Film, being an art form, is largely a subjective medium. Different movies appeal to different people with different tastes. The vast majority of things I write about here is entirely opinion-based, built off of my own thoughts and personal experiences. However, there are some instances where a film's quality can be measured on an objective scale (for better or for worse). Ridley Scott's 1979 film, Alien, is one such movie, in that it is unquestionably an objective masterpiece, seamlessly blending the genres of horror and sci-fi. The late 70's saw something of a revival for sci-fi movies; the novelty of space travel had worn off in the years since man walked on the moon and most science fiction was regarded as childish and cornball. Much like the titular creature in Alien, the genre was primed for rapid and radical evolution. Star Wars brought the concept of space adventures back into the public eye, re-framing classic story elements in a fantastical and imaginative world. Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey presented a view of a future that could very well happen, albeit in a far-out, shiny, and sterile fashion. Out of all the films of this sci-fi resurgence, Alien was the first to approach the concept of futuristic space travel as something not only mundane, but as something we might want to reconsider altogether.
The plot is as classic and straightforward as can be, incorporating age-old haunted house tropes in a new and fascinating locale. The crew of the space-freighter Nostromo is awakened from hyper-sleep after the ship's computer picks up a distress signal. As per company guidelines, the crew is required to investigate, touching down on a barren, primordial planet. An away-team is assembled to explore the source of the signal, a massive and foreboding derelict space craft. Once the crew is back on the ship, they discover that a hostile alien creature has stowed away on the Nostromo, skulking through its claustrophobic corridors and picking people off one by one. It's essentially a slasher in space, but to simply describe it as just that and nothing more would be a gross oversimplification, ignoring just why this film works as well as it does.
The most immediately striking element is the set design, care of Michael Seymour. The Nostromo is an industrialized maze, filled with tight hallways, dangling wires, and deceptive shadows. It's the perfect hiding place for a biomechanical creepy-crawly like the Xenomorph, in that we never know what could be lurking around each corner (or in the walls, or in the ceiling, or in the vents, or, well, anywhere for that matter). By contrast, the derelict ship (designed alongside the creature by the brilliant H.R. Giger) takes inspiration from Gothic architecture, boasting high, vaulted ceilings and intricate details. We spend the first part of the film getting acquainted with the cramped, manmade halls of the Nostromo; by the time we enter the derelict, the change in scenery is so radical that we immediately know something isn't quite right. The film revolves around a fear of the unknown and exhibits a tremendous talent for subverting audience expectations.
Alien is very much a slow burn; it isn't until a good half hour in that anything even remotely out of the ordinary happens. This sense of routine, of making space travel into something totally mundane, plays a big part in just what makes the movie work. The Nostromo isn't an intrepid starship in search of adventure and discovery, so much as it is the outer space equivalent of a big rig, hauling freight from one destination to another. The crew isn't a gang of strange and exotic spacemen; instead, they're simply a bunch of blue-collar working joes. The first time we meet them, they've just woken up from stasis and are making small talk over the breakfast table, discussing their pay and the quality of the coffee, cigarettes in hand. The film goes a long way to sell the audience on its premise by making the world feel both believable and organic. In doing so, the premise becomes that much more real, a vital component of any effective horror movie.
The film is also masterfully adept in manipulating an audience's expectations. I've said before that a well-crafted horror film will find a way to "train" the viewer to respond subconsciously to specific cues, only to subvert those expectations when delivering the scare. For example, there's a scene early on in the second act in which Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), Parker (Yaphet Kotto), and Brett (Harry Dean Stanton) are looking for the newborn alien. The tension builds and builds as they open up a locker, only to find Ripley's cat, Jones, instead (in what is possibly the movie's only totally pedestrian jumpscare). Soon after, Brett wanders off to find the cat, only to come across the newly-grown alien instead. By now, a subconscious pattern has been established; looking for the alien means that they'll find the cat, looking for the cat means that they'll find the alien. Which is why, near the end of the film, we fully expect Ripley to run into the alien when she hears a noise she assumes to be her cat. Instead, the noise actually was the cat this time; cut to the alien menacing Parker and Lambert (Veronica Cartwright) instead.
For this particular Review, I decided to revisit the 2003 Director's Cut of the film, seeing as how I usually just default to the 1979 theatrical version. For all the praise I could heap upon this film, there's just very little that hasn't been said before; entire books have been written on why Alien is one of the greatest films ever made. That said, I find the Director's Cut to be quite intriguing in its own right (even if I still prefer the original version that released some 38 years ago). The changes are largely superficial and, for the most part, totally inconsequential. A few shots are added, some are removed, but there are only a handful of changes that drastically affect the picture itself. There's a shot that Ridley Scott decided to add back in that I sincerely wish remained in the theatrical version, in which we see the creature hanging from the rafters just moments before it attacks Brett. I'm a huge fan of the multiple "hiding in plain sight" moments in this movie, and this shot completely took me by surprise; the effect is chilling. There's also a strong moment where we see Lambert attack Ripley for not opening the airlock; while it helps feed the tension of the scene, it's understandable why it was cut, as it tends to draw attention away from the recently-facehugged Kane (John Hurt).
Most notable of these changes is a moment during the climax, in which a fleeing Ripley discovers the cocooned bodies of Brett and Dallas (Tom Skerritt). This scene was originally cut because it completely killed the pace of Ripley's frantic escape, but its inclusion in Scott's personal Director's Cut of the movie says something interesting, I feel. In the scene, we see Dallas and Brett slowly turning into alien eggs; from a modern context, we can say that this somewhat clashes with the since-established mythos of the creature (since the sequel, Aliens, introduces the idea of an egg-laying Queen). Scott has often referred to Alien as his baby, and expressed his distaste that the series has gone on to be nothing more than cheap, action/horror schlock. The Director's Cut was released in 2003; by then, the Alien franchise had long since gone down the drain with critical flops like Alien 3 and Alien: Resurrection (not to mention, the utterly braindead Alien VS Predator was but one year away). By reinstating the cocoon scene in the Director's Cut, Scott is separating his vision from everything that came after it; there is no Queen Alien, there are no Colonial Marines, there is no Dog Alien or Predalien or anything of the sort beyond that which he himself created. Just as with Prometheus, the inclusion of this cut scene feels like an attempt by Ridley Scott to exert some degree of personal control over his creation that has long since gotten away from what he originally intended it to be.
Alien is a bonafide classic, one of the greatest films ever made both in terms of horror and science fiction. Everything about it, from the subtle, sweeping camerawork, to the naturalistic performances, to the beautiful and horrfying art design and special effects work of artists such as H.R. Giger, Carlo Rambaldi, and Ron Cobb, is just an unending joy to take in. The Director's Cut, while just slightly inferior to the original theatrical version, offers a fascinating look at what could have been. We can see not only what was originally planned for the film, but what Ridley Scott might have done differently after nearly 30 years of gestation and rumination. No matter what way you shake it, the film is mandatory viewing for anyone who loves the art of cinema. If you somehow haven't seen this one yet, turn out all the lights and settle in for a gorgeous nightmare that remains unrivaled to this day.
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