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This Viagra for the brain entertains not necessarily because of its plot savvy or style (though Ken Kaufman and Howard Klausner's script is visualised quite handsomely by Mr. Eastwood), but because of the promises it makes. It's really nothing new. Teen movies have been supplying the pimpled set with vicarious popularity, peer security, and the fulfilment of hormonal fantasies for years. Hence the glands being served by Hollywood remain the same. Only their chronology is different.
None of this is to say that the director's assemblage of geriatric astronauts, rounded up by their former "Daedalus" leader when a wayward communications satellite threatens untold havoc, will be completely lost on younger viewers. Seeing older folks act out of character often touches a humorous nerve among youth. Unfortunately, many of them view this sort of humour in the same way as they do animals dressed in eveningwear.
Yet in all fairness, the casting is inspired. And whether young or old, anyone with an appreciation for the kind of talent that only comes with a lifetime of dedication to the silver screen will at least enjoy this winning ensemble's pluck and swagger.
Predictably but convivially, it's all about The Big Last Mission, the ultimate vindication and redemption. We learn why in the opening scenes, atmospherically etched in Eisenhower black and white. You see, back in 1958, poised to be the first men in space, the Air Force fly boys had their magic carpet pulled from under them and their dreams dashed when NASA took over the space program. And chief among the spoilers was Bob Gerson (James Cromwell), opportunistic bureaucrat personified. Flash forward to the present. While there is still no love lost between Gerson and Colonel Frank Corvin (Clint Eastwood), leader of the illustrious group that never got to blast off, forty-two years later the satellite crisis again conjoins their interests.
Things start out in a lovably trite fashion worthy of a Flash Gordon episode. Now retired and since having picked up a Ph.D. in computer aeronautics or some such esoteric discipline befitting a faded aviator, Dr. Frank Corvin and his wife live quiet lives in their desert retreat. But NASA needs him, and sends two upstarts to enlist his help. In good stereotypical form, he at first demurs. And though I paraphrase, I kid you not. For the NASA envoys then beseech:
"Doctor! You designed the program. Only you can solve the problem, it's your duty as an American!"
We don't know for sure if any of this patriotic imploring has its effects. Because it is presumptuous, let alone dangerous, to preach morality to an Eastwood hero. But when Corvin finally agrees to lend his expertise, on the condition that he and his old crew get to man the rescue mission, we know we're headed for outer space. Oh, just one thing: It's a Russian satellite. How did Doctor Corvin's design wind up in a Soviet spacecraft?
The golden-aged crew is mustered "Magnificent Seven" style by their old commanding colonel, acted with deadpan authority and a humorous streak of threatening cynicism. His over-the-hill gang includes: James Garner as Father Tank Sullivan, once upon a time project Daedalus' navigator extraordinaire; Tommy Lee Jones as Hawk Hawkins, ace aeroplane engineer and the pilot's pilot; and Donald Sutherland as Jerry O'Neill, generic techno-wiz and self-appointed ambassador for libidinal oldsters. Mr. Sutherland puts a new and kinder face on the term "dirty old man."
Of course, wormy pencil pusher Gerson, still up to his old tricks, invokes a stipulation. If Doc Corvin and his boys are to really leave the Earth's atmosphere, they'll have to meet the same requirements demanded of current NASA recruits. And thus begins, ushered in with Rockyesque fanfare, the slightly precious competition between the generations.
Cute sequences fill the screen as we are convinced that, yes indeed, life begins at 60. We wonder. Maybe we should all just skip to that age and really start living. For in essence, among the proverbial questions concerning the ageing process that Space Cowboys posits, the recurring inquiry is: Can experience prevail over youth?
Save for one whimsically melancholy twist, expect the expected as the resurrected team Daedalus makes like the Phoenix and heads for its weightless destiny. Problem is that though Mr. Eastwood's cleanly delivered film brims with good cheer and great optimism, it vacillates uncertainly between farce and drama. Granted, the buddy-buddy banter, delivered by these, ahem, old pros, is endearing. The more serious aspects are rarely convincing.
Still, if technical talk to the backdrop of impending doom in a trumped up outer space scenario is your cup of star dust, then hitching a ride on Mr. Eastwood's farfetched fantasy is recommended. But for those of us who require more, Space Cowboys just doesn't lasso enough of the right stuff.
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