How to completely f**k up a movie- updated

“First Man” might not actually be as anti-American as we’ve been led or misled into believing.

Even without the planting of the flag as a cinematic centerpiece and Gosling’s personal opinion, the movie might be a pro-American, patriotic movie worth seeing.

@Deplorable Me: Do you or anyone know which conservative pundit first raised a red flag on this? Because that person may have misreported (well, not misreported the facts but just spun it) and created some torches and pitchforks on the conservative side, without anyone really knowing if the movie, in truth, has an anti-American or white-washing tenor and tone.

Here’s a review from the left-leaning New Yorker:

“First Man,” Reviewed: Damien Chazelle’s Neil Armstrong Bio-Pic Is an Accidental Right-Wing Fetish Object

When “First Man,” Damien Chazelle’s drama about Neil Armstrong’s mission to the moon, premièred at the Venice Film Festival, in August, it stirred up an absurd controversy among right-wing blowhards who hadn’t seen the film but nonetheless damned it on the basis of reviews stating that the movie doesn’t depict the iconic moment when Armstrong planted the American flag on the lunar surface. It’s true that the flag-planting isn’t dramatized, but the blowhards need not worry: “First Man” is worthy of enduring as a right-wing fetish object. It is a film of deluded, cultish longing for an earlier era of American life, one defined not by conservative politics but, rather, by a narrow and regressive emotional perspective that shapes and distorts the substance of the film.

The general notion of “First Man” is to offer a corrective to the myth of the passive astronaut, the idea that American space explorers were merely strapped in, sent up, photo-opped, and brought home. Chazelle emphasizes, from start to finish, the physical punishment of space flight and Armstrong’s extraordinary, seemingly unique capacity to endure it. The movie begins with Neil (we’ll call the character by his first name, to distinguish him from the historical Armstrong) flying under intensely stressful conditions: his breathing is labored, his craft violently shakes, and, suddenly, instead of landing as planned, he’s rising—“bouncing off the atmosphere,” a flight controller tells him. Neil is serving as a civilian test pilot for nasa, and he’s flying a plane at an unprecedentedly high altitude; when he finally regains control of it, he narrowly misses crashing.

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The work to which Neil is devoted, the mission to the moon, is unabashedly depicted as patriotic. There’s no flag-planting, but the planted flag is seen clearly, twice; the movie doesn’t stint on the distinctive Americanism of the action onscreen (including, in a scene of Armstrong ascending from the ground to the capsule of Apollo 11 in an elevator, a point-of-view shot that reveals, majestically, the words “United States” painted, vertically, on the side of the very tall rocket). Earlier, when another space mission is successfully completed, one astronaut bellows in Mission Control, “Call the Soviets—tell ’em to go fuck themselves.” After the successful Apollo 11 moon landing, a French woman is interviewed and says, “I always trust an American. I knew they wouldn’t fail.” There’s a culture war at the core of “First Man,” or, rather, several, and Chazelle doesn’t merely suggest that they exist historically; he takes sides in them, and he does so as much with what he silences as with what he depicts.

There is, for instance, the war of commercial kitsch against both high culture and youth culture. The Armstrong household is in the realm of kitsch: when Neil is home with Janet, thinking of the moon, he puts on a record of “moon music”—easy-listening music with strings, a piano, a theremin, and a choir. (It’s a real thing—it’s called “Lunar Rhapsody” and is part of a 1947 album by Les Baxter.) Neil is so attached to the music that he brings a cassette of it into space and plays it in the capsule during flight. Little in the film suggests that the world of pop has undergone a change or that culture and mores were changing with it. There is one brief scene of a party at which something like rock music is playing, but there’s no sense of what Neil’s perspective might be on the Twist, the Beatles, or anything else going on in the turbulent sixties.

Nothing in the film suggests that Neil is even aware of what’s going on in the world around him. Much of the action in the movie takes place in Jim Crow states where public facilities were segregated, but there’s no hint of this in the film; there’s no hint of where Neil stands on the pressing questions of the time. He has no black colleagues, no female colleagues; meanwhile, a female cosmonaut, Valentina Tereshkova, flew a space mission for the Soviet Union in 1963. What did he think? There’s a news report on the Armstrong family TV about the Vietnam War—but, significantly, it’s Janet who’s home while it’s on. Neil is in space at the time—as if Chazelle were suggesting that, while such people as Janet both hold down the domestic front and fret about politics, Neil is too busy to bother with any of it. (The same is true of one brief appearance of antiwar protesters, which occurs just as Neil is mourning the deaths of his own colleagues—as if contrasting those who risk death with those who wouldn’t.)

The one scene that embodies the sixties onscreen is, to my mind, among the most contemptible scenes in recent movies. It takes place midway through the action, when Congress begins to question the value of the space program. Neil is dispatched to represent nasa in a meeting at the White House, where senators fret about “taxpayer dollars,” and while there he is summoned to the phone and informed of the deaths of three astronauts in an Apollo test. The point is clear: that the astronauts are risking their lives while Congress is counting beans and playing politics.

But Chazelle takes that notion even further a few minutes later in the film, when, racked with unspeakable grief over the deaths of his colleagues, Neil drives off to be alone. “Half the country” may oppose the moon mission, but here Chazelle offers a peculiar, tendentious, and self-revealing cinematic interpretation of that phrase in the form of a montage. It shows Kurt Vonnegut, appearing in a black-and-white television clip, saying that the government would do better to spend the money on such things as making New York City “habitable.” There’s an archival clip of chanting protesters, featuring, prominently, a sign saying “¡Ayuda al Pueblo!” and footage, staged for the movie, of Leon Bridges performing Gil Scott-Heron’s 1970 song “Whitey on the Moon.”

With this sequence, Chazelle openly mocks people who thought that the moon money was spent foolishly—those pesky intellectuals, blacks, and Hispanics who go on TV or into the street demanding “gimme” while the likes of Neil and his exclusively white, male colleagues uncomplainingly put their lives on the line to accomplish historic things in the interest of “mankind.” In its explicit content, and by artful omission, “First Man” subscribes to the misbegotten political premise that America used to be greater—and that the liberating and equalizing activism of the sixties ignored, dismissed, and even undermined that greatness.