“Alright, sweethearts – what are you waiting for? Breakfast in bed?” Aliens (1986)
70mm print of Aliens.
Oh man, was that shit glorious.
There is something beautiful and special about a print that crackles. That jumps. That has lines flowing through the images, the odd flicker here and there. It’s like listening to a much-loved album on vinyl. There’s something to it that a cd or quality remaster just can’t capture. As much as I appreciate the quality and sharpness of digital, it just doesn’t seem to hold the same feeling for me. I’m all for the magnificent run of Tom Cruise being captured in IMAX high definition, but that run seems somewhat soulless.
Not the hair, obviously. For it has both a soul and an undying life force.
It’s only been upon revisiting much-loved and often-watched films of my youth that I’ve noticed this, so most likely it is less to do with digital itself, and more to do with the fact that the older I get the more nostalgic I become for the way things used to be. The way things once looked, and the way things once sounded. Maybe my enjoyment of classic cinema – like music – is too tied up by memories of the past.
Is it purely this though? The grain of the skin, every pore and every line visible without the technology of re-touching. That, to me, is more ‘real’ than the shiny stylings of a thousand cgi’d backdrop buildings when stood alongside a face that appears to be made of smoothly sanded plastic.
Many poor bastards on screen these days look as though they have more fake blood in their veins than this legendary
android synthetic humanoid:
Speaking of plastic, remember when Star Wars figures and Action men and all that shit were made from early forms of the material? But you didn’t know this – and wouldn’t know this – until you dug them out of your loft/cellar/garage/bedroom cupboard many years later to find they’d started to disintegrate? Bib Fortuna separating rapidly, Chewbacca oozing some strange liquids, Stormtroopers turning yellow…and your fucking Millennium Falcon going brown?!
I dunno. 3D and digital still conjure up the mental – and quite possibly ocular – scars left by Transformers: Dark of the Moon. Jesus. my eyes and brain took a battering. Still no clue what the hell was going on.
Anyway. Aliens. Bloody great.
The marine banter. The riffing on motherhood. Betrayal by The Company as standard.
You can’t beat an angry Sigourney Weaver when she has some epic weaponry. Always forget how hilarious Bill Paxton is. Michael Biehn, he shoulda been way bigger, eh? Well, at one point in time. Introduced me to Lance Henriksen. I will always love it.
Still Scott over Cameron any day, mind.