#hooboy

David is the most prepared crew member. While nobody else seems to have a single clue between their ears and most of the crew wasn’t even briefed prior to setting out, David has been studying for the past two years, treating language as a puzzle. He’s going to take what he learned and apply it to anything he finds in the alien complex.

And he will apply it whenever the mood takes him, because he is, again, two years old. That was the sense I got in the theater–he finds things he can mess with, and does so without hesitation or consultation with the humans. And while my instincts were still screaming that they shouldn’t even have landed yet, his behavior was the only one that made sense. He has been taught that he is only wanted when he’s useful. He has not been taught to keep his hands to himself. He figures the place out faster than the humans, and he seems pleased with himself for doing so. Therefore, he’s going to do so as much as possible.

As a result, we watch the cast act like screeching gibbons over a hologram. David had begun prodding at marks on the wall that look suspiciously like cuneiform (I’ll rant about it later), and he turned on a hologram projector. Simian crew noises ensue.

Those in the audience who are in the know are also expected to begin screeching excitedly at this point. The hallways they’re in are already taking on H. R. Giger’s signature biomechanical style. These holograms are showing us eight foot tall beings similar to his Space Jockey design.

The Space Jockey, named as such by the Alien production team, was one of those mysterious things about the original movie. Fused to what might have been the helm of the ship, seemingly alone with a hold full of carefully-arranged xenomorph eggs, and long-dead from a chestburster that had infected it. It set a warning signal before its death, misinterpreted by the crew of the Nostromo.

The movie never explained what the Space Jockey had been doing. Was this a cargo ship? A weapon? Was xenomorph reproduction somehow linked to the Space Jockey lifestyle? Their religion? Absolutely no information was given, and thus depictions of the Space Jockeys in subsequent media were split on whether they were benevolent, malevolent, entirely indifferent toward others, or simply too alien to be understood.

Physically, it was a complicated design for Alien’s crew to pull off, even as a corpse. The studio didn’t want to budget for it, and Giger ended up putting in a lot of extra work to help finish the statue. To make it seem even bigger than it was, the children of Ridley Scott and cinematographer Derek Vanlint were put into miniature space suits to give a sense of titanic scale to the creature, three times their height.

Scott made the logistical decision in Prometheus to scale these beings down significantly, purely for the difficulty in setting up shots and creating more sets scaled to this thing. It’s understandable, but I know some people are disappointed by it. As are others by the obvious implication you first get in this scene: the Space Jockey’s truly bizarre appearance is simply some sort of suit, worn by the far more humanoid aliens already seen in Prometheus’ opening.

Normally, I might be among those disappointed by that. I love monsters dearly, if my blog doesn’t give that away already. But there is a minimum threshold for inhuman features that the Engineers still meet for me. Something about the eyes and the uncanny look of their skin, both of which were deliberate choices by Ridley Scott and Neal Scanlan, the film’s creature designer who started with the Henson Company on movies like The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth, and has worked on the new Star Warses, including the absolutely fantastic Andor. Even in behind-the-scenes shots, they manage to look just odd enough to be pleasing to me.

(https://www.deviantart.com/pretty--kittie/art/Prometheus-Engineer-407324586)

I respect the design work that went into it and I like the final result, though I am very sympathetic to those who felt that this was an unnecessary explanation for a creature that was a more powerful symbol when it had no explanation.

Talking about such things is my happy place, and unfortunately we have to go back to The Bad Place now. The characters.

They find an alien corpse decapitated by a door (the great goddess O’Sha is most displeased), and within two minutes they’re sticking a meat thermometer in it.

Fifield the geologist has a panic attack, which is pretty relatable.

“Look, I'm just a geologist. I like rocks. I love! rocks! Now it's clear you two don't give a shit about rocks.”

He’s right and he should say it. They should still be orbiting the planet looking for artificial structures, and Fifield should be having fun doing an aeromagnetic survey or something.

But no. Meat thermometer. Sorry, “carbon reader”. Says the body’s been dead about two thousand years. They have just punched a hole in the first alien body they’ve ever found, to get precisely one data point. This is what is called a “destructive analysis.”

Destructive analysis is a technical term, so let me define it: You know how a team just read the text inside of a charcoalized lump that used to be a Roman scroll? How they didn’t destroy anything in the scroll to do that? How we might be on a path to getting so many ancient texts it could radically reshape our understanding of the period, and all it will take is some fancy x-ray scans and computers? The opposite of that. Think the opposite of that.

I’m going to go on a tangent out of pure spite and desire to educate. Carbon dating is complicated. There’s two isotopes (types) of carbon: Carbon 14 and carbon 12. C-14 is very, veeeery slightly radioactive, which means it will eventually burp out a little subatomic particle and turn into the non-radioactive Nitrogen 14. C-14 is mostly created in our atmosphere, so once something’s dead and in the ground, it’s not gaining any more C-14, it’s slowly turning into N-14.

We know how long C-14 takes to turn into N-14, it’s about 50,000 years to lose all but 0.2% of the original C-14. If you know how much C-14 something should start with, then you can take a look at how much C-14 your sample actually has, and you can calculate how long it’s been dead. Here’s a quick explainer from Scientific American to visually summarize this.

Now, the more complicated part. You have to know the starting conditions if you want to be accurate. You have to calibrate everything, because the amount of C-14 available in an environment can change over time. We have ways of doing this, but it usually means carefully studying the environment and other clues.

So if you were to actually find carbon-based alien corpses on an alien planet, you’d need to identify the atmospheric carbon isotope ratio, and then you’d be able to make a sketchy, poorly-calibrated estimation, that could be wildly off by a large margin. A critter that did a lot of traveling in its life would be especially hard to date, as you couldn’t be sure if it’d lived where you found it for long enough to take up the local C-14 levels.

In this case, their fancy meat thermometer might be plugged directly into the script, because the number they give is only about 60 years off the actual death date. How do I know this? Because of a thing I’m not saying yet.

That’s enough for this post right now. But I’m not done with this moment. I don’t like this moment, and I need to properly explain why. Next time.

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