“Life has no meaning. Each of us has meaning and we bring it to life. It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer.” ~Joseph Campbell, American Writer

Prometheus— The implications of the name alone thrilled the Classical Civilizations minor within me as I sat in the late night showing of Ridley Scott’s new science fiction opus.  Prometheus—the Titan architect and champion of mankind, who fearlessly braved the wrath of the Olympic gods to reward his human creations with sustainable life—and now, a futuristic spacecraft chartered for exploration of the origins of man’s very existence.  Heady stuff for an early summer thrill ride, eh?  While I enjoy a variety of films, not since Paul W.S. Anderson’s Event Horizon had I been quite this excited to see a movie set outside my solar system.

The movie is gorgeously cast, both exotic and menacing in its foreign beauty, and startlingly suspenseful (especially considering that anyone who’s seen 2001: A Space Odyssey, the Alien films, or any of the Star Wars/ Star Trek films knows that anything—and I do mean anything—can pop up in outer space to scare the stardust out of you).  But this isn’t a rave review, as the film isn’t without flaw—there are a half dozen too many broadly-drawn characters, a disappointing waste of star power (the woefully underutilized, and virtually unrecognizable, Guy Pearce killed me—and Charlize Theron stalks about the Prometheus looking stunning but offering little more than a sketch of the fallow human existence of a corporate drone), far too many predictable events (who honestly couldn’t see the glaring inevitability that the irascible hipster-geologist who irreverently modifies his multi-million dollar spacesuit into a high-tech bong was going to be the first person face-raped by the alien larva?) and maddeningly ludicrous, distracting details (for example, somehow, despite the fact that future-us can construct a trillion-dollar mission to the outer reaches of existence, we still wrap ourselves in diaper-like undergarments that look like dirty Ace bandages.  WHAT?  They can afford crystal chandeliers and a pool table with titanium balls on this spacecraft but a stop at Victoria’s Secret was not in the budget?)   HOWEVER, to be fair, in defense of the casting, Michael Fassbender’s divinely silken android, David, was mesmerizing (leaving me to puzzle, once again, what the hell is wrong with me that I am always drawn to such emotionally unavailable men).  As far as the action in the film, I must say, the self-administered alien abortion in the pneumatic surgery pod was horrifyingly original—and, of course, nauseatingly horrifying.  And, in all fairness regarding the rehashed, hackneyed, or cliché material in the film, who better to steal from Ridley Scott’s bag of tricks with impunity other than the man himself?  (As for borrowing the gauze-pad bandaged underwear look from Luc Besson’s The Fifth Element, when you have actresses as beguiling as Milla Jovovich or Noomi Rapace, I suppose I could hardly blame them.)      

Was the film good?  Absolutely—well worth the time, the money, and enduring a theatre full of choleric teenagers pushing the limits of their curfews.  Was it frightening?  I’ll submit my bloody, shredded fingernails as evidence to the affirmative.  I suppose the discordant note in my tone at the heart of this reaction/review stems from the fact that I, in the audience, was left with a personal watershed experience of brooding introspection about the philosophical implications of the Prometheus journey that was, apparently, far deeper than any single character’s on the screen.  But for the two scientists whose research incited the exploration, no character puzzles or scrabbles with the weight of their mission’s objective—essentially—to corner “God” and to ask him “Why?”  While I understand that most people come for the extra-terrestrial matter splatter, you’d think a few more moments of a 2+ hour film could have been spared to allow the human characters more time to wrestle with the poignancy of their purpose.

Man has struggled with his comprehension of the higher order of things since long before myths of trees laden with the fruits of knowledge were first woven—the hunger to know the mind of God is our tragic human flaw as well as the inspiration for our greatest triumphs.  Mankind’s interminable need to understand the “who” and the “how” and the “why” has been the driving force in the creation of our philosophies, sciences, and arts—all things which define and delineate the exquisite nature of the human creature and, coincidentally, make pseudo-gods of us all.  And yet we still hunger for the “one” with the answers to everything.  As a human who struggles daily with the weight of Epicurus’ assertion (“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?  Then he is not omnipotent.  Is he able, but not willing?  Then he is malevolent.  Is he both able and willing?  Then whence cometh evil?  Is he neither able nor willing?  Then why call him God?”), I take this conundrum very personally.

I suppose, in a way, good films (much like good books or good music) show us what we need to see if we allow them to—as a child without a father (not by fate or circumstance, but by his choice alone), I have spent a lifetime examining the relationships of parents and their children.  Through a childhood without memories OF him, an adolescence without experiences WITH him, and an adulthood left ruminating ABOUT him, I have invested a great portion of my life seeking some understanding of how someone could bring something into this world and have no connection or interest in its survival or accomplishment.  My life is approximately half over, and I have distilled my emotional war to a single, overly-simplified parallel: our bodies create cancer, but we do not love it or cherish it or parent it—we loathe it and seek to destroy and eradicate what we have created. 


According to the film Prometheus, “God’s” answer to our earnest, child-like inquiries to the motivation of our creation is equally discouraging —just because something can MAKE us does not mean it WANTS us.

Wow.  All this self-actualization for the price of a movie ticket and a box of Junior Mints.