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MOVIE FAV - Let’s start with the obvious. I’m not a film critic.
I’m not going to break down plot twists or pacing or explain the third act. And I promise — no spoilers. Nothing you won’t already learn from trailers.
I just saw a sneak preview of Project Hail Mary, and I walked out of the theater a little stunned. Not in a “that was cool” way. In a “something just hit me” way.
I saw it on my birthday.
Which, if you know me, is already a slightly strange event. I was born on Leap Day. February 29. Which means technically I’m either far younger than my birth certificate suggests or wildly overdue for maturity.
Leap Year exists because Earth refuses to behave in clean, round numbers. It doesn’t orbit the sun in 365 days. It takes about 365.2422 days. That extra .2422 doesn’t sound like much, but ignore it long enough and the calendar drifts. Spring shows up in December. Seasons stop lining up. You get the picture. So, every four years we insert a cosmic correction day to realign ourselves with reality.
I’ve always thought that was pretty cool. The idea that time is slightly messy. That the universe doesn’t round down neatly. That we have to adjust to stay aligned with the stars. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to space. I was literally born because of orbital mechanics.
So, watching Project Hail Mary on an almost Leap Day birthday (I have to wait until 2028) when I’m reminded of my strange astronomical circumstance. Call it cosmic symmetry.
Maybe it partially explains why I’ve always been a space kid.
Like most boys of a certain generation, I wanted to be an astronaut. My dad worked in the Kennedy White House in the early ’60s right around the time President Kennedy promised we’d go to the moon. I was actually named after JFK. Dad would travel to Washington throughout the 60’s and 70’s and bring home tons of cool NASA memorabilia from the Apollo days. Patches. Photos. Programs.
To me, they weren’t souvenirs. They were sacred objects.
My older brother once built a near-perfect model of the Saturn V rocket and our shared bedroom wall was covered in crayon drawings of our solar system. I remember lying on the lawn in our yard in Rock Island, Illinois, staring up at a perfect starlit sky (without the light pollution of Los Angeles) convinced that somewhere out there was… something.
Then I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey.
To be honest, I didn’t understand half of it. But I felt all of it. The beauty. The silence. The loneliness. HAL 9000 terrified me — that calm, rational voice quietly deciding humans were expendable.
It’s strange how relevant that feels now. Back then it was science fiction. Now we’re living in a moment where artificial intelligence isn’t theoretical. Kubrick’s question about what happens when our creations outpace our wisdom feels less like cinema and more like current events.
And then there was Carl Sagan. Oh, man. That voice.
Cosmos on PBS and Sagan’s reminder that we are “made of star stuff.” That we live on a “pale blue dot,” suspended in a sunbeam. Fragile. Isolated. Precious.
He made science feel like poetry without sacrificing logic. He made you feel small and significant at the same time.
I was obsessed with Star Trek and, eventually, I became the guy who rewatched Apollo 13, Gravity, and Interstellar whenever they were on. I loved The Martian. I read Andy Weir’s novel before I saw the movie.
Weir’s own story feels like something out of science fiction — a software engineer who self-published his book chapter by chapter before it caught fire and became a global phenomenon. His gift isn’t just science. It’s clarity. He makes orbital mechanics understandable. He makes problem-solving dramatic. And he understands that humor isn’t a distraction from danger but a way humans cope with fear.
When I read Weir’s Project Hail Mary, I felt that magic again. Big science. Big stakes. But grounded in something deeply human.
Needless to say, walking into the movie, my expectations were already high.
Those expectations weren’t just met, they were surpassed by light years.
From the first frame, I was all in. I saw it in IMAX 1.43 at Universal City and it was overwhelming in the best way. The scale. The sound. The deliberate shifts in aspect ratio that actually meant something. Nothing felt indulgent. Every choice by the filmmakers felt intentional.
I brought in the usual popcorn and candy. Didn’t touch most of it.
Let’s start with Ryan Gosling. He is extraordinary. Not just charismatic. Not just funny. He plays a man who is brilliant and scared and flawed and brave — sometimes within minutes of each other. A reluctant schoolteacher forced into a moment he never would have chosen.
This isn’t The Martian. That was about surviving. This is about choosing to save something bigger than yourself.
Phil Lord and Chris Miller produced and directed the film. These are Oscar-winning filmmakers whose talents were on full display and have made something remarkable. The ambition feels Kubrick-level bold. The emotional sweep is pure Spielberg. The scale has Nolan’s gravity. And underneath it all is something that surprised me most: Capra.
Not stylistically. Spiritually.
A belief that ordinary people, when pushed, can choose decency. That courage isn’t loud. That heroism is often reluctant. That doing the right thing matters even if no one is watching.
At a time when cynicism feels like the default setting, that belief lands with surprising force.
I laughed. I leaned forward. I teared up more than once. I felt the weight of mortality. The loneliness of space. The fear of failure. The responsibility of being the one who has to act.
And here’s what stayed with me:
This story only works because people cooperate. Because “we” matters more than “me.” Because science isn’t political. Because survival requires trust.
That feels relevant.
And yes — at its core — it’s a love story.
Not in the way you expect. But a love story about friendship. About connection. About finding companionship in the most unexpected place imaginable. About realizing you don’t have to face the dark alone.
When it ended, I turned to my family and said, “I think that might be one of the best movies I’ve ever seen.” They felt the same way. With everything that’s going on in the world, we needed this movie.
I don’t say this lightly.
I haven’t felt this way about a space movie since I saw E.T. as a kid — that mix of wonder and heartbreak and hope.
If you want to feel something — really feel something — go see it.
See it big if you can.
This is exactly why we go to the movies. Not just to escape. But to be reminded what’s possible. To sit in the dark with strangers and feel connected to something larger than ourselves.
For two and a half hours, I was that little boy, that Leap Day kid again. Younger and older at the same time. Looking up at the sky. Wondering.
Believing that on this pale blue dot, we are capable of more courage and connection than we sometimes remember.
(John Shallman is an award-winning political media consultant and crisis management expert and President of Shallman Communications in Los Angeles. Mr. Shallman is the author of the national best-selling book, Return from Siberia.) www.shallmancommunications.com
