If David Bowie falling to Earth sounds like the setup for a glam rock fever dream narrated by Carl Sagan on acid, you’re only halfway there. The Man Who Fell to Earth is a film that promises celestial introspection and cosmic poignancy—but what it delivers is a surrealist slideshow with the emotional weight of a stoned mime. It’s 2001: A Space Odyssey for people who think bathing in static is “transcendent.” There’s a fine line between experimental and exhausting, and Nicolas Roeg tap-dances right over it in platform boots.
Originally penned as a 1963 novel by Walter Tevis (yes, the guy who gave us The Queen’s Gambit, which mercifully features less nudity and more chess), the story was adapted by Paul Mayersberg in what could only be described as a cinematic origami accident. Nicolas Roeg, fresh off the art-house success of Don’t Look Now, picked up the rights with visions of splicing metaphysics with melancholia and possibly a splash of nudity every 20 minutes—because art.
Roeg’s idea was to tell a sci-fi story without a single reference to time—except when his editor forgot and had to overdub a line. Paramount Pictures, sensing an intergalactic awards darling, threw money at it, only to clutch their pearls when they saw the final cut. It’s like they ordered a Rolex and got a lava lamp with existential dread.
David Bowie, looking like a porcelain vampire who just discovered thrift stores, was cast as Thomas Jerome Newton, an alien whose job was to save his planet from drought by launching a tech startup in Arizona. Naturally. Bowie, by his own admission, had no idea what was going on—mainly because he was fueled by a diet of cocaine, paranoia, and 400 books he was too afraid to leave in his New York apartment.
Production was a hall of mirrors: cameras jammed, milk turned evil, and Roeg kept trying to make a film without a plot while Bowie accidentally delivered an Oscar-worthy meltdown in real time. Candy Clark, bless her, carried half the film—sometimes literally—since she had to play Newton in one scene when Bowie was indisposed. Possibly because he saw God in a glass of bad dairy.
As for the plot, calling it “meandering” is generous. Newton arrives, gets rich by inventing tech things offscreen, meets a woman named Mary-Lou who introduces him to sex, gin, and heartbreak, and eventually ends up an alcoholic who releases an album from his luxury prison. It’s like E.T. if E.T. got hooked on whiskey and forgot why he came.
Critics were baffled. Roger Ebert gave it 2.5 stars but looked like he needed a cigarette and a support group after watching it. Gene Siskel praised its visuals but seemed unsure if he’d seen a movie or a hostage video shot on Mars. Meanwhile, Roeg insisted it was a masterpiece, which is what all directors say when their film makes less money than a high school bake sale.
Over time, The Man Who Fell to Earth slouched its way into cult classic status—the kind of movie that people swear is genius after the third viewing and two edibles. Midnight screenings, Criterion Collection re-releases, and academic essays helped transform it from a misunderstood mess into a misunderstood landmark. It’s now studied by film students who think narrative coherence is for cowards.
And yes, it’s frequently referenced in other media—from Doctor Who to Prometheus, proving once again that even beautiful trainwrecks leave glitter behind.
In the end, The Man Who Fell to Earth is less of a movie and more of a mood board for existential fatigue. It’s pretty to look at, occasionally poignant, but mostly just a long, slow spiral into interstellar ennui. If you’ve ever wanted to feel deeply confused while watching David Bowie fall apart in slow motion, congratulations—you’ve found your holy grail.
⭐️⭐️ (2/5)
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