District 9 is an area of Johannesburg that has housed a species of alien, derogatorily named “prawns”, ever since they arrived on Earth two decades ago. It begins as a potted-history faux-documentary that charts the volatile coexistence between humans and aliens. As one Joburg resident puts it: “If they were from another country we might understand, but they’re not even from this planet”. It soon morphs into a slum-based thriller telling the story of government penpusher Wikus (Sharlto Copley), a munitions operative recently infected with an alien compound, and the parallel plight of a father and son prawn attempting to save their race.
If this sounds ridiculous then worry not. Director Blomkamp, under the wing of Peter Jackson’s production, manages a very successful equilibrium of tongue in cheek and serious sci-fi.
When it’s on its soapbox the film offers themes and aesthetics that make it more akin to an episode of The Wire. For example, the door to door interrogations of the military in a foreign land, looking for weapons that may or may not be there. Where have we heard that before? It is a melting pot of observations that range from apartheid to Abu Ghraib.
With that in mind this is also a film in which the main alien is brilliantly named Christopher Johnson, and there is enough blood, Cronenberg style body horror, and fantastically inventive set pieces that enjoyment is guaranteed. The flourishes of special effects, in particular the use of a robotic suit of armour for the heroic finale, belie the $30m budget and put two-hour toy adverts such as GI Joe to shame.
At its core though is a simplistic story of someone trying to get home, one that you could easily imagine James Cameron or Ridley Scott crafting at the embryonic stages of their careers.
For better or worse, District 9 will not match your preconceptions as the lights go down. It is a rare hybrid, with glimpses of originality and bundles of allegory that will stimulate a think-tank that’s gone rusty in the summer months. It’s also much more exciting than clunking great robots whacking each other for hours and hours and hours.
