The Man Who Fell to Earth
 (1976)
review by Red Velvet Kitchen

The year is 1976 and despite having a number of successful albums and tours, plus recently 'killing off' his legendary Ziggy Stardust persona, David Bowie is something of an enigma. A number of years before his dalliances with the dark electronic, ennui-laced music for the lost soul that made his 'Berlin Trilogy' such an enduring body of work, Bowie was actually fairly poor as the result of a shambolic record contract which also limited his access to the lusting media. This and his reclusive nature made him a truly fascinating enigma, so dynamic and charismatic on stage, but little known off it. Therefore his performance in Nicolas Roeg's follow-up to the great Don't Look Now was even more of a treat, particularly considering his role was as an alien sent to Earth to reap water for his drought-stricken planet. It offered an insight into this fragile persona whilst also allowing film audiences to watch a star they had all heard about but hardly knew in (other than his various musical incarnations) the role he was born to play. From his wide-eyed beginnings to the gloomy decadence of the final acts I can imagine no man more effective than Bowie circa 1976. It was, and still is, a fascinating blend of fiction, fact and fairytale. No other popstar could have been chosen for such an apt role at such an opportune moment. The story of an alien who is pulled further and further away from his home planet and his own identity as he becomes increasingly corrupted by a world which entices him then spits him out Siren-like, is quite simply a perfect proposition. Of course, it does help a great deal if you're a Bowie follower like myself.

One notable aspect of this film that's immediately apparent from the opening arrival scene is the way that Roeg uses his central protagonist as much more than simply the thrust behind the storyline. As with Jenny Agutter in Walkabout and Donald Sutherland in Don't Look Now, Roeg crafts his entire film around the subjective sensibilities of his central character. As this person happens to be an alien who greets our world with a mixture of enthusiasm and caution, the presentation of Earth as a vaguely alien and unfamiliar territory is fantastically (in both senses of the world) evoked, with lingering shots of peculiar skyscrapers, kaleidoscope colour schemes and a knowingly obtuse telling of the story. With this Performance-like narrative that switches between different times and scenarios flippantly, letting you catch up later, combining with the off-kilter technique, Roeg allows us to be in the strange position of both observing the action from afar, and seeing everything up close and personal through the corruptible eyes of Bowie. The film manages to be both powerfully subjective, enough for the audience to empathise and identify with the alien protagonist, and objective enough for us to appreciate the cautionary tale aspect spinning off into the tempting chasms of indulgence, with Bowie eventually dehumanised by losing control and actually becoming more human.

The Man Who Fell To Earth is a strange beast, a science-fiction very specifically about the modern age, the zeitgeist, its ups and downs and its ultimate failure. Like many other fine genre films, it is also only truly a sci-fi film in its strong reliance on analogy and metaphor, ensuring that all the futurism, alien paraphernalia and strange inventions are essentially a facade for a very human story. However, despite these noble aims, Roeg's film is overlong and is hindered by unconvincing performances from Candy Clark and Rip Torn, the former missing the warm humanity needed in her role, and the latter not good enough at conveying his lack of. David Bowie and Nicolas Roeg have always been two excellent artists who frequently tread that fine line between the gloriously idiosyncratic and the ceaselessly indulgent. Roeg has an innate understanding of powerful and vivid imagery and Bowie is a master storyteller whether on stage, screen or on record, but both have at times pushed things a little too far. Compare the groundbreaking 'Ziggy Stardust' concept album to the sinister incoherence and ultimate pointlessness of Bowie's later attempt at a similarly free-form story with 'Outside', or in Roeg's case the intimate yet profound tragedy of Don't Look Now with the pompous but empty Eureka. So, its little surprise that this film does drift into performance art territory for Bowie (despite detractors jibes he has always been a capable actor) and flat-out messiness from the ambitious director, who does create baffling and simply tedious sequences at particularly important moments. At times scenes are unpleasant and convoluted when they should be upsetting and dramatic, but overall the overriding statement of intent that is The Man Who Fell To Earth's staying strength, just about shines through in its inglorious and bleak look at a world lost in its own modernity.

The score that David Bowie wasn't allowed to compose for this film would have been a nice touch, but the blend of the melancholy and the theatrical that I imagine his music would have conveyed is perfectly evoked in the quietly powerful denouement. As Bowie is found wasted, shaken, dizzied and wrecked, fallen drunk from the whole rollercoaster experience, his long-time associate simply says 'I think he's had enough now don't you?', which delivers a devastating undercurrent of sadness, and gives the title an extra gleam of poignancy.

A moving and at times haunting film from two of the seventies most compelling artists. Pretty much essential though if you recognise the line 'Mickey Mouse has grown-up a cow'.