Or whimper, for that matter, which was all I could keep from doing last night as I saw Alien. For the first time. Alone. I can't remember the last time I watched that much of a movie through my fingers. I had to keep reminding myself: "It's just a haunted house movie in space," and "You lived through John Carpenter's The Thing and Kubrick's Shining. You can do this." But I hatched escape plans every five minutes by the dim blue glow of the Brattle clock.
This wasn't just any screening, you understand. 20th Century Fox had sent the brand-spanking new, pristine print used to create the soon-to-be-released, remastered, re-edited director's cut DVD of Alien via secure special courier only that evening. And the theatre was showing it for free, the cinetrix's favorite price.
Allow me to geek out for a second because I had almost forgotten what a joy it is to see a sparkling, crisp print of a film, expertly projected. Really, and I don't mean to come off as a snob, but multiplex patrons have no idea.
Where to begin with my pedantry? Films come in reels of about 20 minutes each. Your basic movie is six to eight reels, shipped to the theatre in two metal or plastic canisters that weigh roughly 15 lbs each. You can get good-looking arms carrying films around.
When you see a movie, or even watch one on VHS or DVD, at the twenty-minute mark that circle appears in the top right corner of the screen. You know the one. This circle is the cue for the projectionist to get ready for the reel change. The way it works at the Brattle, for instance, is there are two projectors: One gets reels 1, 3, 5 and the other 2, 4, 6. It's an art to make the switch and harder than it looks. It's also the reason why sometimes, in the middle of a movie, you'll get a glimpse of the header [that countdown everybody remembers from grade school]. When that happens, the projectionist has turned on the new projector a few seconds prematurely. I must warn you: If a movie is dragging and you're aware of the reel-change cue, the tendency to count off the elapsed film time in twenty-minute increments is almost unavoidable. Last night, however, I didn't notice a thing.
Now, in the multiplex, there's only one projector per theatre. When all those reels arrive, a projectionist splices them all together onto a huge platter, basically an enormous, film-length reel. That way, a trained monkey can push a button and the whole movie will unspool without anyone having to make a reel change [or theatre chains having to pay more than a pittance to its staff]. Problem is, these huge platters are usually in rough shape and can scratch a print [those streaky green vertical lines you see at the movies are a result of platter damage there, or at a previous theatre]. It is because of these hazards that viewing a new print is such a pleasure.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, geek girl. But what about the movie? What about, you know, women and violence? Ripley kicks ass, right? Yes, but...
In Alien, Sigourney Weaver plays Ripley first and foremost as a rule-follower. While Yaphet Kotto and Harry Dean Stanton grumble about unfair compensation, and Ian Holm follows his own sinister agenda, Sigourney continues to put her faith in the company. She is constantly reminding her fellow crew members that things like letting John Hurt back onto the Nostromo with a huge, articulated, tick-like creature clamped to his face are, you know, against the law. Whatever "empowerment" Ripley can claim comes from being able to say, through her horror as crew members one by one become alien chow, "I told you so." Not from using a flame-thrower. Her disappointment, sorrow, and, ultimately, terror derive from her discovery that the rules, as articulated by MOTHER, are not what she thinks they are. They've shifted, and they're not fair.
Alien was originally released in 1979, and the temptation is to draw some analogy to the women's movement and the glass ceiling and the ERA here. But even though she's often shown as frustrated when her authority is undermined, I don't think Ripley would be down with that. There is nothing cartoonish about the violence she ultimately embraces, and her anger, far from vicarious, stems from feeling betrayed by that bitch, MOTHER. Ripley elects to break the laws as she understands them, but the decision doesn't sit easily. Her heartbreak is palpable as we see her--methodically--follow the printed instructions for destroying the ship. It's tragic, really.
Those underpants, however, are another matter entirely.
