Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar has finally arrived in
theaters around the country this week, expanding from its initial run in 35mm
and 70mm IMAX formats to a broader digital rollout. My quick recommendation: I
feel this is a brilliant and beautiful film, a major evolution for Nolan’s
craft and storytelling that, while imperfect, is positively awe-inspiring and
life-affirming nearly every step of the way. I cannot recommend it enough, and
I urge viewers to seek it out on film, whether that’s IMAX or good old 35mm. I
really do imagine the experience will be diminished in digital projection, so
if you have the opportunity to see Interstellar on film, take it.
And once you have seen
the film, come back here and read my in-depth, unnecessarily long thoughts on
it below. This is not a film I have any interest in tackling without getting
into plot specifics, so please be aware this analysis contains spoilers for the entire picture. Only read further if you
have seen the film.
Read my spoiler-filled
analysis of Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar
after the jump…
There is a scene, about halfway through Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar, that tested the thematic,
narrative, and logical strength of the entire film for me. After astronaut
Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) and his team lose 23 years’ worth of Earth time
exploring a doomed planet, Cooper and crew member Amelia Brand (Anne Hathaway)
debate which planetary prospect they should journey towards next. She argues
for visiting the planet explored by her former lover, and when Cooper accuses
her of having compromised judgment, Brand posits a theory that love might not
be impairing her thinking, but heightening it – that the strength of the love
she feels, across time and space, may not just be the answer to this particular
navigational problem, but the key to all the major metaphysical questions these
characters are saddled with as they strive to find a new home for the human
race. In essence, Brand – and, by extension, Christopher Nolan – is arguing that
the single most unknowable, enigmatic, painful, and euphoric element of the
human condition – the bonds of human relationships – might unlock the
scientific keys to our species’ salvation.
If Interstellar had
not been good enough up to that point to earn some patience – had not provided
so many wonderful character moments, and so many great performances, and such
immense technical prowess – I might well have rolled my eyes at Brand’s speech,
because it is a big, potentially cheesy, possibly catastrophically silly sort
of thing to ask the viewer to buy into, especially in a film that is so
overwhelmingly concerned with getting the science of its storytelling right
(or, as right as such things can be in service of a cinematic narrative).
The single best thing I can say about Interstellar, then – a film that is flawed and imperfect, but also
beautiful, inspiring, and masterfully made – is that by the end, I believed
wholeheartedly in the nonsense Nolan was selling me. I went from nearly rolling
my eyes at Brand’s ‘love’ theory to spilling copious, embarrassing amounts of
tears from them at the suggestions being made about the limitless capacity of
mankind’s ability to feel. The film
is, in essence, about the power of love. When I type those words, it sounds
silly – but while watching Interstellar, such
a notion seems vital. Because while Interstellar
is a film about so many things – wonder, thrills, family, fatherhood,
daughterhood, exploration, scientific possibility, human ambition, etc. – it is
ultimately about how love, that one thing that makes us great and which we can be
unambiguously proud of, even as it confuses and tortures us on a daily basis,
may be our only salvation. It is a film grounded in hope, and the key source of
hope the film identifies is the unbreakable bonds we feel for one another
across time and space. If we can feel love, and be hurt by it, and be elated by
it, and fight harder than we ever thought we could because of it, then maybe we
can, when the chips are down as far as they will go, be able to hold on to that
emotional strength, and reach further than we ever have before.
I find this to be a beautiful, life-affirming vision, and
whatever missteps Interstellar makes
here and there along the way, I feel Nolan sells this vision with incredible power
and clarity. The film marks a major evolution for the director, both
stylistically and, more importantly, thematically. In anticipation of Interstellar, the Sie Film Center in
Denver recently did a retrospective series of all of Nolan’s films, and watching
each of them in one weekend not only reaffirmed how entertaining, accomplished,
and provocative I find much of his work, but also made it dawn on me what an
intensely emotional filmmaker he is – even though his films are not ‘emotional’
in the traditional Hollywood sense of the term. All of Nolan’s pictures are
fundamentally about trauma – deep-seated, scarring, eternally aching kinds of
interior pain – and characters who are pathologically incapable of overcoming
it, and in fact force themselves to keep reopening their emotional wounds over
and over and over again (think of Leonard (Guy Pearce) in Memento, constantly denying himself closure over the role he played
in his wife’s death by setting his future self on a path of continual murder
and confusion; it is hardly the only example). While these are dark, tortured
sensations, they are emotions nevertheless, and each of his films can be seen
as an attempt to qualify the extreme ethereality of human pain and
self-inflicted suffering through reasoned and understandable (if complex)
lenses. I think this is simply how Nolan’s brain works – he feels the emotions
of his characters intensely, but he cannot simply put that pain or elation on
screen raw, without some kind of rigorous narrative or structural framework
supporting it.
There are two sides to Nolan as a director. The man who
feels deeply, who is compulsively driven to explore pain in various forms, and
the man who acts as a cinematic clinician, taking a step back to objectively
explore these emotions through a quantified, ordered narrative framework (the
backwards structure in Memento, or
the arrangement of story like the three individual parts of a magic trick in The Prestige – literally trying to
quantify how humans create and experience ‘wonder’ by breaking it down
step-by-step). These two halves don’t always coexist in perfect harmony. Even
at Nolan’s best, as in The Dark Knight, the
emotional side can hurt the rational half, with the delivery of the film’s
major themes sometimes leaving narrative logic in ruins. At his worst, as in The Dark Knight Rises, it works the
other way; there are some interesting themes to be had in that film about
leaving one’s trauma behind and trying to re-ignite hope in one’s heart, but
the film’s humanity is stifled by a wildly overwrought plot. Inception remains Nolan’s best film, I
feel, for how flawlessly this balance between emotion and rationality operates;
the framework of a clearly delineated, architectural dreamscape gives the
film’s emotional side – another story about a man riddled with guilt – a stage
on which it can be explored in great cinematic detail. All parts of the dream
world – including the incredible action sequences played out therein – serve to
literalize the protagonist’s emotional journey on an aesthetically observable
level, while those emotions, in turn, give weight and impact to the spectacle.
The thematic maturity of Inception
lies in how completely the two sides of the film feed into one another at all
times, creating a work that is ultimately about a similar division in the human
condition – between our unconscious and conscious selves, our sleeping and
waking beings, our emotional and rational halves – and how those internal parts
of ourselves also exist in constant dialogue with one another.
Interstellar is a less
mature picture than Inception overall,
and feels slightly less solid and complete on the whole, but that is largely
because it sees Nolan pushing himself and his ideas farther than he ever has
before. Messy as it was, The Dark Knight
Rises seemed to me an attempt to strike out into uncharted thematic
territory, choosing a path of healing and redemption rather than further
trauma. It did not work, but the choice to start letting characters rectify their
pain (also seen in Inception, depending
on one’s interpretation of the ending) signaled a compelling evolution for
Nolan, one that Interstellar delivers
on powerfully. This too is a film all about human emotions, with loss, grief,
and guilt front and center once again, but it also incorporates the elating, inspiring
sensations of love and connection that drive human beings forward. It looks at
the worst of us, at where we may ultimately drive ourselves and this planet as
a species if we continue to act with selfish abandon, and then wonders if harnessing
the best of what we are – our capacity for exploration, ambition, and love –
can save us from destruction.
And it works, beautifully so, precisely because the film is such
a clear utilization of Nolan’s two component halves. The film’s conclusion – in
which Brand’s theory about love does indeed prove true, and Cooper’s paternal connection
to his daughter provides a link through space-time so that he may communicate
all he has learned to her – is another attempt to quantify human emotion within
a logical construct (a scientific one even, or at least metaphysical). Amongst
everything the director has ever done, this may be the narrative beat most
characteristic of Nolan’s worldview and thematic approach, and it feels to me
like an invigoratingly singular ending to a science-fiction epic. I cannot
think of another filmmaker who approaches emotion in quite the same way, or
would paint the big emotional masterstroke of a film in similar fashion. Fans
and critics like to compare Nolan to Stanley Kubrick, but it’s a faulty
association on just about every level. Kubrick also analyzed the human
condition from a characteristic remove, but it was a totally different sort of
stance. He was an alien analyzing human civilization, a foreign being
attempting to understand who we were from afar, and seeing things always on a
macroscopic level. Nolan, on the other hand, is a human being, flawed and
feeling, trying to take a step back and assume the posture of the foreign
analyst. It is a subtle but important distinction. It means his movies access
the macroscopic through the microscopic, going up close with specific
characters and experiences to try discerning larger truths. It results in
imperfections, but it also creates an intense depth of feeling.
The conclusion of Interstellar
is a perfect illustration of this ethos, a climax that is on one level
about Cooper’s love for his daughter and need to rectify his guilt, but is also
a moment of looking to humanity’s future and imagining what we might one day become
if we strive to live as the best of what we are. That the intimate action of a
man reaching out and trying his hardest to be a father again could result in
ripples significant enough to save all mankind is a powerful union of the micro
and macroscopic scales Nolan alternates between – and of the quantified,
scientific way he attempts to access emotion. There is a whiff of nonsense to
it all, of course, but I bought into it completely, both because I was
consistently moved by Cooper and his family’s story, and because I found myself
fascinated and elated by the hard science the film relies on up to that point.
Frankly, I found Cooper’s experience in the fifth-dimensional time tunnel –
being pulled through dimensions by love, and pushing love back in return across
the chasms of time and space – emotionally overwhelming on a scale I have not
seen in Hollywood cinema all year. And it’s not even the moment that ultimately
broke me. But more on that in a bit.
If the sheer level of hope and optimism on display in Interstellar marks a clear thematic step
forward for Nolan, as I have argued, then the film must also be viewed as an
evolution of his style. Nolan first made a name for himself early on with his
idiosyncratic out-of-sequence storytelling, and over the course of films like Memento, Batman Begins, The Prestige, and The Dark Knight, he kept honing that narrative format until he
simply didn’t need it anymore, eventually finding a way to tell stories in an
intensely continuous fashion. Starting with The
Dark Knight, Nolan’s scenes flowed non-stop into one another, bigger and
bigger moments cascading on top of each other breathlessly from first moment to
last (Hans Zimmer, in this way, was a prime collaborative architect of this
style, composing similarly unceasing volumes of music that layered and
connected nearly every moment of film). Inception,
once again, saw this breathless propulsion done best, a tight, non-stop,
absolutely lyrical piece of cinema that is constructed with all the fluidity of
a great symphony. But this kind of long-form montage is a demanding style that
can only hold so much, and The Dark
Knight Rises – which structured itself the same way, but buckled hard under
the weight of its own needlessly complex story – suggested Nolan needed to
evolve once again.
In Interstellar, he
does. It is the first film he has made since The Prestige that really breathes, allowing for pauses – in the
forward momentum and, crucially, in the musical score – that let moments linger
when need be. Think of that beautiful, brilliant shot after the botched mission
on the water planet, when Cooper sits down to watch 23 years’ worth of messages
from his children, and instead of providing a standard shot-reverse-shot
between the video message and Cooper’s reaction, the camera simply hold on Matthew
McConaughey as he reacts. It is all about his real-time emotions in this
moment, allowing both the character and the audience to process the weight of
what has happened thus far. There are many such moments in Interstellar, and so much of why the film earns its biggest and
most audacious ideas is because that breathing room exists. The film still has
a powerfully propulsive pace and build, but it is not a sustained
two-and-a-half hour heart attack, as I like to describe The Dark Knight. Nolan leaves that sort of sensation for the film’s
final act. The betrayal by Dr. Mann (Matt Damon) on the ice planet may be the
film’s faultiest narrative move – a conventional moment ripped from dozens of
other science-fiction films, and which leaves the talented Damon stranded
without any real shadings to play – but it results in one of the most
breathlessly tense extended sequences I have ever seen on film. Extending from
Brand rushing to save Cooper from asphyxiation, on to the chase back to the
Endurance, through Cooper’s attempt to manually reattach the shuttle and on
further still to his journey into the black hole and the metaphysical climax,
Nolan delivers another masterful piece of symphonic montage filmmaking (one
that, like Inception, employs copious
intercutting, between Cooper in space and Murph back on earth), and I found
myself riveted, exhilarated, and exhausted in equal measure. And so much of
what makes this climax powerful is how clearly Nolan builds to it, holding off
on such a sweeping interconnected construction until the events of the film
have fully earned it.
Earn it the film does, as nearly everything we get along the
way is so rich and rewarding. I actually feel that the first act, on Earth,
needed to be a bit longer, especially after Cooper is asked to pilot the
mission. While so much of the Earth material breathes and lingers in a way that
makes the pain and confusion of this quietly apocalyptic scenario palpable,
Cooper’s decision to leave, and the complex emotions involved therein, are
mostly confined to the one charged exchange he shares with Murph in her
bedroom. That scene is an absolute knockout, but much of the material around it
played out slightly too fast for my taste, as if Nolan were impatient to get
Cooper into space.
Which is understandable, I suppose, since Nolan’s vision of
interstellar travel is pretty wildly effective, especially for viewers who get
a buzz over cinematic depictions of space exploration. I love the sheer
attention to detail on display in the space sequences; the mission’s take-off,
and Cooper’s first time attaching a shuttle to the Endurance, is another one of
those wonderfully slow, methodical moments from which the overall tapestry of
the film is built, and the second act of Interstellar
is simply bursting with similar scenes. Nolan’s passion for the science of
space travel is obvious, and while the exposition can be clunky at times – I
doubt a pilot as brilliant as Cooper would need the mechanics of a wormhole
explained to him with pen and paper – I found myself eating it up all the same,
because this is the rare science fiction film that takes the time to get its
science right, and absolutely revels in the wonder astrophysics provides.
Sequences like the journey through the wormhole or Cooper slinging the
Endurance around the black hole inspire awe not just because of the incredible
effects and immersive IMAX photography, but because the plausibility of the
moment is well established beforehand. Interstellar
is great sci-fi precisely because the science fuels the fiction, something
too many films in this genre forget to consider (it usually works the other way
around). When it’s pulled off well, as it is here, there is a tangibility to
the spectacle I don’t feel from faulty science or pure fantasy (and again, the
metaphysics of the conclusion work in large part because the film pushes
towards that point with such attention to scientific detail).
Yet no matter how deeply Nolan delves into the details of
the film’s space-time journey, the emotion is there always, omnipresent and
powerful. The relativity conundrum that loses the team 23 years of time is a
complex bit of exposition, but the stakes of the science matter because of what
such a time loss means for Cooper. That terrific moment I mentioned earlier, in
which Cooper watches the string of messages and weeps, is characteristic of how
the film uses big scientific ideas to add weight to the character journeys.
Because every decision the team makes in space will have major consequences for
Cooper’s family back on earth – and, by extension, every surviving human on our
planet – the science and the emotion of the storytelling are inextricably
linked. The weave between them is seamless, allowing for broad existential
wonder in some moments – the journey through the wormhole, or the visits to
alien worlds – intimate emotional punches in others – any scene involving
Cooper and his children – and a knockout combination between the two, as when
Cooper communicates with Murph in the fifth-dimensional time tunnel.
The actual ending of the film – all the material that takes
place after Cooper finds himself on the other side of the black hole – is
problematic for me after this first viewing, even as I was intensely moved by
it in spots. If the film concluded with the space-time envelope collapsing
around Cooper after he has successfully relayed the black hole data to Murph,
and seen evidence of where humanity is headed, then it is a powerful,
thought-provoking, transcendental ending, the kind that would leave the viewer
simultaneously disoriented and invigorated, high on the inspiration of the
bright future the film envisions for mankind. That could have been a great closing
moment, but I see the value in where the film actually chooses to end, with
Cooper seeing Murph one last time, and then heading back out into space to help
secure humanity’s future. Because while the actual ending inspires slightly
less awe, it also makes me sob, and seeing as this is ultimately a film about
emotional release and catharsis, about coming to terms with the pain and
ecstasy of being human, I understand the importance of that. The ramifications
of Cooper’s journey gets spelled out more than it needs to be as he tours the
space station, and his mere survival after entering the black hole stretches
plausibility too far. But we also get to see Cooper reunite with Murph, a
beautiful moment of reward for both characters; it may not be ideal for either
one, but he gets to see his daughter again, in a way that shows him the scope
of her life and fills him with pride for her accomplishments, and she gets to
be by her father’s side one more time before dying – gets to summon this
childhood loss back into her life just before her existence is extinguished.
And yes, as someone who recently lost a father, that idea,
and the simple, beautiful power with which it is presented, pretty much broke
me. The tears flowed especially freely when Murph explained that she always had
faith in Cooper, because “my dad made me a promise.” I was a wreck, and if that
was Nolan’s intention, I applaud him. Not all cinematic manipulation is bad.
And the final story beat, of Cooper going back out into the stars to give Brand
some hope again in her darkest hour, is more than thematically fitting,
reinforcing the significance of hope in the perpetuation of the human
existence. If human bonds are indeed the path to our species’ salvation, then
they have to be honored, and Cooper returning to space to make sure this remains
true ties the narrative together with aplomb.
On a technical level, Interstellar
is simply peerless. The effects, mostly practical (and obviously so – I
grinned broadly whenever I saw the optical outline around one of the ship
models), are just tremendous. They were even more effective to me than those in
Alfonso Cuaron’s Gravity – another
recent space drama similarly fetishistic in its attention to the details of
space travel – in part because of the quality of the IMAX film stock, but also
because there is such an extreme tangibility to the film’s spacecraft. As good
as the CG work in Gravity is, nothing
beats physical models like these, and the way Nolan lingers on images of the
spacecraft doing what they were intended to do simply filled me with joy (the
near-destruction of the Endurance at the film’s climax hits as hard as it does
because we have spent so much time observing how the ship operates). Meanwhile,
the biggest visual effects moments – like crossing the wormhole, flying around
the black hole, or entering the fifth-dimensional time fortress, all of which
appear to blend practical and digital effects – are truly awe-inspiring,
legitimately filling me with wonder. Moments like these are astonishing, and
terrifying, and beautiful – all the things they would be, if human eyes
actually glimpsed these sights. I really found myself getting lost in the
journey being illustrated.
The cinematography has a huge part to play in this, of
course. I don’t think Interstellar is
quite on par, on the whole, with what Nolan and longtime cinematographer Wally
Pfister were doing in their final collaborations (Inception is, once again, the high mark for me on that front), but
Hoyte van Hoytema has nevertheless done great work here, further asserting
himself as one of the most talented visual craftsman working today. His
cinematography is dour and thought-provoking when it needs to be, as on earth;
observational and clinical on the Endurance; and vast, broad, and wondrous in outer-space
and on the individual planets. The relationship between IMAX sequences and
standard 35mm footage is a bit rougher than it was on prior Nolan films; the
switching between stocks (and aspect ratios) is far too rapid in the film’s
first half, and the difference in lighting between the two formats proves distracting.
The IMAX shots all look clear, bright, and deep, but the 35mm footage is
photographed with too complex a lighting scheme to work on an enormous IMAX
screen, where dark palettes can become indecipherable. I suspect this footage
would look fantastic on a standard 35mm projection, but blown up to IMAX 70mm,
certain images are obscured. It stops being a problem in the film’s final hour,
which is almost entirely comprised of full IMAX footage, and on the whole, I
still think IMAX is the definitive version of the film, and absolutely the one
to seek out. It is so immersive, even when the lighting becomes a problem, and
combined with the absurdly good sound mix(*), the IMAX version of the film is a
wondrous experience in and of itself.
(*) I have heard
reports of certain IMAX theaters (particularly the Chinese in Los Angeles)
having sub-optimal sound quality, to the point where large stretches of
dialogue are completely obscured. This was not my experience at all. At the UA
Colorado Center IMAX in Denver, the sound mix is excellent – big and booming
and powerful, but also clear as a bell throughout. There was no line I had to
strain to hear, nor any effect that sounded anything less than perfect. I
suspect it is a case of theater optimization, rather than the film’s actual
sound mixing. This was also the case on The Dark Knight Rises, which I saw twice in two different IMAX
theatres (one at the Colorado venue, and the other in Iowa) and had two totally
different experiences with. In Iowa, sound effects and music drowned out
dialogue frequently, obscuring Bane and Commissioner Gordon in particular. In
Colorado, everything was crystal clear. It’s not the mix – it’s the theater. I
would suggest doing some quick research to make sure your local IMAX, if you
have one, has calibrated its sound equipment properly.
It is an experience Hans Zimmer once again plays a crucial
hand in propelling. Interstellar does
many things well, but the musical score is undoubtedly the film’s crowning
technical achievement. Zimmer pushes himself more than he ever has before,
writing a score that is intensely emotional, often hypnotic, and downright
experimental at times. It is a score of pure feeling and total ethereality,
using a church organ and an assortment of undefinable (to my ears) instruments
that create a vulnerable atmosphere throughout, a musical sense of something
larger than ourselves, a sensation we cannot quantify. For a film that is
fundamentally about quantifying the undefinable, trying to put a scientific framework
around the power of love and human relationships, Zimmer’s score does a huge
amount to enable and empower the strange equation the film is built upon.
The performances, too, are something else. My favorite
Matthew McConaughey performance remains his role on True Detective – the light is indeed winning, my friend – but his
work here comes incredibly close to topping that, and he excels with a
demanding part that asks him to do a little bit of everything: action heroics,
a commanding presence, the everyman archetype, and expert dramatics. He is good
at all of them, but he wows most clearly at that final, most important piece. This
is a fiercely human performance of
raw power and dimensionality, and thinking back on some of the soulless roles
that made me hate McConaughey for a time back in the 2000s – Fool’s Gold, Failure to Launch, etc. –
the wholly believable vulnerability he projects here astounds me even more. In
just the last two years, he has quickly refashioned himself into one of
America’s best actors, and Interstellar is
one of those roles I suspect he’ll be remembered for.
While Jessica Chastain is very good as the adult Murph, the
second-most special performance in the film behind McConaughey comes from Mackenzie
Foy, the talented young actress playing Murph as a child (and whose previous
most notable role was as Bella and Edward’s creepy demon spawn in the last Twilight movie – again with the
challenging of career expectations). This is a truly wonderful child
performance, a piece of acting that is powerful and well-defined without coming
across as overly precocious or inorganic. Foy’s work is such a crucial lynchpin
to the emotional tapestry of the film, especially in her scenes with
McConaughey, that Chastain honestly doesn’t have a ton of room to work with;
everything she does is simply an extension of the character Foy establishes.
But everybody here does excellent work. Nolan once again
uses Michael Caine expertly – though I look forward to a time when he might
have a more substantial role for Caine to play again – and I think Anne
Hathaway would be wise to continue working with the director. Brand is not a
fully defined character as written, and that is one of the bigger weaknesses of
the script, but the depth and variance and passion of the performances Hathaway
has given in Nolan’s films, between The
Dark Knight Rises and this, are beyond anything I have seen from her in
other work (even though she has been consistently great for years now). And
while Casey Affleck has barely been featured in the film’s advertising, one has
to praise the small but pivotal role he plays in making Cooper’s son feel like
a vital part of the story, given how heavily the family dynamic is weighed
toward Murph.
Ultimately, Interstellar
is something so many films aspire to be, but rarely achieve: It is a
journey in and of itself, an experience that takes the viewer outside his or
her own body for three hours and explores the outer ranges not just of space,
but of the human experience, probing at huge existential issues on both broad
and intimate scales, and drawing some profound, powerful conclusions along the
way. The film may not be perfect, but given what it is trying to quantify – the
possibility for the importance of emotion in our scientific exploration of the
universe – I doubt it ever could be. Emotions are messy business, and nearly every
misstep the film makes – the talking-head interviews in the first act, the protracted
nature of the ending, and even Dr. Mann’s betrayal (which is an attempt to
illustrate the selfish fallibility of mankind’s survival instinct, in contrast
with the heights that same instinct instills in Cooper) – comes from a sincere
effort to understand the complex feelings the film engages with.
Moreover, what Interstellar
does well it does so well that those problem points hardly seem to matter. It
is entertaining, thrilling, and transporting, but also intimate, rich, and
beautiful, and the way those disparate elements almost always work in tandem
with one another is what makes the film great. It will take time and multiple
viewings for a full analysis of this film to emerge, and I think response will
remain mixed towards it for a time; whether one finds the movie good, bad, or
mediocre at first blush, it is not a film built to process in one sitting.
For me, Interstellar is
the kind of film I walk out of deeply shaken, while simultaneously high on the
power of cinema, drunk on what I just saw, elated, enlightened, inspired and
made better by the three hours I spent sitting in a dark room, watching light
flicker past on a screen. I love that movies can do that, and I love that even
as he has long-since been absorbed by the studio system, Christopher Nolan
still dreams big enough to create works of this potential power. No matter
where one falls on the film, that kind of ambition is undeniably admirable. We
need movies like Interstellar, just
as we need filmmakers like Christopher Nolan, using their cache to push cinema
to its limits. With Interstellar, I believe
he has succeeded wildly. If this is what he can do only sixteen years into his
film career, I look forward to pushing those boundaries right alongside him for
decades to come.
Jonathan, this article is the embodiment of everything I have felt towards this movie. I think you really hit the nail on the head with this article; and quite frankly I'm glad Ice found someone physically write down something so close to as what I've been processing this movie as. Kudos sir, well done and thank you
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