Cast: Michael Fassbender, Katherine Waterston, Danny McBride, Amy Seimetz, Billy Crudup
Director: Ridley Scott
Nestled inside a film which seems to inherit its sense of omnipresent danger from multiplayer war games (a dome of urgency: the threat that could exert itself from anywhere) — is a truly odd sequence. The gentle simmer at which it functions is nearly anachronistic within the frenzied tenor of the larger universe outside. Instead, it betrays values that could be typical of an experimental, drama school production: lit by candles, inside an odd chamber, dialogue rendered in whispers, filled with a strange erotic charge. Walter, the resident android of our present, eponymous space ship, the Covenant, meets his doppelganger: David, the survivor android from the last spaceship to have attempted a similar mission, the Prometheus. In a gesture of immense generosity, David teaches Walter to play the flute. This is how it appears to us, of course — he is also attempting, through this brief tutorship, to cultivate in Walter the qualities of agency, confidence and independence. In a film full of actual human beings, it is this sequence that features androids that assumes a full, emotional shape — it is not too much to venture, in fact, that the single scene may have caused the film’s chief star, Michael Fassbender, to reprise his role.
The major axis of measurement in Alien: Covenant is however, as it is in most American horror, religion itself (in that, Christianity). It is therefore rather inclined towards moral judgment, and as a result, towards thinking of the world in easy, convenient binaries. The chief question at the heart of the film seems to be the difference between real and artificial. It cannot be denied that this is a pertinent enquiry in a contemporary world full of simulations — it is also not entirely a departure for director Ridley Scott too, who will be remembered by posterity for a film that ends with a lament about the increasing interchange ability of the “real” and the “artificial” (Blade Runner, 1982). The crucial difference here is however that Blade Runner featured no resolution to this crisis, while Covenant, a film made 35 years later, offers easy solutions to its audience at various junctions in the film.
When the space-pioneers atop the Covenant receive an anonymous transmission from a distant planet, they wonder if it is “human” (which in the film’s dictionary of meanings, refers to “good”) or not.
The captain, Oram, favours the former and decides to steer the ship towards the signal’s direction. Their mission is, after all, to locate a colony in outer space where human beings can relocate (cinema often renders this sort of imperialism in unambiguous, even glorious terms). Upon reaching this new planet, they begin to slowly realise that they may have led themselves to a giant, imposter simulation.
Mayhem ensues. A crew member, two crew members, become pregnant with alien genes which burst out of their bodies (an ode to the original Alien) as fully formed neomorphs that quickly begin to roam the land, pillage, murder, etc. In the middle of all this, the film begins to retrace its steps to its prequel, Prometheus, in order to understand the genesis of the problem of these new creatures — secrets are revealed, villains are unmasked, lot of people die, a couple of chases ensue, much drama transpires, and finally, catharsis. After it, a twist.
David is a rather complex character — he is condemned because he represents humanity’s greatest fear: loss of control. Various science-fiction films made in America assume a curious posture though: these are films made by a progressive, scientific society about the dangers of science itself. It is an interesting form of self-reflection, a fascinating tussle — to be driven by the curiosity to explore the furthest frontiers, but to never truly let go of the fear of venturing too far from home.
The writer is programmer, Lightcube Film Society
