(Dir. Christopher Nolan) (2014)
It is shocking how Hollywood, where marriage equality is all the rage, seems unable to avoid schmaltzy deployment of The Nuclear Family as its trope for love and sacrifice. In the visually impressive Interstellar, a former NASA ace stumbles, through the dust of his corn fields, onto a super-secret (off balance sheet) NASA base, where the head guy only needs to finish that knotty maths equation (or make up something in its place) in order to save the world from a kind of agricultural Ebola, doubtless the product of pulping that mountain of IPCC reports and draining them into the watershed.
So it’s off to the event horizon for the fly-boy and mega-sulking for his kids, under the concerned tutelage of crusty-but-with-a-heart-of-gold-pop-in-law, left to fend with the dust and cinematic hurdles such as linear time and digesting corn, which is as hard as swallowing the words (when you can hear them) and deeds of the one-dimensional characters, lost in space. There’s a moderately witty anthropomorphic computer on board, and Ellen Burstyn’s on hand to assure us that so-and-so doesn’t live here anymore, just to reassure us there’s nothing new to see here.
Turns out it was all a question of interchangeable slivers of time and a magic bookcase! Oh well. They loved it on Pantagruel. But TVC aged 23 years, with an additional 5 when Matt Damon turned up plus another 8 when they used a pencil and paper to explain relativity, which I thought Sam Neill covered at a symposium in Hollywood, circa 1997…I’m looking nervously at my dusty bookshelves for confirmation.
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