Alien Invasion - Tumblr Posts
I am sooo hyped for Chapter 2 Season 7!
Knowing that the season is Alien Invasion, I really hope that we have cows added to the wildlife.
06/12/21
Soooooo… DJ and I think that Slone and the rest of IO are building some sort of laser, and are going to use the telescope thingy in the silo at Corny as the giant laser beam directed at the mothership. I can’t wait to see if we have a finale event this season and if my brother and I are right.
Stay tuned for more tin-hat time 🛸
IT CAME FROM OUTER SPACE (Jack Arnold, 1953).
Famous for their influential horror movies of the 1930, by the 1950s Universal Studios focus had shifted to a different kind of monster movie, informed by increasing fear of nuclear war and the threat of Communism. The template for these serious minded, paranoia soaked sci-fi features was set with the first and most influential of the series, It Came from Outer Space.
Amateur astronomer John Putnam (Richard Carlson) is the only witness to a spacecraft crash on the outskirts of the small desert town of Sand Rock, Arizona. When his fellow townsfolk start acting suspiciously he expects alien influence. Convincing his girl Ellen (Barbara Rush) and cynical local sheriff (Charles Drake), a posse is assembled to flush out the intruders. Certain that the intelligent aliens are benign and pose no threat, John must keep the angry mob at bay while essential repairs are made to the damaged craft. Failure to do so risks the life of his captured pals.
Based on an unpublished story by sci-fi maestro Ray Bradbury, It Came from Outer Space is, on the surface, a film about alien invasion. Yet, as with much of the sci-fi of its era, the movie serves as an analogy for the very real post-War fear of Communist infiltration.
Shot and originally exhibited in 3D, the movie is surprisingly light on things being lobbed at the screen, so works just fine when viewed flat. Clifford Stine's beautiful black and white cinematography perfectly captures the eerie isolation of the desert surrounds, giving the impression of a barren alien landscape.
Director Jack Arnold delivers an intelligent comment on the political and social mores of 1950's America; at its heart a plea for the acceptance of others. He elicits fine performances from a not exactly starry cast, as the drama unfolds with tension mounting pace, drenched in an innovative and influential theremin rich soundtrack.
If it seems a little cliched at time, this is only because it spawned so many imitations. In its own right It Came from Outer Space is a 50's monster masterpiece and a groundbreaking, original piece of popular cinema.
For a longer, more in-depth review of IT CAME FROM OUTER SPACE visit my blog JINGLE BONES MOVIE TIME! Link below:
DEVIL GIRL FROM MARS (Dir: David McDonald, 1954).
With Martian men on the verge of extinction, Nyah (Patricia Laffan), a PVC clad dominatrix who bears a passing resemblance to a young Agnes Moorehead, is dispatched to London to collect male specimens for the purpose of repopulating the planet. Accompanied by a robot seemingly made from odds and ends found in a garden shed, the would-be seductress with the voice of a British Rail announcer goes off course and crash lands in the Scottish Highlands. Here she invades the remote Bonnie Charlie Inn; the residents of which are a motley bunch including an escaped murder and his girl, an aspiring model, a scientist, an investigative journalist and a sturdy Scots landlady. The men of the Inn aren't up to spec so Nyah must repair her craft and continue on her mission. But those pesky Earthlings have other ideas and are intent on stopping her. You can bet they are sorry when she unleashes a powerful raygun and her giant flowerpot 'bot on them!
Read the full review on my blog JINGLE BONES MOVIE TIME. Link below.
Kind of tired of this alien
A depiction of a curious alien with several of its unseen companions following close behind as it explores a home based on the 2005 War of the Worlds film.
The Invasion of Sol System
"Strategic battles usually occurred in orbit, not ship to ship battles like in naval fights, but planned and expertly executed orbital combat. The usage of intelligent and guided projectiles and orbital mechanics to an advantage was paramount. Human fighters and dropships where more accomplished in certain atmospheres and planetary based conditions, whereas orbital drones and autonomous combat machines were employed heavily many other places. Nuclear weapons and retrofitted terraforming technology that had been used to make several planets habitable like earth were acquired and adapted for combat. Geologic survey and alteration nuclear charges, orbital lasers for climate control and daytime lighting, fusion-antimatter reactors and other massive, peacetime technologies were organized into the war effort. The aliens seemed very capable of surviving and continuing combat operations after or during these sorts of attacks, but strategies to largely cripple their efforts were refined for efficiency by the end of the war. At the Battle of Olympus Mons for example, the invasion force had begun construction on a massive fortification and mining complex that would have effectively claimed their forces the entity of Mars. The human warships Vengeance Spoken, Justice Commanded and Executor Ordained all focused a targeted orbital assault on the construction, ending in a 40 charge nuclear detonation which vaporized over 500 kilometers of Martian surface. The alien invaders were devastatingly dealt a serious blow, at the cost of severe damage to the human ships. It is generally agreed that this battle stopped what would have become a war ending invasion of Earth by the aliens." - A Common Record and Remembrance of the Invasion of 2400
The Post War Solar System
“As of now, in the Post-Invasion System, humanity and its alien invaders are still frigid with the cold of war. Human colonization past the asteroid belt is primarily stranded and rarely supported by Earth, Mars or Venus, prompting secessionist movements across Jovian and Saturnian moons. Earth, Mars and Venus remain powerful planetary holders and continue to produce arms, patrol their space and monitor the aliens. The aliens themselves, all known twenty six (26) combat types, are still unresponsive to human contact. Partially occupying forces on Mars, Vesta 3, Europa, Rhea and Pluto are either turning stranded and crashed warships into seemingly permanent settlements (or more rather, fortresses) or launching fortifying efforts in territory they’ve acquired. Mining stations, combat holds and ship transport orbits frequented by the aliens, commonly dubbed The Invaders are relentlessly policed and watched from afar by human space commands. As of yet, no major reinforcement operations from distant worlds have appeared.” - Common Guide and Remembrance of the Invasion of 2400
Humanity remains vanguard, always.
The ship is a seed. It pushes itself out into the dark on a needlepoint of light, a shaft of lightning between so many stars. So many stars, and many, many more worlds. Dead worlds. The seed cannot grow in their rotten soils, cannot nourish its precious cargo under toxic skies. Making a world livable takes far too long and leaves the caretakers vulnerable, easily picked off from predator or circumstance.
So the seed rushes on through the night.
A long time ago, it’s destination was chosen. A blue and white world hugging a warm, yellow star. Vibrant. Beautiful. It is alien, no doubt— the gravity is heavy, the air a bit thin. A singular, lonesome, lifeless moon dutifully orbits this faraway place. But: it is alive. And that’s all that matters. Changes can be made to something already growing, already in bloom.
So the seed continues. It’s crew hibernates in cavernous interior, a sea of bodies and armor and purpose, sleeping dreamless sleep in an ocean of iron, glass. A crew of warriors and builders, planners and tacticians. Soldiers sprinkled with farmers, engineers. Deeper in the belly of the ship lie faint, pearlescent potentialities that will foster politicians and artists, zealots and masters. When all is ready, when everything is secure, they will emerge under bright, new yellow sunlight.
The machines are awake. From sprawling giants to minuscule scuttlers, they maintain the mission. Moving. Thinking. Changing. This seed has been rebuilt nearly a dozen times in its travel, streamlined and perfected, remodeled to better suit one parameter or another across impossible distance. A journey of many centuries requires such deftness, and so in their cold, beautiful way, the machines do what they must. Even now, as they draw near to a lonesome star, they prepare. Behemoth foundries sift out potential-nothings from the void, weaved and embroidered down to the atoms, into weapons and vehicles. Fortifications kilometers in size are built and grown, assembled in prefabricated pieces for ease of deployment. Silent, shining armies of star-iron await in cavernously dark hangars; ready to set foot on a new world.
The ship is a seed. A gamble. They will never see their homeworld again, never hear of its people. When the soldiers within awake and disembark, they will be alone with only themselves and their task for comfort, for direction. The mission must succeed. It must. The ship is a seed, and it sails through the dark.
Each day, among a backdrop of endless darkness and shimmering cold starlight drops, a point of light grows brighter and brighter..
It’s a huge space, a room in somewhere so vast that the horizon is just endless black wall and endless black space.
There’s an ocean with dark waves you can sense and hear, but can’t see.
And an island at the center of it, with a city. Look around you and see the ships. They are behemoths, huge and angular and organic, arching skeletal profiles silhouetted. They are waiting.
Everything is smooth as stone and ebony like a night without stars, cut through with fine lines of amber, gold, ivory. Soft, organic light pulses in those countless lines. Ancient, undeniable heartbeats.
It’s freezing. Your breath comes out in billowing fog. Thin, dark ice frosts across structures as if it were a fine artisanal coating.
The doorways are too tall for anyone human, and they flower open, or the seams vanish making the entrance into a wall. Nothing has blemishes, nothing here has been built. It’s grown. Manifested. Every surface is eerily warm against the biting cold, ridged with intricate carvings so small you have to feel them to know they are there.
Everything is too big for normal people, avenues are so wide and broad, buildings like skyscrapers that simply vanish up into shadow. It goes on and on. A labyrinth for titans.
Everything meets at the center, at a statue ringed by black water in circular canals, but it’s so massive that you can’t see it up in the gloom, just two claws on the mount, and giant legs bent backward at the joints. Is it a God for the vanished builders? A triumphant warrior? You feel an awful foreboding, an ominous realization that somewhere far above you— the statue is looking back.
They know you are here.
An overpowering night. Even with the backbone of stars above its ancient darkness sprawls, swallows up the earth beneath like an oncoming ocean from above. It is the greatest enemy of the People. The night shelters their foes and predators, cloaks the stalking tigers even as helpless familiars are dragged off into tall grass or hides marauding Others, their fierce gazes and fiercer obsidian knives unseen. The night is the first and final God, a beautiful destroyer, merciless and immutable to the fates that play out beneath. The People fear it, respect it in a matter-of-fact absolutism. It *is*.
They pay little mind to an unfamiliar star above.
They are few. Numbers and abstractions are as far away as those twinkling, cold constellations. These people have short memories, awareness like a mirage over far away sands. But they know that they are less. The People are dwindling just as cool water dwindles under scornful sun. Voices forever vanished and dexterous, shaping hands stilled. In a world so big with the People so few, each loss is a Holocaust. Soon there will be none.
Bodies huddle in the dark as attentive, fearful eyes peer out into the blackness. Waiting. Each breath is an anxious rattle bound by animal-fear heartbeats pounding, sometimes screams erupt and throw themselves echoing into the darkness. Long grass bends, under sun rustling as antagonizing shapes manifest for the briefest of seconds before vanishing. Unseen Others circle. Hooting to themselves. Preparing. Starlight glints over sharp, brutal looking stone knives like so many lifeless eyes.
A frenzy passes between the People. No prayers exist yet, no gods have been born to give name and respect and loyalty to what lives deep within mankind. Even their emotions are thin things. More instinct than empathy. A frost of humanity over primordial depth. The hoots rise, hands thump at muscular chests, teeth barred and feet kicking, stamping into dry season dust. No rallying cries. No sympathies pass between adults and their clutching, cooing infants. When the Others emerge, all that awaits them is untamed fear and territorial aggression. War is an ancient impulse.
The foreign star observes, sentinel over a dim world. Words-without-words are exchanged. Unfathomable processes respond. *Thy will be done* relayed with majestic computational composure. The prairie below experiences sudden, catastrophic daylight as golden-red illumination splashes in all directions, like a rippling sea of wildfire. Everything in a hundred miles skitters, runs, jumps, howls. Undisturbed, natural darkness has been violated, and the terror it invokes is absolute. Even the elephants, giants of memory thousands of years long and deep, scatter, turning the savanna into pandemonium as all that lives beneath their command responds. *Flee*.
The Others are there. The Others are not there. Binary thinking shatters like predawn darkness meeting glorious, gilded morning. The world is burning. The Night is banished. The grass is alive with motion and sound, People falling to their knees, hands upraised by this intrusive sunrise. Silent. No sounds to conjure in the face of this. Unanimous clatter as brandished weapons meet solid earth below.
The foreign star looms. It is the first *made* thing to ever kiss the soil of this place. It will not be the last. A passageway opens, unfurling with the same practiced and liquid ease of a blossom in springtime. And like a blossom, it bears something within. Many somethings. New, and strange to this world. They stand. Taller than the mightiest matriarch amongst those tusked behemoths. Too many feet for one individual touches down amongst the undulating grasses. The People are laid bare before their visitors. Small as children, quivering in fireball illumination.
The night has been usurped and it’s place comes new, unfamiliar daylight for unspoken centuries to come.
Time is the great band. Beginnings bleed into endings, bleed into beginnings. This is the nature of all things. What dies nurtures the soil, and life rises out of its black foam, and what falls upon it is consumed in turn to nurture what comes next. Out of the muck from the earliest days until the hammer blow of extinction sent it back, only to crawl once again forward— ever forward. Defiant to the cyclical ends that are so numerous. Death. Plague. Conflict.
How many times were our ancestors reduced, resigned back to primitive form? How many generations of potential obliterated by so many fearsome ends, each form cut away by that cold scythe that dictates what lives and what dies? Ninety-nine percent of all life forms upon the Earth have withered and died. A cathedral of the extinct is the greatest achievement of this living world, not the things it has produced that breath and fight and breed, no— it’s mightiest haul is all the bones, all the skeletal remnants tucked away in her soils. The chorus of life is but a whisper to the requiem that follows, millions upon millions of voices strong.
When my people arose it seemed that we were the inheritors of a mighty mantle. An impossible age was upon us. Immortal, invincible— the apotheosis of industries and arts that our minds had summoned from purest imagination to hardest realities. Continents became little more than gardens for us to shape, the weather and its rebellious storms tamed with simple amusement until every day was pleasant and demure to our liking. We forged metal, flesh. Even light became just another palette to the artist and the engineer in all the shapes of our divine whim. We kissed other worlds until the stars in the night sky sang with the influence we wrought. Those first travelers, machines as they may be— they were the heralds of our coming upon the Galaxy..
And then came the loss. The disease that was upon us then was slow and ancient already, a stilling sickness that did not rot flesh or weaken bone; no, no, this silent dredge did nothing more but dull our minds, weaken our wills. Immortality brought weakness, endless resources stifled creativity. Our art, majestic and vast and mighty as it was, and it was mighty!— all of it blended, meshed. We were all doing the same in our countless, same-same-same heavens.
That was not what killed us, no, but it did weaken us just enough. Cracks in the walls from tenacious vines, hungry mold. Just waiting for the right push.
The Adversary came. Our Nemesis. And it was relentless. Merciless. It was the face of annihilation. An out-of-context event that turned so much divinity and so much power into ash, into the painfully folly that was. We crashed, we burned. We broke. So many beautiful fresco shards immolated. The continents we had tended melted away into slag, the storms we had tamed became raging gales that stripped the soil and stone from so many surfaces until all that was left was obliteration. They scoured all that we had touched. Like God erasing our hubris from his creation.
We ran. What else was there to do?
We vanished into the dark. Burning and burying all that was left behind, all that might incriminate the direction of our exodus. Some fled to a distant galaxy, believing this affliction was here and here only, amongst familiar stars. Others buried themselves in obscure, esoteric ritual and mindsets, hoping to vanish into regressive pasts that might unfold. Legions of dreamers and acolytes wove wonderful delusions for themselves, for the minds that remained, bodiless and hidden in tiny alcoves scattered. Others still went out into the Maw, believing they could reason with our oncoming extinction. Their questions were all silenced. One by one.
In our flight we found the ruins. The tombs and abandoned projects, the memories; all of it came with the realization of what had come before. The endless cycles of time realized in fragments, in pieces. Life arose, mind igniting in the sludge and the cold and the harshness, the inevitable ascension. And then the hurried, black silence that was total and uncompromising. Snuffing out civilizations in a methodical diminishing. One by one. Until nothing remained but the silence. When we found the remnants of our distant, forgotten forebears, and the telltale signs of their own inescapable fates, we had no time to mourn. The Adversary was already upon us.
It still is. We are at our Cradle now, though it is unlike to be where we truly originate from. It is all that remains. Our enemy walks the surface and soon will be amongst here, down beneath. Finishing their ultimate work. We do not why. Never will we know.
In our final hour, in our last struggle, we leave this record for you. These few, precious gifts.
May the cycle end with you.
Or let your end be sudden and complete.