Damien Chazelle
First Man

It feels like a finger in the rear, and in some ways it is. But in the end, one might almost say that First Man traces a new way of telling about space, transforming the space epic into a drama, an inner tragedy in the heart of the one who takes responsibility for doing that thing, and their family. But the renewal is also in the style, with Chazelle proving himself as a filmmaker of the finest grain, capable of avoiding almost all the aesthetic clichés of this very codified genre. New, different shots that create chasms in the thoughts and actions these strong (and very fragile) men find themselves undertaking. And then there are the music pieces that dance with a grace that is unsettling due to their dissonance with what is unfolding before the eyes. It is not the waltz of Space Odyssey, but even more suspended and sweet melodies, out of time and space, that in their exquisiteness frame all the contradiction and lack of meaning in what is being done.

When Neil lands on the moon, on one side there is a chasm of meaning, because the gesture itself is emptied of significance in the eyes of the astronaut. What he does remains a small step for a man, and that man perceives the lack of meaning in that infinite epic to plant a flag on barren land. On the other hand, images of his life with his daughter flash through his mind. Man is irreducible to himself, inside he never really changes, and Neil Armstrong is surely not a great man who stands out from the norm. He is, in any case, something different from what the State would like him to be (but not too convincingly). The State actually cares little about who performs that gesture, as long as it is done and quickly, because the costs are high and the citizens grumble.

And then a man who is not likable like Gosling's Armstrong almost becomes likable, faced with the very limited horizon of the reasoning surrounding him. Individualism is universal and recognized by the masses as legitimate, so much so that Neil becomes almost an alien figure in society and in his family, because he begins to reason on a higher level and for a higher purpose. Yet when he's up there, only what he truly cares about, his little daughter, comes back to him. While on earth, before leaving, he seems almost alienated and no longer able to live. Lunar man on Earth becomes terrestrial on the moon.

A chilly, unlikable film for long stretches, edgy, which does a lot to make itself hated, in the final phase reveals all its austere beauty. A lyrical journey into the motivations of men who made history without necessarily being heroes, but because they were commissioned by the State (a hypocritical State) to perform a symbolic act, to be politically exploited. Yet behind that landing there is much pain, much anguish, much death, and many broken families. The State is not too attacked because its perversion is obvious, always implied, and therefore does not deserve much space.

In the interplay of motivations and men, Neil and his rigor can express themselves and reach fulfillment thanks to a project that is essentially a pure Cold War whim. Authenticity and hypocrisy interpenetrate, and in the end, the result risks being inscrutable. Instead, it is very clear, for those who watch First Man with the necessary malice. Even in State enterprises, there is so much sacrifice by individual men who perish and will not be remembered, and the anxieties of others who will be remembered, because fate chooses its symbol men, who are not better than their companions, just more fortunate, perhaps a little more determined.

The epic man of the Sixties is anything but epic. He is a puppet exploited for propaganda purposes, emptied by terror, who sanctions the total senselessness of the accomplished enterprise in his journey, keeping his thoughts on a purely intimate plane, giving the epic a lyrical meaning that only he knows. While the State extolls a foolish goal, opposed by the director who refuses to show its celebrations.

Chazelle's vision is icy, black, and somewhat reminiscent of Eastwood's characters, the normal heroes who shoot and fly planes. Here one carries a rocket to the moon, little changes. There is a man crushed by the needs of state reasons. Compared to Eastwood, here the reading of the facts is even more sclerotic, divergent, alienated. And it must be said, also less iconic. Neil goes almost into a trance, goes mad, loses the ability to communicate with his family, for an anguish that does not have its redemption, because Neil turns out to be just a tool for national propaganda. Yet he remains a man, with his daily battles, and Chazelle intends to ennoble him in his singularity, in his normality, even unlikable. In his defeat and in his insignificance.

This extreme realism is almost disorienting, and I don't doubt that many will struggle to appreciate the film or will appreciate it without understanding it, as a celebration of an enterprise, when in reality it is something else entirely. And it comes to say that the misunderstanding is almost intentional, not to alienate the American public too much. The desire to debunk the myth of technology, with screws to be tightened, fires, cramped spaces, commands that do not respond can work both as an ironic underline, to demystify space expeditions, and as an element of praise for American perseverance, which has great means but also knows how to deal with the practical problems of still-raw technology. This duplicity surely leverages the audience’s unconsciousness but should not be underestimated. The refusal of triumph remains, however, evident to a gaze that wants to see.

But I believe and fear that Chazelle didn't have enough courage to express his views fully, and so many questions are developed mainly in our thinking heads while watching neutral, objective sequences that cast many shadows but almost never clearly articulate a j’accuse. A little more guts, Damien!

7+