Imagine a movie akin to a sad David Bowie song about an astronaut drifting alone into the dark abyss of space, contemplating his life, his lost love, his past, and an uncertain, perhaps soon-to-be-shortly doomed future. Sing the wistfully estranged and reflective “Space Odyssey” tune and the lamenting iconic line, “Tell my wife I love her very much, she knows!” That’s Swedish filmmaker Johan Renck’s “Spaceman” in a nutshell, which makes for possibly the weirdest, most existentially lonely movie Adam Sandler has ever starred in.
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It’s an odd choice of casting on the surface. And for most audiences expecting something more Sandler-esque, or even something quirkier, but more accessible like Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Punch Drunk Love,” it may leave some viewers scratching their heads. But Sandler commits to the restraint and subtlety inherent in this melancholy Major Tom story, and the film, a love story and metaphysical mediation on existence, is better off for it, regardless of how some puzzled viewers may feel.
Sandler stars as the quiet, dutiful astronaut (though cosmonaut would be more accurate in tone and feel even if the character isn’t Soviet) Jakub in a near retro-futurist-designed world where the Czech Republic, of all places, seems to be the pioneer in the space race (truthfully, Czechoslovakia seems to be a stand-in for Russia because optically, the country’s not great, but aesthetically, the film takes its cues from the Soviet-era of space exploration). Four years after glittering purple space particles have mysteriously lit up the Earth’s night sky, the Czech Republic sends him to the edge of the solar system to investigate what is causing this light show; South Korea is evidently not far behind in a similar undertaking.
With shades of loyalist communistic Cold War attitudes about love of country and national glory, Jakub is heralded as a kind of Czech hero brave enough to travel to the far ends of the galaxy on this solitary research mission to scrutinize this cloud of intergalactic space dust and what it may mean to the people of Earth. Propaganda is spread about him, about his heroism and gallantry, and he even touts the virtues of AntiQuease, the sponsor of the mission’s official nausea medication, always putting on a brave, happy face in the process. But behind the fake mien is an air of growing despondency.
Checking in with Peter (Kunal Nayyar), his main contact at the Czech Republic’s version of NASA, Jakub frequently reports about his health, mental, emotional, physical, and otherwise. But around the six-month mark in his lonely mission, having not recently heard back from his wife Lenka (Carey Mulligan), he begins to suspect something is amiss and that the marriage he left behind might not be waiting for him when he returns to Earth (Lena Olin co-stars briefly too as Lenka’s sympathetic mother)
The reality is Lenka, strained by the separation and alienated by the way Jakub has left her to explore the cosmos rather than be present with the one he loves, wants a divorce. She finally responds to Jakub in a tele-message, explaining why she wants their marriage to end. But Czech space program head Commissioner Tuma (Isabella Rossellini) intercepts the communique, knowing the news would be disastrous to not only Jakub’s emotional state but the mission, and keeps the information hidden while trying to convince Lenka to reconsider.
Fully of anxiety and dread, worried about her lack of responses and being mentally frayed by the seemingly ancient equipment on board his space vessel—again oily, tactile retro-futurism that feels ripped out of early “Star Wars” or Ridley Scott’s first “Alien” movie—Jakub’s desperation grows. Peter, his space station point of contact, does his best to make excuses and assuage the worried astronaut, but Jakub’s mental health begins to deteriorate.
Pining for her in his dreams and flashbacks, just as it seems Jakub is about to fall into truly unhinged distress, a mysterious space spider-like creature from the beginning of time appears, found in the bowels of the ship. Initially terrified and wondering if he’s hallucinating (he might be, it’s left ambiguous), the giant arachnid, eventually named Hanuš (voiced by Paul Dano in a softly curious and empathetically effective hushed tone), eventually convinces Jakub he means him no harm and becomes something of a strange, compassionate friend and ally. Eventually, getting up to speed with the whims of human concerns and emotions, grappling and grasping concepts like love, jealousy, and more, Hanuš becomes akin to a sounding board, therapist, and someone to share a connection within the lonely corners of the galaxy.
Based on the novel “Spaceman Of Bohemia,” by Jaroslav Kalfař and written by Colby Day, “Spaceman” is spare and sparse, a moody tone poem about missing those we love and questioning the true reasons why we’ve put up barriers and distance between those we supposedly adore. A quiet film about what we’re trying to escape (our past) and what we cannot bear to confront (the present), it’s a bit of an odd little nugget, but if you can dial into its Bowie-esque off-kilter frequency, the moody experience of this minor-keyed effort is rewarding. Moreover, Sandler never tries to fight the films far-off left-fieldness, sitting contently in its soft-hued, non-terrestrial longitude of grief and lonesomeness. “Spaceman” may not be the most dynamic movie, but its space traveler understands the assignment and executes it well.
Though it is somewhat boy-misses-girl navel-gazing, one-note in atmospheric tone, and admittedly feels a bit trifling by the end—maybe a five-minute Bowie pop song can’t sustain an entire 90-minute movie—“Spaceman” is still watchable and has lots going for it. There’s great craft, impressive creature design, a lugubrious, eventually-soaring score by Max Richter, an excellent Paul Dano nailing the childlike tenor of his inquisitive creature, and low-key Adam Sandler sitting in the pocket, enjoying the chill ease of never overdoing it. Judged against the vastness of the universe, “Spaceman” does feel a little small and insignificant. But the picture works well as something to experientially wash over you, as it floats off into the distance in the most peculiar way. [B]
