I want to grow up to be Ellen Ripley. Except without all the gooey aliens always popping up. Y’know, the kind of person who, despite personal fear, does the right thing. Hijacks the transport from the gormless officer and barrels through a wall to save the Marines. Goes after the little girl against all odds that the little squirt’s even still alive. Looks good without makeup and covered with grime. Thinks on her feet.
Yup, I wanna be Ellen Ripley when I grow up.
For reasons still unclear, even to myself, I’m watching ALIEN RESURRECTION, the fourth in the ALIEN series. You know, the one AFTER the movie where Ripley falls to a fiery death with her arms outstretched in classic Jesus Crucified pose while alien baby bursts out of her chest. David Fincher’s dark, nihilistic, irritating and ultimately dull film, however, at least did not have seal-eyed Winona Ryder trying to portray a tough mercenary spacer gal. I hate this movie. Even the presence of Signourney Weaver (whom I worship as a goddess) as a semi-psychotic alien-woman mutant (half woman, half alien, half alligator!) in leather, looking as sexy and tough as any woman can look, did not save this movie for me. And when Ripley gets teary-eyed over her alien baby…fer crissake, woman, it’s not like it’s a kitten!
I do this to myself a lot, though. Watch movies that probably melt sections of my brain. It’s a disease.