Fly Me to the Moon is a good watch if you’re hungover

Fly Me to the Moon is a romantic comedy starring Scarlett Johansson and Channing Tatum set during the 1960s space race but, unlike Apollo 11, this isn’t going anywhere we haven’t been before. The extent to which the film does take flight is largely thanks to Johansson’s charisma, even though I couldn’t help shake the feeling they’d fired up a Maserati for a job that basically required a pootle to the shops and back. Tatum, meanwhile, doesn’t have to do much but stand around and look beefy — but he does excel at beefiness. (The shoulders on this fella!)

Tatum is 82 percent shoulders,18 percent neck. (This is a guess; don’t hold me to it)

The film opens in 1969 with Johansson as Kelly Jones, a Madison Avenue marketing genius. Give her something to sell and, whatever it takes, she’ll sell it — i.e., if pretending to be pregnant will help win a pitch, she’ll strap on a fake bump. (I think we are meant to find her immoral, but isn’t this just how all advertising works?) One night, in a Manhattan bar, she’s approached by Moe Berkus (Woody Harrelson), a shady government official who offers her an assignment that she can’t refuse as he has some damning evidence against her. The assignment is to bring the American people around to the Apollo 11 moon-landing project and to schmooze the politicians who hold the purse strings. (The project is already heavily in debt and in danger of being cancelled.)

As Berkus makes clear, this is as much about ideology as scientific achievement. Should the Russians put a man on the moon first, then communism wins. It is, he says, a race “for who gets to run things.” She is relocated to NASA’s Kennedy Space Center where she encounters the launch director, Cole Davis (Tatum), who is 82 percent shoulders, 18 percent neck. (This is a guess; don’t hold me to it.)

They don’t initially hit it off — but that’s the law when it comes to films of this type. He’s honest to a fault, finds her appalling and doesn’t want the mission turned into a billboard, although, to be fair, convincing Kellogg’s to adopt “Neil, Buzz, Mike!” as their Rice Krispies mascots instead of “Snap, Crackle, Pop!” is quite inspired. Nice work, Kelly.

But then Berkus is back saying he has a further assignment for her. He wants Kelly to film a fake version of the landing where everything goes perfectly and which can be broadcast as if it’s live. That way, if they mess up, the Russians will never know and neither will anyone else. Heck, they’ll broadcast it whatever the case. How much fakery is she willing to accept? And what if Cole becomes aware of this deception?

The film is quite clever in how it touches upon communism versus capitalism and the moon-landing conspiracies, but it’s not especially funny and the chemistry between Tatum and Johansson isn’t all that. The “rom” and the “com” aren’t, in other words, as strong as they might be. (Plus there is a running joke to do with a black cat that I think may be unforgivable.)

Johansson is, however, spectacularly watchable, while the production values are sensational. Her wardrobe, in particular, is so exquisite that I could have just focused on the outfits for two hours — and pretty much did. Tatum, meanwhile, wears a series of short-sleeved turtlenecks and, as he’s often left to stare into the distance, gives off knitting-pattern model vibes.

To be clear, Fly Me to the Moon isn’t bad bad. But as it’s by Apple TV+ and only briefly in the cinema, you may want to wait until it lands on the streamer and save yourself the price of a ticket. For a hangover day, it’s a completely acceptable watch.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s UK magazine. Subscribe to the World edition here.