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Three of James Cameron's first five feature films as a director were sequels, and try though I might to look for some common thread among that threesome that would allow for Piranha 2: The Spawning to reveal previously unskimmed depths... well, there's always next week, next month, next year for that. This time around, Chapter Two examines Aliens, a blitzkrieg of an action film that also finds enough time for sharply etched emotional resonance, a defining performance from Sigourney Weaver (which got her an Oscar nomination, the first of her three to date, and one of seven that the film received) and a comic tour de force from Bill Paxton, who somehow finds a way to turn terminal whining into something almost endearing. Game over indeed, Pvt. Hudson.

I don't remember a lot of my initial theatrical experience with Aliens (I was ten at the time); however, I feel confident in asserting that my stomach was considerably wrung out when it was all over. I was no cynic (at that age at least).Even now when viewing the 154-minute Director's Cut (which will be the version referred to in this column), there is still the sense of carefully calibrated wind up and no release, which is amazing considering how much wonderfully staged sound and fury there is. Cameron goes for a mood of constant dread (as opposed to cheap shocks designed for satisfying but momentary jumps in our seats) and maintains it from start to finish.

The calm of the final fadeout featuring Ripley and Newt taking the well-deserved cryo-sleep "free of dreams" that they have both earned is diminished by the minor tones in James Newton Howard's score. Though the music is suitably pumped up during the rah-rah moments where Ripley is kicking ass, the closing theme is disquieting as it draws the film to an end. It insidiously suggests the possibility that all is not right, and does so more subtly than a final Carrie-like hook that deliberately leaves the door open. (The opening minutes of the third Alien film bear out this pessimistic mood, after which that film spirals ever downward, stopping first at poignantly tragic before settling on infuriating and incomprehensible.)

While I freely admit that the specifics of my initial reaction to Aliens have been lost to time, the particulars of the viewing have not. I saw it with my dad, which is kind of weird, and my grandfather, which was truly loony. Some background, to clarify these statements. I had been watching "grown up" (re: R-rated) films in the theaters since I was seven and my parents took me to see the Roy Scheider cop/helicopter drama Blue Thunder. Prior to that, I was allowed on a case-by-case basis to stay up with them and watch films on Home Box Office. Pivotal moments from that epoch include The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, which I did see all of and The Fog, which I most certainly should not have stayed up for. Technically, I wasn't supposed to be seeing it at all. I had been sent to bed but snuck back down, hid behind Dad's recliner and took furtive glances around the upholstery when I dared. My penance was having the final image of Hal Holbrook receiving a swift ax blow to the stomach hard-wired into my circuits for decades to follow.

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