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Major Roy McBride of the United States Space Command is a
cool customer. He's got ice in his veins. Strap him to a rocket, knock him off
his footing thousands of feet in the air, shoot at him, yell at him, punch him,
bite him, claw at him—he won't blink. One of McBride's claims to fame is that
his heart rate has never gone above 80. I just took my pulse while writing this
review. 83.
Yup, he’s cool as a cucumber.
Even so, the mission he’s given in "Ad Astra"
would flap even the most unflappable of heart rates. You see, McBride's
second claim to fame—besides having the most even keel in the shipyard—is that
his dad, H. Clifford McBride (Tommy Lee Jones), was a super famous
astronaut/space explorer. Unfortunately, his dad's most famous mission ended in
apparent disaster. It was called “The Lima Project” and the mission was to
travel all the way to Neptune in the search of extra-terrestrial life. But when
the Lima Project suddenly lost contact with mission control, everyone assumed
the worst.
Indeed, they—including Roy, who, to be honest, was
straight up abandoned by his father—assumed the worst for the next 30 years.
Until, that is, super destructive cosmic rays started being emitted from around
Neptune. Then, who knows? The Space Command top brass think it's McBride Sr.
They think he's still alive, maybe disgruntled, and is sending the angry, civilization-threatening
rays toward Earth as some kind of revenge or attack or something.
That's where McBride Jr. comes in. They want him to
travel to Mars, where they can send a signal to Neptune, to try to get in
contact with his dad. He placidly accepts the mission in the same way you or I
would agree to pass the ketchup.
But cracks in his visage begin to emerge. It's not the
travel, first to the moon then on to Mars. Nor is it the space combat,
terrifying mayday calls, or other near-misses. It's his dad. The man who abandoned
him and his mother. The man who didn't care enough to give them a second
thought. The man who he nonetheless loves and admires and in so many ways is
just like. That's who and what is breaking him down, causing him to doubt and
worry and rage, and finally, for the first time, to unveil his humanity.
Just a little bit. Roy McBride demeanor is still mostly
calm, his affect flat. And it’s the same with the movie. It is intentionally
subdued. It has the serenity of the steadiest of astronauts. Epic, cosmic
scenery is accompanied by stillness, quiet. Dramatic action sequences are
dulled by an understated score. Dead bodies are floated out into space as a
matter of course. McBride presses a button, pulls a lever, does his duty.
However, like McBride, while the film is calm, even
remote, it is also, importantly, not emotionless. Quite the opposite. In movies
like this, epic scenes from space—as a character speeds past Jupiter or enters
Mars’ atmosphere—are typically accompanied by dramatic, soaring music, or a
church organ witnessing to the grandiosity of the galactic cathedral. But
imagine floating nearby Neptune—cold, dark, vast, hauntingly blue—in utter,
complete silence. Imagine what that would feel
like. It would have to be otherworldly, surreal, lonely, and terrifying.
One of the things “Ad Astra” does so well, besides
imagining and delivering on a well-composed vision of the future, is reveal the
intense, powerful emotions that underlie McBride’s placid demeanor and, perhaps
more to the point, his deep, dark depression.
“Ad Astra” could have benefited from more time to develop
these subtleties—it could have been a miniseries, for example. Still, the film
is an emotional accomplishment—a tribute to Pitt’s acting and James Gray’s
directing. It’s not all rocket blasts, explosions, and fiery destruction. It’s
cold, dark, icy, lonely space—the vast haunting, dwarfing unknown.
