Depending on your point of view, the problem with a film like Red Planet is that there is just too much damn space. All you can do with that intangible real estate is show plastic models floating through it from interesting perspectives to a hopefully exciting soundtrack. Or, as the kugel said when she went to the first Mi Vami on the moon: “But there’s no atmosphere.”
Conversely, in a space (as opposed to science fiction) flick you’re confined to a limited number of cubicles with lots of switches and great views, but all you can cut away to is dear old boring Earth, or, once again, those plastic models. And the only things that can go wrong are the depletion of oxygen, interpersonal betrayal or foreign invasion, of which the last two are just too much like Earth drama.
The truth of the matter is that our usual space and time-bound flicks, whether Shakespearean or the latest teen slasher, give us the comfort, however illusory, of knowing that we have some degree of mortal control on this blueish planet – whereas those icy black spaces up there give us, like Pascal, the metaphysical heebie-jeebies.
As for Trekkies, the film Galaxy Quest proved beyond any reasonable doubt that they’re fruitcakes from another dimension who have formed a religious cult based on television programming; rumour has it that the local chapter is secretly sponsored by the SABC.
Another problem with space epics is that when more than two actors whoosh around in their chicly accessorised suits you cannot really see who is who behind those visors. The eyes might be the window to the soul and all that but, hey, they’re a pretty small part of the anatomy. At least this is one problem Red Planet solves brilliantly: instead of the usual helmet everyone simply wears a very stylish, Jules Verne-type retro fishbowl.
And so “to boldly go” on to the plot, split infinitive and all. A group of scientists is heading for Mars after it was proved in 2000 that the damage done to Earth was irreversible. Now it is 2057, the red planet has been planted with moss, and our heroes – Val Kilmer, Tom Sizemore and Terence Stamp, among others – are going to see if Mars is ready for habitation.
Stamp manages to trot out his homilies about The Meaning of Life with perfectly English, sub-textual ambivalence. What he’s really telling us is that he’s embarrassed to do this sort of thing but he’s got a very Earth-bound retirement plan to maintain.
The something-goes-wrong part takes forever to arrive. Our heroes are separated from the main station, crash where men allegedly come from and trot out more homilies behind red filters, while a cute servo-robot turns into a camp mechanical predator and introduces a whole new concept to the genre: space rage.
Carrie-Ann Moss, with plenty of breast to maintain control from the mothership, comes out with life-or-death gems like: “You have two
choices. On or off.” Kilmer stares stupidly into all that space and waits long enough for us to see, on his lapel, that it’s a Product Placement Pause for, among others, Toshiba and General Motors.
pace cadets of a completely stranger and more life-threatening variety appear in another film but they don’t wear Nasa suits, they wear nappies. They are the Rugrats in Paris, France, where Dad has to repair a virtual technosaur giant, who is driving a French creative directrice insane-uh.
The kids go along for the jol and do exactly what kids do. That is, they occasionally come to their parents for a hug and then, preferring each other’s company, they puke, whine, pee, drool, wheeze, poo and generally have a good time.
The characters and situations are sharply, ironically and fondly drawn, and the premise that parents are basically life-support systems for their children’s emotional and fluid baggage is spot on. Then, having spent everyone’s energy, these aliens fall asleep and lie there with a trust that comes from the deepest reaches of outer space. And, like Mir re-entering the atmosphere, we melt.