Remember that hot chick in college, the slutty one you always wanted to bang? Then there was the fateful evening you ran into her at a kegger. “This is it,” You think to yourself. “I’m finally gonna bang the slutty hot chick.”
And then, in the moment of truth, instead of banging her you end up spending four hours on a couch in her best friend’s basement listening to her bitch and moan about her professor/boyfriend/fuck-buddy dude who’s, “like, totally being mean right now.”
Prometheus is an equitable boner killer.
Cause, let’s face it, that movie looks fucking gorgeous. Dreary landscapes, stark colors, Charlize Theron’s breasts, it has everything your eyes would want in a movie, aesthetically speaking. It’s the hot chick.
It has aliens too. Aliens, at least according to that crippled dude with the voice box and Hollywood, pretty much just want to kill humans. (If you’re keeping score: killer aliens, hot chick’s boobs. This should rule.)
So, yeah, I went into this movie wanting to fuck it. I bought it a bottle of wine. I took it to a nice dinner. And, right as I was about to bend it over and ram it in, it’s gotta get all “deep” on me.
I mean, why would I want to watch a movie about questions when I could watch a movie about aliens exploding out of chests? And, more to the point, just like the chick you want to bang, it never actually says anything. If you’re gonna kill my giant raging four hour boner, at least make some amount of sense. Don’t just babble on and on but never actually say anything.
Seriously, at the end of the day, this film won’t fuck you.