Sam Rockwell labours alone on the moon, mining Helium-3 for Earth's fusion reactors. He's nearing the end of a secluded three year contract, and trying to hold himself together. A problem with one of the automated threshers sends him out into the cosmic wild, where he crashes. Awakening in his base's sickbay, he notes the presence of another. A sombre disquiet follows. Moon recalls the science fiction films made in the decade or so before Star Wars broke - idea-driven meditations, usually starring a character actor. Think Silent Running with Bruce Dern. Histrionics are kept to a minimum as the eminently likeable Rockwell puzzles through a predicament that sees his identity-span splinter, and recoil. Moon rejects any pat scenarios concerning righteous indignation, or aggressive machination. Instead it's about a reasonable, humanistic reaction to being merchandised. Men find themselves cast in the role of utilitarian tools, and an on-the-fly paternity asserts itself between the facsimiles. Moon is about frontier loneliness, tinkered recall, and science doubling. All the good stuff.
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