Romulus started out promising, then proved itself an awful disappointment.
The original Alien (1979) is far and away one of my favourite sci-fi films, one I’ve written about in the past, and I have a lot of affection for Aliens (1986) and even Alien 3 (1992), for all I feel it has its narrative flaws.
And then there are later additions to the original series; the less said about them, the better — later still, we see attempts at updating the series with sleek, shiny, lens-flared prequels and Michael Fassbender playing a mildly homophobic pastiche of a gay-coded eugenicist synth, these things replacing the original strong, complex writing in the original films.
I was honestly mildly into the premise of Alien: Romulus as a return to the original xenomorph rather than the Promethean nonsense, but that was all I knew about it going in — I went in with fresh eyes, having neither watched a trailer nor read any reviews.
In the first act of the film, there is an incredible return to the original aesthetics of Alien — without sacrificing the broader quality of set design, costuming, and film, there is an incredible recreation of not only the visuals originally displayed in 1979, but also the soundscape that accompanied those sets and mechanisms, and more than that, the haptics.
Every single button, dial, switch, and key in the original films looks as if you can reach out and touch it, and this incredible awareness of tactility is not only present in the machine and mechanic designs but in every other aspect of the set design. You can imagine how it might feel to touch everything in the film — feel the fuzz of static covering the screens in a sort of film, feel the trip of condensation on soaked engines, run your fingers over the texture of the walls, doors, grate floors, vents, even touch the aliens themselves. The slick, wet skin of the xenomorph, the slime slicking the segmented bodies of the facehuggers, the torn films of skin, the bubbling burn of their acidic blood — it all feels three-dimensional from the beginning, and that emphasis on the tactile and the textural is what makes the film so impactful.
It engages not just one’s emotional and mental state but all five of one’s senses, and in the beginning of Alien: Romulus, there is an attempt at recreating that physicality.
Not only are the original machines and their aesthetics replicated but there is a deep focus on tactility and certain sensory details in the mining colony our protagonist and her synth “brother” are trapped in — we see the gases and smokes and powders on the streets, see the machinery and all the trapped people working it, feel the cloying thickness of the polluted planet, see the near-literal sapping of colour from the whole of the planet by the miners.
The one tiny flicker of colour is, in fact, in the yellow canary in a modern cage, a fun little detail that emphasises how ancient the cruelty of the Weyland-Yutani Corporation is — just as each of the miners on the colony is trapped in an inescapable contract, owned by the company and trapped within its artificial economy, that yellow canary represents the cruelty of the old mining towns that the Weyland-Yutani Corporation effortlessly recreates even halfway into the twenty-second century.
The initial hooks in the narrative are planted here — we meet Rain as an orphan, and we see the complex familial dynamic between her and her adoptive brother, Andy. Andy is introduced from the out in the autistic-coded manner of any synthetic within the series, malfunctioning and vulnerable as a result, and Rain feels deeply about protecting him and protecting their adoptive relationship, and yet for all, Rain seems to be the primary caretaker between the two of them, Andy’s prime directive is to care for Rain.
Different Alien films have explored the varying levels of humanity for synths — I’ve spoken disparagingly about David and how he repeats certain homophobic tropes in sci-fi that go all the way back to the likes of Space Odyssey, but obviously, there’s the contrast between Ash as a villainous representative of the company’s violence — upholding its aggressive hierarchy and the violence within that — and the likes of Bishop, who is far less sexually driven if not arguably emasculated in the Aliens film, contrasting the hypermasculinity of the space marines; contrasting these again is the character of Annalee Call, who has the most agency and personality of the synths, and seeks to make use of that liberty.
One might think, introduced to Andy and his immediate familial connection to Rain, that the film intends to explore new dynamics for a synth — not only is Andy introduced alongside Andy as her adoptive brother, but he’s also the only Black member of the cast, and the only Black synth we’ve seen as a main character within the series, and one might think this would introduce more consideration as to his position as a synth as well.
The introduction of the rest of the party is rushed and, frankly, bizarre — while the central conceit of their reaching out to Rain makes sense, being as how they need Andy’s ability to speak to a Mother system on the decommissioned station in orbit above them, what is not firmly established is Rain’s connection to these people, or what their actual relationships with one another consist of.
Certain expository details are dropped in, that they’ve been distant from one another since Rain’s father died, but it’s evident that Rain does not know these people well for the most part, nor vice versa.
Throughout the film, attempts are made to emphasise the intimacy and closeness between Rain and Tyler, with them holding hands with one another and sharing significant looks or non-verbal communications, but the film doesn’t wish to expand this into a romantic connection nor expand on it as a sibling dynamic either.
The relationship has these hallmarks of being close or important, having these levels of friendship and physical intimacy, but there’s never any verbal acknowledgement of the closeness between Rain and Tyler, nor commentary made by the other characters, and it makes their interpersonal dynamics feel almost random.
This isn’t unique to Rain and Tyler, of course — all of these relationships seem similarly slapdash and thrown together, with no consideration as to their wider ramifications or the implications of those dynamics. Kay is pregnant because of “some guy”, and no further time or effort is given to fleshing out the whys and wherefores of her pregnancy; Bjorn obsessively seems to despise Andy and acts as if he’s never seen or met him before, but at the same time is a dick to every single other character, and no further details or complexity to his character background is added in; Navarro is an excellent pilot but for some reason is very attached to Bjorn, and their relationship seems a lot more highly sexed, but not… anything else.
These characters conduct themselves, in short, like they were AI-generated for someone’s worst nightmare of a YA novel — they’re in their twenties, but they act like young teenagers; they’re theoretically adults with complex dynamics with one another, but everything about their personalities seem vapid and shallowly written.
The only character who’s given any depth or apparent inner turmoil is Rain, and that makes less and less sense as time goes on. Rain feels a great deal of loyalty to and a need to protect Andy, and at the same time, Bjorn reveals that Rain was never going to bring him to the Yvara system, and Rain doesn’t argue the point or claim otherwise.
She seems overcome with guilt about this fact, and everybody argues she shouldn’t think much about any feelings Andy might have because he’s a synthetic — Andy himself seems to have no emotional response to this and immediately accepts this as in line with his prime directive.
Is this expanded on as the film goes on?
No, not remotely.
Andy’s software is apparently updated when he’s given the disc from Rook’s body, and this updates his physical mobility, repairs the damage to his verbal processor, seems to improve his concentration, overwrites his prime directive, and then…
Somehow, it goes away again as soon as the disc is removed? In another film, the introduction of the disc to Andy’s processing might have added some level of inner turmoil or inner battle for him, his broken processors engaging with the attempts to remotely update his AI and software, especially given that this is aboard a decommissioned station, but no such turmoil is introduced.
The disc temporarily makes Andy more useful, but while it introduces a risk that he is acting in “the best interests of the company” as opposed to protecting Rain, he still does protect Rain and her friends as best he can — the only sacrifice he makes is with Kay, who is already immediately under threat; Navarro goes from being infected to being dead almost immediately, and Bjorn is similarly very quickly doomed.
What’s the point of these sacrifices? What is their narrative purpose other than people dying on screen? What do they represent?
Why is Navarro’s death so immediate, rather than giving the xenomorph its usual extended incubation period? What does her death actually do, emotionally, to any of the other characters, bar Bjorn, who was already angry about his mother dying because of a synth? Does Bjorn now change his feelings and further blame Andy, or feel differently toward him?
No.
No one’s feelings about anything change in the course of the film whatsoever. We might as well be watching a puppet show.
Even later in the film, Rain approaches Andy after his original directives have been restored, and rather than saying, “Now, your prime directive is to look out for yourself,” she says, “your prime directive is to look out for us” — so what has she actually learned? She isn’t extending Andy any further humanity, self-sufficiency, or autonomy.
She’s paying lip service to the idea that Andy should consider the two of them as a unit, and we know that that’s only talk because scant minutes later, we see her abandon Andy on the floor whilst preserving her own life.
This is the core flaw of this film — it repeatedly attempts to call back to moments in the original Alien film, pays homage to certain lines, dynamics, or scenes, but doesn’t actually seem to understand what the point of any of those scenes for, and thus, in recreating them, makes a pastiche of a film without meaning.
I actually really appreciated the approach to the xenomorphs by the cast of characters initially — using the cryogenic fuel to freeze a facehugger’s tail and thus paralyse it was a creative and interesting solution to a problem. The thought behind it is slightly lateral, and for a film coming out fifty years after its original iteration, it makes complete sense that you would introduce new characters coming up with different solutions to the original problems in the franchise — and it’s all the more interesting to create new solutions that use resources available to the original cast.
This lateral thinking becomes somewhat less interesting — not to mention less sensible — when it comes to raising their ambient temperature in order to render themselves invisible to the facehuggers. It’s all very well liking the Alien videogames, but dropping yourself to the level of videogame logic doesn’t really play well for cinema.
Why introduce the temperature-controlled space suits minutes ago if not to use them for this solution? Why set the ambient temperature at their own body temp and then warn them not to sweat when, of course, they’re going to sweat in 28-degree heat, even were they not anxiously moving at moderate speed down a crowded corridor in the dark?
Why then continue on a pointless conversation on fucking loudspeaker whilst surrounded by facehuggers?
There’s nothing wrong with having flawed characters or even stupid characters in your film — in fact, having stupid characters can make a film very fun. God knows that in the original Alien, Brett and Parker being goofy as shit creates some of the best parts of the movie.
But your characters can’t just be randomly stupid and make random decisions. What is driving their thought processes and decision-making? Yes, in that scene, Tyler is extremely emotional about having been cut off from his sister… but why do Rain and Andy both just let his idiocy unfold? Is Rain okay with dying because this man doesn’t know how to silence his headset for a second and take this call in thirty seconds once they’re not surrounded by facehuggers? Does Andy think that allowing this sort of nonsense is somehow best for the company at this moment?
Every single character in this film is obscenely and strangely passive. None of them seem to make active decisions or considerations about anything in their lives — they only react to unfolding situations or respond to ways other characters act upon them, and they only act one step ahead and no further.
Neither Rain nor Tyler nor even Andy act with any of the tactical or strategic forethought that makes Ripley such an interesting driving protagonist — even when reacting to and responding to unfolding situations, she thinks immediately of ways things can go wrong and thinks of multiple solutions, not just the next thing to happen.
Case in point, all that business with the acidic blood — I appreciate that someone wanking behind the camera evidently thought this would look cool, but it’s just silly, and for what? So that blood can burn through the station in all directions instead of one? So that there can be a long, drawn-out scene where the infamously quick, intelligent, and physically resistant xenomorphs are gunned down like exploding cans on a farmyard fence?
So that characters can tremblingly quote iconic lines from the original film and not quite figure out how to make the delivery land in the context they’re now delivered?
And as for Kay’s pregnancy…
Introduced so early in the film, it would make sense for it to be the true crux of the film’s core philosophy, and yet Kay is lying down and having naps for half of the film. She has absolutely 0 character beyond being sad and a bit of a damsel for Rain and Tyler to each want to protect — Weyland-Yutani, throughout the Alien franchise, treat victims of the xenomorph as little more than incubators for their weapon, and here, our filmmakers treat Kay as little more than an incubator for their plot twist.
And as for that plot twist, it’s…
Well, again. It’s stupid.
The introduction of Rook as a synth is in poor taste — Ian Holm’s image is terribly animated, and the CGI used to animate the synth seems incredibly out of place compared to every other aspect of imagery in the film. At the very least, they might have attempted to reuse or recreate the original film’s animatronics and puppetry — Holm’s image was least poorly recreated when appearing on screens, and it might have been a better choice, if they were so insistent on profiting from the ghost of a man’s corpse, to at the very least have it be a version of Ash’s original personality uploaded to the computer as a special authority on the xenomorph and its species, rather than simply being another science officer wearing a parody of his face.
Attempts were made, I think, to replicate Ash’s manner of speaking in the original films — evidently, this was not proofread or workshopped in any way because, particularly in the third act of the film, every piece of Rook’s dialogue was bizarrely stunted and sounded rather more like an extra from the Big Bang Theory than a character in a serious piece of sci-fi.
Rook wants Kay to be injected with the xenomorph DNA, this being the best thing for the company (How? How is that the best way to preserve those samples? Why not wait for her to get to a station so she can be experimented on under controlled settings? If Rook is a different character to Ash and lacks his memories, then he doesn’t have Rook’s fetishistic focus on the advancement of the human species, so what motivates his actions?), and then her pregnancy advances rapidly and immediately, with an explosive birth.
It’s unfortunate that this film repeatedly rushes through scenes of violent birth and body modification because those are the core engines of fear and dread within the Alien films.
The xenomorph isn’t just a random scary monster — she is frightening because of how she can infect, take over, and use your body for her reproduction, and a greater horror is laid over this threat by the fact that Weyland-Yutani seeks to profit from this reproductive cycle and are willing to allow you to be sacrificed.
Birth itself, reproduction itself, is repeatedly under threat from authorities within Weyland-Yutani because attempts are being made to modify, streamline, and profit in the most extreme ways possible from the reproductive process, and especially given that these young people all exist under contracts that keep them trapped, one would think that Kay’s greatest fear would perhaps be that the foetus inside her might be or become the property of Weyland-Yutani.
Kay doesn’t seem aware of this or even consider it, even though it’s ultimately what happens in the mutation of her baby.
And as for that baby, again, what’s the point of it?
Cynically, the point is clear — they wanted a new, slightly different monster to try to profit from because they’ve stuffed their film full to the brim with dozens of xenomorphs and facehuggers and no longer fully understand how to create the atmosphere that makes those monsters and their ecosystem frightening, so the solution is a new monster!
It was really obvious that they were going to go for a breastfeeding thing with the monster’s approach of Kay, her horror whilst scrambling back, and its gaze on her chest, and I think it was a cop-out for them to go with the blood-sucking instead, but honestly, I suppose it was a surprise they even implied the lactation at all. It just seems like too original and too horrifying an idea to be embedded in such a mess of a film.
At every juncture, this film just feels undeveloped and unplanned — barring the atrocities with Ian Holm’s CGI puppetry, the film visually has a lot going for it.
While the facehuggers are not always super well-articulated, their movement was haunting and always quite threatening; the xenomorphs really had that wet feel that made them so disgusting and so visually iconic in the original films, and yet, again, for what purpose?
The camera repeatedly zooms in for shots of the xenomorphs screaming in the corridor, but not to serve the narrative or any sense of tension — as with virtually every other choice in the film, it feels utterly random.
Ultimately, I spent the last hour of watching this film in the cinema fidgeting and frustrated because nearly every scene felt strangely disconnected from the last, with little to no consideration as to the broader narrative or themes at play — I remember having a similar experience watching Cobweb (2023) a few years ago, which is a pastiche of various /r/NoSleep tropes that ultimately goes nowhere and has no idea or direction of its own.
Like so many remakes, this film tries desperately to copy the most iconic lines and moments from its source material but makes no attempt to update its ideas with new context, its own ideas, its own motivations, and the result is as hollow and empty as any film ever gets.
These kids want to leave their mining colony and strike out as autonomous by stealing not only equipment but also themselves out of their contracts, but as soon as they leave the planet, no talk or consideration is made of that fact.
A woman starts out pregnant in the movie and births a monster, which dies immediately after being born.
A Black synth is introduced as being of familial importance to the white MC, is dismissed as being just an object, is finally given permission to care about himself as well as her, and then is, immediately after, dismissed as just an object.
What was the point of any of it? What was the meaning of any of it? Where, in this entire film, was there a signal coherent and considered plotline that actually had any sort of thematic end goal?
I can’t believe a film we went to see on an afternoon whim could be so disappointing, but hey. At least they accomplished something after that mess.
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