My Theory of Ridley Scott's * Prometheus*: Liquid Extra-dimensional Gods and Flesh-Portals

So I reviewed Ridley Scott's Prometheus--loved it--but I haven't stopped thinking about it. As I said in my review, I think the film purposefully ends with a bunch of unanswered questions. I don't see that as an aesthetic flaw. It actually one of the elements of the film that satisfied. Indeed, in terms of the theme of the film, the unanswerable nature of cosmic questions is the point!

Anyhow--a past-time around the blogosphere lately has been to offer theories about the film, to attempt to answer some of those questions raised by the movie: who are the Engineers? What are they doing? Where to the Xenomorphs fall into this pseudo-prequel? Well, I'd like to offer a theory.

I'm under no delusion that this is the "correct" theory. I'm not convinced that the film makers have thought that far ahead, and I don't fault the writers for leaving threads untied. That's what brings a story to life! Once you've written everything, have all the "kinks" worked out, it's over. Anyhow, here's some thoughts I have, my vision of what the film's questions answered...

Who are the Engineers? Or, Liquefy Yourself Before Traveling Between Dimensions

The Engineers are android-like creations akin to David the android. They were created by the Xenomorphs to serve them. In the same way David the android serves humanity, the Engineers were created to serve the Xenomorphs. Accordingly, the Xenomorph ship where a lot of the action takes place: this is not an Engineer vessel. No. It's a Xenomorph vessel. All of funerary-looking jars filled with the black goo: those are holding tanks for the Xenomorphs's consciousnesses, the true lords of that ship. We humans, when we want to travel long distances across space, we freeze ourselves in hibernation tanks. The Xenomorphs, though, they turn themselves into a black goo. The liquefy themselves and their consciousnesses into a black goo that has to then be downloaded into organic vessels.

Who are the Xenomorphs? Or, Extradimensional Aliens in Search of a Body

In my theory, the Xenomorphs are extra-dimensional creatures of extreme, inhuman intelligence. They come from another dimension completely distinct from our universe, a place where the laws of science are different: energy, space, matter, consciousness--all of these things are different in their dimension. None of our physical laws apply there. Hence, their strange traveling strategy. Unlike the Engineers and humans, which are creatures of this dimension, they Xenomorphs are traversing not just galaxies and star systems; no. They're traversing the dividing line between different dimensions. Creepy, huh? Why are they leaving their dimension behind? Hmm...

Who are the Humans? Or, Can a Body Be a Portal?

Humans have been grown in order to serve as the "organic vessels/ flesh portals" for the Xenomorphs. In other words, the Xenomorphs need a body of the cognitive and physiological capacity of a human to "port" themselves into this dimension. And so, they had the Engineers create the humans on Earth. They allowed us to multiply until there were enough of us to occupy, to "port" through. As of the late melennium, there are enough of us to bring on the Xenomorphs. The human race has "incubated" or "cooked" long enough. No w that there are enough of us, it's time for the Xenomorphs to finish their trip from their dimension to ours. In this theory the Engineers become a kind of taxi-ing service for the Xenomorphs. Humans are mere vessels/portals that the Xenomorphs will use. They have every right to, of course, because they created us. When they get to earth in goo form, they'll "face hugger" us, incubate in us, and then burst out into our dimension having successfully crossed the dividing line separate their dimension from ours.

What is the Meaning of Human Life?


Here's the horrifying answer furnished by this theory: human life was created to allow a extra-dimension race of inhumanly intelligent alien-gods entrance into our dimension so that they can exploit all of its resources.

***

I struck on this idea by considering the opening montage, when David is caressing all the hibernation chambers of human ship-mates. And then I thought about the parallel between David and the only surviving Engineer. They wake him up, David attempts to talk to him, and then the Engineer rips his head off.

I found this exchange so disturbing. Why would the Engineer do this? Why would he attack David? Kill the humans? The Engineer just woke up and found himself surrounded by humans asking him, "What were we made for?" How does he respond? What could his answer possibly have been? Here's a guess:

"Uhh... you were made so that extra-dimensional Aliens can impregnate you and then make their way into this dimension. You are mid-wifes to our creators, our Gods, who will ill-use you in their attempt to come into this world.

Not the best thing to hear. I assume the Engineer thought to himself that, considering their linquistic skill, the humans and David had discovered what they were and that they were there to stop the long surviving Engineer from "taxi-ing" the Xenomorphs to earth, to complete their transference to this dimension. Hmm... He was going to pour the goo that is the Xenomorphs into the ocean that is the earth's Ecosystem to bring about a new age, the coming of the Engineers's dark gods

But there's a kink...

Why were the Engineers running? What happened? What was chasing them in those holographic displays? Hmm...

I think there were two types of Engineers. (1) Engineers who were loyal to the Xenomorphs; and (2) Engineers who rebelled, if you will. Those were the Engineers who were created by the Xenomorphs who were "eager to kill their parents."

What do you think?

The Danger of Asking "Cosmic" Questions: A Review of Ridley Scott's *Prometheus*

This blog post contains spoilers for the film Prometheus. If you haven't seen the film and intend on seeing it--and you don't want your experience marred--I recommend you stop reading.

***

Recently I saw the Ridley Scott's science-fiction horror film, Prometheus. I loved it! I left the theater with a sick feeling that has been lingering for a couple of days, but it was an experience. And so, I highly recommend it.

It's a beautiful, sublime film in the spirit of such science-fiction / horror classics as Fred M. Wilcox's Forbidden Planet (1956), Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Ridley Scott's Alien (1979), and Paul W.S. Anderson's Event Horizon (1997). As in all of these films, the tone of cosmic vastness pervaded by horrible, indifferent and god-like creatures suggests to me H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. As in the work of H.P. Lovecraft, in these films (Prometheus specifically) existential questions about the origins of life, the meaning of the universe, the relative location of the human world are audaciously braved. And--*gulp*--answered.

The unifying structure that combines all of these films is that the answers discovered in the course of the narrative are, in a word, horrifying. In Prometheus, however, this theme is taken to a new height. In answer to such cosmic, existential questions as, "What is the meaning of life? Was humanity created? Why was it created?" the film responds with a resounding, hostile, scream-like gargle: there is no answer to these questions! Don't go looking for such answers! Die! 

Weyland Meeting His Maker

Indeed, one of the most powerful scenes in the film was when the explorers have located one of the ancient engineers who is still alive but in suspended hibernation. They wake him up. The elderly Weyland is there, having traversed a great expanse of the galaxy, to ask a question of his maker: "Why did you make us?" After a strange moment where the Engineer-creature caresses the robot creation of Weyland (the android David), he kills the old man.

This exchange--existential question asked, horrible answer given--epitomizes what is going on in a specific tradition of science-fiction founded, I think, by the work of H.P. Lovecraft: cosmic horror. If you go to the stars looking for answers to existential questions, all you will find is horror. Sure, you might discover god, but you might not enjoy just what you discover god to be.

This is why I find the critical reaction to Prometheus somewhat frustrating. Consider the consensus review on RottenTomatoes.com, which rates that film a 74%:

"Ridley Scott's ambitious quasi-prequel to Alien may not answer all of its big questions, but it's redeemed by its haunting visual grandeur and compelling performances -- particularly Michael Fassbender as a fastidious android." (my emphasis)

It's so obvious to me that a major theme of the narrative is that certain cosmic-level, existential questions cannot be answered and should not, perhaps, be asked. The point of the film is that some questions--these cosmic questions--don't have answers; or, rather, the answers are of a scale beyond naive human understanding. Anyway...

To reiterate: I loved Prometheus. I find this kind of story intriguing. It stirs me intellectually and emotionally. But I need to qualify some things. The feeling it evokes is very modern. The reason it satisfies, I think, is because it names a demon, a feeling that many of us "sensitive folks" living in Modernity struggle with: the feeling of oppressive insignificance, anonymity; the unshakable sadness associated with the idea that perhaps life means nothing, that we human beings are just chemical accretions that slop around a rock for a brief span of time, eating, excreting, eating, excreting, multiplying, multiplying. Indeed, I find this kind of story intriguing. To reiterate again: I loved Prometheus. But let me be back off a little bit and say that, although I enjoyed the film--it entertained me--it didn't give me pleasure. The horror genre rarely gives pleasure. The pleasure it gives--if you can call it that--is the pleasure of picking at a wound, or massaging a canker sore in your mouth, or that terrible burn after shooting some liquor. It's the "pleasurable pain" of a horrible feeling confirmed. And so, as much as I liked Prometheus, I liked it conditionally.

Ghost in the Shell: Meditating on the Soul-as-Software

I'm in the midst of teaching William Gibson's Neuromancer in my novel class. And so, I'm kind of on a "cyberpunk kick." Thus, suffering from some insomnia, I decided to re-watch a great anime cyberpunk from 1995, Mamoru Oshii's Ghost in the Shell.

I like anime a lot. I think the animation of many Japanese animators is startlingly beautiful. And yet, I don't go to an anime film (at least primarily) because of the medium. In other words, I generally am attracted to anime films and shows not because of the art but because of the narrative. That's not to say, of course, that often I "come" for the narrative and stay for the "art." As I watch Ghost in the Shell, it's difficult to even separate these two sources of pleasure: (1) the cyberpunk alternative future and scenarios being related and (2) the beautiful artwork and cinematography that brings it alive.

With that said, I don't have much to say about the style of the film, other than that I think, stylistically speaking, the film is gorgeous. I do want to share some thoughts, some meandering associations, that emerged as I considered what I think are some of the themes of the film. 

A major technology in the narrative is the ability for computer hackers to "hack" brains, to erase memories from human brains, and to introduce new memories into them. In this framework the brain becomes a kind of computer hardware and, accordingly, all of our experiences and personality and memories (our ghost, if you will) becomes a kind of software. 

I find this concept of the soul-as-software very intriguing. Some of what I've read has inclined me to be suspicious of this concept of soul-as-software. And yet, I find the idea intriguing nevertheless. Why so? Hmm...

In this framework of soul-as-software, who you are has become figured as a "quantity" of data. What does that mean? It means that the singularity that is you or I is something that is simply pointed to through a complicated chain of "in not this, then this," or binary logic. We become so many 1's and 0's. It's strange to think about a soul like that, as if it is so many "bits" of information. I struggle with this idea because I'm inclined to believe we're constantly changing, ever-evolving. This idea of the soul-as-software suggests, it seems, that at any given time we can be "carbon copied" or isolated as existing in a stable state. We all know that old adage that goes something like this: "we live and die every second." In other words, we're constantly in a state of creation and recreation. The film seems to suggest this isn't the case. Let me explain.

In the film there's a trash guy who gets hacked and his memories are erased; accordingly, he gets an entire new "software" installed on his brain. He comes to believe he has a wife and a daughter when in fact he's a bachelor. When he finds out all of these memories were artificial--when he finds out his entire personality was illusion--he cries. I find this one of the most interesting moments in the film. But it gives me pause. It makes me raise a series of questions: 

(1) If all of our memories are erased and nothing in left in their place, what does that leave us as? A instinct-driven animal? A zombie? 

(2) If our soul is a kind of software that may or may not be downloaded onto computers (let's imagine the technology exists), on what basis can we claim that it has authenticity over, say, an artificial and synthesized set of memories? In other words, when souls become software, on what basis can we claim that this soul as authentic and that soul as artificial?

More Human than Human: The Replicants of Ridley Scott's *Blade Runner*

Last night my wife and I watched the 2007 Director's Cut of Ridley Scott's Blade Runner (1982). This is in my top 5 favorite science fiction films. And the 2007 director's cut is so beautiful and a great improvement on previous versions. I highly recommend it.

In the summer of 2011, I taught a class, titled, "Visions of Delight, Visions of Horror: Technology and the Cultural Imagination of the 20th Century," and Blade Runner was a major text of that class (by the way, I've blogged about that class. Here's a link to the first post, if you're interested: Post 1). In this post, I'd like to pay homage to this film and perhaps speculate on some of its important themes that were brought up last summer.

First, let me say something about the cinematography: in terms of imagery, this film is beautiful. I'm always struck by how colorful and "busy" the shots are, by the vast amount of stuff that is forced into the "mis-en-scene": empty coffee cups, ash trays, banzai trees, photographs, flashing neon signs, garbage, chopsticks, musical scores -- it's as if the camera is trying to show you everything. Really: there are moments where I just glory in the sensitive eye of Ridley Scott. For example, there's a shot where Deckard--having received a beating--takes a sip of alcohol from a clear shot glass, and as he pulls the shot glass away from his mouth, the crystal clear liquor has become clouded with a crimson swirl of blood. So beautiful. This sort of attention to fine detail--the very surface texture of the imaginary world--is a characteristic of Scott's style that attracts me to his films.

O.k.. Enough about the style. Let's move on to theme.

Generally speaking, this film engages with a theme that recurs throughout science fiction, namely, our ambivalent relationship to technology.

More specially, however, this film engages with another recurrent theme running through science fiction texts that incorporate technology: the idea that technology, as it advances, becomes more and more human: in the form of robots, anthropromorphic A.I.s, androids, cyborgs. 

Very often this technology-become-human is misanthropic, as in the case of The Terminator, The Matrix, and Battlestar Galactica. Alternatively, in other texts, as technology approaches becoming human, it becomes benevolent and helpful to humanity: consider Lieutenant Commander Data in Star Trek: TNG, Terminator 2, Bicentennial Man, the character of David in Spielberg's A.I. (2001).

What makes Blade Runner so interesting a text in consideration of this theme is how the Replicants not only become human, they become more than human. Technology not only approaches becoming human; it surpasses humanity in every category that counts: mortality, emotion, hubris.

Let's think about what makes the Replicants more human than human.

They are more mortal than humans. They only live four years. Thus, their lives are lived at breakneck speeds and they experience everything more intensely because of this. There's a theme in literature that suggests, with immortality, everything "becomes as dust" (consider the bored Vampire characters that pervade Anne Rice's vampire novels). The inverse of this idea is true: with more mortality, everything becomes even more intense and exciting. This is what the Replicants experience.

They experience strong emotions; they aren't objective, unemotional robots. Even though they are technological by nature (they are machines and they are "retired" rather than killed), they are driven by sentimentality, fear, anger, and love. Consider Roy Batty's lamenting of Priss at the end of the film; consider his rage when he finds out he cannot live and murders his maker, Dr. Eldon Tyrell. In spite of the fact that they struggle with human emotions--they are emotionally under-experienced--there's a way to suggest the Replicants are over-emotional.

Here's the big one: hubris. The Replicants manifest a very human kind of arrogance. They try to live forever. And, unlike us, they are able to confront their maker and question him. Indeed, Roy Batty, in approaching Dr. Tyrell and interrogating him, is like a great poet who laments to god and the universe how horrible mortality it.

With the Replicants the traditional theme of technology-becoming-human is intensified to the extent that technology in this film surpasses humanity, becomes humanity with the volume turned up.