by the first astronauts to land on the redrnplanet, tiiis mountain turns into a whirlwindrnof sand. It twists and turns until itrnresembles nothing so much as the wrongrnend of a Hoover that then quickly sucksrnthree of the astronauts into its vacuum,rnpulling their bodies limb from limb.rnLuke Graham (Don Cheadle in a lucklesslyrndesperate role) alone smvives tornsend an SOS home to his space-stationrnbuddies.rnAs a rescue mission is quickly assembled,rnthe script takes pains to have us empathizernwith its crew. We learn the journeyrnwill be hazardous. The missionrncontroller (an avuncular and ponderousrnArmin Muellcr-Stahl) wants to wait for arnmore propitious planetary alignment,rnnoting that haste is not essential sincernthey have no way of knowing whether orrnnot Luke is still alive and it will take morernthan a year to get there, anyway. Butrnspaceman Woody Blake (an insufferablyrnearnest Tim Robbins) insists they blast offrnimmediately. (Didn’t he learn anythingrnfrom his look-alike Tom Llanks in Apollorn13?) Wliat’s more, he demands that JimrnMcConnell (Gary Sinise) be given “rightrnseat forward” as his navigator. Again, thernmission controller demurs. Jim is notrnready, he points out reasonably enough.rnAlthough he had been in line for the originalrnmission, his wife died of some unnamedrnailment, and he went into arnprotracted period of mourning that preventedrnhim from completing his training.rnAt this Woody explodes, “What wasrnhis crime? That he showed a little emotion?”rnWhen it comes to Mars, he goesrnon indignantly, Jim “wrote the book.”rnThe clincher comes when Jim stoutlyrnspeaks for himself “I know the protocolsrnfor the Mars recovery ship better thanrnanyone else because I designed them.” Ifrnit’s sympathy De Palma wanted for hisrncharacters, he’s certainly earned it. Yourncan’t help feeling sorry for guys who havernto deliver lines like these.rnAs in 200 J, there is plenty of disorientingrngravity-free activity shipboard, as thernsecond team soars into inky space. DcrnPalma’s camera does 360’s, following thernastronauts walking weightlessly aboutrntheir ship’s interior. Woody even dancesrnwith his wife, Terry (Connie Nielsen),rnwho’s on the mission also. (We’re toldrnearlier that research has proved spousalrnteams to be a stabilizing influence onrnsuch long-term journeys. Give De Palmarna point for supporting monogamy, arnrare enough quirk in Hollywood extravaganzas.)rnAlthough these scenes are donernwith great technical finesse, none ofrnthem surpasses what Kubrick accomplishedrn32 years ago. More tellingly,rnKubrick’s simulated space scenes servedrnhis theme. In their gravity-free environment,rnhis astronauts were made to seemrnnot only weightless but also strangelyrnsomnambulistic as though they had becomernmere automatons in the grip of arntechnology they no longer understood,rnmuch less controlled. In contrast, DernPalma’s space scenes only serve to displayrnhis filmmaking wizardry.rnThere’s nothing inherently wrongrnwith spectacle for spectacle’s sake. Wlienrnthe film turns mystical, however, it becomesrnunforgivably offensive. This happensrnshortly after the rescue team landsrnand learns how to “talk” reassuringly tornthe crabby Marhan monument. In norntime at all, a crevice opens in its loomingrnbrow, emitting a blinding light from itsrninterior. Despite their predecessors’ rudernwelcoming, the rescue team hurries off tornsee what’s inside. “Are you sure you wantrnto do this?” Terry asks Luke gently. Hisrnanswer is predictable: “I’m not sure aboutrnanything anymore. But I didn’t come arnhundred million miles to turn around atrnthe last ten feet.”rnInside the face, they find themselves inrna near duplicate of the uncanny roomrnthat appears at the end of 200 J. It glowsrnwith light from every side, including floorrnand ceiling, and echoes with eeriernsqueaks and scrapes as if the astronautsrnwere walking on glass. Suddenly, a holographicrnimage of a Martian woman appears,rndone up in an Egyptian coiffure.rnWith the aid of other holographs, shernsilently explains the tragic fate that befellrnMars eons ago, a single computer-generatedrntear running down her phantasmalrncheek to make sure we don’t rniss thernpoignancy of the moment. It seemsrnsome natural disaster had convinced thernMartians to decamp to other galaxiesrnposthaste. Before they left, however, theyrnhad just enough time to plant the seeds ofrnlife on a barren Earth. A display of thernMartian role in instigating earthly evolutionrnfollows, provoking Luke to gasp inrnreverent awe: “My God! That’s it! Hundredsrnof millions of years ago there was arnsudden explosion of life on Earth and nornone’s ever understood how or why untilrnnow!” My God, indeed. In the beginningrnwas Martian DNA, and the darknessrngrasped it not. Nor, for that matter, did I.rnWliat follows this revelation is even morernperplexing: a glimpse of the eschatologyrnthe kindly Martians have prepared forrntheir earthling offspring. It looks about asrnheavenly as a recycled Star Frek set.rnKubrick wisely left his aliens ambiguous.rnTheir artifacts were harbingers ofrnunplumbed mysteries. He meant hisrnfilm to be a poetic meditation on ourrntimeless longing for redemption and salvation.rnHis protagonist’s name, DavidrnBowman, evokes this theme by echoingrnour formative religious and philosophicalrntraditions, fusing the Hebraic David withrnthe Hellenic Odysseus, known as thernbowman for his trimnphant archery inrnHomer’s poem. Bowman’s rendezvousrnwith interstellar destiny suggests we mayrnyet free ourselves from the soul-deadeningrnmaterialism that currently threatensrnour humanity.rnIn contrast, De Palma is excessively literalrnregarding his aliens, and, I think,rncynically manipulative. This I findrnpersonally offensive, for it insults myrnmother’s faith. Wlien I was 12, she toldrnmy sister and me of a theory she had formulated.rnReasoning that God must havernhad a purpose when He created the planets,rnshe wondered if He hadn’t set themrnin orbit to provide us acreage on which tornsettle in our afterlives. Knowing that fliisrnwasn’t quite orthodox, she advised us tornkeep her speculation indoors; there wasrnno point in frightening the neighbors.rnI remember being silently amused atrnthe time. The enlightened educationrnshe was buying me had already begun tornpay off in a precocious, not to say unwarranted,rnknowingness. Today, however,rnI’m chastened when I recall my youthfulrnarrogance. I now know my mother’s untutoredrnspeculations were much wiserrnthan my shallow sophistication. As I wasrnto discover later, she had devised her theoryrnshorfly after learning she was dying ofrnleukemia. It was a time when thernpromise of salvation had understandablyrntaken on more than usual urgency forrnher. Clearly, she wanted a concrete guaranteernof its validity. Wlien she looked uprnat the gleaming, orb-speckled night, shernfound it, not just for herself, but for herrnfamily and humanity at large. She facedrndeath bravely because she was convincedrnit was only a passage to something morernand, she hoped, better.rnAnd why not? Wliy shouldn’t we seernin the majesty of the heavens the visiblerntestimony of God’s concern for us? Wliatrncould be more logical, what more traditional?rnI’m quite sure my mother neverrnread Dante, but I’ve no doubt she wouldrnhave found his cosmic speculations quiterncongenial —at least those that didn’trn46/CHRONICLESrnrnrn