By Alice McIntyre
Ridley Scott’s sci-fi horror classic Alien (1979) is widely regarded as one of the best films of all time, and deservedly so. It tells the story of the commercial starship Nostromo and its crew, who intercept a distress signal during their return to earth and subsequently deal with an unwanted alien guest. Officer Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) is the sole survivor, along with the ship’s cat, Jones.
Alien, audibly and visually, is stunning even today. From the vastness of space and grandeur of faraway planets to claustrophobic air vents, the film gives you a sense of being there. Costume design conveys a future which is still human—recognizable and relatable to us now just as it was 41 years ago. Jerry Goldsmith’s soundtrack creates an atmosphere of desolation and strangeness, fitting the tone of Alien like a glove. H.R. Giger’s creature designs blur the line between biological and mechanical, creating something unmistakably otherworldly. The film is a shining example of a horror-centering atmosphere, suspense, and human psychology in the face of terror.
A pronounced Freudian streak is apparent in Giger’s monster and the film as a whole, centering images of maternity, sexuality, and the phallus. The creature is covered in slime (apparently made from K-Y Jelly), its head is phallic in design, and its imperative is simple: hunt its prey and reproduce. The iconic “chestburster” scene is an exceptional body-horror adaptation of the pain of childbirth, chock-full of blood and confusion. Further, one scene involves the ship’s science officer Ash (Ian Holm) shoving a rolled-up porno mag into Ripley’s throat in an attempt to kill her. This is the result of the ship’s AI, “Mother,” being programmed with a directive to safely transport the creature to earth, even if it costs the lives of her “children.” At the end of it all, Ripley returns to the womb-like embrace of the emergency shuttle’s stasis pod. Our bald friend Sigmund must be cheering from six feet under.
Alien’s frequent references to Freud are not just for show, but part of an underlying narrative about the fear we feel for what philosophers call the Other: that which is different, external, and unknown. The crew of the Nostromo moved from the warmth and safety of the ship to an inhospitable moon with torrential winds. After a crewmate is attacked by a face-hugging lifeform and rushed to the ship for safety, a fatal mistake is made of bringing in something foreign. Ripley suggests a quarantine: This reflects a natural fear of the Other and an urge to destroy it. Ash ignores this and lets the crewmate on board for immediate attention, thus facilitating the Other’s entry to the Nostromo. Ash is later revealed to be an android—a second nonhuman Other serving the role of accomplice.
Ultimately, Alien illustrates a contradiction in authoritarian power structures. On the one hand, authoritarianism relies on an imagined Other to demonize as “the enemy,” be it minorities, other nations, or political subversives. On the other hand, the pursuit of a proverbial “ubermensch,” of a new, superior man in service of the nation, requires an understanding and assimilation of the demonized Other. The Other resembles Schrödinger’s cat: simultaneously subhuman scum and an all-powerful existential threat. Ripley reflects the raw, instinctual impulse to eliminate the Other, whereas Ash’s actions in the service of the crew’s employers reflect the cold rationality of power. In the end, the drive for destruction dominates.
Verdict: Provençal/10. Alien, like a fine wine, has only improved with age.
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