Alright, you’re going to have to allow me to get my full nerd on here.
This is a love letter to Private Hudson from Aliens and the rest of the Aliens crew.
To coincide with last week’s release of Alien: Earth, I’m going to take the liberty to gush about my favourite—nay, most beloved, movie of all time, Aliens.
The story starts in 1992: Freddie Mercury’s ‘Barcelona’ rings out at the Olympics, Nando’s opens its first restaurant in the UK and Windsor Castle catches fire.
What a time to be alive.
I was in the first year of middle school. It was near Christmastime, and I was twelve years old. I’d spent the past few months heavily briefing the parents that under no circumstances would anything other than a Super Nintendo be an acceptable Christmas gift.
They delivered—for once—on that (no more frickin Bryan Adams albums or pogo sticks). But unbeknownst to me, a bigger treat was in the offing.
I knew nothing about Aliens and only two things about Alien. This was pre-internet, so unless you’d seen a movie, you relied on word of mouth and your imagination did the rest.
My parents had told me:
- The monster bursts from someone’s stomach during dinner (particularly memorable for my mum as she’d been pregnant with me when she saw it in the cinema, and imagined the vile creature crawling out of her own belly. If only she’d been so lucky).
- At the end, the heroine goes back for the cat (as a cat person, this seemed perfectly reasonable to me. Of course you’d go back for the cat. Under what circumstances would you NOT go back for the cat? None. Exactly.).
Although they hadn’t told me anything about Aliens, I was familiar with the cover of the movie in the local video store. Simple, menacing:
I had a friend over, and they were staying the night. We’d spotted in the TV Times that the premiere of Aliens was on at 9 PM on ITV.
We begged and begged.
My parents were pretty strict with movies. There had been ‘words’ when more lax parents had allowed me to view the likes of Terminator and Robocop.
(More on this further below).
Aliens was rated ’18.’ A year earlier, there’d have been no chance. But I was an uncool kid, and maybe they figured I needed street cred with my new peers.
They said yes.
My God.
To employ the lingo of the time:
It was wicked.
It was gnarly.
It was awesome.
And then the nightmares started.
I shit you not.
Even though it was my new favourite film of all time (and remains so as I stab this post out on my slime-encrusted keyboard—don’t worry, it’s my slime) every few months I’d have an Aliens nightmare.
The dream was always the same.
I’m in some kind of giant complex/spaceship/shopping mall, etc.
The aliens are in there, too.
There’s no way out.
And they’re coming for me.
I read that in scary dreams, you’re supposed to wake up before you die.
I didn’t.
I can still recall the ending of one particularly harrowing edition where I was crouched in a tiny utility room, the creature standing over me. I’m pathetically waving my hand over my head, as if I can bat away the inevitable.
I can’t, and its protruding tongue/mouth punches into my head. I feel a sharp sting as brain and skull fragments splatter.
And then I wake up.
Yeah, scarred for life.
But not quite.
For some reason, the dreams stopped when I was in my mid to late twenties.
Why?
Perhaps my brain had finished developing/was full.
Perhaps I’d seen too much TV news and knew what true horror was.
Perhaps I’d met my wife, and she’d replaced the creature in my nightmares (probably better edit this one out).
But looking back, one thing I learned—those age ratings? They’re there for a reason.
These days, Aliens would be rated ‘15’ in the UK.
My daughter is 10.
I am desperate, DESPERATE, for the day when I can introduce the movie to her. She’s pretty tough, like Vasquez-tough. But I’m not going to show it to her at twelve. And probably not thirteen either. Unless she begs me. And promises not to tell my wife.
Last year, I was educating her about D-Day and thought I’d show her the opening sequence of Saving Private Ryan to ‘bring history to life.’
After three minutes, we had to turn it off.
Yeah, I know. I’ve learned my lesson.
But back to Aliens.
I mean, forget Titanic, obviously that Avatar bullshit and even the mighty Terminator 2. Aliens is James Cameron’s masterpiece. He’ll never make a better movie.
I’ve seen Aliens so many times I’ve almost got the entire script down pat. This has occasionally impressed people, although by this point no one in their right mind would watch it with me.
(On a related side note, my other party trick is to recite the entire rap from Vanilla Ice’s Ice Ice Baby from memory.
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle.
If you’re interested, I only charge one shellsuit and a litre of Sunny D for the privilege.)
I digress.
I’m definitely an Alien purist; only the first three movies count for me (there have been one or two of the modern ones that aren’t bad, but they just don’t compare).
Yes, even Alien 3. That movie got a lot of hate when it was released, but I mean, come on, look what it had to follow.
The first Alien is also a masterpiece, but Aliens will always be my fave.
Every character feels like family now. Bishop, Hicks even Burke.
I think Bill Paxton’s (Private Hudson) death upset me more than my own granddad’s.
Why do I like Hudson so much?
Well, of all the characters, I see myself in Hudson.
Before the first encounter with the aliens, he’s all gung-ho, macho, thinks there’s nothing he can’t handle.
Or as we say in the UK, pub-talk. The kind of bravado or enthusiasm I miraculously find after a couple of cold pints of ale.
Then Hudson actually meets the pesky fiends, and he’s selfish, panicky, defeatist. Just like I am when the pub-talk meets cold, harsh reality.
But after he’s geed up my his mates, he finally finds his courage, his confidence, and unfortunately over-confidence that leads to his doom.
Kind of like me when one of my sparkling new lesson plans comes into contact with my students.
Hudson also has all the best lines:
Hey, maybe you haven’t been keeping up on current events, but we just got our asses kicked, pal!
How do I get out of this chickenshit outfit?
I am the ultimate badass! State of the badass art! You do NOT wanna fuck with me.
We’re on an express elevator to hell, going down!
I say we grease this rat-fuck son-of-a-bitch right now. […] Fuck. He’s dead. You’re dog-meat, pal!
And of course…
That’s it man, game over man – game over!
I’ve even marked the eras of my life by Aliens.
The only thing that mattered to me in my bedroom when I was sixteen wasn’t the Melanie Sykes edition of FHM, nor the flick knife I’d smuggled in inside a box of Pringles on the French Exchange trip.
It was the VHS of Aliens: Special Edition my mate had recorded for me off Sky TV, plastered with DO NOT RECORD OVER ON PAIN OF DEATH stickers.
My most treasured memory from my university days is watching the movie at the London IMAX for its 25th anniversary. It wasn’t designed for IMAX, so it was like watching Ripley and co through a letterbox. I didn’t care.
There was no lockdown during COVID in Korea, but the film industry shut down. Guess which movie (along with Jaws and a handful of other classics) they put on at the cinemas to fill the time?
Oh baby.
Three showings. I got to two of them and cursed my infant son’s colic for not letting me make the third.
Anyway, if I’m not careful, I’ll start talking about pulse rifles and what exactly happened to Wierzbowksi and I’ll be locked on like a facehugger.
Aliens. If you’re about to watch Alien: Earth and don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, put down your phone, turn off your monitor. Seek and ye shall find.
This is JL, last survivor of Todang-dong, Korea, signing off.
GAME OVER, MAN!
JL
Alien: Earth is on Disney+
PS: Want to write something as awesome as Aliens? New to the writing game? Check out the first of my five top tips for new writers HERE.
PPS: Like dark shit like Aliens? Murder? Then check this series out.
Like all of the above, plus a generous slice of humour-free humour? Then what are you waiting for?