Instead of stealing fire from the gods, this Prometheus snatches defeat from the jaws of victory.
There is an inherent irony in a film about humanity’s search for answers falling victim to its own inability to answer the simplest of questions: “Why are they doing that?” Prometheus, Ridley Scott’s 2012 prequel to his seminal Alien, is a beautifully flawed exploration of grand ideas hamstrung by maddeningly poor character decisions. It is, in many ways, the perfect metaphor for the human condition: ambitious, messy, brilliant, and frustrating in equal measure. And yet, beneath the film’s contradictions lies an undeniable magnetism that keeps it lodged firmly in the consciousness.
Prometheus is ostensibly a story about the origins of humanity, both thematically and narratively. Set in the late 21st century, it follows the crew of the titular ship as they journey to a distant planet, spurred on by archaeological discoveries that suggest extraterrestrial involvement in human evolution. Noomi Rapace’s Dr Elizabeth Shaw anchors the film with a blend of fierce determination and spiritual conviction, her character’s faith-inflected curiosity setting her apart from her more pragmatic partner, Charlie Holloway (Logan Marshall-Green). They are joined by an ensemble of contrasting personalities, including Charlize Theron’s icy corporate overseer Meredith Vickers, Idris Elba’s no-nonsense Captain Janek, and, most memorably, Michael Fassbender’s unnervingly composed android David.
David is the film’s standout creation. Fassbender’s performance is a masterpiece of calculated ambiguity, imbuing the character with a detached curiosity that teeters on the edge of malice. David’s actions, from his almost childlike attempts at emulating humanity to his seemingly whimsical experimentation with alien biology, speak to the film’s preoccupation with creation and creators. He is a microcosm of the film itself: a construct with grand aspirations that delights and disturbs in equal measure.
Visually, Prometheus is stunning. The alien landscapes are rendered with breathtaking detail, and the production design of the Engineers’ temple exudes an almost religious grandeur. Ridley Scott’s direction imbues the film with a sense of awe that harks back to the best of science fiction. Cinematographer Dariusz Wolski’s sweeping vistas and tightly framed moments of horror create a dichotomy of beauty and dread that is hard to shake. But for all its aesthetic splendour, the film is frequently undone by its clumsy script.
The plot is littered with moments that strain credulity. Characters repeatedly discard common sense, from removing their helmets in an alien environment to approaching unknown lifeforms with reckless abandon. A geologist armed with mapping drones inexplicably gets lost. The ship’s biologist, tasked with scientific observation, displays a baffling lack of caution when encountering a snake-like alien creature. These decisions, transparently designed to generate peril, undermine the intelligence of the film’s premise. It is hard to invest in a narrative when the supposed professionals act like amateurs.
This pattern of absurdity might be forgiven if it served a greater thematic purpose. Indeed, some defenders of Prometheus argue that the crew’s ineptitude is a reflection of their selection: expendable individuals chosen to provide a veneer of scientific credibility for a mission that’s secretly about some ultra-rich old dude wanting to meet “god” and buy his way to eternal life. It’s a metatextual reflection of the film’s own genesis, with Ridley Scott clearly desperate to scratch his itch about making a philosophical meditation on man’s desire to meet his creator but having to drape it in the skin of a xenomorph movie to secure the necessary studio greenlight.
The flaws of Prometheus are exacerbated by its attempts to wear those two hats. On one hand, it is a high-concept science fiction film wrestling with profound questions about creation, faith, and the hubris of seeking godhood. On the other, it is an Alien prequel beholden to the demands of a franchise known for claustrophobic horror and visceral thrills. This tension results in a film that is both too opaque for casual viewers and too unfocused for devoted fans. That uneasy compromise bleeds into the narrative itself, as obligatory action sequences sit uneasily cheek to jowl with orthogonal philosophical sophistry.
Where Alien is a masterclass in economy and tension, Prometheus is profligate and unwieldy. The 1979 classic thrives on its simplicity, following a group of relatable characters as they contend with a single, terrifying threat – a threat, in response to which they make very few mistakes, it’s just their best isn’t enough in the face of the xenomorph. In contrast, Prometheus is burdened with characters who too often act like idiots for plot expediency while the few rational characters, such as Elba’s Captain Janek, are relegated to the fringes of the action, victims of other characters’ recklessness, arrogance or just plain stupidity.
And yet, there is a certain audacity to Prometheus that remains admirable. Few blockbuster films dare to even attempt to grapple with such weighty ideas, let alone look to infuse them into the very DNA of a beloved franchise. Ultimately, Prometheus is a study in contrasts. It is as captivating as it is frustrating, as intellectually ambitious as it is narratively clumsy. But for all its high-minded aspirations, it cannot escape the gravitational pull of its own flaws. It is, much like the human condition it seeks to examine, beautiful and flawed, capable of greatness yet hampered by its missteps and hubris. In the end, Prometheus leaves us not with answers but with more questions – but perhaps that was the point all along.
