I wish I could figure out what this would-be trippy sci-fi space odyssey is trying to say. Just a hint would be nice. Astronaut William D. Stanaforth (Mark Strong: Grimsby, Kingsman: The Secret Service) is on a one-way, one-man trip to Mars, which by itself makes no sense. One-way, maybe. One-man? No way. What space agency would put a single solitary person in a tin can and send him hurtling across space for nine months? This is a recipe for psychological disaster… which is, I fear, the point: writer-director Mark Elijah Rosenberg, with his feature debut, has concocted a preposterous scenario precisely because this is what he requires in order to explore Stanaforth’s state of mind. Except his state of mind is never any deeper than “I’m not going [to Mars] to die” — long pregnant pause during which you know exactly what he’s going to say next — “I’m going to live.” And that line comes very early in the film, after which very little of any psychological significance happens, in spite of Stanaforth’s ruminations on the shedding of the human skin and his apparent delusions about space starting to look like the inside of your eyeball when they take that picture at the optometrist. I think it’s supposed to be nebulas he’s flying through. There are no nebulas between Earth and Mars.
Maybe the whole Mars mission is a delirious hallucination as Stanaforth lies dying of thirst in a desert on Earth as he experiments with a device that lets him extract water from soil. (Those look like flashbacks to before the mission, but who knows?) There really is no indication that this is the case, but it might explain the unscientific ridiculousness of instantaneous communication between Stanaforth’s Mars-bound ship and mission control back on Earth (Luke Wilson: Concussion, The Skeleton Twins) when there would, in fact, be minutes-long delays, as well as the utter absurdity that his ship could stop at a space station and then restart its journey, or that it would be possible for him to abort halfway to Mars and turn around and return to Earth. I mean, this is clearly meant to be very near future, and the tech is on a level of “we can slingshot this tin can to Mars but that’s about it.” He’s not on the Millennium Falcon. There’s no stopping and starting possible here. He has no fuel for this. That’s what those fuel tanks jettisoning in the NASA stock footage indicates.
Rosenberg seems to have taken all the best bits of The Martian and Europa Report, thrown them away, and mixed whatever was left with the wormhole bits from Interstellar that got left on the cutting-room floor, and then still couldn’t figure out what his story was about. It’s very sad. I was hoping for some authentic sci-fi philosophy. And I got nothing but lifeless nonsense.