(This isn’t a typical Arkadelphian piece, but I’ll try and balance that out later with an essay on a piece of art I really love, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. If you’re a Prometheus superfan and don’t want to see me rag on the movie, how about looking at the picture above? Wasn’t that scene great? If you’re not interested in me bitching about this disaster, how about reading the story it steals so liberally from, H.P. Lovecraft’s “At the Mountains of Madness”? For those agitated enough to follow: here there be RAEG.)
Prometheus is a beautiful, beautiful movie, with as full a realization of a futuristic aesthetic as I can think of since Aliens. It boasts a handful of jaw-dropping moments, most notably David’s scene with the star map, which is really as stunning a science fiction set-piece as I ever expect to see. It’s carried by justly lauded performances from Michael Fassbender (who finds a nice middle ground between Abed Nadir and the Thin White Duke), and an inexplicably Southern Idris Elba, plus uneven, if game, attempts from Charlize Theron and Noomi Rapace.
That all said, it’s a complete mess. Let the airing of grievances begin.