This Time It’s War

Hello to all from a bubbling, excited film nut who just returned from an exquisite screening of “Aliens” at the Arclight Cinemas in Sherman Oaks. Using one of the original 35mm prints (drool), the good folks at this wonderful movie theater loaded us up with liquor and plopped us down in their comfiest chairs for a delicious evening with one of the classic science fiction films. “Aliens” is a peculiar movie in terms of reputation; it sits eternally on the cusp of being underrated, overshadowed by Ridley Scott’s original, while its Rotten Tomatoes-meter sits squarely at 100% and many of the greatest film critics list it within their top 25 of all time. It is a film everyone knows, yet is in constant need of defending.

Like its peppier genre cousin, “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” James Cameron’s follow-up to “Terminator” is a masterpiece, an ultimate achievement nearly spotless in design and execution. While the original was essentially a haunted house film in space, “Aliens” is more of a combat thriller: there are more explosions, more deaths, more aliens, and while this does make it less frightening in the strictest sense, there’s no question that any sane person will arrive at the credits crawling on their knees, begging for mercy. “Aliens” is an adrenaline-soaked roller-coaster ride, a film that utterly earns its famous tag line: “This time it’s war.”

Interestingly, I’ve always found this movie and “Raiders” to be kind of long lost family members, maybe cousins or even stepbrothers. They were made at separate times with almost no crew in common, but their deftness at crafting such excellence from the action thriller genre makes them feel kindred to me. Also, both are about reluctant heroes taking journeys into peril, constantly outnumbered, just barely surviving, scrapping together resources. “Aliens” is a much darker film, but ironically, it’s ending is far more upbeat than “Raiders’.” It’s funny how that goes.

The original “Alien” is a great film, no question, but I think the sequel overcomes it on grounds of story. So palpable is the atmosphere in Ridley Scott’s original that the viewer scarecly has time to think, but once you do start thinking as you head for your car, it becomes clear that there really wasn’t much of an emotional journey going on. “Alien” is a cold, nihilistic film about the inevitability of death; its one survivor is more lucky than anything else, and aside from severe trauma neither she nor anyone else has much of an arc.

“Aliens” is quite different. Our Ripley starts from a battered, destroyed emotional state and, in facing her demons again, comes to grips with them and triumphs over her fear. That is a character with a real journey. As Cameron himself once pointed out: “Ripley physically survived the first film, but she emotionally survives this one.” The subtexts at play here are also tremendous, the most obvious (I think) being a sly comparison to the Vietnam War: we have better technology, so why are we losing? Also striking is the recurring motif of motherhood: Ripley de facto adopts a traumatized little girl named Newt, and must fight the Alien Queen, who feels maternal instincts towards her entire species, to protect her. This theme is also present in the original: the artificial intelligence that guides the Nostromo is called “Mother.” Of course, in the first picture, parental figures are misleading, untrustworthy, and at best impartial. In “Aliens,” mothers are protectors and fighters.

Sigourney Weaver’s Ellen Ripley is, I think, the feminist Holy Grail. She is a character and a woman at the same time, neither at the expense of the other. This difficult mark is hit with excruciating infrequency: women are either sexed up morons, whores, or icy, masculine popsicles. Nothing frustrates me more than supposedly “liberated” female characters who are basically men with boobs, because this slyly suggests that tough women are more like men, but Ripley is strong and determined without ever ceasing to be feminine. There are precious few other examples of this, and it’s worth savoring.

Anyway.

I haven’t talked about video games in awhile, so let me weigh in on a few things here. For those of you who don’t play, stick around! You might learn somethin’!

-I played the demo for “Wanted: Weapons of Fate.” It sucks, like most movie-to-game adaptations (and vice versa, come to think of it). The cover system is aped from Gears of War, the sl0-mo from “Max Payne” or “FEAR,” and the “bending bullets” thing is not that cool. On top of that, your character moves in a really clumsy way: his legs are like twigs, and his movement is so quick that it’s unnatural, it’s like someone pressed fast forward. He has no weight whatsoever, which drives me crazy.

-”Halo Wars” continues to stun, proving to me that it’s positive-but-not-astronomical ratings come exclusively from reviewer bias; namely, these guys are all geeks and have played more complex RTS games, and they grade this one down for keeping it simple. I find this highly unfair. Not being like other games you’ve played is not a flaw if that decision benefits the experience.

-I picked up “MadWorld” for the Wii, which is probably the most gruesome game I’ve ever experienced, and I’m not wild about that fact, but its unique art direction was just too compelling to pass up. Fortunately, the characters are all highly stylized cartoons, so the violence has about as much impact as Looney Tunes. The gameplay is smooth and enjoyable, the boss battles are epic, so by and large I’m pretty pleased. If you’re in the mood for a brawler and don’t mind a little goofy brutality, you should look it up.

Anyway.

I had a crazy dream last night. Want to hear it? Of course you do, Dear Reader, you sick, curious monster.

It starts with me trying to catch a bus, the 200 to be exact (which I ride to school). There were dozens of them everywhere, except they were like yellow school buses, and I kept missing them. In front of me was a girl I knew in high school, running around trying to catch them as well. When we eventually got on one, I sat down and next to her and introduced myself. She informed me that we had never known each other, and she was born and raised in South Carolina.

After class, I was picked up in another bus (but this one wasn’t a school bus) by mom, dad and Caroline (sorry Brady and Holly, no dice). We drove out on a freeway at dusk towards an area that looked like Kennedy Space Center in Florida: lots of swamp and greenery, and a huge shuttle station off in the distance. I kept mentioning to everyone how it freaked me out a little to look at something as massive as the space shuttle, because it was so big, and every now and then I would have to look away. I said I was scared to ride in one. Caroline turned around (she was sitting in shotgun) and emphatically disagreed, saying she would love to.

A moment later, I was laying down inside a high-tech-looking coffin made of steel, with a pool of water that just barely did not cover my mouth or nose. I had some kind of plastic mask on my face. I somehow knew I was riding in a space shuttle. After a few minutes, it was time to get out, so I opened my casing, took the mask off, and got out. Next to me was dad, who had also just emerged. “How do you like that?” he said, “Perfect imprints.” I turned around and saw that the plastic mask I was wearing now looked exactly like my face, skin color and all, minus any eyes. Dad’s was also a perfect match. I stared at this.

End of dream.

All right, you amateur Freuds: explain that one!