David Fincher’s highly anticipated Alien³ arrived in May 1992 and was followed immediately by a slate of disappointing reviews. By all accounts, whatever we’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. Having been blown away by its predecessor—James Cameron’s July 1986 release of Aliens and its desperate battle on LV-426—we’d had six years of anticipation, hopes were high, and fingers were crossed for the momentum to carry the next film forward.
However, instead we were fiercely about-turned and force-marched back to square one. Even the color palette had shifted. Gone were Cameron’s military might and sharp gray-blues. Instead, right from the get-go, we were dumped into the harsh realities of Fincher’s Rust Belt penal colony, draped forlornly in its tattered yellows and browns. Adding insult to injury, two of the surviving protagonists were now dead, leaving just one woman in the entire cast, while the inhabitants of Fiorina 161 weren’t exactly the kind of guys we could root for.
Reports of intense difficulties during the film’s production sullied its aftermath. Studio interference, constant changes in script and direction, and the more tittle-tattle that came down the pipe, the more we wondered how Alien³ ever managed to reach the finish line. But finish, it did, and on opening day we were gleefully dropped via the escape pod into a decrepit, weaponless, lice-ridden world of “rapists and murderers of women” and immediately had to scramble, not to mention dig deep for any kind of empathy.
But where else could we have gone? Naturally, we wanted the best for Ripley, Newt, and Corporal Hicks, but if Alien³ does nothing else, it serves as a strong reminder of whose sandbox we are currently inhabiting. A happy retirement for the grown-ups and back to school for Newt? It would have been nice. Except, this always was a Weyland-Yutani mission to acquire the Xenomorph. The ships’ crews? Entirely and unforgivingly expendable.
On the face of it, with its dour tone and unlikeable characters, the film should have been a disaster. And yet, with a production budget of $55 million, and a worldwide box office of $143 million, it remained afloat and garnered a significant number of dedicated fans that have kept on growing over the years.
Part of its appeal is how the story heads back toward its classic horror roots. Dark tunnels, a monster on the loose, a high body count—that’s about as classic as it gets. The creature’s design and ingenuity, its ‘purity’ (giving a hat tip to Ian Holm’s Ash), is also beautifully illustrated, picking up the characteristics of its host (a Rottweiler in the theatrical version), enabling it to adapt, survive, and continue its purpose as the ultimate murder machine.
Casting, direction, and visuals are also top-notch. You can feel the grit beneath your fingers, and if the script is a little uneven, the likes of Charles Dance, Pete Postlethwaite, and Charles S. Dutton deal with it and rise to the occasion.
And on a lighter note, some of the unanswered questions have kept us entertained for years afterward. “How did the facehuggers get into the escape pod?” We fans have had a field day with this one. My favorite take involves a deep dive into the uncanny valley and pointing the finger at Bishop who, let’s be honest, really has no other choice but to be a company man.
Ultimately, where Alien³ scores highest is in demonstrating how the human spirit can rise doggedly and determinedly above its fragile place in the universe. Much like Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, its characters trapped between the American West’s heavy millstones of scorched earth and indomitable sky, here we’re stuck between the mega-corporation and the relentless Xenomorph, with death on the horizon and no place else to go, and as Charles S. Dutton’s character Dillon reminds us, “The only question is how you check out. Do you want it on your feet? Or on your fucking knees, begging? I ain’t much for begging.”
