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Alien: Romulus has the capacity for greatness. If you could somehow surgically extract its strongest sequences, you’d see that beautiful, blood-quivering harmony between old-school practical effects and modern horror verve, still gooey and repulsive in all the ways an Alien film should be. At one point, the camera watches, unflinching, as a phallic Xenomorph crown breaches the opening of an aggressively vaginal fluid sac. Perfect. Yet there’s an uncomfortable, “canary in the coal mine” aura to what Romulus signals about Hollywood’s near future. Now, even smart movies have to clock in their hours as brand ambassadors and nostalgia vehicles.
