This film is generating a lot of controversy among the geeks, so here’s my take: I would love to see the three-hour cut. And I’ll guarantee you there is one.

Ridley Scott’s return to science fiction has made a lot of people angry, and the reason is simple. Just like Alien was a horror movie disguised as science fiction, Prometheus isn’t a film; it’s a dialectic examination of the nature of being and man’s relationship with god disguised as a monster movie. Unfortunately, it doesn’t actually succeed on both levels. While it’s great to argue about and deconstruct (I could write a book about the underlying themes and symbolism of this movie, and I’m sure others will), it isn’t really all that entertaining to watch, and that’s the real issue.

Before I join in with the crowd gazing into Ridley’s navel to figure out what it means, let me talk about the movie itself. It almost goes without saying that Prometheus is gorgeous, since there are very few Ridley Scott movies that aren’t. My big issue was that the film felt rushed. I believe this might be Scott’s shortest film, and for a director who routinely turns in 3-hour movies (my god, American Gangster is 157 minutes, and it’s a total pile of shit), that seems strange. Plainly, there was a lot more story to be told, and I would have like to have seen it.

As for the plot (again, holding off on what it means), it’s just too simple, and too derivative. In it’s day, Alien was as original as Psycho or Lawrence of Arabia or Star Wars. We had literally never seen anything like it. Prometheus owes tangible, recognizable debts to so many sources, it’s tough to name them all. From 2001 to Rendezvous With Rama to classic Dr. Who (more than one person has caught on that the basic plot bears a startling resemblance to a Jon Pertwee story called The Daemons, which has a godlike alien and a character named Elizabeth Shaw; cute one, Lindelof).

The parallel I can’t escape is to Jack Kirby’s Celestials as they appeared in Marvel comics. The Celestials were spaceborn gods who traveled the universe seeding life onto various planets, and they were directly responsible for the development of human life on Earth. Every thousand years or so, the Celestials would return to judge their creation. If it was found to have gone astray, they would wipe out all life and begin anew. At one point, humanity was to be destroyed, and Thor intervened to save us.

But that being said, there are a hundred other references you could draw from and still get here. Curiously, the one film Prometheus seems loathe to really reference is Alien. Apart from the derelict ship designs that have been carried over, and the original egg chamber storyline that was cut from Alien during pre-production and resurrected here, this simply doesn’t feel like the same universe. If anything, it feels (egads) more like the universe from Alien: Resurrection. That’s a bad thing.

There are too many characters for the 2-hour runtime. I don’t know them or care enough about them to be concerned with what happens. And I was so busy thinking about the plot that I kind of forgot about the movie. Monsters? Eh. Fancy star-map graphics (why would you crib anything from Star Trek: Generations?) Meh. But the underlying themes? Ahhh, I’ll be arguing about this stuff over dinner for years, and that’s what will give this film a shelf life.

I’m not going to exhaust both of us by flogging the various mythological symbologies the film is rife with; This guy Cavalorn does a great job of laying a lot of that out, and I thing he’s pretty close with the plot as well.

Overall, there’s a lot of really subtle stuff going on under the surface, and it’s the kind of thing that may or may not have a deeper meaning in the minds of the filmmakers. Here’s what we know: The Engineers have sacrificed themselves to create life on several planets. Over the millennia, they have guided the development of that life, leaving a handful very abstract clues as to their existence and location (Contact, anyone? Explorers, maybe?) for their “children” to follow.

In the case of humanity, around the time of the crucifiction and the birth of Christianity, we did something as a species that caused the Engineers to decide we needed to be wiped out. They loaded up a ship with the weaponized version of their life-creating black oil (X-Files, anyone? Maybe Genesis from Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan?) with the plan of sending it to Earth, but something goes wrong. The weapon backfires and all but one of the Engineers on the moon die. Our humans arrive to pick up the pieces, and chaos ensues. Naturally, the last Engineer is less than happy to find himself infested with humans, and he gets angry. Elizabeth (I swear, will Noomi Rapace only play characters named Elizabeth?) survives and flies off to meet the Engineers on their home turf (don’t forget, there’s another film coming in this series; Ion).

So what does it mean? If you check the link above, you’ll see quotes from Ridley Scott verifying that it was something to do with the crucifiction that set off the Engineers. It’s possible that Jesus was their genetically modified ambassador, and the Romans and Senet stringing him up didn’t sit well. Whatever the case, it’s not relevant. Here’s where I begin to differ in opinion from my friend Cavalorn…

First off, I don’t think the puzzle left on cave walls and prehistoric art all over Earth is an invitation. It’s a test. That’s why it leads to a planet filled with weaponized black gunk rather than the Engineers home planet. “Show up here, be smart enough NOT to get killed, and we will talk to you.” This is why we get the snake versions of the xenomorph guarding the chamber; this is Eden. Don’t touch the apples.

FYI, we touched them.

My friend Rob Burnett has a big problem with the giant head in the canister chamber. I don’t. Again, to me, this is meant to be a godlike place for the primitives to visit. The mural is a warning. The head is god watching over you. I don’t think we can argue that the Engineers were without ego.

As for what happened to the Engineers on LV-223, there are a number of possibilities, all of them completely plausible. It’s possible that one of the other seeded planets accepted the invitation, and the xenomorphs came along with them by accident in worm form. It’s possible that the Engineers unknowingly tracked them back from some planet they had visited. It’s possible that the oil mutated into that form, but I don’t think any of that is true.

I think the answer is obvious; it’s different oil.

It kind of surprised me that people assumed the oil had to be the same stuff from the beginning. The mural on the ceiling plainly shows an Engineer touching a xenomorph (check it out big) so they knew what the oil did. Applying Occam’s Razor, I think it’s simply an incredibly effective adaptive weapon that got away from them, and LV-223 is their Chernobyl. Think about it; why else would the Engineer’s derelict in Alien be sending out a warning (which Shaw’s warning V.O. at the end of Prometheus is meant to echo) to stay away?

Also, the drop of oil given to Holloway begins to transform him in the same way it transformed Fifield. With the myriad of technologies, chemicals and drugs at our disposal in our own society, why assume that the black gunk at the beginning is the same black gunk we see later? Obviously, the Engineer whose head gets taken back to the ship was reacting to an infection with the weaponized oil, hence the explosion.

I do think Cavalorn is onto something with the importance of the soul as a concept in the movie. This is why we don’t see the xenomorphs chasing and killing the Engineers in the hologram; the tech doesn’t see them as “alive” because they have no souls. When it’s pointed out that David has no soul, it’s the set-up for the Engineer’s reaction to the humans on his bridge. Notice, he first tries to ignore them until they demand his attention. Then, he is accosted by David, and he is disappointed at his “children’s” attempt at creating life on their own. Humanity is a failed experiment. It has to go.

I could go on and on, as I said, but I think arguments against the plot and motivations of the Engineers are pointless. There are so many points in human history where we cannot discern the motives of the people living then… Stonehenge… the Nazca lines… Newgrange… the world is full of neolithic artifacts we can’t fathom, and those were built by us. How the hell are we supposed to clearly grasp the motives of aliens who died thousands of years ago? That wouldn’t make sense.

At its core, Prometheus is a cautionary tale against hubris. The Engineers, the biologist, Peter Weyland, even David and Shaw; everyone pays for their hubris in the end. Ridley Scott’s hubris is apparent onscreen. Sometimes it works, and sometimes, we pay for it.


The last time I checked, Cavalorn’s blog was down. I’ve pasted the cached copy here, so you can navel-gaze further if you like.


Prometheus Unbound: What The Movie Was Actually About

This blogpost contains many and frequent spoilers for Prometheus, so if you’re planning on seeing it, I recommend you don’t spoil yourself.Prometheus contains such a huge amount of mythic resonance that it effectively obscures a more conventional plot. I’d like to draw your attention to the use of motifs and callbacks in the film that not only enrich it, but offer possible hints as to what was going on in otherwise confusing scenes.Let’s begin with the eponymous titan himself, Prometheus. He was a wise and benevolent entity who created mankind in the first place, forming the first humans from clay. The Gods were more or less okay with that, until Prometheus gave them fire. This was a big no-no, as fire was supposed to be the exclusive property of the Gods. As punishment, Prometheus was chained to a rock and condemned to have his liver ripped out and eaten every day by an eagle. (His liver magically grew back, in case you were wondering.)Fix that image in your mind, please: the giver of life, with his abdomen torn open. We’ll be coming back to it many times in the course of this article.

The ethos of the titan Prometheus is one of willing and necessary sacrifice for life’s sake. That’s a pattern we see replicated throughout the ancient world. J G Frazer wrote his lengthy anthropological study, The Golden Bough, around the idea of the Dying God – a lifegiver who voluntarily dies for the sake of the people. It was incumbent upon the King to die at the right and proper time, because that was what heaven demanded, and fertility would not ensue if he did not do his royal duty of dying.

Now, consider the opening sequence of Prometheus. We fly over a spectacular vista, which may or may not be primordial Earth. According to Ridley Scott, it doesn’t matter. A lone Engineer at the top of a waterfall goes through a strange ritual, drinking from a cup of black goo that causes his body to disintegrate into the building blocks of life. We see the fragments of his body falling into the river, twirling and spiralling into DNA helices.

Ridley Scott has this to say about the scene: ‘That could be a planet anywhere. All he’s doing is acting as a gardener in space. And the plant life, in fact, is the disintegration of himself. If you parallel that idea with other sacrificial elements in history – which are clearly illustrated with the Mayans and the Incas – he would live for one year as a prince, and at the end of that year, he would be taken and donated to the gods in hopes of improving what might happen next year, be it with crops or weather, etcetera.’

Can we find a God in human history who creates plant life through his own death, and who is associated with a river? It’s not difficult to find several, but the most obvious candidate is Osiris, the epitome of all the Frazerian ‘Dying Gods’.

And we wouldn’t be amiss in seeing the first of the movie’s many Christian allegories in this scene, either. The Engineer removes his cloak before the ceremony, and hesitates before drinking the cupful of genetic solvent; he may well have been thinking ‘If it be Thy will, let this cup pass from me.’

So, we know something about the Engineers, a founding principle laid down in the very first scene: acceptance of death, up to and including self-sacrifice, is right and proper in the creation of life. Prometheus, Osiris, John Barleycorn, and of course the Jesus of Christianity are all supposed to embody this same principle. It is held up as one of the most enduring human concepts of what it means to be ‘good’.

Seen in this light, the perplexing obscurity of the rest of the film yields to an examination of the interwoven themes of sacrifice, creation, and preservation of life. We also discover, through hints, exactly what the nature of the clash between the Engineers and humanity entailed.

The crew of the Prometheus discover an ancient chamber, presided over by a brooding solemn face, in which urns of the same black substance are kept. A mural on the wall presents an image which, if you did as I asked earlier on, you will recognise instantly: the lifegiver with his abdomen torn open. Go and look at it here to refresh your memory. Note the serenity on the Engineer’s face here.

And there’s another mural there, one which shows a familiar xenomorph-like figure. This is the Destroyer who mirrors the Creator, I think – the avatar of supremely selfish life, devouring and destroying others purely to preserve itself. As Ash puts it: ‘a survivor, unclouded by conscience, remorse or delusions of morality.’

Through Shaw and Holloway’s investigations, we learn that the Engineers not only created human life, they supervised our development. (How else are we to explain the numerous images of Engineers in primitive art, complete with star diagram showing us the way to find them?) We have to assume, then, that for a good few hundred thousand years, they were pretty happy with us. They could have destroyed us at any time, but instead, they effectively invited us over; the big pointy finger seems to be saying ‘Hey, guys, when you’re grown up enough to develop space travel, come see us.’ Until something changed, something which not only messed up our relationship with them but caused their installation on LV-223 to be almost entirely wiped out.

From the Engineers’ perspective, so long as humans retained that notion of self-sacrifice as central, we weren’t entirely beyond redemption. But we went and screwed it all up, and the film hints at when, if not why: the Engineers at the base died two thousand years ago. That suggests that the event that turned them against us and led to the huge piles of dead Engineers lying about was one and the same event. We did something very, very bad, and somehow the consequences of that dreadful act accompanied the Engineers back to LV-223 and massacred them.

If you have uneasy suspicions about what ‘a bad thing approximately 2,000 years ago’ might be, then let me reassure you that you are right. An astonishing excerpt from the interview with Ridley Scott: We had heard it was scripted that the Engineers were targeting our planet for destruction because we had crucified one of their representatives, and that Jesus Christ might have been an alien. Was that ever considered?

Ridley Scott: We definitely did, and then we thought it was a little too on the nose. But if you look at it as an “our children are misbehaving down there” scenario, there are moments where it looks like we’ve gone out of control, running around with armor and skirts, which of course would be the Roman Empire. And they were given a long run. A thousand years before their disintegration actually started to happen. And you can say, “Let’s send down one more of our emissaries to see if he can stop it.” Guess what? They crucified him.

Yeah. The reason the Engineers don’t like us any more is that they made us a Space Jesus, and we broke him. Reader, that’s not me pulling wild ideas out of my arse. That’s RIDLEY SCOTT.

So, imagine poor crucified Jesus, a fresh spear wound in his side. Oh, hey, there’s the ‘lifegiver with his abdomen torn open’ motif again. That’s three times now: Prometheus, Engineer mural, Jesus Christ. And I don’t think I have to mention the ‘sacrifice in the interest of giving life’ bit again, do I? Everyone on the same page? Good.

So how did our (in the context of the film) terrible murderous act of crucifixion end up wiping out all but one of the Engineers back on LV-223? Presumably through the black slime, which evidently models its behaviour on the user’s mental state. Create unselfishly, accepting self-destruction as the cost, and the black stuff engenders fertile life. But expose the potent black slimy stuff to the thoughts and emotions of flawed humanity, and ‘the sleep of reason produces monsters’. We never see the threat that the Engineers were fleeing from, we never see them killed other than accidentally (decapitation by door), and we see no remaining trace of whatever killed them. Either it left a long time ago, or it reverted to inert black slime, waiting for a human mind to reactivate it.

The black slime reacts to the nature and intent of the being that wields it, and the humans in the film didn’t even know that they WERE wielding it. That’s why it remained completely inert in David’s presence, and why he needed a human proxy in order to use the stuff to create anything. The black goo could read no emotion or intent from him, because he was an android.

Shaw’s comment when the urn chamber is entered – ‘we’ve changed the atmosphere in the room’ – is deceptively informative. The psychic atmosphere has changed, because humans – tainted, Space Jesus-killing humans – are present. The slime begins to engender new life, drawing not from a self-sacrificing Engineer but from human hunger for knowledge, for more life, for more everything. Little wonder, then, that it takes serpent-like form. The symbolism of a corrupting serpent, turning men into beasts, is pretty unmistakeable.

Refusal to accept death is anathema to the Engineers. Right from the first scene, we learned their code of willing self-sacrifice in accord with a greater purpose. When the severed Engineer head is temporarily brought back to life, its expression registers horror and disgust. Cinemagoers are confused when the head explodes, because it’s not clear why it should have done so. Perhaps the Engineer wanted to die again, to undo the tainted human agenda of new life without sacrifice.

But some humans do act in ways the Engineers might have grudgingly admired. Take Holloway, Shaw’s lover, who impregnates her barren womb with his black slime riddled semen before realising he is being transformed into something Other. Unlike the hapless geologist and botanist left behind in the chamber, who only want to stay alive, Holloway willingly embraces death. He all but invites Meredith Vickers to kill him, and it’s surely significant that she does so using fire, the other gift Prometheus gave to man besides his life.

The ‘Caesarean’ scene is central to the film’s themes of creation, sacrifice, and giving life. Shaw has discovered she’s pregnant with something non-human and sets the autodoc to slice it out of her. She lies there screaming, a gaping wound in her stomach, while her tentacled alien child thrashes and squeals in the clamp above her and OH HEY IT’S THE LIFEGIVER WITH HER ABDOMEN TORN OPEN. How many times has that image come up now? Four, I make it. (We’re not done yet.)

And she doesn’t kill it. And she calls the procedure a ‘caesarean’ instead of an ‘abortion’.

(I’m not even going to begin to explore the pro-choice versus forced birth implications of that scene. I don’t think they’re clear, and I’m not entirely comfortable doing so. Let’s just say that her unwanted offspring turning out to be her salvation is possibly problematic from a feminist standpoint and leave it there for now.)

Here’s where the Christian allegories really come through. The day of this strange birth just happens to be Christmas Day. And this is a ‘virgin birth’ of sorts, although a dark and twisted one, because Shaw couldn’t possibly be pregnant. And Shaw’s the crucifix-wearing Christian of the crew. We may well ask, echoing Yeats: what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards LV-223 to be born?

Consider the scene where David tells Shaw that she’s pregnant, and tell me that’s not a riff on the Annunciation. The calm, graciously angelic android delivering the news, the pious mother who insists she can’t possibly be pregnant, the wry declaration that it’s no ordinary child… yeah, we’ve seen this before.

‘And the angel answered and said unto her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God. And, behold, thy cousin Elisabeth, she hath also conceived a son in her old age: and this is the sixth month with her, who was called barren.

A barren woman called Elizabeth, made pregnant by ‘God’? Subtle, Ridley.

Anyway. If it weren’t already clear enough that the central theme of the film is ‘I suffer and die so that others may live’ versus ‘you suffer and die so that I may live’ writ extremely large, Meredith Vickers helpfully spells it out:

‘A king has his reign, and then he dies. It’s inevitable.’

Vickers is not just speaking out of personal frustration here, though that’s obviously one level of it. She wants her father out of the way, so she can finally come in to her inheritance. It’s insult enough that Weyland describes the android David as ‘the closest thing I have to a son’, as if only a male heir was of any worth; his obstinate refusal to accept death is a slap in her face.

Weyland, preserved by his wealth and the technology it can buy, has lived far, far longer than his rightful time. A ghoulish, wizened creature who looks neither old nor young, he reminds me of Slough Feg, the decaying tyrant from the Slaine series in British comic 2000AD. In Slaine, an ancient (and by now familiar to you, dear reader, or so I would hope) Celtic law decrees that the King has to be ritually and willingly sacrificed at the end of his appointed time, for the good of the land and the people. Slough Feg refused to die, and became a rotting horror, the embodiment of evil.

The image of the sorcerer who refuses to accept rightful death is fundamental: it even forms a part of some occult philosophy. In Crowley’s system, the magician who refuses to accept the bitter cup of Babalon and undergo dissolution of his individual ego in the Great Sea (remember that opening scene?) becomes an ossified, corrupted entity called a ‘Black Brother’ who can create no new life, and lives on as a sterile, emasculated husk.

With all this in mind, we can better understand the climactic scene in which the withered Weyland confronts the last surviving Engineer. See it from the Engineer’s perspective. Two thousand years ago, humanity not only murdered the Engineers’ emissary, it infected the Engineers’ life-creating fluid with its own tainted selfish nature, creating monsters. And now, after so long, here humanity is, presumptuously accepting a long-overdue invitation, and even reawakening (and corrupting all over again) the life fluid.

And who has humanity chosen to represent them? A self-centred, self-satisfied narcissist who revels in his own artificially extended life, who speaks through the medium of a merely mechanical offspring. Humanity couldn’t have chosen a worse ambassador.

It’s hardly surprising that the Engineer reacts with contempt and disgust, ripping David’s head off and battering Weyland to death with it. The subtext is bitter and ironic: you caused us to die at the hands of our own creation, so I am going to kill you with YOUR own creation, albeit in a crude and bludgeoning way.

The only way to save humanity is through self-sacrifice, and this is exactly what the captain (and his two oddly complacent co-pilots) opt to do. They crash the Prometheus into the Engineer’s ship, giving up their lives in order to save others. Their willing self-sacrifice stands alongside Holloway’s and the Engineer’s from the opening sequence; by now, the film has racked up no less than five self-sacrificing gestures (six if we consider the exploding Engineer head).

Meredith Vickers, of course, has no interest in self-sacrifice. Like her father, she wants to keep herself alive, and so she ejects and lands on the planet’s surface. With the surviving cast now down to Vickers and Shaw, we witness Vickers’s rather silly death as the Engineer ship rolls over and crushes her, due to a sudden inability on her part to run sideways. Perhaps that’s the point; perhaps the film is saying her view is blinkered, and ultimately that kills her. But I doubt it. Sometimes a daft death is just a daft death.

Finally, in the squidgy ending scenes of the film, the wrathful Engineer conveniently meets its death at the tentacles of Shaw’s alien child, now somehow grown huge. But it’s not just a death; there’s obscene life being created here, too. The (in the Engineers’ eyes) horrific human impulse to sacrifice others in order to survive has taken on flesh. The Engineer’s body bursts open – blah blah lifegiver blah blah abdomen ripped apart hey we’re up to five now – and the proto-Alien that emerges is the very image of the creature from the mural.

On the face of it, it seems absurd to suggest that the genesis of the Alien xenomorph ultimately lies in the grotesque human act of crucifying the Space Jockeys’ emissary to Israel in four B.C., but that’s what Ridley Scott proposes. It seems equally insane to propose that Prometheus is fundamentally about the clash between acceptance of death as a condition of creating/sustaining life versus clinging on to life at the expense of others, but the repeated, insistent use of motifs and themes bears this out.

As a closing point, let me draw your attention to a very different strand of symbolism that runs through Prometheus: the British science fiction show Doctor Who. In the 1970s episode ‘The Daemons’, an ancient mound is opened up, leading to an encounter with a gigantic being who proves to be an alien responsible for having guided mankind’s development, and who now views mankind as a failed experiment that must be destroyed. The Engineers are seen tootling on flutes, in exactly the same way that the second Doctor does. The Third Doctor had an companion whose name was Liz Shaw, the same name as the protagonist of Prometheus. As with anything else in the film, it could all be coincidental; but knowing Ridley Scott, it doesn’t seem very likely.

Today should have been a good day. I actually slept last night. I had the time I needed to finish a trailer I’m cutting for a friend’s short film (said trailer is woefully tardy). I have a date with a smokin’ hot girl to see Prometheus tonight (okay, it’s a platonic date, but still, I get to go in the company of a smokin’ hot chick).

Around noon I got the call that I got cast in a micro-budget horror film. It’s only three days for me, and the movie might never, ever see the light of day (this script is bad), but it’s a gig.

Hell, I’m not even broke. I mean, I’m far from flush; I’m waiting on checks, rent’s late, etc., but I have work, the cats & I can eat, and there’s more work on the horizon. And to top it all off, I seem to be winning the battle against the  Midlife-Crisis-Whiny-Bitch Thing (Which shall, henceforth, be referred to as The MCWBT). All in all, this shoulda been a great day.

And then… well, see the previous post.

So, shoulda been a great day, but, it’s amazing how niggling little things can really nettle you. They dig in and burrow and fester. First thing this morning I discovered — on Twitter, of all places — that I had been quietly un-invited from going on an outing I was really looking forward to. Just writing it seems ridiculous, but it really stung, much more than it should have.

Of course, after that, everything annoyed me at a scale exceeding its proportion. I ended up having to drive to Culver City, then the Valley, which blew my workday to shit. The whole time I was thinking I should call and cancel the horror gig because it’s a stupid waste of time. That’s when I wasn’t wondering how much, if any, intent was behind my being ditched from said event, and should I just announce the insult to my oh-so-delicate sensibilities, or suck it up and get over it. Etc. Etc.

Once I decided on the latter course, I began to deflate and cool off. So, I’m gonna work on that trailer for the next few hours, go on my date, try not to talk to the friend who either forgot me or bumped me from said event, ignore The MCWBT and have a great time.

Hopefully, the movie won’t suck, but I’ll certainly let you know.

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