Embarrassingly, September 23rd, 2003 marked the first time that I’d seen any of the illustrious Alien series, now almost cultish in their large fan base. I’ve now rectified this with viewings of Alien (Ridley Scott), Aliens (James Cameron), and Alien 3 (David Fincher), and enjoyed them all to varying degrees. While it appears chic to select Aliens as the best of the bunch, I’ll buck the trend and say that Alien is clearly—though not significantly—the finest of the lot. Actually, the only thing that the films have in common is the continuity of the story; they all belong to different genres. Alien is horror, Aliens action, and Alien 3 a less successful mixture of the two. Now, Alien is theatrically re-released in a brand-spankin’ new Director’s Cut and while I can’t say what the changes are, having never seen the original version, this print is pristine and the film hasn’t aged a day since its original run back in 1979. I’m not sure if Cameron or the others plan to do the same at some point, but I imagine there’d be a warm reception if they did.

As the only pure terror entry in the saga, Scott’s Alien kicks things off in fine fashion. The crew of the freighter ship Nostromo is awakened from hypersleep by an unexplained signal from a nearby planet, and must investigate per company orders. Upon arrival, three team members leave the Nostromo to explore, and discover a strange nest of an unknown species in a seemingly deserted cave. Meanwhile, the remaining members of Nostromo’s crew decipher the signal, which they disturbingly find to be a warning, not a cry for help. When a tiny creature from the mysterious colony attaches itself to the face of Kane (John Hurt), the rest of the squad find themselves in severe peril against an enemy they know almost nothing about. Led by Lieutenant Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), the crew desperately attempts to survive, while simultaneously dissecting the creatures’ weaknesses and planning an escape.

Alien opens with a gorgeous series of establishing shots in an empty Nostromo, which serves as the primary location throughout. The camera patiently pans and tilts from room to room, establishing an uneasy mood that lingers throughout the picture. Atmosphere separates Alien from its sequels; the monster remains unseen until about halfway through, but we always sense its presence around each corner and in every room. Alien also features chilling music, but not just in its composition. Its usage is remarkable, as Scott is fully aware that silence is the deadliest sound of all; he blends the soft score with eerie quiet to create a constant feeling of dread. As characters are picked off one by one—often at unexpected times—the realization that things won’t “end up okay” slowly crystalizes. The theatrical re-release is a blessing for those of us who didn’t get to see Alien on the big screen, as its impact and fear factor multiplies tenfold in 70mm. In an era where the horror genre has faded into a laughable mix of teen slashers and formulaic storylines, Alien provides a welcome dose of authentic terror.

The epic finale of Alien concludes with an exhausted Ripley alone in an escape pod, back in hypersleep, and that’s where Aliens takes over. 57 years after her clash with the creatures, Ripley is discovered floating in space, and awakened to the disturbing news that the planet in which the aliens were discovered is now colonized. When contact with that planet is lost, a military operation is sent to investigate, with Ripley accompanying them as an informant.

The similarities in the films basically end there, though. Scott was most concerned with frightening the hell out of his audience, evident even in the tagline – “In space, nobody can hear you scream.” Cameron, on the other hand, likes his movies big. Big explosions (Terminator 2: Judgment Day). Big boats (Titanic). And in Aliens, big guns. LOTS of big guns. Aliens is a supreme adrenaline rush of bullets and battle cries (again, the tagline says it all: “this time it’s war”), and luckily it’s done right. The action unravels in a consistent stream once the rescue team arrives, and the script is packed to the brim with juicy one-liners. In this genre, any picture that boasts a plus screenplay deserves a gold star, and this one manages to avoid any clunkers and utilize that lost trait; wit.

Despite primarily focusing on blowing shit up, Cameron delivers a few real creepathon moments as well. The best of ‘em takes place in a bedroom, where Ripley and her 12-year old companion Newt attempt to outwit and outmaneuver a baby alien in tight quarters. Aliens never strives to be as accomplished as the original, but its wit and turbo-charged battles make it a wild and electric ride, one with the best replay value of the franchise.

Alien 3 marks the directorial debut of David Fincher (Seven, Fight Club), and it’s certainly a competent one. Much of Fincher’s trademark style can be found here, particularly his famous swirling camera; unfortunately the film as a whole is a good deal less successful then its predecessors. Alien 3 successfully produces the fun, but it’s a huge step down cinematically. It’s severely lacking in several areas, some Fincher’s fault and some not. Plenty of the trouble stems from typical sequalitis; as a series runs on, chinks begin to show up in the storyline. Example: Ripley finds herself stricken with a condition that afflicted a member of her crew in Alien, but its timing and severity level feel awkward and lack believability. Alien 3 often feels like a rehashed mishmash of the first two films, a hybrid of horror and action that never finds the proper balance. It manages to get the job done if you temper your expectation to the modest level, though, and features a lively performance from the always entertaining Charles S. Dutton, better known as Roc on TV. That dude drips charisma, propping plenty of scenes on his back when things threaten to invade drab country.

Much has been made of Weaver’s performance as Ripley, and I think it’s justified. She mixes toughness with the vulnerability appropriate for a woman thrust into unexpected surroundings and circumstances. Moreover, she smoothly remains in character from film to film, despite the large yearly gaps between them. I’ve yet to see Jeunet’s Alien: Resurrection but will welcome the opportunity to see how things finish up despite its mediocre reputation. Plop down ten greenbacks for Alien in theatres while you have a chance, buy some popcorn, and snag Aliens from the video store. If you’re in a real mood for space mongrels, snag Alien 3 as well, and spend six hours or so basking in the atmosphere of a superb franchise.

Alien – 4/4

Aliens - 4/4

Alien 3 – 2.5/4

Quite a departure from his tender Before Sunrise, Richard Linklater’s School of Rock is an energetic burst that rises above its flaws to become one of the most entertaining pictures of 2003. Really, it’s more of a Jack Black vehicle than a Linklater film; there are only about five minutes in the film where Black isn’t onscreen, and his absence is felt. The enjoyment of School of Rock depends almost exclusively on your views regarding Black’s acting abilities. If you find the man an overblown nuisance, chances are you won’t get much out of this one. Black’s goofy mannerisms and punkish speech are on full display, and the topic matter here lends itself perfectly to what he does best. Personally, I enjoyed his work in High Fidelity (and as a voice in Ice Age), and frequently found myself in hysterics during School of Rock. Mike White, director of Chuck and Buck, penned the script—it’s a good one, and plenty of the lines are doubly effective because of Black’s eccentric charisma. Nobody other than Dewey (Black) is more than a caricature, but anyone watching School of Rock for intense character development must have snuck into the wrong Cineplex by mistake. Its supreme silliness requires a complete willingness to disregard common sense (the storyline borders on laughably ridiculous; a bunch of kids soundproofing the door would be that effective? One beer would change the Principal’s persona that much?), but it’s easy to push aside the glitches when the guffaws are coming in buckets. And those kids are so damn cute!

School of Rock fares extraordinarily well as a comedy, but veers toward dramatic territory in its final 25 minutes, and here the picture begins to hack and wheeze a bit. Linklater appeared to get the brainstorm that he’d better be sure we all understand the “message” of the picture. Almost frantically, he tries to develop peripheral characters and toss around moral dilemmas, something that we, of course, don’t need out of this particular film. There’s already an intense contrived feel to School of Rock, and no amount of ethical treacle is going to change that. Of course, there was really no reason for Linklater to panic like that; ease up, bro’. The aforementioned contrived feel is fine and dandy, since the ride you took us on is such a blast; it’s easy to scoff away our disbelief. No need for any non-rock ‘n’ roll lessons today, Richie ol’ buddy.

There’s one tasty morsel of seriousness lingering in the messy sea here, and that’s the, um, “creative” processes that Dewey uses in the classroom. As I watched the kids intensely focus on rock lessons, I couldn’t help but feel that the Board of Education could learn something from this one. Of course, every example in School of Rock is extreme, but Principal Mullens’ stuffiness and the rigidity of the parents is a glaring and unfortunate truth in today’s society, one that too often shuns imaginative techniques for the old “tried-and-true” method. Let’s just say that one day a week in Dewey Finn’s class could do wonders for a child’s balanced growth. As is, since I doubt any Board members will be taking notes during School of Rock, I’ll simply give it a high recommendation for us average Joe’s who just want to spend a few hours laughing and rockin’ out.

3.5/4

Occasionally too whimsical for its own good, Vicente Amorim’s The Middle of the World is still a moving coming-of-age story that invokes memories of films such as Pixote (with significantly less violence) and The Bicycle Thief. The latter is an interesting comparison, as The Middle of the World is a road movie (think Y Tu Mama Tambien) on bikes. Set in impoverished Brazil, The Middle of the World tells the tale of the unemployed trucker Romao, who pedals from Paraíba to Rio de Janeiro on a quest to obtain employment that pays 1000 reais (approximately $300) a month. Romao believes he needs this sum to adequately support his family (wife and five children), but learns early on that work on that pay scale isn’t easy to find.

Throughout the journey, Romao’s persona goes through frequent swings. Early on, the family attitude is playful – little games on the bikes, music during breaks, singing at cafés for money (songs about love, not coincidentally). As the movie progresses, Romao becomes more and more dour, often snapping and chastising; as an example, he tells his eldest son Antônio, “you’re not a son, you’re a curse from God.” Of course, his definition of what makes a good son is ‘somewhat’ questionable. For instance, he considers cigarettes to be a sign of manhood, scoffing when Antônio finds himself unable to inhale without coughing. That Antônio is the lone teenager among the children makes his relationship with Romao extremely tense. Romao appears frequently confused on how to treat Antônio, whether or not to respect him. Not even when Antônio pushes a man who’s bothering his mother (and receives a knife wound to the nose for his trouble) do things drastically change. Antônio’s passive demeanor doesn’t help matters; he frequently crumbles under the slightest bit of confrontation. When his younger brother Rodney rudely demands that Antônio give up his toy car, Antônio succumbs with barely a whimper.

All this highlights The Middle of the World‘s examination of adolescence, which succeeds much more than some of the other themes. Romao’s desire to find the 1000 reais is emphasized again and again, to the point that our compassion for his situation begins to wane. His stubbornness also becomes somewhat grating, particularly his refusal to settle for anything less, despite his family’s willingness to do so. Luckily, these problems are overshadowed by the film’s touching take on optimism and maturation, and Amorim (wisely) doesn’t overuse faith as a ‘copout’ of sorts for woe or happiness. A few beautifully done scenes say all we need to know about the family’s religious beliefs, like a splendid high-angle shot above a religious statue, signifying that God’s looking down on them and aiding their journey. Later, one of the children finds money in a church, putting himself in quite the quandary over what to do with it, considering his family’s many needs.

Though De Sica’s The Bicycle Thief isn’t about riding bicycles (the picture focuses on a man and his son’s attempts to recover a stolen two-wheeler), the comparison is valid because both films use bikes as a metaphor for hope, for potential escape from misery and unhappiness. After all, The Middle of the World really isn’t about riding bikes either. Like De Sica’s masterpiece, it utilizes them as an outlet for sanguinity (a source of income in The Bicycle Thief, a vehicle for a better place in The Middle of the World). Despite its minor faults, should be seen by fans of neorealism or Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, as well as by anyone tired of the predictably ‘moving’ Hollywood pictures that tweak our emotions every three minutes. Amorim strikes me as someone to watch; his effective use of the subtle score and gritty compositions are impressive for such an inexperienced director. Along with Fernando Meirelles’ explosive City of God, The Middle of the World makes two impressive pictures to make their way here from Brazil in the past few years.

3/4

One of Stanley Kubrick’s least remembered films outside film circles, Barry Lyndon is among his greatest accomplishments. Kubrick’s attention to visual detail is strikingly precise here. Using stunning wide-angle shots that capture entire landscapes, Barry Lyndon‘s scope resembles that of Akira Kurosawa’s Ran and Milos Jancso’s The Red and the White. As Redmond Barry (Ryan O’Neal) confronts the countrysides and wars of 18th Century Europe in his quest for nobility, he’s constantly bathed in nature. Every costume and set in Barry Lyndon is constructed to accurately portray the era. Pioneering lenses were developed to shoot interiors and exteriors alike in natural light; night scenes were shot exclusively in candlelight. Time and again, Kubrick utilizes medium closeups, then gradually zooms out to reveal Europe’s hypnotic scenery in all its glory.

Most of Kubrick’s post-Dr. Strangelove work ends where it began. 2001: A Space Odyssey begins with “The Dawn of Man” and concludes with the star child, an obvious allusion to the circle of life. A Clockwork Orange tracks Alex’s rotation through dementia and attempted redemption. However, Barry Lyndon might have the most cyclical structure of them all. Redmond’s transformation to Barry Lyndon is paved with difficulties; within the opening 15 minutes, his heart has been shattered by his cousin Nora (Gay Hamilton), who wishes to marry the wealthy Captain John Quin (Leonard Rossiter). Blinded by jealousy, Redmond insists on a gunfight and the outcome forces him to leave Ireland. Indeed, the film opens and closes with a duel (the first outdoors, the second inside, both splendid to behold), with their social consequences ultimately determining Barry’s future.

The characters of Barry Lyndon are universally dishonest. Determined to reach aristocracy, Redmond lies, cheats, and enchants his way into nobility. While serving as a servant in the home of the Chevalier (Patrick Magee), Redmond meets Lady Lyndon and seduces her in six hours. She’s everything he’s dreamed of, a portal to social clout and luxury. After marrying her, he has a title (Barry Lyndon), a large estate, and an adopted son called Lord Bullington who loathes him. The newlyweds also have a child of their own, Brian, upon whom Barry lavishes unlimited affection. Glimpses of Barry’s humanity peek through during his moments with Brian, and explode in Kubrick’s most wrenching moment near the film’s conclusion. Lord Bullington bears more than a passing resemblance to Redmond Barry, which is precisely why they abhor each other. A public encounter between them destroys Barry’s social status, and personal tragedy emotionally decapitates him, leaving him to the bottle and dashed memories. Lord Bullington returns to demand satisfaction, resulting in the climactic duel where Barry, for the first time, becomes a man.

4/4