Copyright /FILM
Science fiction often uses the alien-crash-lands-on-Earth metaphor to examine "us versus them" sentiments. Some, like "3-Body Problem," dissect the inherent malevolence of the vast universe, while others, like "Arrival," have a more optimistic outlook. Nicolas Roeg, who was fresh off the success of "Don't Look Now" in the late 1970s, decided to make a surreal, offbeat alien movie that completely dismantled genre expectations. This film, "The Man Who Fell To Earth," was rather expensive to make and had undergone a series of last-minute recuts and trims to make it more palatable for mainstream audiences. But these adjustments didn't help de-mystify Roeg's cult sci-fi, as it still feels strangely hypnotic, profound, and densely layered close to 50 years after its release. David Bowie is integral to "The Man Who Fell To Earth," as he is the titular extraterrestrial who emits a timeless aura in an age of great socio-political upheaval. Taking on the moniker of Thomas Jerome Newton, Bowie's humanoid alien takes great pains to integrate into Earth society, as his mission is to take back water to his drought-stricken home planet. Using his superhuman intelligence to make astonishing inventions, Thomas runs a global corporation to generate unchecked wealth, which he intends to use to fulfill his mission. But blending in with humans means connecting with them — Thomas mimics the best (and worst) impulses of a human lover with Mary-Lou (Candy Clark), and finds an unexpected confidant in Dr. Nathan Bryce (Rip Torn), who is as jaded and disillusioned as they come. The most (pleasantly) baffling aspect of the film is how much is left up to interpretation. Is it an enduring love story, a critique of postmodernist America, the tragic journey of an artist, or a paranoid thriller about human duplicity? Thomas is everything humanity isn't. He's forever youthful, which contrasts with the inevitable aging and decay of the world around him. He's also gentle and tender at first, which gradually hardens into cynicism, thanks to an addiction to alcohol and being rejected by society. The lengths that Thomas goes to in building the spaceship are in vain, as the same capitalist system that celebrated his innovations now renders him a prisoner in a luxurious cage. What's more, "The Man Who Fell To Earth" isn't bothered with the specifics of the failed mission or the nature of Thomas' alien physiognomy. Instead, it paints a heartbreaking picture of what it means to be truly disconnected from the world. Thomas yearns for his lover back at home, but Mary-Lou initially provides him with comfort that eases him into the human experience. His ravenous hunger for knowledge manifests in his avid interest in watching anything made by humans on a dozen television screens at once. This admiration for humanity, however, is never reciprocated — neither Mary-Lou nor Dr. Bryce is able to accept his true form. The former reacts with abject horror, and this sequence is framed as a horror segment, where Thomas' cat-like alien gaze fixes on Mary-Lou like that of a predator, even though his intentions aren't unkind. This otherness, which is incomprehensible to the human mind, is visually depicted in the most surreal way imaginable, highlighting Roeg's unique strengths as a seasoned cinematographer. Soon enough, Thomas develops vices, gets addicted to mindless consumption, and grows more erratic due to his inability to solve the imperfect equation of being human. The highly interpretative nature of Roeg's film is so flexible that it even accommodates the far-fetched theory that Thomas' isn't an alien at all, but merely a human with delusions. This contradicts the 1963 Walter Tevis novel that the film is an adaptation of, but Roeg's version embraces a surreal unreality that allows us to view Thomas' alien roots as a metaphorical allegory. This abstraction can also be seen in the way the film treats the passage of time, as we constantly see people age around Thomas while he stays the same; he is also able to reach through time to interact with the past and the future. This strange time-jumping happens only once, but it is a sturdy indicator of the fact that "The Man Who Fell to Earth" exists outside of conventional narrative boundaries. Of course, such interpretations demand indulgence from our end. But it isn't difficult to extend it, as Bowie's singular presence (in his theatrical debut, no less) elevates a premise that would've felt painfully ordinary if Thomas had been embodied by literally anyone else. This isn't just about talent, as Bowie's inventive artistic persona directly shapes our misfit protagonist. Roeg is the other vital ingredient, and this combination leads to a seemingly straightforward story about identity and homesickness being told in dreamy, incoherent vignettes. "The Man Who Fell to Earth" is a deeply weird experience. But it is also ambitious, complex, and beautiful to look at. Whether you want to read it as a manifesto on capitalism-fueled alienation or the saga of a literal extraterrestrial, this experimental triumph deserves more love.
