Is it strange that I feel most sartorially connected to a movie about a gin swilling, film obsessed alien traipsing around as a human? Not when that alien is 1970s David Bowie. 70s Bowie through the lens of
Nicolas Roeg no less. Ever since a midnight screening of
Performance I've been hooked on Roeg's kaleidoscopic, flamboyant, dream-like films. And no surprise, this one might be my favorite.
An aloof figure stumbles down a hill and slinks his way into town. Tommy, a whisper thin, porcelain pale alien fallen to Earth, is quietly bewildered with the world around him. Hiding behind sharp sunglasses and perfect fedoras, he spends his time cultivating a film business hoping to amass enough riches to make it back to his home planet and family.
Hick up along the way: a maid naif named Mary-Lou introduces him to the wiles of alcohol (as she dreamily sighs
I looove gin), television and sex. Tommy falls victim to temptations and looses of his edge, his company is taken over (with the help of an over sexed professor played by Rip Torn). Ultimately landing in front of a crowd of flashing televisions, chugging gin by the liter, our dandy extraterrestrial winds up rather alone.
Several things are left unexplained (
Does he ever make it home? Why doesn't he age? Why British? What's that goo all about?) but no matter. Bowie saunters his way through the film effortlessly, the wardrobe is a thing of wonder (
those hats!) and the visuals are incredible in a way that only overly indulgent 1976 sexy-sci fi can be. So crack open a handle of gin, put on your best fedora and marvel at the wonders of The Man Who Fell To Earth.
