Pierre Lerouge

Besides Rebecca Ferguson, this film has nothing going for it. It hides behind a three-point-of-view structure that’s been recycled to death and adds no real perspective or emotional depth. The supposed “tension” is manufactured through a soundtrack blatantly lifted from All Quiet on the Western Front (2022) — a cheap attempt to mimic weight it hasn’t earned. Director Kathryn Bigelow and writer Noah Oppenheim claimed they wanted a “journalistic approach” — urgent, real, grounded in research. The result? Anything but. The film feels sterile, distant, and dramatically hollow. Bigelow and Oppenheim also wanted to “challenge the viewer with ambiguity.” They should have watched Civil War by Alex Garland — it could have taught them a lesson or two about ambiguity, storytelling, and genuine tension. The story offers no insight, no evolution, no catharsis. It mistakes procedural repetition for realism and ends up as a cold, hollow exercise in fake urgency. By the end, I felt exactly the same as I did before pressing play — unmoved, unconvinced, and wondering what the point was. In short: all noise, no nerve.

From Cosmic Horror to Coming-of-Age: Alien: Earth is, without question, a stunning piece of television. The production design is immaculate, with world-building that feels both vast and claustrophobic in the best Alien tradition. The sound design is razor-sharp, the atmosphere thick with tension, and the visual effects render strange new creatures with awe-inspiring precision. On a technical level, it’s hard to find fault: the show looks and sounds incredible. Where it falters, however, is in its narrative core. For decades, the Alien franchise has thrived by centering its namesake: the xenomorph. The creature is not merely a monster but the franchise’s myth — a force of nature, a terrifyingly elegant predator, an unknowable “other” against which humanity is measured. Human drama, whether in the form of Ripley’s survival or the unsettling ambition of Weyland-Yutani and its synthetic creations, has always been secondary, orbiting around the gravitational pull of the alien itself. Alien: Earth disrupts this balance. On the surface, it promises new alien species, evolutionary potential, and ecological intrigue. But peel back the layers and it quickly becomes clear: the story isn’t truly about the creatures. Instead, the emotional center has shifted toward the children, their relationships, and their survival. It’s as if the series has been recalibrated to echo the Stranger Things formula — young protagonists thrust into extraordinary circumstances — rather than carrying forward Alien’s own distinct DNA of cosmic horror, corporate greed, and survival at all costs. This shift creates a strange dissonance. By reducing the xenomorph to a background presence — even at times to something approaching a domesticated “pet” with offspring — the show risks defanging what made the alien terrifying in the first place. The inscrutability, the cold perfection, the existential dread: all of that is softened when the creature is re-framed through a sentimental lens. None of this diminishes the craftsmanship of Alien: Earth. It’s a bold, visually arresting reinvention that will no doubt capture new audiences. Yet for longtime fans, there’s a sense of loss. The franchise’s defining figure — the alien itself — is no longer the story’s beating heart but a narrative accessory. The result is a series that dazzles the senses but compromises the myth. Alien: Earth is a triumph of production, but in trying to modernize the franchise, it risks forgetting what made it legendary.