The best movie posters are not necessarily the most aesthetically pleasing, but those that provoke the imagination of the spectator, turning them into storytellers in their own minds as they begin to wonder about the cinematic potential contained within the artwork.

As a child browsing my local convenience store’s DVD shelves, I was always drawn to the cover of Jurassic Park (1993). Strangely, I didn’t actually watch the film until my early twenties. The only dinosaur film I remember seeing as a child was Dinosaur (2000), yet I somehow went through my entire childhood without watching what is arguably the definitive dinosaur film.

It wasn’t that I refused to watch it. Nor did I desperately ask my parents to buy it for me. So why was I captivated by the poster, yet uninterested in engaging with the film behind it? Perhaps, even then, I sensed that the film’s tone might not align with the one I had constructed in my imagination. But how could a poster consisting of little more than a logo provoke such a specific expectation? How could something so minimal generate a film in my head?

How it provokes the imagination

The most striking design element of the poster is its restraint. There are no characters, no scenery, just a logo and a tagline surrounded by blackness. What could be interpreted as minimalism instead becomes invitation. The surrounding blackness functions as a seductive void. It does not present a world; it demands that you create one. The absence of imagery compels the imagination to fill the space. The logo becomes the sole fragment of information from which an entire narrative must be constructed. This feels deliberate. Mystery encourages speculation, and speculation breeds desire.

The emblem tells us we are entering a park inhabited by dinosaurs. But what kind of park? A theme park? A scientific facility? A forbidden wilderness? The skeletal Tyrannosaurus rex immediately establishes seriousness. This is not a friendly, cartoonish dinosaur, it’s a skeleton of the most dangerous dinosaur. The use of a skeleton implies authenticity, something ancient and real.

The colour scheme reinforces this tone. The black silhouette against red evokes danger. The circular design resembles a warning or prohibition sign. The yellow border separating it from the surrounding darkness suggests caution. Nothing about this feels inviting. If anything, it feels hazardous. The T-Rex looms over what appears to be a forest, dwarfing its environment. Its scale suggests supremacy. Humans are conspicuously absent. Where do they fit into this world? Are they explorers? Victims? Architects of something reckless? The poster does not answer these questions. It provokes them.

Then comes the tagline:
“An adventure 65 million years in the making.”

The word adventure shifts the emotional register. Suddenly, the horror implied by the colours and skeletal imagery softens. Adventure suggests spectacle, excitement, and even triumph. It carries an upward momentum — the promise of discovery rather than pure dread. Yet adventure does not exclude danger. Many adventures begin with optimism and spiral into chaos. Perhaps that tension is precisely what the poster implies. The phrase “65 million years in the making” introduces another layer of intrigue. Have humans engineered this revival? Is this scientific ambition? Commercial? A miracle? A mistake? The poster offers no clarity, only possibility, and that possibility is expansive.

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So… Is the film as good as the poster?

When I finally watched Jurassic Park, the tone did not align with the darker, more unsettling film I had imagined. The threatening, almost ghoulish atmosphere I had constructed from the poster gave way to something more accessible, more heroic, more family-oriented.

When destruction happens, the reactions don’t feel as serious or as authentic as I had anticipated. Near-death experiences are followed by composed one-liners, as if the characters have stepped out of danger rather than narrowly survived being killed. Instead of lingering fear, there’s quick wit. I expected something colder and less light-hearted. But that’s my own personal taste.

For those whose desired tone aligns with what the film delivers, the question becomes whether it fulfils the imaginative expansion the poster creates. The world of Jurassic Park is certainly expansive. There are multiple dinosaur species, several high-stakes scenarios affecting a wide range of characters, and a sense of scale throughout. There is plenty to engage with and it’s reasonable to assume that many audiences were satisfied with what they discovered behind the artwork. It remains a beloved film, after all. The size of the adventure is impressive. But tone is a required taste, and the one presented here simply wasn’t mine.

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The best movie posters are not necessarily the most aesthetically pleasing, but those that provoke the imagination of the spectator, turning them into storytellers in their own minds as they begin to wonder about the cinematic potential contained within the artwork.

For those of us intrigued to see the continuation of Elizabeth Shaw and David’s journey as they searched for the Engineers’ homeland, what many of us hoped would be Prometheus 2, that version of the film never truly saw the light of day. Well, not exactly. Disappointment from sections of the fanbase over the absence of traditional xenomorphs in Prometheus (2012), coupled with Fox’s reluctance to finance another philosophically charged sequel focused primarily on the Engineers, led to a rewrite. What emerged was a film that retained fragments of that original direction but ultimately re-centred itself around the return of the creature that began it all.

And yet, it did not feel like a compromise. If anything, it generated even more excitement. Those who embraced Prometheus were, after all, originally Alien fans. So while it was suggested that the earlier philosophical ambitions had taken a step back to make room for the xenomorph’s return, the new direction appeared to promise the best of both worlds. That sense was reinforced in 2015, when a brief synopsis suggested that we might still visit the Engineers’ homeland:

"Bound for a remote planet on the far side of the galaxy, the crew of the colony ship Covenant discovers what they think is an uncharted paradise, but is actually a dark, dangerous world—whose sole inhabitant is the 'synthetic' David (Michael Fassbender), survivor of the doomed Prometheus expedition."

It was somewhat disappointing to see David referred to as the “sole inhabitant,” a phrasing that seemed to imply that Elizabeth Shaw, and possibly even the Engineers, would not be accompanying us on this next chapter. Yet the synopsis opened up a space for speculation that felt expansive. The notion that paradise conceals something far closer to hell is immediately intriguing. Hell, after all, is a concept open to interpretation. What form would it take here?

We knew the xenomorphs were returning but how would they fit into this setting? What had David been doing alone on this planet? The last time we saw him, he was nothing more than a severed head. If this truly was the Engineers’ homeland, how would a new crew respond to such a discovery? What would initially make it appear like an uncharted paradise, and at what point would it reveal itself as something far darker?

There was already more than enough to fuel the imagination. But then the official poster was unveiled, accelerating the speculation about what we might witness in this new chapter of the franchise, in arguably one of the most interesting pieces of artwork the series has produced.

How it provokes the imagination

Technically, a film poster is artwork in itself. However, the first thing that strikes you about this one is that it feels like classical artwork. Not just any artwork, but something influenced by European sculpture and painting. Picking up on that element is hardly rare. Many have noted the similarities to Auguste Rodin’s The Gates of Hell and Gustave Doré’s The Fall of the Rebellious Angels. But this resemblance is no coincidence. Doré, the nineteenth-century illustrator renowned for his engravings of John Milton’s Paradise Lost, material that heavily influenced Alien: Covenant, whose original title was Alien: Paradise Lost, is clearly echoed here.

This immediately signals that this is no simple slasher. Instead, it suggests a continuation of the philosophical undercurrents introduced in Prometheus, now merged with a narrative in which the xenomorphs appear to dominate. The connection to Milton invites speculation. How do the themes of Paradise Lost intersect with the presence of the “perfect organism”? We are confronted with imagery that implies intelligence and intention long before we are given narrative confirmation of either.

What we appear to see are Engineers being overpowered by the xenomorphs. They are no match for the creatures that engulf them, entangling them in what resembles a sculpted vision of hell. The implication is striking. In Prometheus, the Engineers were presented as superior, grander than humanity, perhaps even godlike. Yet here they seem powerless. What does this inversion suggest? Are we merely insignificant in a universe governed by forces beyond our comprehension? Humanity does not even feature in this composition. Is this a cold depiction of domination as a universal rule? If the xenomorphs triumph over the Engineers, is it the result of the Engineers’ own creation or something else entirely? And if they have fallen, does that extinguish our chance of ever understanding where we truly come from?

Perhaps this is simply a depiction of hell. The environment appears chaotic and claustrophobic, as though we are being dragged downward into darkness. There is something deeply unsettling about imagining ourselves within it. Yet light breaks through from above, illuminating the carnage below and most prominently, the ascending xenomorph at its centre. Is that illumination merely a visual device to signify dominance? Or could the light represent discovery? Might it even suggest that hope persists within the darkness, that this is not simply a vision of annihilation, but a struggle in which humanity may yet triumph? Is this what the crew of the Covenant encounter on their so-called “uncharted paradise”? If so, what are the consequences? How many, if any, will survive? And is this what David ultimately discovers? Could this even hint at the fate of Dr Elizabeth Shaw?

The poster’s design carries a mechanical, skeletal coldness reminiscent of H.R. Giger’s aesthetic, immediately recalling the original 1979 film and its director. There is also the return of the distinctive typography, the spaced lettering that signified isolation in the original Alien poster. In that sense, the artwork appears to satisfy both audiences: those who longed for the return of the xenomorph, and those captivated by the Engineers’ mythology. Whether the film’s combination of these elements was successful is open to debate. What is clear, however, is that the poster itself succeeded in provoking a fascinating range of possibilities within the spectator’s imagination.

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So… Is the film as good as the poster?

If audiences thought Prometheus was divisive, then the reaction to Alien: Covenant took that division even further. The negative reception often seemed to dominate, though some of us admired what the film was doing.

While the film sought to satisfy those longing for the return of the xenomorph, its method of reintroducing the creature left a bitter taste for some. Ridley Scott continued his philosophical exploration of creation, though this time the film provided more answers than mystery and those answers were not to everyone’s liking. The origin of the xenomorph was explained, and while that revelation was embedded within an ambitious narrative, the sense of wonder inevitably shifted. For some, it vanished altogether. I did not see that revelation as a fatal misstep. If you are invested in the themes the film explores, you may be willing to overlook elements that at times verge on the excessive, such as the newly born xenomorph mimicking the movements of its creator.

One significant thread, however, remains unresolved. We do not see how the derelict ship ultimately came to rest on LV-426, leading into the events of Alien. Although we were teased with a sequel in which David would travel with his cargo of eggs to another Engineer-inhabited world, it now appears unlikely that we will see that continuation realised. It is reasonable to assume that we may never receive definitive answers and that may not be entirely disappointing. As the explorers aboard Prometheus discovered, and as some long-time fans felt in response to the explanation of the creature’s origin, answers to grand mysteries can unsettle more deeply than ignorance ever could.

The film is not flawless, but what it presented felt remarkably close to the kind of bold narrative a spectator might construct when letting their mind roam. Some films position themselves as more controlled and self-assured than the speculative conversations that surround them. Covenant does not distance itself from the expansive thinking fans engage in; it operates within that same imaginative space. It is because of that strength that one is willing to forgive its imperfections. After all, the speculative mind is never perfect.

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The best movie posters are not necessarily the most aesthetically pleasing, but those that provoke the imagination of the spectator, turning them into storytellers in their own minds as they begin to wonder about the cinematic potential contained within the artwork.

When it was announced in 2009 that Ridley Scott would return to the Alien franchise to direct a prequel, excitement spread quickly. Following Aliens (1986), the series had steadily declined, Alien³ (1992) was famously disowned by its own director, David Fincher, and Alien: Resurrection (1997) effectively brought the franchise to a halt (if we discount the Alien vs. Predator spin-offs). The return of the filmmaker who birthed this universe carried enormous promise.

That anticipation deepened when the film was revealed to be titled Prometheus, a name strikingly unfamiliar within the franchise. Scott and writer Damon Lindelof were careful to insist that the film existed within the Alien universe, yet was not a direct prequel to the 1979 original. Suspicion grew. But when the poster was finally unveiled, optimism surged. Familiarity remained with certain design choices, yet it was overshadowed by the presence of the unknown. There were no eggs, no xenomorphs, no Ripley. Instead, the artwork offered something recognisable yet alien, provoking a powerful new sense of wonder. What elements within its design sparked such intense speculation?

How it provokes the imagination

The title font immediately recalls what featured in the poster of Aliens: thin, tall, compressed, yet still spaced enough to evoke isolation with the tightness introducing a feeling of claustrophobia. But then our attention quickly switches from the familiar to the unfamiliar.

Dominating the poster is a colossal stone head, illuminated by an eerie glow. The light suggests that something lies concealed beyond the artwork, a discovery awaiting the lone human figure standing before it. But unlike the glowing crack in the egg from the Alien (1979) poster that creates the same observation, there is nothing to suggest that this discovery may be a potential biological threat. We are left with questions. Who built this monument? Is it the work of the “people” who resemble it, or something else entirely?

Above the image sits the tagline: “The search for our beginning could lead to our end.” Its wording suggets that this search implicates us directly: our end. Could whatever lies beyond this discovery threaten humanity itself? What does “our beginning” even mean? Are we searching for our creators? Our gods? And if so, would we welcome what we find? The monument resembles a human face, a nose, brow, eye sockets, ears, yet it is unmistakably lifeless. But are we certain this head is merely a monument? Could it be something more?

Near the human figure stands an ambiguous, oval-shaped object, solid and stone-like, tilted unnaturally. It does not resemble an egg. Is it part of the environment? A pod? A vessel? Is anything contained within it? The poster refuses to clarify.

What becomes clear is scale. The human presence is insignificant against the vastness of the head. Whatever this structure represents, it feels greater and far more powerful than us. The poster suggests not survival horror, but something deeper, a confrontation with origin, purpose, and insignificance. We’re no longer dealing with a regular Alien film.

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So… Is the film as good as the poster?

Upon release, Prometheus divided audiences, particularly those hoping for clear answers regarding the origins of the xenomorph and the Space Jockey from Alien (1979). The film did not explain how the derelict ship ended up on LV-426, nor did it provide a definitive account of the eggs it carried. Instead, it offered fragments: the Engineers, suggestions of genetic creation, and disturbing imagery carved into ancient stone walls.

For many, this felt unsatisfying. But this refusal to explain everything is precisely what allows the film to succeed. Rather than laying out a clear path toward the events of Alien, Prometheus leaves that connection open, encouraging speculation about how these discoveries eventually lead to the events of the 1979 film.

Like the poster, the film leaves us with ideas rather than conclusions. Why did the Engineers create us? Why did they later seek to destroy us? What did they find lacking in their creation? And what consequences might follow from discovering the truth about our origins? These questions linger long after the film ends, expanding the sense of wonder rather than closing it down.

What Prometheus offers is something far more philosophical than many expected from the franchise. It turns the attention toward creation, faith, and consequence. The fascination it leaves behind is not stronger than that of the earlier films, nor does it replace it, it’s just a different focus. Prometheus confronts us with the unsettling idea that understanding where we come from may be more disturbing than never knowing at all.

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The best movie posters are not necessarily the most aesthetically pleasing, but those that provoke the imagination of the spectator, turning them into storytellers in their own minds as they begin to wonder about the cinematic potential contained within the artwork.

After watching Alien (1979) at a very young age, I remember my parents telling me about the sequel, Aliens (1986), in which Ripley would return to the planet LV-426 with a team of marines. What first caught my attention was the s added to the end of the original title. On the surface, it seems simple, yet its impact is deafening. A single xenomorph aboard the Nostromo was enough to ensure chaos and destruction; the idea of Ripley facing multiple creatures escalated the stakes to a point where survival felt almost unimaginable. The stronger the antagonists, the more compelling it becomes to witness how protagonists overcome them, as their triumph offers reassurance that we, too, might be capable of the same resilience and victory.

Another element that stood out to me was the introduction of a child into the equation. This became even more compelling when we learn that Newt was discovered as an orphan, her family having been killed by the xenomorph, and that she has been hiding from the creatures ever since. The presence of a being that represents innocence and a future within an environment ruled by extermination suggested a story more emotionally profound than that of the original film. Even without visuals, the concept of Aliens alone was enough to ignite my imagination, allowing me to envision the perfect film I wanted to see. But what role does the poster play in provoking that sense of wonder even further?

How it provokes the imagination

Our first visual reference to Newt reinforces her innocence, as she clings tightly to Ripley, her protector, who is armed with her signature flamethrower while they stare ahead at the threat they face. Although we may trust in Ripley’s strength to defeat the enemy, Newt’s fragility symbolises vulnerability, creating uncertainty over whether both will survive. This tension fuels our curiosity to witness their journey while also encouraging us to speculate on the scale of the threat.

That scale is immediately suggested by the glowing eggs surrounding them, poised to unleash a swarm of facehuggers capable of causing havoc far beyond what was seen in the first film. The magnitude of the danger is further reinforced by the tagline, “THIS TIME IT’S WAR.” While perhaps not as haunting as “In space no one can hear you scream,” it promises a larger, more confrontational conflict that invites the viewer to imagine heightened stakes.

The design of the film’s title also diverges from the bold, modest proportions of the original 1979 poster. The typography here is thinner, taller, and more compressed, creating an impression of claustrophobia. While space remains between each letter, suggesting isolation, this sensation is diminished by the presence of a heavily armed marine unit, reducing the sense of helplessness that defined the original film.

The increased height of the font further implies a greater threat. Although the multiplicity of xenomorphs already conveys this escalation, the bright light piercing through the letter i suggests something concealed behind the artwork. Could there be something else beyond the xenomorphs? The composition reinforces this idea: Ripley’s grounded stance, her weapon aimed outward, and the upward gaze shared by her and Newt imply a threat greater than the eggs surrounding them. Viewers familiar with the film know what this revelation entails, but for those encountering the poster without prior knowledge, it raises the question of whether this danger could have been imagined beforehand. If so, it speaks to the remarkable power of the poster’s design.

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So… Is the film as good as the poster?

Aliens can be considered a near-perfect sequel, following a natural progression from its predecessor. The antagonistic forces are amplified, and Ripley returns as the emotional centre of the narrative while facing new challenges as a maternal figure, following the revelation of her daughter’s death on Earth. The film distinguishes itself by shifting genre, moving from pure survival horror to action.

Personally, I felt that this shift weakened the sense of isolation and helplessness that made the original film so compelling. James Cameron’s embrace of the action genre introduced emotional tones that felt somewhat too family-friendly for my taste. Although this did not fully align with my personal taste, taking the sequel in a different direction was ultimately the right decision. By doing so, Cameron ensured that Aliens stands as an individual work, strong enough to exist independently of the original.

The poster mirrors this individuality, provoking an intense sense of wonder by promising a film markedly different from the one audiences had previously encountered. Aliens succeeds in fulfilling the potential suggested by its promotional artwork, delivering on the expectations formed through its graphic design. Considering the ideas sparked by this poster alone, it is difficult to imagine a more effective marriage of concept and execution. As we continue to experience a decline in cinematic storytelling, it raises the question of whether a work as remarkable as Aliens could ever emerge again anytime soon. My guess is not for a very long time.

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Graphic design by: Steve Frankfurt and Philip Gips

The best movie posters are not necessarily the most aesthetically pleasing, but those that provoke the imagination of the spectator, turning them into storytellers in their own minds as they begin to wonder about the cinematic potential contained within the artwork.

The British Film Institute recently held a retrospective of Ridley Scott’s finest films across its London venues, celebrating the director’s mastery of world-building cinema. At BFI Southbank, an accompanying exhibition offers insight into how these worlds are constructed, featuring storyboards, clapperboards, costumes, and film posters from Scott’s personal collection.

Among the posters on display were The Duellists (1977), Alien (1979), Blade Runner (1982), Thelma & Louise (1991), American Gangster (2007), and The Last Duel (2021), all presented in elegant black frames. While each is visually striking, none possesses the same power of seduction as the poster for Alien. Decades later, even for those familiar with the film, its sense of mystery and dread remains undiminished. Often cited as one of the greatest film posters of all time, the question remains: what makes it so effective?

How it provokes the imagination

Interestingly, the poster contains very little imagery drawn directly from the film. There is an egg, but it does not open from the side, nor does it emit an eerie neon-green glow as depicted here. While this misrepresents what appears on screen, it never feels deceptive. Instead, the inconsistency is forgiven, even welcomed, because whilst being aesthetically pleasing, the glow seeping from the crack invites speculation. What lurks inside? It stirs the imagination, even for those of us who have seen the film, as we’re looking at a different egg and possibly a different force. By presenting something recognisable yet altered, the poster reinforces the feeling of the unknown. The shadow obscuring the egg suggests something that should not be uncovered, drawing us toward the forbidden.

Perhaps the poster’s most powerful element is the tagline placed just below the centre of the image: “In space no one can hear you scream.” Its modest size forces the viewer to stop and engage. This is not a poster designed for passing glances; it demands attention. It draws you into the depths of the poster, as you sink into the empty blackness that almost entirely consumes it. Once you digest the words and contemplate the horror and isolation of being trapped in space without the possibility of outside forces attending to your screams to save you from a creature that we can only presume is a serious threat to life, a deep sense of dread runs through you.

The unusually wide spacing of the title lettering further reinforces this isolation. Any help, if it exists at all, feels impossibly distant. What heightens the dread is the absence of a visible threat. We are told only that something exists, something capable of making us scream. Even the surface beneath the egg is ambiguous, its texture unclear, provoking further unease. Is it stable ground, or something more ominous? What lurks within the depths of darkness, and what quantity? This mystery invites us to imagine the worst of our fears and provokes enough curiosity to want to witness what the characters discover on the planet, LV-426, making it one of the most effective posters of all time.

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So… Is the film as good as the poster?

Although the poster features minimal elements, they combine to spark within you an intense curiosity. You want to see the film to answer the questions it raises, to bring clarity and resolution. But Alien offers no such comfort.

The creature revealed is unimaginable than anything the viewer might have suspected. The xenomorph’s design and biology were unlike anything seen in cinema before, and its lifecycle from facehugger to fully formed predator resists easy comprehension. The revelation still swarms with mysteries as you begin to wonder about the origins of the organism. Where did the derelict spacecraft come from? Who or what is the Space Jockey? Is the organism natural or engineered? And if engineered, then by whom? Are there more like it beyond LV-426? What other forces are there that exist that we do not know about?

These unanswered questions mirror the sense of wonder evoked by the poster. Where many films exhaust the mystery suggested by their marketing, Alien expands upon it. Instead of diminishing the imagination, it fuels it. This rare ability to sustain and even deepen uncertainty is what makes Alien as powerful as its poster, and perhaps even greater. The film doesn’t merely live up to the promise of its artwork; it transcends it.

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Movie posters serve multiple functions. The most obvious is to market the film: to attract audiences and encourage them to invest time and money in a product that exists with the hope of making a financial return. The marketing tools at a designer’s disposal often include highlighting the actors, directors, producers, and the genre of the film. Naturally, the graphic design must also be aesthetically pleasing if it is to capture attention. Beauty, after all, is a powerful value that is often taken for granted in the modern era. However, there is another function that is arguably the most important and perhaps the most overlooked, which is the ability to provoke the imagination of the spectator.

When visiting the local convenience store in the village I grew up in as a child, I would browse the DVD rental collection they had, which felt like a miniature Blockbuster. It was rare that I picked up anything for rental, as my parents either didn’t have the money or I was attracted to titles that weren’t suitable for my age. Despite not being able to rent the films I was browsing or having to wait for my parents to make the purchase, I had already formed a picture in my mind of what I wanted those movies to be. Having such limited access to the films that interested me allowed my imagination to take hold, drawing inspiration from the DVD covers to create stories in my own head. There was a great joy in simply observing those titles in the store, imagining what existed behind the artwork.

Did the ideal film I concocted in my head match the reality of the work once I got around to watching it? Not exactly. However, some films did live up to that imagined standard, such as The Descent, Wolf Creek, Kill Bill, and The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Others, however, failed to meet the expectations set by their posters, leading to a profound sense of disappointment. It became clear to me that sometimes a movie poster can be better than the film itself, as the creativity of the spectator’s imagination can surpass the final vision executed by the artist.

Filmmakers do not always succeed in fully realising the vision they initially intended. This can be due to many factors, including budget constraints, the unavailability of certain actors or locations, and creative differences within the production team. However, one way of salvaging that vision and communicating what the film aspired to be is through the movie poster. In this sense, the poster becomes a final opportunity to present the audience with the essence of the idea, offering a glimpse of the film’s potential even if the finished work falls short.

It’s important to note, however, that not all film posters possess the power of provoking the imagination of spectators, transforming them into storytellers in their own minds. Some posters succeed primarily through aesthetic appeal alone. Saul Bass is widely regarded as one of the most influential graphic designers in the history of movie posters; however, his signature minimalist style often provides fewer ingredients for the viewer to construct a story. This does not diminish the quality of his work. His designs for Vertigo (1958) and Anatomy of a Murder (1959) are frequently cited among the greatest movie posters of all time.

When considering what makes a good movie poster, it is common to assume that aesthetics are the defining factor. However, for a young boy browsing DVDs in his local convenience store without the means to watch as many films as he wanted, the true value lay in the cinematic potential contained within the artwork.

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• Whether the film matches the same quality as the artwork

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