Editor's Note: Thank you to Aoife Carnevale, Nouse's own illustrator, for drawing the adorable thumbnail to accompany this article!
Cats are a staple of horror. Consider for a moment, if you please, that iconic image of the witch that we are all intimately familiar with. Where would she be without her trusty furry companion to ride on her broom with, or peer over her shoulder into the cauldron as she brews? Working glumly at the pharmacy without an ounce of magic in her bones, probably. Just as horror is nothing without cats, I am equally lost without an outlet to talk about them. Humour me, then, as we explore the significance of the most iconic cat sidekick in all of horror; Jones in Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979).
It is easy to view the Nostromo’s only feline passenger as little more than a vehicle for furthering the film’s plot. As we cut between Brett the technician’s violent death and a close-up of Jones looking onwards in that undeniably quintessential feline manner – stoic, impassive, uncaring – viewers would not be blamed for thinking that there is very little emotional core to the positioning and characterisation of this regal ginger tom. Indeed, a one-dimensional plot device is the singular role that many pets within film, especially the horror genre, typically get to play.
And yet, Jones (or ‘Jonesy’, as the crew affectionately refer to him) is a far more important character in Alien than one might initially think. Take the first scene he features in, where we see him sat atop the table as the crew eat their breakfast after waking up on the ship. Although the crew complain about the food, there is an undeniably homely, almost cosy ambience to the scene, a mood which is elevated for the audience by the sighting of a domestic cat on the counter. Jones’ appearance in this opening, albeit brief, helps create a hospitable environment on the spaceship and, by extension, serves to heighten the sense of unheimlich chaos and fear that permeates the film later on, as the intrusion of the alien (a creature very different from your common house pet) brings an abrupt end to such pleasant demonstrations of intergalactic domesticity.
Jones’ appearance in the film goes beyond the simple establishment of the domestic, though. He also acts as an extension of the main character, Ripley. Through Jones, and the interactions she has with him, we can learn a lot about her personality and motivations. There has long been a connection forged between felines and femininity. Historically, many of these associations have been misogynistic and stereotypical; malicious women (or often simply outspoken women), are frequently referred to as “catty”. Women in the early 20th century were even personified as cats in anti-suffragette propaganda to gloss their cause as futile (you can read more about this here). However, the link between women and cats has since been interpreted, utilised, and re-appropriated in a more positive manner, not the least by contemporary queer women (that’s a whole other article though).
Despite Jones being a male cat, Ridley Scott utilises his character to display Ripley’s confidence within her own femininity. When the ship’s Artificial Intelligence MU/TH/UR takes the crew off course to investigate a transmission from the alien’s planet, Ripley tells Ash that she’s going to attempt to decode the transmission herself. As she sits at the monitor to decode it, she holds herself casually and puts her feet up on the console. This action is succeeded by a shot of Jones comfortably preening himself. The order of shots in this scene serves to show that, like a cat, Ripley is not afraid to assert herself and get things done, even in an oppressively male environment like the Nostromo, in which her authority seems to be increasingly undermined.
This cat-like independence and matter-of-factness is demonstrated again when she refuses to let Dallas, Lambert, and an unconscious Kane back on board the ship after Kane has been attacked, citing quarantine laws. Although such behaviour may initially strike the viewer as cold, the subsequent events of the film reveal Ripley’s concern to have been entirely rational. Her direct, assertive, ‘feline’ manner is portrayed as an admirable asset rather than a negative one, or as mere “cattiness”.
Ripley is not always an entirely ‘rational’ character, though. As the film reaches its climax and the remaining crew decide to abandon the ship, she realises with horror that Jones is not with them and decides to go back and save him. This choice, although seeming ridiculous to some, shapes her character in a crucial manner. It serves to contrast her against both the alien (a life-form who shows absolutely no remorse) and the medical officer robot, Ash, who betrays the rest of the crew to fulfil his orders from the company that dispatched him. In a chilling scene that occurs earlier in the film, Ash tells Ripley that he admires the alien precisely because of its hostility, calling it: “a survivor; unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality.” By doing the ‘delusional’ moral thing and going back to save Jones, Ripley asserts her humanity and capacity for intense emotion, two valuable qualities which Ash and the alien fail to possess. Truly, she is a ‘crazy cat lady’ that we can all get behind.
Jones also acts as a significant source of comfort for Ripley. In both the first and the second film we continually see her hold him close and whisper consoling “it’s alright”s to him after moments of high tension. It is evident, though, that it is really she who needs this reassurance (frankly, he has absolutely no clue what is going on for the entirety of the runtime). Especially at the end of the movie, comforting Jones becomes a vicarious substitute for quieting her own racing heart and thoughts. Completely alone in space with only her cat to keep her company, there is no one else to calm her but herself (and her ‘feline’ nature detracts her from doing this overtly). Interestingly, another recent horror film, A Quiet Place: Day One (2024), uses a cat in a similar manner, with the main character’s unforgettably adorable support animal, Frodo, arming her emotionally against the equally sinister threats of aliens and terminal cancer.
The survival of Jones at the end of Alien is a much welcomed change, as horror is a genre that famously loves to kill off everything wholesome. The fact that the film ends with the line, “come on, cat” is telling. Amongst all the thrilling stalker scenes and grotesque horror, this is a film that has a surprising amount to say about the beautiful (if complicated) companionship between a girl and her cat.
