Prometheus

When Ridley Scott stated that Prometheus, his first venture into science fiction in thirty years, was to be set in the same world as Alien but not a direct prequel to the cult space horror flick, he was met with scoffs and rolled eyes worldwide. In the cold, cash-driven environment mainstream filmmakers operate nowadays, it wasn’t hard to believe Ridley had gone and pulled a Lucas and was about to inflict a Phantom Menace on one of sci-fi’s other beloved franchises.

Well now the film is finally upon us and as it turns out there is both good news and bad news. The good news is Scott’s vision has not been corrupted by the corporate machine. In fact, Prometheus presents enough visual flair (the frosty rock-strewn landscapes of Iceland lend an imposing backdrop to a film that is far from warm) and hefty core themes (where do we come from? Were we created? Or are we just part of a cosmic evolutionary cycle?) to ensure it could easily function as a standalone title.

The bad news is that, half hour into the film, you’ll wish Scott hadn’t steered clear of the Alien franchise to such a great extent. Despite the director’s admirable restraint, you will most likely be longing for a direct link between Prometheus and Alien within the first half hour, when instead all you get is a wink and a couple of easter eggs here and there (and perhaps a few xenomorph eggs too). It’s like getting a prequel to Gladiator in which a group of legionaries stop outside a Roman villa long enough for you to recognise it is actually Maximus’ home, but then they don’t pop in for a quick hello.

Speaking of frustrating, the crew aboard Prometheus are less characters, more thinly drawn caricatures. Logan Marshall Green is the jock, Charlize Theron the corporate bitch, Idris Elba the depndable captain and if you squint hard enough, you can see “sacrificial lamb” stamped on the rest of the crew's foreheads. Meanwhile, a gaping Ripley-shaped hole needs to be filled by a contemporary feminist icon, so it might as well be a job for Lisbeth Salander (Noomi Rapace, sporting a decent British accent that meanders into Swedish during her more emotionally intense scenes).

The only player that truly stands out from the ensemble is the ever reliable Michael Fassbender. In the past year the Irish-German actor has managed to mould sexual predators and masters of magnetism into complex and compelling characters, and he does the same here with David, an ethereal android who mimics human beings with childlike wonder and, on one occasion, ill-judged ambition.

In case the last three paragraphs have given the impression Prometheus is not worth the price of the ticket, rest assured that is most definitely not the case. What you have here is not a modern classic to rival its progenitor, but an unusual sci-fi offering that intermittently dips into unsettling body horror – Rapace stars in what will most likely be remembered as cinema’s most gruesome abortion scene. It’s moments like these where Scott almost matches the pitch black standards he set himself thirty three years ago.

3/5