Alien Memories

Guest Blog by author Kurt Hohmann.

Theatrical release poster by Philip Gips

My dad and I always shared a kinship in horror films, the likes of which my mother would only occasionally tolerate. Some of my earliest memories involve the monsters of Japanese kaiju cinema: Godzilla and all the gang. As I grew older, the two of us worked our way through classic vampires and werewolves, later delving more deeply into human monsters like Norman Bates.

In the summer of 1979, I had just completed my sophomore year in high school. I had reached that age when occasional weekend matinees with my dad would come to an end, replaced by friends and parties and planning for college. One of the last such matinees was a film for which I knew little more than the tagline: "In space, no one can hear you scream."

Over 40 years later, the film Alien still kicks like nothing else I have ever seen.

As an adult, I now understand some of the science behind horror films: the neurotransmitters and hormones, the endorphins and the adrenaline, the wild rush that makes the viewer feel so incredibly alive. Lots of horror films provide that rush with jump scares and similar techniques that work once—but most fall flat on the second viewing. Alien is something more, something that can be watched repeatedly and still provide an emotionally charged experience.

The alien itself is a fantastic nightmare, its design pulled from the twisted mind of artist H.R. Giger. The studio didn't want him involved at first, believing his work to be too disturbing, too ghastly. In the finished product, his dark, other-worldly work permeates the film: sets, props, and of course a monster later dubbed the xenomorph, Greek for "strange form." Alien allowed Giger to take his artwork to a new level—at its essence, the film is a classic haunted house tale, but here the house has been designed by a madman.

Ridley Scott's direction and editing is brilliant. Little action occurs in the opening sequence, yet the lighting, the selection of shots, everything about it builds suspense. Dread fills each successive scene—the sort of dread which defines the horror genre. Tension and suspense permeate a number of excellent scenes, but of course, the one which stands out in the minds of most viewers is the dinner. It opens with the camera capturing each of the crew member's faces, a renewed sense of comfort in each nod, every smile. Until comfort is yanked away in a brilliant flash of visceral horror.

A lot of science fiction focuses on starship officers or specialized beings; roles that most of us will not achieve in a typical lifetime. It's easier to care about the crew in Alien because they are just a collection of ordinary people pulled together to do a job—average workers trying to earn a paycheck. There's immediate empathy, either because we know people just like them, or because we are these people.

As the story progresses and the crew is picked off one by one, more truths are revealed. For me, this is where a big piece of the lasting horror comes in—the "bad guy" is not so much the murderous alien who is doing what its nature drives it to do, but the corporation that looks at that alien as a profitable acquisition and its human workers as expendable. I understood the realism in that when I first saw the film, and multiple viewings plus a corporate career has not changed my understanding one bit.

At age 15, I recall a number of sleepless nights after seeing this film. At 57, I'm grateful that Dad convinced me to go with him to see one more matinee. Whether or not you've seen it before, October is the perfect time to turn down the lights and fall into the horrifying world of Alien.