations secondary. Crew expendable.”
Ripley leans back to reveal Ash sitting deathly still right beside her – always an effective scare technique. He’s had access to these classified files. There is a brief tussle, and Ash bleeds milk – something that happened to me once, for medical reasons I’d rather not contemplate. Ash then proceeds to assault Ripley in an eerie mimicry of domestic abuse, a scene that is actually far more repellant in its misogyny than any of the alien’s venereal viciousness. Ash even orally rapes Ripley with a rolled-up pornography magazine! Ick. But now Parker and Lambert have made it into Mother’s core, despite Ash’s lockup procedure, and Parker proceeds to beat Ash’s head off with a fire extinguisher. Ash isn’t just a scientist, he’s a robot scientist – that milky blood was a dead giveaway, and a nice unexplained sci-fi detail. Parker sets Ash’s head upright on the floor (so Ian Holt can fit underneath the set), as Ash explains the Company’s interest in the alien as a biological weapon. I think this unnamed Company is Fox (until sequels prove otherwise).
All the white males are dead (or…derobotified), so now we’re down to two women and a black man. For a horror movie filled with spring-loaded cats, this sure breaks a lot of rules. Sadly, Lambert starts to undergo a serious mental breakdown, becoming a mere sobbing ball of terror. The apparent justification given to actress Cartwright, who was as disgusted with Lambert’s action as we all are, was that she would be a vessel for the audience’s own fears late in the movie. I’m sorry, but I’m actually more scared when my protagonists act competently – it increases the outside threat when they’re not asses.
The trio’s plan, Company be damned, is to blow up the Nostromo with the alien on it, while they escape in an emergency pod. Take that, 20,000,000 tons of iron ore! Ripley goes to prep the pod (not a euphemism), while Parker and Lambert goes downstairs to do…something. I think they’re gathering weapons – it’s a bit late for that. But whatever, here comes that darned alien, moving with a stiff gait that is a rare special effects failure. Parker, at a loss, just up and fights the beast, and his reward is to hear his dying screams echo throughout the ship’s P.A. system. Lambert just cowers uselessly in a corner, putting up little resistance. Following an astounding four separate incredible death scenes (I’m counting Ash), they’ve kind of run out of steam here.
Sloppiness pervades much of this final section, though Scott proves a talented enough visual artist to carry across certain foolishness. Ripley opts to go back on the Nostromo – to collect the cat! Why the living hell was this needed?! Just have her go back to start the ship’s self-destruct countdown, something she does anyway. The cat is immaterial, and even more blatantly inappropriate than in the Brett bit. Weaver does her part to somewhat sell this turn of events, though, which is one reason why she’s so invaluable to this franchise.
Anyway, Ripley starts up the 10 minute destruct sequence, an opportunity for Scott to let loose with as many flashing lights, shooting steam, and general visual chaos as he can squeeze out of his Nostromo set. This is one of cinema’s more effective climactic countdown scenes, with Mother’s priggish, phone operator voice announcing the time remaining. Ripley attempts to return to the escape pod, only to find her way blocked by the alien. Our voracious beastie seems finally sated, as it could barely be bothered to pursue Ripley – the Final Girl has a death battle exemption, and it’s a bit blatant. Considering this setback, Ripley makes a game attempt to call off the explosion, and the seconds count down past the option to override. So whatever, Ripley rushes for the escape pod anyway. That silly alien is now nowhere to be seen, so she manages to get herself (and Jones) on the ship with no significant trouble. The pod sails off into the darkness of space as the Nostromo explodes into bright hippie colors in the distance.
Feeling utterly safe, Ripley stashes Jones away where he’ll no longer be a plot device. Ripley then strips down to a really ugly pair of underpants, this suddenly-horny movie justifying it as a preparation to enter hyper-sleep. Scott claims making his heroine mostly naked and unarmed increases the danger, but I think it just increases Sigourney Weaver flesh exposure (Ghost Busters did it better). Now sufficiently ill-attired, the alien-shaped venting in the wall turns out to be the alien. Ridley – dang it, Ripley! Why’d someone called Ridley have to direct a character called Ripley?! Oh well. So Ripley flees for the spacesuits, and the instant she dons one, the camera stops ogling her buttocks. The lazy alien barely makes an effort to reach her, stumbling about like a hungover coed. Calming herself by singing an old 1940s standard (“You Are My Lucky Star”), Ripley uses this generous opportunity to devise an involved defense – basically, she blasts the alien out of the airlock.
Ripley, the lone survivor of the Nostromo, records a final message and lays to sleep in her freezer chamber, doomed to drift aimlessly through the void of space. It’s kind of a downer ending, but what do you expect from a 1970s horror movie?
It surprises the hell out of me that Alien could engender a media franchise. That it would become a film franchise makes perfect sense, since this was a successful horror/sci-fi hybrid, certainly something that can be both repeated and shamelessly ripped off by the Italians. But to think that a nihilistic, R-rated horror show could inspire novels, comic books, video games and toys for audiences too young to see the movie – that blows my mind. Of course I shouldn’t be too surprised; this is the stuff I grew up on, always favoring grotesque monsters over “Sesame Street” in my youth – it’s far less creepy. All in all, the Alien film series has always remained a surprisingly A-list horror effort. In a world of so many cheapjack fright franchises, it’s maybe just a fluke of Star Wars’ success and temporary good judgment from Fox that Alien could happen as it did. And astoundingly, Fox (the antichrist) was just as careful with the sequel!
Related posts:
• No. 2 Aliens (1986)
• No. 3 Alien3 (1992)
• No. 4 Alien Resurrection (1997)
• No. 5 Alien vs. Predator (2004)
• No. 6 Aliens vs. Predator: Requiem (2007)
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