Weir’s novel, heavy on science patter, is all about problem-solving; American ingenuity burns brightly in its heart. Watney even finds a way to communicate with NASA types back on Earth, who race the calendar to keep him alive until they can get him back home. It takes a long time to get supplies to Mars, let alone send up a rescue crew, and that little potato crop can’t last forever. For those longing for realism in their science-fiction movies — whatever “realism” means in that context — Scott’s 3-D adaptation of The Martian may be just the thing.
Everything in it is reasonable. Even if you don’t know much about the scientific principles involved, by the end you’ll feel pretty confident that if you should ever find yourself stuck on Mars, you’d know how to save yourself using spare space gear and wood shavings from a small crucifix. You’d also feel secure in the knowledge that some brainiac back on Earth could bring you back using a combination of physics, geometry and the finest slingshot technology available. The Martian is only partly a story about a man in peril; it’s mostly a story about men (and a few women) taking control of the uncontrollable. It’s confident, swaggering sci-fi, not the despairing kind.
That may be why, as elaborate and expensive-looking as film is, it’s almost totally lacking in poetry. This is an overwhelming picture, oversized in its scope and ambition, especially when viewed in 3-D: It’ll wow you with shots of jumbo metal space gears churning around and lots of people floating — just because in space, you can. The actors are treated as accessories, and there are plenty of them: On Earth, at NASA headquarters, stalwart Chiwetel Ejiofor is the chief scientist fighting to get Watney home, though even he is lost in the movie’s grinding machinery. Jeff Daniels is the head of NASA; he also wants Watney back on Earth, as long as it doesn’t mess up his bureaucratic hair too much. Kristen Wiig — a brilliant comedienne who doesn’t need to be a “serious” actress and who should perhaps stop trying — struts around NASA headquarters in stiff little professional dresses, looking glumly anxious over what kind of spin to put on this lost-astronaut story. Her character, the resident PR honcho, looks as if all the spirit has been crushed out of her.
Meanwhile, out there in space, the crew of that original mission — among them Michael Peña, Kate Mara and the captain, a boringly dutiful Jessica Chastain — are hunkered down in their ship and headed back to Earth after leaving poor Matt Damon, seemingly skewered to death by a communications antenna (oh, the irony) on the Red Planet. Damon’s Watney is the only one worth feeling anything for, and whatever The Martian’s problems may be, Damon is undoubtedly the best thing in it. Even in middle age, he looks boyishly vulnerable, especially when seen in that tight-fitting skullcap astronauts wear beneath their helmets, kind of like the ones Baby Jesus wears in Flemish paintings.
Damon looks like the kind of boy who could fix your bike chain in a jiffy. Sure, he can survive! It’s fun watching him figure out how to plant his garden — with some clever editing, Scott speeds up the process of waiting for the sprouts — or find 1,001 uses for a plastic tarp. (There are a lot of tarps in The Martian.)
Scott orchestrates all of this like a pro. Two of his last three movies (Exodus: Gods and Kings and Prometheus) were so grand in scale that making this one probably wasn’t a leap. He’s workmanlike in his approach to science, which always trumps magic in The Martian — that’s the point. But if we can’t feel a sense of wonder at the magnitude and mystery of space, why even bother?