One of the weirdest, most psychedelically spooky and Halloween-triguing shows on TV right now is the Travel Channel's THE DEAD FILES: psychic Amy Allan and retired NYC homicide detective Steve De Schavi investigate haunted houses with a twin pincer approach: he dredges up the the building's history and talks to witnesses; she sees dead people, she speaks to dead people, and they speak to her. But there's only one way to know if her findings are real... and that's Steve's corroborating unearthed facts. She uses a sketch artist to capture the image of the main dead person she encounters which is later compared with Steve's recovered photo of the historical troublemaker. They match always and the key moment of the whole show: Steve's tough but compassionate cop eyes widen, his head involuntarily shakes back and forth in stunned disbelief, and we realize with queasy delight that we're watching a very grounded man's horizon expand, the 'super' part stripped away from the supernatural. Before our very eyes, myth and reality, the unconscious psyche of the collective oversoul and the body, so long ago separated by church, science, and state, grow re-merged.
Ridley Scott's PROMETHEUS (recently released on DVD) provides an eerie ancestry with Steve and Amy's investigations. A retro-futuristic pre-emptive gravestone, Ridley Scott's big sci fi comeback film marks his first return to the mythos of his 1979 franchise-launcher ALIEN in the same year, 2012, that's marked the death of his brother and fellow director Tony (see "I'm not Afraid to Die") and the end of the Mayan calendar--which is relevant to the ancient aliens hypothesis of the film. A muddled but fascinating career capstone, the film serves as a summation of all Scott's pet themes, cheapening them in the process through second-and-triple guess self-negating budget bloating. As usual, a crew of humans and one robot travel light years in a cryogenic sleep, this time off to the end of the universe to find our godly makers. In the process we learn, kind of, we're the result of an X-FILES-esque black oil virus, a DNA contaminant leakage. And we are offensive to our maker's eye. We are the gods (the DNA match is the same) but they don't want to recognize us as their children. We are the vile aliens --we came from the same black oil gunk the H.R. Giger beasties did. They is us. Whoa, bro. Yeah right.
This our rejection by our elder titans is similar perhaps to the way science doesn't want to recognize the power of mediums like Amy Allan. Science wants to live completely and deludedly in the realm of materialism, which hates when anything is believed without prior scientific confirmation: astrologers, psychic, alien abductees, and exorcists, regardless of the mounting 'strange attractor' particle physics evidence that everything is always in motion and interconnected in ways that transcend time and space. There is a slowly growing realization amongst the cutting edge quantum mechanics and string theorists that the movement of planets, even far away ones, in our own galaxy, affect every last emotion or event here on earth via quantum entanglement, the zero point field, and an ever dissolving and resolving strange attractors. But try telling all that to your science teacher, am I right? He'd rather smite us as abominations in his eye.
It's a similar problem parents have when kids come out as gay, parents refuse to believe that which contradicts their pre-existing perceptions, and it's not just a problem the 'engineers' (lead scientist Elizabeth Shaw's term for the big alien creators) have with us, it's a problem Ridley Scott has with his own material.
Like more than a few prequels shot decades after the original, PROMETHEUS has lost its connection to the mystery that blew minds in the original's heyday. With the help of reality-bending CGI and a massive budget, the film has lost sight of itself. Too big to fail, it lurches into the dark void in search of a light switch so that it might clear yet another shadowed room and fill yet another darkened forest with shopping malls. The Alien series is now caught in a Moebius strip where the future is farther in the past than the present and ten times the budget means ten times slower momentum. The CGI lets nerdy crippled-by-second-guessing directors like Ridley over-tinker until a film is all FX details and the actors just gray blotches embarrassing the technical perfection around them with their unforgivable human-animal irregularity.
A great aspect of the 1979 original, never recovered in any sequel, was the naturalistic dialogue. Remember the breakfast scene, after everyone wakes up on the Nostromo and starts smoking and grumbling and socializing in an overlapping naturalistic Altmanesque rhythm? These were people in the same room, at the same time, talking in their low, natural voices. It was great, and no sequel deigned to try and capture that vibe. Call me crazy but cigarettes had a lot to do with that low key intelligence. Has the recently-installed zero tolerance for indoor smoking had the unforeseen side effect of dissolving our sense of 'adult' group dynamics? The chest-bursting scene was so shocking in the original because everyone was talking and joking and eating at the table in a believable manner, happy to see John Hurt's face again and to be heading home ("back to the old freezarinos!"). We felt their relief, and like we were in the room with them, so when the little alien comes bursting out we're completely shocked. In this modern era we're always waiting for that chest-burster, but that's the problem. We've seen it too often to get traumatized --we expect it. We get pissed if it doesn't come. Without cigarettes there is no adulthood to deviate from, there is no low key intelligence, just MTV whiplash editing and Screenwriting 101 blather: a mohawked soccer hooligan geologist thinks he's in ALIEN 3 and so his overacting Brit thesp license extends to dismissing alien life as a load of bollocks (so why come?); the nerdy hipster biologist thinks he's in a mumblecore rom-com --which isn't the same either; the disillusioned hunk drinks and mopes because the engineers seem 'all gone' like a spoiled child; leader Charlize is of course a cold bitch who needs sexual healing from a black guy who sings "love the one you're with" and carries a bandillon, etc. Douche chill-invoking dialogue mimics Ford's voiceover BLADE RUNNER (1982), which the studio heads wanted added to clarify the confusing plot. As a fan of the film even before it came out, I used to fantasize that I could somehow edit out that cornball voiceover, which ruined Roy's big moment ("I don't know why he saved my life...") and stank everything up with hackneyed cliche like "The charmer's name was Gaffe. I'd seen him around" Or "he's the kind of guy who used to call black folks n*******." And of course "Rachel was special, no expiration date."
|Would have loved to see her smile like this just once, in the movie|
The worst of the cast for me is Noomi Rapace, who joylessly cries and screams and yells and and rappels up to the moral high ground like otherwise no one would take her pint-sized powerhouse trip seriously. In the 1970 original, even when Ripley was racing around trying to rescue that damned cat Jones she knew there was no point in making the pain and anguish she was going through unbearable to us as well. Truth be told this was my problem with Noomi in GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO, too. There's a certain line no actor should cross when expressing agony. When they cross it, the film ceases to be entertaining and becomes merely traumatic.
|from top: Hellraiser 4, Prometheus, The Thing (from Another World)|
"Too much of our recent history has been soul-slaughter, imagining the past as merely primitive and, musclebound with technology, bulldozing the sacred spaces, hunting the daimonic animals with high velocity rifles, dispatching the jets to shoot down the UFOs, violating the moon-goddess with phallic rockets, and so on. Having severed all connection with the gods and daimons, we reckon we are getting away with it. But we aren't. The victory over the daimons is hollow; we simply make a hell of our world. And, as we drive the daimons out before us, they simply creep back in from behind, from within. We compel them to seize and possess and madden us. If we want to know our fate we would do well to look at Heracles. He neglected his wife, his soul, who, in order to rekindle his attention, sent him a shirt soaked in what she was told was a love potion. But the potion was a poison that poured over his body, corroding his too-solid flesh. The more he tore at the shirt the more he tore himself to pieces. He was glad to find death on a burning pyre..." (1)The problems with PROMETHEUS stem from this same too-literalness. Instead of a daimonic soul force not bound by physical laws as we understand them, which would have made fine use of the CGI Kubrick lacked in his "Beyond Jupiter and the Infinite" portion of 2001, or of gods whose thoughts are crystallized into the 3-D space time, like the Krell, or who breathe life into man, like Zeus, the engineers are jacked-up leatherboy baldheads carrying ink black tubes of super soil around the 3-D linear space-time universe, 'seeding' and/or 'poisoning' the worlds they find like tempramental charcoal artists who destroy most of their own work in a temper tantrum.
We have to take David's word for it that they're bound to come destroy the Earth but aren't they just seeing us the way we see the squid monsters, with abject horror, like the father beholding the creature that returns from college with long hair and a pierced septum? It's fitting that our engineers turn out to be so Heraclean, so anti-spirit, even still using screens and projections instead of telepathy and astral projection (as the real aliens do, and are doing right now, telling you not to believe me).
With all this uncanny familiarity breeding so much revulsive contempt, the fantastic H.R. Geiger production designs of the original become in fact anachronistic to the spirit of Scott's 'new' vision. The original marriage of alien and Nostromo was about a clash of surfaces -- the alien was the return of the gothic architecture, of biology and machine fused together in spinal column-style fractal patterning vs. the maternal warmth of the ship and its dragonfly-like arrangements (above). We realize the original shape of the alien came from his previous surroundings, that he's continually shedding skins, for camouflage purposes if nothing else. Because the freshness of Giger's work is now long gone, Scott gives up on any notion of either gothic 'other' or chameleon in favor of a bland universal language which is then made inscrutable. Like how grandparents and grandchildren sometimes share a special bond that leaves parents out of the loop, David the robot understands the big black engineers so we don't have to.
|Lawrence prays to Prometheus|
And who can blame David for thinking ill of his fellow Prometheus crew members? Sometimes the 'banter' of the crew even seems to careen towards a kind of FIREFLY jocularity, "a hundred credits?" wagers the Asian stereotype, "put it towards a lap dance with Miss Vickers!" Really bro? PORKY's-like sniggering and lap dances are going to survive into 2089? And you don't get the icky pimp-slave master undercurrent of that bet? That's sad. And those overconfident orchestral scores with those minor key English horn parts that make everything sound like a Spielberg military funeral? And the way neither Ridley Scott nor Elizabeth seem to remember there's a difference between being a leader and a whiny martyr? "I shall need more time here," says Elizabeth Shaw when its announced they need to split back to the ship to avoid a coming storm, as if her lady martyr bossiness can hold back nature. Even when dealing with her husband's bitter disillusionment she spins it around to get attention by reminding him she cawn't have children, and so it becomes some big sob moment, recalling for me anyway the words of Camille Paglia:
Feminism . . . sees every hierarchy as repressive, a social fiction; every negative about women is a male lie designed to keep her in her place. Feminism has exceeded its proper mission . . . and has ended by rejecting contingency, that is, human limitation by nature or fate" (2)Thus even her husband's bitterness about the engineers being all dead must be reinterpreted as a sleight against her being infertile. Still he's at least human. When he says 'here's mud in your eye, pal' to David, shortly before drinking the magic droplet of black hole mud dosed therein, he sounds like M. Emmett Walsh in BLADE RUNNER. And like Deckard, Shaw eats with chopsticks and talks to computers while watching the same material of someone or something over and over. Scott is an avowed fan of classic sci fi so naturally he'd age into a fan of his own work. He's edited and re-edited BLADE RUNNER so many times that it's become about its multiple edits, as I discuss so repetitively in my 2008 article for Bright Lights, What's your Edition Number? The Replicanting of Bladerunner. The only thing that the over-eager team behind the digital refurbishings seem to leave alone is the faces of the "mortal human" actors: M. Emmet Walsh and Edward James Olmos, and J. F. Sebastian and Tyrell all have terrible terrible skin, as if the air's been eating their cheeks away. To see their blue veins and gray, pockmarked, sweaty skin in amidst all that shiny CGI-enhanced finery is to feel our human weaknesses are letting the computers down. We want to apologize to it for being so hard to duplicate, not just vis-à-vis the "uncanny valley" but with our decomposing faces, frozen in time on the image while all around them every last set detail is gussied up with HD retouching.
Thus the Peter Weyland is played by Guy Pearce in elderly make-up rather than a real old man who might seem less streamlined and more genuinely crotchety, and his hand closes like a polyp recoiling from his scheming daughter Meredith Vickers (Charlize Theron), who--in classic Freudian form--has made herself as sleek and anime-replicant-like as possible in order to compete with David, Weyland's favorite (artificial) son. But of course the favorite child never appreciates it. "Doesn't everyone want their parents dead?" David later asks. And while it's clear Charlize does want her father dead, so she can take over Weyland Corp, she also desperately wants his love, which is a huge turn-off to him. Her attempts to become more like a replicant to win his attention are an apt echo of modern eating disorders and surgery addictions as girls make themselves more and more like anime robots every day, crossing the uncanny valley in reverse, in an unconscious drive to please Disney's NWO agenda.
Clockwise from top left: Charlize (Prometheus); Kristanna Loken (Terminator 3);
Charlize (Aeon Flux); Milla Jovovich (Ultraviolet); Sean Young (Blade Runner)
As a preface, for those skeptics in the audience let me just say this: microbes existed long before there were microscopes to see them, so if someone had vision so acute they could see microbes before the rest of us could via the invention of microscopes, would they be hallucinating, or lying? Would you be committed to an asylum if your hearing was so acute you could pick up noises no one else could hear until the invention of the condenser microphone? 'Genuine' skepticism keeps an open mind and neither believes nor disbelieves anything 100% and that's why the presence of Steve De Schavi is so reassuring. His heavy lidded eyes betray a long history of dealing with lying murderers, scared witnesses, concealed information, and soul-deadening tragedy, and he's a genuine skeptic as any good detective must be (ala Sherlock Holmes' "I neither believe nor disbelieve anything") yet he is continually astounded by Amy's spot-on information. Compare him, then, to the smug skeptics aboard Prometheus, who even though it's 2089 and they're deep in space, sneer at Shaw's decree about our 'engineers' like they're sophomore year science majors trying to impress a dour professor. The cop trusts his instincts, his information, the facts. Science just snickers at anything outside its parameter of the consensually agreed-on 'known.' It doesn't matter what evidence presents itself to the senses, or through witnesses, records --they snicker... because they don't want to snickered at. It could cost them their tenure, or a grant.
But there are such things as ghosts, whether its convenient to mainstream science's paradigm or not.
In PROMETHEUS there are ghosts that appear via some alien HD projector 3-D expression of the 'stone tape' theory, which is that certain mineral deposits under or in the walls of old castles can record moments of extreme psychic trauma that replay infinitely and be seen by psychics, children, shamans, and schizophrenics under the right series of electromagnetic circumstances (such as during a thunderstorm). And just like the stone tapes within and without the world of film, certain emotions and moments in time endure... in the zero point field.
And what will make Scott's film endure despite the cliches is its very real look at the intergalactic origin of humanity as a genetic self portrait bar napkin doodle. Again, skeptics may scoff but there's plenty of evidence to make us question the doop-de-doo logic of Darwin, which explains very little about why we're are so different than our ape brothers, why chimps haven't developed speech by now, and who made the tape splices and alien signatures and serial codes on our junk DNA ("ever buy snakes from the Egyptian, pally?")
Scientists trying to understand the paranormal through their systems and measurements is like a dog chewing on a math book to understand algebra. We have to, as dogs, admit there might be a other ways to perceive the information in the book other than through eating it. If we could read our reality the way it was written, with all nine of our senses aligned to all nine levels of reality, if we could read that which was written deep in the rocks of ages and in our DNA, then we would know who wrote and breathed us into creation and then split, promising to return in a few thousand years, in time for Christmas, then forgot about us, didn't even call on our birthday, or buy us a bushbaby, just threw us away like a message in a bottle thrown by a shipwrecked sailor. And now, if we see them on the street, they just look the other way, ashamed they ever created us to begin with. We should kill them.
The catch in PROMETHEUS is that our makers may have used us as a biological weapon to wipe out some other species. The 'sacrificial engineer' in the pre-credits sequence dissolves into broken ashes that slowly, presumably over billions of years, reconstitute into ourselves, but why? Were we meant to color the canvas or gesso it back to blankness to be ready for another version?
|From top: Parasaurolophus, Prometheus, The Tree of Life|
Science will always admit it doesn't know everything and there are still countless uncatalogued life forms in the oceans; still quantum physics-derived revelations about the elastic nature of time, space and 'true hallucinations' left to come. But we will know it and feel it ourselves long before they admit it's real. That's why it will always be the job of the artists and TV producers to figure out how to present this uncertainty to the public in intriguing ways that never quite become fact or fiction, because unless science can taste it in the math book, it can't actually exist, and thus on these levels, they're a hindrance. We may not know how to read the math book ourselves, yet, but we're smart enough not to eat it. We can stare at the cryptic markings and let our natural learning process slowly acclimate ourselves to the high strangeness. After a few more generations of mushroom-eating, heavy meditating ancient astronaut enthusiasts have come and gone, and their knowledge of alien theory seeped down into the collective 'given,' then alien engineering will organically become a scientific reality. Or we can go on with the plan to panic and deny, belittle and destroy, mask our fear under the guise of a skeptic or mainstream scientist, deriding all we cannot explain and never getting the paradoxical irony when science in turn admits its own ignorance: "I don't know the answer either, therefore your hypothetical answer is stupid, and not even worth investigating."
To bring the eating the math book metaphor back, science believes in all the ingredients--wood pulp, ink-- just not what the book says. It knows there are billions of galaxies and we have the potential to one day discover life on another planet and we know only a fraction of what life was like in our distant past and we are different in our brain power than all the rest of the animals and the earth has been here a long long time, and yet --if you even propose to connect all these dots, and consider one of the other billions of galaxies around far longer than us may have long ago been to our planet and even 'seeded' us into existence, they snicker. Why? Because they can never admit there might be a world going on outside of their own limited perspective. They can only imagine the universe as a school patiently waiting for science to allow it to open. We've only even had a space program for less than a century! In all the billions of years the universe has existed, surely someone had time to evolve enough to come here, and leave again once they got a look at how we turned out, a Dr. Frankenstein blasting off to escape his mess of Karloffian monsters!
Michael Fassbender's robot is however no ugly genetic swamp of hang-ups and accidental girl drownings. He's an electronic Apollo, the gifted Adonis lawyer our god dad wanted us to be. David gets to skip it all... emerging full formed like a god from a slain Cronus. He escapes the chthonic morass of nature, the primordial soup from which we were slowly built together via the knitting DNA mandibles of the insectoid uber-intellect, with our abject rejection of one thing (sewage) and love of another (flowers), all being knit into focus from the black ooze. You could call those canisters of black ooze a biological weapon but you'd miss part of the point: this is the stuff that created us, that will create us again, wherever it lands. It's humans in a bottle: just release and wait six billion years for the ooze to work its way through its long gestation, through trilobites and past dinosaurs and mammoths and into monkeys and BOOM, there's that man again.
|Into darkness: T-B: Dead Files, Prometheus, Planet of the Vampires|
1. Patrick Harpur, Daimonic Reality (p. 261) Prime Winds, 2003
2. Camille Paglia, Sexual Personae, (p. 13) Vintage Books, 1991