[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]
For an otherwise typical summer blockbuster, Alien: Romulus has developed a surprisingly controversial reputation in a relatively short amount of time. The consensus among “serious” critics is that it cannibalizes a bit too liberally from the preceding installments in the franchise—and honestly, I find it difficult to disagree with that sentiment. Such classic lines as “Get away from her, you bitch!” and “I won’t lie about your chances, but you have my sympathies,” are regurgitated verbatim, awkwardly twisted out of shape and jammed into a new narrative context like incorrectly placed puzzle pieces.
The inclusion of these “callbacks” is undeniably gratuitous, but ultimately inoffensive. Less justifiable is the resurrection of Ian Holm as a ghoulish CGI simulacrum—and not just for a brief posthumous cameo, either; his character plays a major role in the plot. I’ve been pretty lenient about the increasingly common practice of digital corpse puppetry (previously glimpsed in Rogue One: A Star Wars Story and Ghostbusters: Afterlife) in the past, but in this case—especially following the recent SAG strike—I must concur with the chorus of objections: this was an extremely misguided creative decision, the epitome of “poor taste.”
Despite these rather glaring blemishes, however, the argument that the film offers nothing of substance beyond shallow fan service is, quite frankly, totally absurd. The central themes around which the series has always revolved—the cold indifference of space, the casual cruelty of corporate greed, the question of whether compassion and morality impede humanity's survival (androids admire the “purity” of the eponymous extraterrestrials, considering them more “perfect" life forms due to their comparatively basic, primal instincts: hunt, multiply, defend the hive)—remain consistent, and are even elaborated upon. The mining colony that our protagonists inhabit is a nihilistic nightmare of capitalism and industrialization gone awry: drenched with rain, coated in grease and grime, devoured by rust and decay. The sun never shines (literally and figuratively) on Weyland-Yutani's "employees"; the terms of the workers’ contracts are continuously extended at The Company’s discretion, trapping them in a state of perpetual indentured servitude.
Conditions don't exactly improve after our heroine manages to escape the oppressive atmosphere of her hellish home world; while the spectacular interstellar imagery—planetary rings roiling beneath cargo vessels like turbulent oceans of cosmic dust, galaxies glittering in the distance like infinitesimal lanterns adrift in a sea of spilled ink—is certainly impressive, it also emphasizes mankind's utter insignificance. The universe is an unfathomably vast, silent, frigid, lonely vacuum that can’t even be described as “hostile” to living organisms—because there is no grand design, no greater intelligence capable of acknowledging the petty struggles of mere mortals. Pray, plead, despair—the void doesn't care; it swallows your anguish, responding with neither an answer nor an echo. In other words (please forgive the cliché):
In space, no one can hear you scream.
At the end of the day, Alien: Romulus is flawed, but still serviceable, competently crafted, and adequately entertaining. At the very least, it features a cohesive artistic vision… unlike Ridley Scott's Alien: Covenant, which attempted to combine the cerebral tone introduced in Prometheus with the original movie’s visceral thrills—to the detriment of both approaches; the existential philosophy was simply incompatible with the surrounding framework of a conventional horror formula. Director Fede Álvarez, on the other hand, knows precisely what kind of story he wants to tell (safe, familiar, and predictable though it may be) and delivers the goods with confidence, style, and panache.
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