Crew expendable.

Rating: 9/10 (17 April 2016)

The opening of Alien recalls another sci-fi masterpiece, 2001 with its slow, labourious long takes that elegantly reveal its world (there's even a deleted Spaceballs-style shot where the gigantic Nostromo rolls over the top of the screen). Scott takes his time to introduce us to little bits of information as we need them - which is why the eventual reveal of Ash as an android is so effective. The assumed knowledge that with space travel comes advanced robotics has us second guessing every move even halfway through the movie. The camera-work is cautious in peering around each dim corner and ledge, as if it was a crew member in itself fearful for its own life. Modern horrors are always rushing to the next gory spectacle, the next money shot. Alien wants to milk every last drop of suspense of the universe's great unknown before it eats you up.
The action subscribes to the notion of less is more. The dark shadows of the ship hide the alien from plain sight - an organic evil shifting in and out of tech that for all its advancements is a futile barrier (it becomes a dripping, primordial environment, perfect for fostering life). This is foreshadowed by the way the acid makes it way through several layers of the ship. The actors react to what they see - the shock of a sudden movement or a shocking clue is not overloading by the soundtrack like so many conventional horror movies do. We are shown what we need to see - a glimpse of a tail coiling out of thee darkness, a blip on the monitor gaining on a helpless member, static on the screen - and then the deepest parts of our imagination fill in the gaps.
For the more explicit areas the effects are still excellent. One will never forget the first slow crane-up reveal of the gigantic alien pilot chair (I've always referred to this as the dentist chair) - a lifeless shell, but imposing nonetheless. There's a chilling sense of life within the alien baby, the way it abruptly breaches the boundaries of the spacesuit and coils around Kane's neck a little tighter when they try to remove it. A simple little premise renders their weapons useless - they are foolish to think they can capture it with a net and cattle prod, but it soon becomes a nightmare. The bursting of the chest - a bloody, visceral image that has become iconic because of the way it shocks and violates everything the crew thinks and knows of their safety and regulations. Ash's internal organs, a similarly grotesque sight, matched by his chilling mockery of humankind's chances - only a robot would be so gleeful and admirative of the perfect, remorseless organism gaining its survival by cutting down other living things (Asimov's rules come into play here).
Much has been made of the clear phallic symbolism - the spitting second mouth like a jutting penis, the vaginal walls pulsating and dripping with life, the impregnation of Kane as a vessel. It does not fully reconcile the act of stripping at the end for me. Weaver was young and pretty enough to be considered a sex symbol and the skimpy display here reduces her to a basic horror archetype - the vulnerable, sexy girl, the last one to be picked off. But it is only a minor grievance - Ripley is established as being clearly the one with the most sense and brains, and the studio obviously had faith in her by keeping her alive for potential sequels. Decades on this is still a remarkable sci-fi horror achievement.