written by Josh Singer
Oscar-bait biopics are one of those genres where technical execution is everything. Films like this are, by their very nature, contrived to exhibit performances, and more often than not tend to place their emphasis on time-tested emotional beats rather than any sort of more experimental approach. The mainstream biopic is inherently pulled between ambition and pandering: it needs to appeal to a wide audience, but it also needs to live up to its subject's legacy. Biopics often contain significant artistic accomplishments, but almost always within the confines of the genre's cliches and formulae.
First Man, which combines that with the longstanding tradition of expensive Hollywood space movies, is a perfect example of that. It's in many ways a familiar story, hitting on cliched emotional beats regarding family and grief, but it's well-paced and well-acted, especially from The Crown's Claire Foy, who gives depth to Janet Armstrong despite having little support from the script. Also present is the superstar powerhouse that is Ryan Gosling, here providing a somewhat more grounded performance than his usual persona, and the established directorial talents of Damien Chazelle, who turns each shuttle launch into a sort of horror movie without abandoning the requisite sense of wonder. As familiar as it can be, First Man is an example of how satisfying this genre can be when it works.
Before he was the first man on the moon, Neil Armstrong (Ryan Gosling) was just one of many astronauts struggling to achieve liftoff. The film is specifically focused on the period following his infant daughter's death from brain cancer, after which he becomes increasingly stoic and withdrawn, and is split into two parallel narratives. On one hand, there's the events at NASA, where Neil has become very dedicated to the moon project. On the other, there's his home life, where he has begun to grow distant, increasingly alienating his wife Janet (Claire Foy) and their children. Ultimately, the closer he gets to the moon landing, the more frustrated his family becomes.
Capturing the space race on film inevitably comes with expectations of grandeur, but many of the shuttle launches in First Man are more terrifying than anything else. Whenever the various ships stabilize, Chazelle wisely takes a step back to represent the vast majesty of outer space, but inside the shuttle, he prefers to employ handheld camera shaking, loud noises, and claustrophobic spaces, all of which evoke a sense of immediate danger that seems intrinsic to spaceflight. Half of the film takes place with Gosling and other pilots strapped into the dark, tight interiors of space shuttles, enduring the horrific rattling of the ship as it breaches the atmosphere and desperately hoping they don't die. These scenes, with their persistent beeping and frequent moments of peril, effectively deglamorize the experience of astronauts in favour of something more visceral.
By contrast, the scenes on Earth often seem more pedestrian. For one thing, although Gosling largely succeeds in funneling his inhuman charm into a quieter, more distant performance, he never quite manages to ground it in something tangible. Neil is presented here as something of an enigma, too wrapped up in his own head to really connect with other people. The implication, for the most part, is that he's unable to express his own grief and fear - in essence, it's a story about men's inability to cope with their emotions, with the space program coming across more as an outlet or a distraction than anything else. That's not a particularly fresh theme, but Gosling's stoic performance and Neil's lack of pointed dialogue does keep the proceedings intriguingly subtle.
Indeed, grief seems to be a significant part of First Man's thematic core: not only does Karen's death loom constantly over Neil's head, several scenes also revolve around the deaths of Neil's fellow astronauts, adding yet more anguish for him to silently stew over. It's unfortunate that this theme leads the film to some of its sappiest moments, including a sickeningly cloying climax which I didn't care for at all. Instead, the film thrives in the quiet moments: Janet greets a man at the door with bad news, or Neil receiving an unhappy phone call at a party. Other thematic concerns add further depth to Neil's experience, especially as he's hounded by the press. It's representative of the film's fundamental concern with the costs of space exploration, which is never more interesting than in the all-too-brief moments that NASA's efforts are put into a broader social context.
The film has more trouble with Janet, who's given very little background detail aside from what can be gleamed from Foy's performance. Because Neil's emotions are so distant and inaccessible, it relies on Janet as a more conventional dramatic fulcrum, and unfortunately that results in the employment of a lot of cliches. To be fair, Foy is terrific in the role, and the film does a really good job of pacing out her increased frustrations, but Janet is never defined as more than "Neil Armstrong's wife," and her side of the story feels overly familiar. The problem is that everything Janet does is a reaction to either Neil or NASA, so her character trajectory is deeply predictable. There's even a scene where the music stops and Foy starts screaming, which might as well have had a big label reading "Oscar Moment." There's great acting in the scenes on Earth, and individual scenes are thoughtful and well-crafted, but the bigger picture is ultimately somewhat trite.
Thankfully, the Earth scenes provide greater emotional context to everything happening on space, simply because they enhance the stakes. You see Janet struggling with the very real risk of Neil dying suddenly, and that informs her behaviour: if Neil seems to struggle most with the grief he already carries, Janet is equally anxious about the grief which might yet come, not only to her but to her children. It also makes the scenes in the space shuttles feel even more dangerous: every malfunctioning booster, every rattling dial, every lick of fire is a reminder of what Neil could potentially leave behind should something go wrong. It makes some already spectacular scenes all the more thrilling.
It's perhaps ironic that First Man is more successful as a spectacle than as a drama, given its weighty themes and prominent October release date. In space, it's a harrowing demonstration of just how much of an ordeal spaceflight really is, and it's endlessly gripping in that regard. Chazelle proved just how well he can execute tension with 2014's Whiplash, and Gosling's stoicism is never more effective than when contrasted against scenes of such horrific intensity. On Earth, it's often thoughtful and never less than engrossing, but it far too often comes across as safe and familiar. That's the peril of biopics: their obligation to tell a specific person's story can inspire great artistic ambition, but it can also chain the filmmakers to the conventions of the genre. First Man is a solid and effective example of a Hollywood biopic, but ironically for a film about the moon landing, it's hard not to think it could have been more ambitious.
7/10
+ Space scenes are genuinely harrowing.
+ Generally terrific performances all around.
+ Appropriately sensitive approach to some weighty themes.
- Story on Earth falls back on biopic cliches too often.
- Gosling's performance is a times too blank.
- Occasionally verges into maudlin territory.
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