The visual splendor in Al Reinert’s For All Mankind seems designed to remedy the audience’s collective memory of the moon landing as a grainy, square image on television. Between 1968 and 1972, the Apollo Program sent nine missions to the moon, each equipped with film equipment to document discoveries and obstacles, and Reinert’s distillation of the literally thousands of hours of footage stashed in NASA’s archives give the impression of a single outer-space journey.
The found-footage voyage is given a familiar sci-fi trajectory. Brave men are fitted into bulky space suits while engineers stare at screens in the control room, and the poker faces that the astronauts employ to try to hide their anxiety during liftoff breaks into unguarded awe as the Earth is viewed from the rocket’s porthole. Save for an opening speech by John F. Kennedy, the film deliberately discards exposition and context. For one, there’s no attempt at differentiating one mission from another, and, even though they are either glimpsed in the footage or heard in the soundtrack, none of the great Apollo missioners (including Buzz Aldrin, Jim Lovell, Mike Collins, and Alan Bean) are identified by name.
The approach may flatten the political perspective of the Space Race, yet lends the footage (such a goldmine of flag-waving imagery for the likes of Ron Howard and Michael Bay) a timeless inclusiveness, honoring the film’s title by positing a trip to the moon that’s a hearteningly communal enterprise. More sensuous spectacle than analytical reportage, For All Mankind doesn’t starve for privileged moments. Sequences such as a vision of the blue globe from the back of the rocket (through a circular opening that suggests a silent-movie iris) or the gliding shots of the lunar surface stretching into inky-black horizons visualize what one astronaut describes as the mission’s feeling of “supreme elation.” If not the screen’s ultimate portrait of space travel, For All Mankind remains a peerless planetarium show.
Image/Sound
The frequent specs and flares, understandable considering the source and vintage of the footage assembled here, can’t tarnish the striking beauty of the imagery. Brian Eno’s ethereal score and words from legendary astronauts are crystal clear in the accomplished stereo soundtrack.
Extras
Possibly to justify the title’s reissue, Criterion has added a plethora of new extras. An audio commentary by director Al Reinert and Apollo 17 commander Eugene A. Cernan is included from the previous Criterion release, along with a montage of NASA clips and soundbites and an updated video program about the paintings of Apollo 12 astronaut Alan Bean. New goodies include the instructive 30-minute documentary An Accidental Gift, with interviews with Reinert, Bean, and archival experts, and “On Camera,” a brisk collection of interviews with 15 former Apollo missioners. A booklet with essays by critic Terrence Rafferty and Reinert himself and the option of on-screen identification of the astronauts and mission control specialists seen and heard in the film round out the package.
Overall
Not quite a space odyssey, but a peerless planetarium show.
Since 2001, we've brought you uncompromising, candid takes on the world of film, music, television, video games, theater, and more. Independently owned and operated publications like Slant have been hit hard in recent years, but we’re committed to keeping our content free and accessible—meaning no paywalls or fees.
If you like what we do, please consider subscribing to our Patreon or making a donation.
