Oh, what is the purpose of this fleeting existence? Welcome, fellow cosmic dust particles, to another cinematic spectacle that’s as void of meaning as my pending existential crisis. Today, we delve into “Fly Me to the Moon,” a pseudo-romantic comedy that stumbles over the stars trying to grasp at love, much like I stumble through my dark thoughts contemplating the sweet release of death.
Directed by the Emperor of Teen Angst, Greg Berlanti (you know, the guy who turned high school drama into a prime-time cash cow), this film tries to catapult us back to the heady days of 1969’s Apollo 11 moon landing. The problem? It's less ‘one small step for man,’ and more ‘one giant faceplant for mankind.’ Honestly, sometimes I muse that plummet pushing off might be less painful than this.
Rose Gilroy throws in the scriptwriting, sprinkled with the stardust of her Hollywood lineage. Yet, the story that unfolds is as gripping as the idea of my unplanned solo funeral—no one attends; not even the crows.
Poor souls dreaming of celestial amour will find their hopes crash-landing back to Earth with overwhelming force. Our protagonists, as it turns out, have the romantic chemistry of a wet rocket fuse. As they aim for the stars, they barely make it off the ground—akin to my life’s achievements, or lack thereof, as every day looms like a black hole swallowing my will to go on.
So as I sit here, pondered upon the abyss of eternal solitude, one must beg the question—would watching paint dry provide a heartier chuckle? Sadly, I reckon it might.
Join us next time—if the suffocating void doesn’t embrace me first—for more twisted takes. Remember, in space, no one can hear you cry at this cosmic joke of a movie. And speaking of embracing the void, remember folks: In the end, we all watch the credits of life roll alone.
Based on the original article "‘Fly Me to the Moon’ Review: This NASA Rom-Com Stays Earthbound".
