Alien 3 (David Fincher, 1992)/Alien Resurrection (Jean-Pierre Jeunet, 1997)

SPOILERS  

It's probably a measure of how out of touch I am with post-classical/1960 Hollywood but I see no appreciable difference between the first four titles in the Alien franchise. (Prometheus, Ridley Scott's 2012 attempt to regain control over the series, was a new agey mess, if memory serves.) Critics professed to be bored by Alien 3; indeed, this prison planet variation is my least favorite of the four. But it still held me from the start all the way to the disorienting climax in which the prisoners and a pregnant Ripley (the ever-reliable Sigourney Weaver) try to trap the alien in a molding shaft, the equal of any scene in Aliens for blood-pressure-raising thrills.

Alien Resurrection is the delightful oddball of the franchise, the baroque entry if we use Henri Focillon's theory of genre development. Ripley is now a clone with some alien acid-blood coursing through her and she stands at a snarky distance from the mayhem. There's not much at narrative stake for her anymore so her energy is implosive and ironic, drifting through the story as if she were there to critique it. Winona Ryder is on board as Call, a robot or, as Wiki has it, "an improved version of a human created by synthetics." Together, the two form a post-feminist bond against the aliens who prove themselves to be excellent swimmers in this installment. In fact, Alien Resurrection seems designed expressly to be taught alongside Donna Haraway's "A Cyborg Manifesto." Call even tells Ripley that she's not a being but, rather, a construct. It's a grad seminar happening right before us and the theorietical applications are freeing. 

Alien 3: A-minus

Alien Resurrection: A-minus