The rare and special sequel that is not only worse than its predecessors but that makes its predecessors seem worse too. Seem, more exactly, to have been not worth the bother. Set in an extraterrestrial penal colony and crackpot religious sanctuary, where the shaven-headed inmates call each other "wankers" among other things and wander around in sewers, ventilating shafts, boiler rooms, and other bowelly environments with Fourth-of-July sparklers in their hands, this one boasts an even more minimal and rudimentary plot type than the prior two: monster on the loose, and from the very moment the credits start to roll. Its simplicity notwithstanding, the acting, the photography, and the atmosphere weigh so heavily, in fact overburden so crushingly, as to suggest some sort of anachronistic music-video rendition of Wagner's Götterdämmerung, perhaps starring Sinéad O'Connor and Sting. (The director, David Fincher, in fact trained as a music-video and TV-ad man.) The cynicism of the opening -- the spacecraft that escaped at the end of Aliens crash-lands with only Sigourney Weaver still alive -- is an accurate forecast of things to come. And we ultimately find ourselves rooting not so much for the humans and against the monster as for or against another sequel (with no guarantees regardless). It all leaves a rather sour taste. (1992) — Duncan Shepherd