10 years ago, Gravity hit our screens. In it, Sandra Bullock plays an astronaut who, after experiencing some classic rocket malfunction drama in the depths of the galaxy, is left to float out into space on her own with nothing but the sound of her breath for company. She's fine, eventually, but for a brief moment she, and the audience, are left wondering what it would be like to just… drift… alone… forever. Horrifying.
Granted, you're not supposed to be super jazzed by the prospect of gliding ad infinitum until your oxygen runs out or the cold freezes you into a human Calippo. You're supposed to think this is the worst thing in the entire world (because it is!), and you're supposed to use that moment to reflect on your own existence and your small place in the vastness of the universe.
It's a theme that's used across films set in the great nothing. Really, it's the theme. 2019's Ad Astra, 2018's First Man, 2014's Interstellar, 1998's Armageddon, 1968's 2001: A Space Odyssey; the list goes on. At some point in these films, someone is solo-traversing the Milky Way and is forced to reflect on themselves – the moments they regret, the people they love, the things left unsaid. Space's interminable loneliness is a great backdrop for solitary therapy, but please, no more. I'm begging you, stop making me see space, I do not want to go Up There. Sort out your daddy or mummy or various other Freudian issues on dry land.
A few years ago, I decided to stop watching space movies altogether unless absolutely necessary, like if there was a gun to my head or there was a minuscule chance of FOMO (equally serious predicaments). I don't care if it's the best movie in the world, I don't want to see it. Every time I sit down to watch someone launch themselves into the stratosphere, I feel my chest immediately cave in like intense claustrophobia. Ironic, considering the whole ‘endless uncharted openness' of it all.
I hate the thought of having to perceive the vastness of space, and not in the fun-but-also-spooky way you're supposed to. It's quite literally my worst nightmare. I've seen horror films that have filled me with less immediate life-threatening fear than the mere thought of flying off into nowhere without even a podcast to listen to. Wanting me to imagine being alone with my thoughts in space forever until my body withers away from dehydration or boredom is sick and twisted. No thanks, I'd rather watch a Mrs Brown's Boys omnibus until my brain bleeds out of my ears.
Admittedly, I can't be without some form of media distraction at any point for fear of being alone with my thoughts for even a second. You expect me to hang out with my brain, the thing that used to convince me that cutting my own fringe at 1 AM was a good idea and that once let me nourish a short-lived but consuming crush on the cartoon horse from Mulan?
I just think we've done space movies now, you know? Nothing left to see here. Completed it, mate. How many times do we have to see flashing lights on a building-sized dashboard light up in a frenzy or someone get locked out on a spacewalk? We get it, space is big and scary! You don't have to keep banging on about it.
Sure, the galaxy looks beautiful on-screen and provides a perfect blank canvas for all manner of inner conflict, and I'm not here to yuck your yum if that's your bag. If you love pondering the complexities of life through the proxy of someone being sucked into oblivion for no good reason, you do you. I'll be doing that on earth, feet on the ground where they belong, pretending that big stupid thing in the sky doesn't exist.