AVP: An Otherworldly Battle of Legacies
In the 1980s, two American icons emerged. No, I’m not referring to Michael Jackson and Madonna, or Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, or even Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone.
In 1979 and 1987, respectively, the Alien and the Predator launched quintessential attacks on mankind, introducing us to the incomprehensible horrors of outer space. They bewildered, terrified, and transfixed audiences, cementing their status as cultural phenomena—though one extraterrestrial has found more success than the other. Because of its provoking, relevant story, the Alien franchise has stood the test of time, maintaining a more fruitful legacy than the Predator franchise.
The Alien of Alien is known technically as a Xenomorph, and through a disturbing process of interspecies reproduction, it terrorizes, impregnates, and ultimately kills the inhabitants of space ships and colonies of the future. However, it’s no coincidence that the Alien continually finds its way aboard ship. Corporations—most notably Weyland-Yutani Corp—repeatedly attempt to extract and exploit the Xenomorph for research or military advancement, and they’re consistently late to realize that this ruthless, indestructible feat of nature cannot be controlled. The Xenomorph comes to represent the colonized—whether it be peoples or ecosystems—and delivers a timeless message about the self-destructive implications of man’s perpetual endeavor to control that which it cannot.
In the original 1979 Alien, Weyland-Yutani deceitfully sends the blue-collar crew of a commercial space vessel on a mission to extract and deliver a deadly alien life force to be studied and weaponized. “The Company,” as they’re known, is nefariously aware that this creature will terrorize their crew, yet they fail to anticipate the strong will of Ellen Ripley, the sole survivor of the Nostromo who banishes the alien to outer space. Alien constructs the entertainment-plus-social-commentary alloy that few can, laying the thematic groundwork for the franchise. In the sequels that follow, a pattern develops: Weyland-Yutani recklessly revives their colonial project, the Alien violently proves its indomitability, and Ripley, despite being ignored and disparaged, returns to save the day. The prequels of the 2010s expand upon their roots, incorporating ideas of creation and artificial intelligence, while the most recent Alien: Romulus shifts to a more socio-economic lens to examine corporate greed. Though these installments vary in quality (Aliens is arguably the greatest sequel of all time whereas Alien3 may be the most disappointing), the momentum of the original thesis carries them all to net success, both in thrills and in resonance.
Opposite the Alien, the Predator comes to Earth in search of humans, and in the present as well. Predators or, Yautja, are a technologically superior species with a taste for hunting. They kill for sport and pride, and they employ a vast, arguably excessive arsenal, from contracting nets to thermal vision. Just as the nickname implies, Yautja shock their victims—often society’s strongest defenders—by dethroning them from their inherent human position atop the food chain and relegating them to prey. An undoubtedly intriguing premise, it stops right there. The Predator may disorient man, but it doesn’t deliver him a message. It doesn’t force him to question himself, because it doesn’t accuse him of any wrongdoing.
The first Predator of 1987 opens with a disturbingly long scene in which Arnold Schwarzenegger and his uniformed special forces unit raid a Guerrilla fort in an ambiguous Central American country, brutalizing the majority Latinx camp in a distinctly Reagan-era act of anti-socialist heroism. The Yautja ensues, targeting the team as they continue through the jungle, but what remains unclear is whether the Predator acts as a “Hand of God” delivering punishment to American soldiers, or a Godzilla-esque allegory for the traumatic struggles these noble soldiers face. In other words, whether the film itself serves to critique or promote the nationalist agenda of America in the 1980s remains unclear. While its undeniably thrilling sequences have solidified its status as an action classic, it fails to implement a potent social message, leaving nothing for its successors but a badass villain. Predator 2 substitutes Danny Glover and New York City for a protagonist and a location—a fun flick, though it’s hardly comparable to the original. Predators and The Predator are a bore, and while Prey gives the Yautja a fresh and worthwhile setting, it too suffers the consequences of the franchise’s thematic confusion.
These creatively horrifying creatures’ ability to rivet audiences produced two of the most influential American franchises. Yet where Alien distinguishes itself from Predator is in its universally impactful message, and this key difference is responsible for the success disparity between the two. This can be seen financially, such as how the Xenomorph has grossed nearly triple the Yautja (boxofficemojo), or how Alien arguably revived the Predator franchise, which was all but dead after Predator 2, with the AVP series. It’s visible in the success of their respective directors: while Alien launched the career of a household name in Ridley Scott, John McTiernan is mostly unrecognized among non-cinephiles. But perhaps the divergence is best illustrated by the signature kills of these respective creatures. The chestburster scene in which the Xenomorph emerges from man’s chest, from his greed, from his colonization, and from his manifest destiny, killing him in the process, has become one of the most iconic moments in cinema history, referenced across all types of media even to this day. The Predator’s spine rip, on the other hand, though it’s pretty cool, simply can’t boast the same cultural significance.
For those looking to start a franchise, take this as a message: make a scary bad guy and you’ll put butts in seats, but attach a message to him and you’ll be able to keep them there.