Ad Astra (Dir James Gray, 2h 4m)

The phrase "ad astra" first appears in Virgil's Aeneid, some 12 books into the epic poem, at a point where the god Apollo speaks to Aeneas, the voyaging hero of Troy's young son, Iulus thus: sic itur ad astra-"thus one journeys to the stars". It's an oddly appropriate title, as Ad Astra, in which Brad Pitt's troubled astronaut goes in search of his missing father, is both a meditation upon the bond between father figure and child, and upon that endless drive to search and explore, especially in the stars above. Alongside this, Gray creates a film that, despite very different destinations, rivals that great monolith of space-faring cinema, 2001: A Space Odyssey, for detail, spectacle and ambition, refracting modern fears of environmentalism and self-extinction as Kubrick refracted Cold War paranoia.

Certainly, one cannot help but compare the visual sensibilities, the frankly astonishing sense of detail in the machinery, the physicality of the space craft, and the grounded realism of the entire world of Ad Astra, to that of Kubrick, but where the two films take very different directions is in their approach to characters. Ad Astra peppers itself, from its very beginning with Pitt's character, Roy McBride undergoing psychartic evaluations to gauge his suitability for space travel, and these windows into his mind as his growing disquiet with the mission and its own goal begin to leave their mark upon him, come in sharp contrast to the detached sense that permeates 2001.

Together with this comes extensive internal narration from McBride, as we grow to realise that the disappearance of his father, the rigours of space travel,  and his own stunted relationship with his wife Eve (Liv Tyler) have left him unfeeling, detached from the people around him, and indeed the planet he lives on-there is an almost alien coldness-at one point we're told that McBride's heartrate has never gone over 80 BPM, only compounding his coolness under extreme pressure-to him. Yet, as he grows ever closer to his father in a series of well-paced planet-based setpieces, including a spectacular chase on the moon, so this veneer of coldness begins to fracture, and the emotive, lonely, pseudo-orphaned Roy begins to emerge in the second half of the film, as McBride begins to journey alone into deep space, and down into his own mind.

And it is this journey that pulls up a sudden, unexpected cinematic parallel. The mission that McBride is set, early in the film, to track down and make contact with his father, unquestionably echoes that of Colonel Willard in Apocalypse Now, and the episodic structure of the film's descent into the darkness, intermingled with violence and growing irrationality the question of what his father "found out there in the abyss" cannot help but emphasise this. McBride goes up-river into the depths of the solar system in search of answers, in search of his father, in search-arguably-of closure.

Intermingled with this are concepts just as well wrought as anything either of these monoliths of cinema explored-when the action reaches the moon, rather than the gleaming minimalism of Kubrick, the moon is nothing more than a typical arrivals lounge, complete with-in a pointed jab-Virgin Galactic lounge, photo opportunities, and a general sense of deliberate, palpable disappointment, to which Pitt monologues that his father would "tear it all down". The moon chase, in comparison, for all its shocking suddenness, underpins the fractured state of the Moon, now divided by a squabbling humanity and fought over by nations and opportunistic pirates, only compounded by McBride's military service in a hinted war over the North Pole.

This tonal dissonance is connected to some of the best visual work I've seen in cinema since the venerable Roger Deakins on Blade Runner, each planet's pallet and appearance, even in interior scenes distinctive, from the Moon's earthian clutter to Mars's harsh, Blade Runner 2049esque reds and heavy shadows, to the cold blue of Neptune in the finale, whilst the spaceships are cold and often visually claustrophobic, only adding to the tension of several scenes, whilst the film lingers on McBride's face, on his helmet, on reflections and his expressions, throughout, even in chaotic scenes where the background whirls behind him-an anchor of calm, at least in the first half of the film. 

Compared to all the idealism that 2001 captures, amidst its Cold War paranoia-where rockets could as much deliver us to the Moon as destroy us all, Ad Astra seems to indicate the mudanity of space, the fact that, whereever mankind goes in the galaxy, we will inevitably take our conflict, our pillaging of resources there. If 2001 is a film about exploration, Ad Astra is, at least in part, a film about colonialism, and its effects, as well as environmentalism; its denoument only compounding this last theme.

But most of all, Ad Astra is a exploration of the lost father, both in the form of Tommy Lee Jones' Clifford McBride, driven forward, Ahab-esque, in search of intelligent life beyond the solar system, but also spiritually-if 2001 brings Dave Bowman face to face with God, or at least a higher power, it is the primal fear that we are alone in the universe, devoid of extraterresial neighbours, or a higher power, that drives Ad Astra between its other themes. Christian prayer appears several times in the film, and Clifford's faith is clearly important to him, and, in his search for his father, Roy himself undergoes a reconnection with those around him, a realisation that, even if the question he seeks will never be answered, it is the connections on Earth that matter.

But, perhaps the single best trick that Ad Astra does is sneak, in full-sight, an art-film that explores colonalism, faith, fatherhoodnd human fragility, into the multiplex;  rarely does a film like this, for all its sci-fi trimmings and star names, manage to be made-it is visually stunning in places, emotionally devastating in others-but in its focus upon the bonds that tie us as people, as a species together, Ad Astra feels like it arrives back at the same question Kubrick posed, but with a vastly different response-what does it mean to be human?   Ad Astra is many things, but alongside Blade Runner 2049, it is one of the most beautiful, thoughtprovoking, intelligent and singular-visioned films of the 21st century so far, and rightfully cements itself as an instant classic.

Rating: Must See