Slingshot isn’t your typical sci-fi space thriller — just your typical thriller. The film revolves around three astronauts, John, Nash and Captain Franks — played by Casey Affleck, Tomer Capone and Laurence Fishburne respectively — on a mission to Titan, the largest moon of Saturn. The titular slingshot refers to the gravity assist by which the Odyssey 1 spacecraft aims to reach Titan, utilizing a portion of Jupiter’s orbital velocity in order to reach the distant moon, where the crew seeks to tap in to the methane supply present on Titan’s surface and create “countless sources of clean energy” to save life on Earth.
Despite the title of the film, Slingshot is less concerned with its science-fiction framework than with human psychology. The continued relevance of seeking means to sustain life outside of Earth due to the pressures of climate change allows the film to bridge fictional elements with an increasingly possible reality and explore the human psyche in relation to the vast emptiness of the universe. However, these pressures, much less the slingshot maneuver, are hardly relevant to the story outside of establishing a setting.
Much like Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1972 masterpiece Solaris, Slingshot obsesses over the pervasiveness of memory, but its implications are far less captivating. Both Solaris’s Kris and Slingshot’s John are being effected upon by an external influence which causes certain lapses in judgment in conjunction with ineluctable manifestations of memory — an omnipresence also suggestive of Alain Resnais. Whereas Tarkovsky’s work finds distinction in that the manifestations, fabricated by the unknowable and sentient planet Solaris, are representative of Kris’s essence as defined by his deeply lived spatial-temporal connection to the Earth he has left behind, Slingshot places John under the influence of hibernation-inducing drugs said to produce side-effects including confusion and disorientation, thereby reducing everything to weakness of mind and superficial desire.
This isn’t to say that weakness of mind is unreasonable considering the circumstances, nor is it inappropriate for the film’s intentions. But John severely lacks relatability in that there is no sense of any deep connection with his past (perhaps this is even demanded of his role). He dispassionately longs for fresh air; he exercises on a stationary bike with his eyes pinned to a simulation of a forested biking trail; he’s haunted by thoughts of his recent love interest, Zoe. But all of these desires are mere comforts, suddenly sought in the face of the unknown. Images from the past intercut scenes on the ship to provide context in the form of dream, yet there remains a strong sense of detachment from that which is being observed. John does not ruminate, he simply recollects.
Its relatively shallow nature notwithstanding, Slingshot isn’t a total bust. While its plotting is a bit predictable, it has all the workings of a tried-and-true thriller. Affleck’s character is well-served by his low, raspy inflections and mangy appearance. Capone briefly shines in his depictions of paranoia. Everyone else is just fine; the actors simply fill their roles, and although there’s little opportunity for the cast to display their acting chops, nothing stands out as particularly misplaced.
Many were probably expecting Slingshot to be a rehash of tired old space tropes already exhausted by past thrillers such as Duncan Jones’ 2009 film Moon (interestingly, writer Nathan Parker is credited on both films). But despite the various influences apparent in its DNA, Slingshot is indicative of the infinite potential that remains in the genre, and in space settings as a vehicle for storytelling relevant to the modern age. Even if Slingshot often feels like a simple exercise in thriller conventions that’s taken to the stars, it can still be a fun ride.
Photo courtesy of Bleecker Street
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