Moon

Reviewed by J. Lunden on July 13, 2009

As much as I like discussing 2001: A Space Odyssey (and I really do), I don’t want to make the mistake of drawing comparisons to Moon. The similarities to 2001 (and both versions of Solaris) that exist within Moon are mostly aesthetic—which really only serve as a reminder of how extraordinarily progressive both Kubrick and Tarkovsky were as filmmakers. The aesthetic similarities of these films point to a shared trajectory of vision; we’re now beyond the blurred lines of homage. As such, Moon is simply another round of questioning in one of the most evocative of environments.

Earth’s primary energy source, Helium 3, is harvested from the Moon. Sam Bell (Sam Rockwell) mans the station that oversees this harvesting, and his three-year contract is coming to end. Sam is excited about going home. He misses his wife and he desperately wants to meet his now three-year-old daughter. In video logs sent back to Earth, Sam complains in a cautious tone to his corporate employers that three years is really too long: “I’m talkin’ to myself. Seeing things.” On a drive out to the surface to fix one of the twelve rovers (each named after an Apostle) those very symptoms cause him to crash. He is awoken in the infirmary by Gerdy, the station’s artificially intelligent computer that communicates through voice (Kevin Spacey’s to be exact) and a series of smiley face expressions on a small screen. Gerdy explains to Sam that he’s been in an accident. What Gerdy doesn’t do is identify the man standing in the corner of the room.

In an assured and ambitious (especially given the film’s slim budget) directorial debut, Duncan Jones presents a vision of isolation and self-examination in an intriguing and highly original fashion. For all intents and purposes, Moon is a one-man show. From conception, Jones reportedly envisioned Sam Rockwell (one of my very favorite actors) as that man. And Jones doesn’t waste any of Rockwell’s wrenching and droll performance on sentimentality or cheap celestial mechanics. No, Jones is keenly aware of the stark environment in which his narrative is set: the loneliness space evokes and the cold, dead surface of the Moon. I felt every chill of this melancholy and pragmatic picture.

The reality Sam is faced with in the final days of his contract represents a brilliant example of the genre. Moon’s underlying stitch work is rich with complex paradox and heady metaphysical conundrums. And like any superior genre effort, Moon offers that most coveted of post-credits corollaries: the hurried shuffle of an idea-drunk viewer who is almost too absorbed to notice the amount of soda they consumed. The mind reels, but the bladder is indifferent.