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The Astronaut's Wife By John Pavlus Starring Charlize Theron, Johnny Depp Written & Directed by Rand Ravich 1999 USA I've lived but a scant 21 years on this rock, hardly long enough to become privy to any profound truths about life. Nevertheless, I have, in my brief tenure, stumbled upon a few philosophical nuggets that seem likely candidates for that category. After viewing "The Astronaut's Wife," I was delighted to realize that another such diamond in the ontological rough had been revealed to me. For your consideration, I offer my humble list: 1. Ignorance is bliss. 2. The only true constant is change. 3. Recent movies starring Johnny Depp, but not directed
by Tim Burton, are just no damn good. My first mistake: gambling that the film's premise
was intriguing enough to potentially dodge the Depp-Burton kiss of death.
(Na•ve? Perhaps.) The plot follows the relationship between Jillian
(Theron) and Spencer (Depp) after a mysterious accident befalls Spencer
and his partner on a routine satellite maintenance mission. Spencer
comes back to earth intact, but refuses to speak of his experience to
anyone, including Jillian. Then he starts acting ever-so-slightly out-of-character:
quitting NASA for a new job with an aerospace contractor, finding a
new fondness for rough sex, and staying up nights listening to ominous
radio static. Jillian rolls with it initially-- upon discovering she's
pregnant with twins, she tries to treat it merely as a new turning point
in her life. Unfortunately, it only takes one lousy ex-NASA spook (Joe
Morton) with a briefcase full of classified info to make trouble, and
before you can say "David Duchovny," Jillian's convinced that Spencer
is possessed by a malevolent extraterrestrial force bent on world domination.
Subsequently, when Jillian has the cuddly realization that she's probably
got some unearthly spawn gestating inside her womb, she descends into
a paranoia spiral that would put Howard Hughes to shame. People die;
the marriage suffers. Oh, those pesky ex-NASA spooks.
All snickering aside, with a lo-fi indie makeover, this could have worked. Don't get me wrong, much of today's independent cinema is self-righteous, overwrought crud--but Wife's deck could have been easily stacked to cash in on the bargain basement M.O. First, the marquee names would be eliminated in favor of unknowns, lending crucial credibility to the psychodrama. Sculpted alphas like Depp and Theron definitely get the asses in the 'plex seats, but their glossy sheen doesn't match the flawed, everyman qualities of the characters. This film is supposedly about subtle menace lurking underneath an ordinary veneer; these sleek stars look about as ordinary as Gap models in a trailer park. Second, a thrifty, credit-card caliber budget would have forced the filmmakers to focus on the character drama rather than indulge the strained sci-fi elements that a studio-sized bankroll permits. A film about an alien controlling your husband is sleepy; a film about a wife who *thinks something might* be controlling her husband despite any external evidence is snappy. With expensive production design, TV commercial cinematography, and "ain't-it-cool" CG effects, there's no doubt that this film is firmly planted in the former category. Its plot requires an exacting control of atmosphere to maintain the necessary *what-if* suspense, but under the green hand of first-time director Rand Ravich, any iffiness evaporates after 15 minutes. After that, it's 90 minutes of ho-hum until Jillian figures out what we already know. Maybe that's why Ravich cast such good-looking actors: at least we have something nice to look at while we wait. So there you are, waiting as Depp's southern accent metamorphoses from dumb-but-cute to cute-but-evil and Theron's pageboy showcases some chic new style with every scene, thinking to yourself: "Fine. But the ending better make this worth it." Well, I'm afraid I have some bad news. Some movies, such as this one, live and die on the merit of their buildup-payoff narratives. As for whether or not Ravich succeeds with this structure, allow a brief digression. Right now, there's a flick out there mopping up the box office called "The Sixth Sense." It's got a languid-to-the-point-of-numbness buildup, but when the dynamite payoff hits, you forgive it everything and actually forget about the blood pouring down your leg from the ragged gash Hoyts left when they gouged your wallet. I won't give "The Astronaut's Wife's" ending away, but suffice it to say, it's no Sixth Sense. You'll want dynamite; hell, you'll need it. What you'll get is a soggy snap-cap. And you'll need a tourniquet for that leg wound, too. John Pavlus is a senior film production major at Ithaca College. |
