‘Alien Resurrection’ lacks depth, compassion> Viewers can no longer identify with Lt. Ripley

“Alien Resurrection,” directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet, written by Joss Whedon. Running time: 109 minutes. Rated R (strong, graphic violence, nudity, language). Now playing at Hoyt’s Cinema, Bangor.

In a letter to fellow writer and friend William Dean Howells, Mark Twain wrote in the winter of 1877 that “when I find a well-drawn character in fiction or in biography, I generally take a warm personal interest in him, for the reason that I have known him before — met him on the river.”

There was a time in the “Alien” franchise, specifically in Ridley Scott’s 1979 film, “Alien,” and later in James Cameron’s excellent 1986 follow-up, “Aliens,” when movie audiences had a strong personal interest in Lt. Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), whose character was fed by a river rich with humanity, grit and compassion. In those two films, we cared for Ripley, felt we knew her, understood her, and thus we took a vested interest when she fought for her life against that now famous band of aliens who have rightfully taken their place in horror lore.

But what directors Scott and Cameron knew, which the directors of “Alien3” and “Alien Resurrection” didn’t, was that it was absolutely vital for their audiences to identify with Ripley, and to care for her. If they didn’t, there would be no central character for whom to root, and their films would fail.

Such is the case with Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s unfortunate fourth installment, “Alien Resurrection,” which proves that the river that once fed this series has become in the past 17 years a coagulated, uninteresting canal filled with the waste of stunted imaginations — and smelly alien goo.

“Alien Resurrection” takes place 200 years after “Alien3.” At the end of that film, a bald-headed Ripley, pregnant with an alien fetus and perhaps sensing that this series had run its course, did the right thing by committing suicide. But now, in the new film, scientists want to harvest that fetus for medical research, and thus they clone Ripley back to life from a frozen drop of her blood. What ensues is silly, predictable mayhem with people we don’t care about getting slaughtered by themselves and by the growing tribe of aliens.

All of this could be grotesque fun if only there were someone in this film for whom to cheer. In the past, that person has been Ripley (and perhaps one or two other characters) — but not so in this film. Ripley, you see, now has alien blood in her veins. She is not the Ripley we remember, but of a different breed — not quite human, not quite alien.

Not quite interesting or likable enough to carry off this film.

If only Jeunet wasn’t so taken with the glitz and the gore of the first two Alien films, he may have seen through it to realize that each film worked because it had considerable depth. But so in awe was he of the Oscar-winning special effects that he missed that depth, missed the fact that these films were once written for an intelligent audience, not for teen-agers who deserve better. Too dumb to realize that suspense can only be built when audiences connect with the film’s hero, Jeunet provides no heroes — only a load of carnage, a brood of boring stereotypes, a Ripley who is not Ripley, and a feast of aliens, one of which looks like a poached egg with fangs.

At my screening, several people got up and walked out, which suggests to me that a more appropriate title for this film would have been “Alien Desecration.”

Grade: D.

Video of the Week

“Clockers,” directed by Spike Lee, written by Lee and Richard Price, based on Price’s novel. Running time: 129 minutes. Rated R (strong, graphic violence, language, and drug use).

Spike Lee’s “Clockers” is not for the faint of heart. It is meant to shock, to repel and to disturb us with the often violent truth about drugs in our inner cities. That it succeeds so brilliantly may be a compliment to Lee, but for our country it sounds a warning bell that rings throughout its two-hour running time.

Lee begins his film with crime-scene photos of young black men violently murdered on the streets of New York. As the opening titles roll, sightless eyes stare up at us from bloody concrete, gaping exit wounds yawn at us from the bare backs of strangers, and one dead man’s stunned expression eerily matches our own.

It’s an unforgettable initial warning that sets the tone for a film that is essentially about black-on-black crime, the inevitable corruption of individuals drawn to a life of drugs and a system nearly powerless to change it. With Harvey Keitel, John Tuturro and newcomer Mekhi Phifer all delivering strong performances, I’m still thinking about this one a week later. See it.

Grade: A.

Christopher Smith, a writer and critic who lives in Brewer, reviews films each Monday in the NEWS. Comments or video suggestions may be sent to him via e-mail at freview@bangornews.infi.net