Film: Alien: Romulus – In Space, No One Can Hear You Say “Wait, Didn’t We Do This Already?”

 

At this point, the Alien franchise is like your favorite band from college that keeps reuniting every few years to play “the hits” at smaller and smaller venues. You go for the nostalgia, endure the new stuff, and spend most of your time wondering if they’ll do “that scream part” just like they used to. Alien: Romulus, directed by Fede Álvarez, is the cinematic equivalent of that reunion tour. It’s competent, slick, and tries really hard to feel important—but mostly reminds you how good the original was, and how much you miss Sigourney Weaver’s thousand-yard stare.

Nostalgia, With a Splash of Desperation

Development for Romulus began the way most modern franchise entries do: with a whisper, a panic, and a PowerPoint deck labeled “IP Revival.” After Ridley Scott’s Alien: Covenant landed with the grace of a malfunctioning dropship in 2017, the series seemed destined for cryosleep. But in Hollywood, nothing truly dies—it just gestates in the chest cavity of a tax write-off until it bursts out again. Enter Fede Álvarez, best known for the Evil Dead remake and Don’t Breathe, who apparently approached Scott with a pitch so bold, it made even the man behind Prometheus say, “Sure, why not? Just keep the android sex metaphors to a minimum.”

Originally greenlit as a Hulu original (because nothing says epic science fiction like streaming it next to reruns of Cake Boss), Romulus was later upgraded to a theatrical release—indicating either studio confidence or a desperate attempt to fill the summer calendar after every other tentpole moved to 2026. Set somewhere between Alien and Aliens, the film’s timeline is the cinematic equivalent of shouting “prequel midquel rebootquel!” and hoping audiences just nod politely.

In terms of intent, Romulus aimed to return the franchise to its roots—namely, dark corridors, isolated terror, and the unnerving realization that being in space basically sucks. And to its credit, the film mostly delivers on that. But it also spends so much time channeling its predecessors that it feels more like a séance than a story.

Children of the Nostromo

The film stars Cailee Spaeny as Rain Carradine, a name so generically sci-fi it could double as an off-brand shampoo. Spaeny does what she can with a script that mostly requires her to breathe heavily, crawl through ducts, and act like she’s not contractually allowed to say “Ripley.” Joining her are David Jonsson as the requisite android, Andy—because every Alien movie needs one emotionally stunted synthetic to remind us what it means to be human—and Isabela Merced as Kay, who channels maternal instinct and latent trauma with the efficiency of someone who watched Aliensonce on a plane.

Álvarez, to his credit, has a real knack for tension. The film was shot largely in sequence, which is rare, and the practical effects are gloriously gloopy. The xenomorphs look tactile and terrifying—like something that crawled out of H.R. Giger’s haunted basement. The setting, a crumbling space station named “Romulus,” is appropriately grimy and claustrophobic, a perfect metaphor for this franchise’s inability to escape its own gravitational pull.

Plot-wise, you’ve seen this one before: a group of bright-eyed, tragically expendable young people explore a place they shouldn’t, find a thing they shouldn’t, and promptly get skull-punched by bio-mechanical murder lizards. There’s a bit more character development than in Covenant, but that’s not saying much. And yes, there is a twist—one involving a xenomorph-human hybrid (affectionately dubbed “The Offspring”) that feels like a leftover concept art sketch from Alien Resurrection. By the time we reach the climax, the film asks you to suspend disbelief so hard your brain gets a hernia. Let’s just say the ending is somewhere between “bold” and “let's insert the most improbable sequence here.”

Chestburster or Chestache?

Critical reception was lukewarm, like a facehugger soaking in a warm bath. Some praised the atmosphere and Álvarez’s commitment to practical effects. Others, understandably, pointed out that the film doesn’t say or do anything new. The characters are serviceable but mostly there to scream and die artfully. The horror is effective but derivative. And the film’s final act—complete with science-defying xeno-babies and emotional beats that collapse under their own melodrama—might leave longtime fans alternating between eye rolls and chuckles.

Still, the film performed admirably at the box office, bringing in over $350 million worldwide. For a mid-budget sci-fi thriller, that’s impressive. For a franchise that’s been dragged through more resurrections than Lazarus with a Netflix deal, it’s borderline miraculous. Fans are already debating whether Romulus is a worthy successor or a glorified tribute act. Álvarez has teased a possible sequel, but unless it includes something radically new—like, say, xenomorphs running for office—it’s hard to see how this ends differently.

What Romulus proves is that Alien is now a legacy brand, less about innovation and more about preservation. It’s a museum of its former self, occasionally shocking, frequently stylish, but ultimately constrained by the very thing that made it great: its past.

“In Space, No One Can Hear You Say ‘Meh’”

Alien: Romulus is a well-made, sometimes thrilling, occasionally silly entry in a franchise that refuses to die—and maybe shouldn’t. It’s got enough gore, tension, and Giger-inspired weirdness to satisfy fans, but not enough narrative muscle to justify its existence beyond nostalgia. Like a xenomorph clawing at the airlock, it’s clinging on for dear life. The result? A serviceable three-star ride that, for better or worse, still knows how to play the hits.

⭐️⭐️⭐️ (3/5)

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