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Film Review: The Martian

2001: A Space Odyssey regularly jockeys for position with Citizen Kane and Vertigo atop lists of the greatest movies ever made. When Stanley Kubrick set out to create what he called “the proverbial good science-fiction movie”, he tapped Arthur C. Clarke, the super-genius author who came up with the idea for the communications satellite, and the resulting masterpiece explores the space between scientific rigor and religious awe.

But sometimes it seems 2001‘s influence on the genre it sought to perfect has not been universally positive. Consider 1968’s other great sci-fi hit, Planet of the Apes. It, too, concerned itself with humanity’s ultimate fate, but its big ideas are wrapped in a fun package. There should be enough room in sci-fi for both Charlton Heston snarling “You damn dirty apes!” and Keir Dullea staring into psychedelic infinity. But too often, when directors are given free reign, they feel obligated to try to top Kubrick. Consider two recent examples of hundred-million- dollar misfires: Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar and Ridley Scott’s Prometheus. Nolan’s spectacular, 2001-inspired 70-mm photography couldn’t save Interstellar from collapsing into self-important gobbledygook. For Prometheus, Scott disappointed everyone by ditching the pulpy, “haunted-house-in-space” premise that made Alien a classic in favor of wallowing in secondhand Kubrickian mysticism.

Scott learned his lesson with The Martian. The origin and fate of all humanity are not at stake, just the life of one man: NASA astronaut Mark Watney (Matt Damon). Adapted from a best-selling novel by Andrew Weir, The Martian‘s inspiration comes not from universe-spanning epics, but from the 1954 short story “The Cold Equations,” in which a space pilot and a stowaway must grapple with the fact that they don’t have enough fuel to land safely. Newtonian physics creates the fodder for high drama.

When an unexpected sandstorm forces the crew of the Ares 3 mission to leave the red planet in a hurry, Watney is hit by flying debris and left for dead. But Watney wakes up and drags himself back to the expedition’s abandoned, but still mostly functional, base, where he performs some gruesome self-surgery and tries to come to grips with the fact that he is more alone than anyone has ever been. The opening sequence, where the crew struggles through the storm and mission commander Melissa Lewis (Jessica Chastain) must make the gut-wrenching decision to leave, are some of Scott’s best work since Black Hawk Down. The story then splits into three: the castaway’s uphill battle to survive in Mars’ harsh environment; the NASA ground team discovering they’ve still got a live astronaut on the Martian surface; and the expedition crew flying through the solar system with only enough fuel to return to Earth. Everyone must work together to rescue Watney as the world watches.

The Martian often plays out like a fictionalized, future version of Apollo 13. Scott and screenwriter Drew Goddard get all the little details right, like how calling a NASA scientist a “steely-eyed missile man” is the highest compliment, and how “lock the doors” is the worst thing you can hear in mission control. But they never get bogged down in minutiae, thanks largely to Damon’s engaging and vulnerable performance. The cast is huge, and features workmanlike performances from Jeff Daniels as the NASA director, Kristen Wiig as the beleaguered PR specialist, Chiwetel Ejiofor as the mission director, and Sean Bean as the head of the astronaut corps. But even though Scott is excellent at ratcheting up the tension back on Earth, I found myself eager to return to Mars to watch Damon living by his wits while pausing occasionally to take in the otherworldly vistas Scott creates from heavily CGI’d footage of the Jordanian desert.

The Martian is a major return to form for Scott, who seems inspired by NASA’s can-do spirit. The film’s optimism is a far cry from the darkness of Blade Runner, but it has proven to be a big hit with audiences, massively outperforming box-office projections by grossing $55 million in its opening weekend. As this film and Gravity prove, science fiction is sometimes better when it concentrates on the small questions, like how to find your way home.

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“Magic in the Moonlight” Is Less Than Magical

Critical judgments are seldom permanent; when given some time and room to breathe, an underwhelming or puzzling movie from March can end up on a best-of list in December. This is also true for filmmakers. As the years go by, some filmmakers step into the spotlight while others slowly recede from view.

Then there’s Woody Allen, who doesn’t appear to care about things like legacy and influence. Allen plugs away year after year and movie after movie, confronting the same old issues and repeating himself in the same old comic or dramatic ways no matter how badly you want him to just stop already.

Amazingly, he can’t be entirely ignored yet. 2011’s Midnight In Paris, with its uncharacteristically loose Owen Wilson performance, its gentle insistence that there were never any good old days, its jokey depiction of Lost Generation icons, and its plentiful shots of Rachel McAdams’ ass (purely accidental, I’m sure), was his best and most playful film in nearly two decades. But Magic in The Moonlight, Allen’s latest European period piece, is a humorless reversion to a depressing norm.

Emma Stone and Colin Firth

The old-timey jazz tunes on the soundtrack, along with that unmistakably faux-classical opening title-card sequence promise more of the same old thing. Set at the end of the roaring 1920s, Magic stars Colin Firth as Stanley, a famous magician and skeptic who’s asked by an old friend to travel from Berlin to the south of France to debunk Sophie (Emma Stone), a young medium from Kalamazoo who appears to have real supernatural powers.

As everyone in the movie points out repeatedly, Stanley is the right man for the job: having sworn fealty to logic, reason, order, and nothingness, he spouts Nietzsche at people who look at him too long and smirks at anyone “desperate for a little hope in a world that has none.” But will Sophie show him the error of his ways? Well, would an Allen surrogate like Stanley dare to let some girl expand his conception of how the world works?

In this cotton-mouthed farce, Firth deserves some credit for making Stanley an insufferable prick. Strident, heedless, and almost angrily self-satisfied, Firth plows through the film like a cross between The Great Gatsby‘s Tom Buchanan and The Big Bang Theory‘s Sheldon Cooper. Emma Stone, playing the requisite ingĂ©nue, handles her diaphanous-dipsy role better than previous Allen muses. With help from cinematographer Darius Khondji’s blurry, lens-flared Mediterranean postcard work, Firth and Stone’s scenes together almost drown out Allen’s usual God-is-dead, what-does-it-all-mean bellyaching.

If you have to see a Woody Allen movie this year, John Turturro’s Fading Gigolo, in which Allen played a supporting role, is a gentler and sexier romantic comedy where the characters may have read some existentialist philosophy but have the good taste not to lecture each other about it. But never fear; Allen is already at work on his next project. Emma Stone will star.