My editor at Critic’s Notebook requested a review of Prometheus that didn’t hold back on the spoilers. Here is that very thing. As with certain other Ridley Scott films, characters are framed in visual environments that make you doubt your own eyes, while saying things that make you put your fingers in your ears. One day cinema will reclaim the further shores of sci-fi from television, strip away the small screen’s thin characterizations and habitual pacing in 20-minute units, and learn to take deep breaths again. This is not that day, although the look on Noomi Rapace’s face when she got to page 90 or so of the script must have been a peach.
To add: The most illuminating realization about Prometheus and its weaknesses.
That this image, having been in every trailer for months, of Rapace bloodied and stripped and seemingly praying in desperation in the face of a universe wreaking disgraceful havoc on her beliefs and her uterus, surely the absolute crux point for the character’s every fibre and principle, isn’t there. It’s been left out, apparently superfluous.