What is the difference between respecting fans and coddling them? Why are some meta-references clever, and others obvious? If you don’t know the answers to these questions, you will after you see Alien: Romulus, the seventh canonical film in the beloved, oft-imitated Alien franchise (the ones where they fight Predators do not count). Set between the events of the original 1979 film and its 1986 sequel, co-writer and director Fede Alvarez captures the right look and feel of the films, right down to the creature design and the analog computer terminals. Nowadays that is not enough to reassure fans, so Alvarez’s “legacyquel” includes countless references to previous entries – big and small, clever and downright offensive – to the point where the he fails to deliver on his most essential assignment. Self-aware to a fault, Alien: Romulus stops being scary.
The plot to an Alien film is so ironclad and entrenched in the genre that the opening beats are a bit like watching a performer stretch or tune their instruments. When we meet the 20-something Rain (Cailee Spaeny), she is stuck on a grim mining colony where there is no sunlight and no hope of escape. Her friend Tyler (Archie Renaux) approaches her with an irresistible opportunity: there is an abandoned space station floating above the colony, one with sleep pods that will allow them to survive a long journey toward greener pastures, so they quietly plan to steal them. Tyler needs Rain because she will not go anywhere without Andy (David Jonsson), an android she calls “brother.” Andy’s tech will enable the thieves to hack into the Romulus space station, but when the plan starts falling apart, they have no choice but to wander deeper inside where aliens are waiting for them.
Alvarez is best known for Don’t Breathe, a film where desperate young people steal from a quasi-abandoned home in derelict Detroit, so Alien: Romulus unfolds essentially like Don’t Breathe in space. The director brings the same flair for pacing and camera placement, and so some early sequences unfold with the right mix of anticipation and release. In fact, there is an opportunity for real suspense because, for a while, the audience knows way more about the aliens than the characters do (a scene where Navarro (Aileen Wu) figures out an alien is about to burst out of her moments before her death is intense and affecting). But then the script quickly jettisons that imperfect information by bringing the characters – and the neophytes in the audience – up to speed.
An exposition dump comes in the form of Romulus’ sole survivor, a copy of the android Ash (Ian Holm) from the original Alien film. Now Holm has been dead since 2020, so Alvarez uses the same technology that allowed CGI Peter Cushing to appear in Rogue One and de-aged Mark Hamill to appear in The Mandalorian. This technology has not been improved, and while the “uncanny valley” aspect could be an asset for a robot character, Alvarez makes the Ash copy into a significant character, so we easily notice the tech’s shortcomings. There was always an anti-capitalist streak to these films, a hopeless sense that “The Company” will stop at nothing for its bottom line, including a systemic indifference to humanity. The irony is seemingly lost on Alvarez that Disney, the conglomerate that now owns Romulus’ distributor, is guilty of the same corporate inhumanity as the “Company” in the film. It would not be so obvious, except the film keeps returning to one awkward “Zombie Holm” scene after another, plus it loses interest in its capitalist critique halfway through.
Now that Alvarez has obliterated his suspension of disbelief, it is easier to spot the cracks with his approach. Sure, there is a clever reference in the opening credits, since we see the same typeface as the original Alien. But then the action stops dead in its tracks so that Rain and the other characters can lift dialogue verbatim from the original films, or include close-ups of specific baubles, like how Rain wears the same Reebok sneakers Ripley wore in Aliens. It is also immediately obvious that Spaeny’s character is a stand-in for Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley, and then Alvarez draws more and more parallels until he abandons all subtlety. The effect is like a stand-up comedian explaining their joke after a punchline. Humor can only be found in the shared, silent understanding of the punchline’s reveal, and any explanation beyond that kills the joke.
Part of what makes this approach so frustrating is that Romulus can sometimes be an effective horror film. There are some clever sequences, like when Rain and Andy use artificial gravity – and their ability to toggle it on or off – to their advantage. An obligation in every Alien movie is a new, slimy update to your basic “xenomorph” monster design, and Romulus obliges with ones that are pretty dang gross, the franchise’s most explicit acknowledgement that they want to explore the anxiety and body horror of childbirth. And yet the constant coddling of fans, the assurances that Romulus respects its forebears, hinders its aspiration to frighten and horrify. It does not matter whether Alvarez is to blame, or he succumbs to studio notes. The damage is done, so by the time the climax nails some admittedly perfectly timed jump scares, the film unfolds like a carnival ride and not a pulpy, atmospheric exploration of real anxieties.
The appeal to Alien and its sequels and prequels have never been just a carnival geek show. It has an audience beyond hardcore horror fans because of its unique production design, its tough characters and its sneakily literate screenplay. The characters in Alien are convincing as space truckers, scientists and mechanics, while the characters in Romulus are paper-thin whose dialogue accomplish little beyond driving the plot forward. In Alien: Romulus, there is no interest in making the space station a character in the film, like Ridley Scott did with commercial towing vehicle Nostromo. Now you might recall “Nostromo” is also the name of a Joseph Conrad novel, a reference that is nice to know, but not required for your enjoyment of Alien. In Romulus, on the other hand, there is a momentary pause in the action so a robot voice can explain Roman mythology. Like a contemptuous standup, this is a film that thinks you’re too stupid or ignorant to enjoy it, unless it stops to explain the gag first.
Photo courtesy of 20th Century Studios
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