"In the vastness of space, no echo carries your cries."
"Alien" debuted with that unforgettable tagline in June 1979. However, given the nature of science fiction enthusiasts (look no further than "Star Wars" and "May the Fourth"), the unofficial anniversary of the film arrives this weekend, marked by a re-release on April 26 as a nod to the enigmatic moon, LV-426, featured in the original narrative.
Few recollections rival the night (and early morning) I spent immersed in director Ridley Scott's extraterrestrial haunted mansion 45 years ago, highlighting how films, and the act of watching them, have evolved in the peculiar and lengthy journey since then.
I attended the opening weekend screening of "Alien" with my elder sibling, armed with relatively scant knowledge about it. Back in that pre-internet era, our information was largely confined to reviews in the local newspaper, the Los Angeles Times, which didn't always align with my teenage sensibilities.
Driving to the Avco cinemas in Westwood near UCLA, we immediately noticed the snaking queue for tickets encircling the theater and extending down the block. No online bookings or seat selections from the comfort of home were possible in those days.
The film itself (and forgive the redundancy, but spoilers ahead) defied expectations by positioning a female member of the Nostromo crew, Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), as the ultimate survivor, while the captain, portrayed by Tom Skerritt, fell victim early on.
As fate would have it, the 10:30 p.m. screening we aimed for – and believed we'd arrived early enough to secure seats – sold out just a few individuals ahead of us at the box office. Having invested that much time already, we purchased tickets for a 1 a.m. showing, sans the luxury of cellphones to inform my mom of the delay.
The tension of the film – commencing with the gut-churning (quite literally) scene of the alien's debut – captivated the packed audience, culminating in a moment that remains one of the funniest I've ever witnessed in a theater.
Towards the climax, when the Ian Holm character is unveiled as an android in a chaotic sequence drenched in spurting white fluid, a young woman, seemingly having seen enough, bolted towards the exit. Her companion, presumably her date, called after her, "It's just a robot," to which she retorted, without skipping a beat, "I don't care if it's a damn rubber band!" The entire theater erupted into laughter, a much-needed release of tension.
Post-film, we stumbled out into the eerily deserted streets (now well past 3 a.m.) and embarked on what felt like an interminable trek back to our car. Little did I know then that poor Ripley would face further horrors – and more xenomorphs – in a trilogy of sequels, or that "Alien" would spawn an enduring franchise, culminating in yet another installment, "Alien: Romulus," slated for release later this year. This film marks the seventh in the series, set between the original and director James Cameron's lauded 1986 follow-up.
As absurd as certain elements of that initial encounter with "Alien" may seem now, it remains etched in my memory, with aspects like queueing undoubtedly contributing to a sense of anticipation and excitement.
In contemporary times, Hollywood has grappled with recapturing the magic of moviegoing as an event. Yet in the 1970s, with films like "Jaws," "Star Wars," and "Alien," these experiences seemed to arise almost organically, eliciting screams of delight or terror that, much like those memories, reverberate across the expanse of space and time.
“Alien” returns to select theaters on April 26. It’s rated R.
