Review: The Vast of Night
Radio broadcasting, one of the most important instruments of the 20th century in connecting and inviting the public voice into private homes, became a household means of storytelling and information in the 1920s. Where eager ears could tune in to hear Louis Armstrong, or sportscasters crack romanticism over Babe Ruth's wide swing, or the often dimwitted Amos 'n' Andy; a 30 minute block of comedy that drew listeners like flies to a streetlamp. Where invisible waves transmit invisible voices to conjure the visible, the imaginative and the vast into one’s home, informing listeners that they were in fact, not alone.
Not in any extraterrestrial sense, but a very human, very terrestrial way in which each body is grounded to this rock, yet tethered to ideas of sonic escapism, broadcast across the stillness of the air like a soft breeze; we hear its voice right before we feel its touch. This naturalistic brushstroke can be heard whistling through the brambles of a small New Mexico town and felt across the tightly drawn skin of its slight population in The Vast of Night, a sci-fi love letter to the radio-waves that once connected ideas to people, and people to the boundless stars of a night as vast as they are mysterious.
Set during the tail-end of the 1950s, where the white noise of television broadcasting has yet to reveal the twisted guise of a nation's soon to falter civility—live footage of Kennedy's speeding Dallas motorcade or the police brutality on a peaceful march across Alabama barely scratch the surface—we're connected to the small town of Cayuga, New Mexico; a quaint dessert town with a meager population of 497. High School teenagers Everett (Jake Horowitz), a cool chain-smoking freewheel who DJ's at a local radio station—WOTW casting a neon glow amidst the dry desert air—and Fay (Sierra McCormick), a switchboard operator with an insatiable appetite for journalism, move around the slice-of-pie town with vigilance after an unknown audio frequency is detected. Looking to connect the pieces before the school basketball game wraps up—where the entire town has gathered—Everett and Fay try to uncover the origins of a sound sent from beyond the stars, intelligently connected to the past yet brilliantly told through the present in one of the most breathlessly assured and captivating debuts, from director Andrew Patterson, of not just this year, but any year.
When we first meet Everett, he's maneuvering around the gymnasium and through the school's parking lot like a controlled bowling pin knocked out of orbit. His momentum is what keeps us pulled into the mechanisms of this small town, where every “Joe” knows “Jane” with such pleasant frivolities that must keep the water-coolers abuzz every Monday morning. Everett's the square-jawed preppy type whose swagger feels embedded in an "alright alright alright" coolness mingled with the endearing dorkiness of Terry "The Toad" Fields from American Graffiti. He knows everyone and seemingly everything, though mostly his forte is wiring, which makes sense, as his evening gig is spinning wax and percolating eager ears with smooth talk across the airwaves at a small capacity radio station, where nobody and anyone could be tuned in.
Both relative newcomers Jack Horowitz and Sierra McCormick are fetching as Everett and Fay, and their ability to bring earnest electricity to the screen crackles against the dry New Mexico air. These are two young actors who don't waiver for a moment in holding the screen against very few co-stars, many of them acting as passerbys or voices who cross their path during the tight 90-minute runtime that feels deliberately (and effectively) set in real time. They capture the youthful delight of being a teenager, of being unrestricted to the dull aches of adulthood; watching their interest sparks our own imagination, and if I'm being honest, it feels beyond freeing.
What sticks out within the first 15 minutes, as Everett cuts across the basketball court and into the night air with Fay—her excitement over a newly received recorder shining brighter than a bottle of fireflies—is how effective each cut is. Don't get me wrong, I admire a triumphant single shot take just as much as the next self-proclaimed cinephile, yet each cut by first-time editor Junius Tully creates enough airspace for us to breathe, treating Everett and Fay's many interactions like snippets from the funny pages. There isn't unyielding pomp and circumstance, or olala showmanship—MadTV's Stewart squeaking "look what I can do!" lingering in the air—to distract from how each cut builds on this crescendo of meet and greets before finding the brakes. And frankly, it works so much better!
The camera cuts through the air with our spry sleuths-in-training like cables transmitting information. They anxiously talk about the wiring in the gym that was bitten through by a squirrel, or maybe it was a chipmunk—it seems to be the talk of the town—and how the future of travel is eerily similar to our current mode of GPS. There's a keenness for what lies ahead, rooted in a town that's fixated on the past that makes for a genuinely captivating mishmash of storytelling; one part science fiction, the other a period drama set before the rocketing space age. You can almost tell when The Vast of Night is set, not by its automobiles or fashion, but by how its characters are grounded; their necks craned to the sky in wonderment. The infinite beyond has yet to be tapped, and because of it there's elation for the expanse of stars that remain suspended above this small town.
When Fay receives a call transmitting a peculiar sound at her late night gig as a phone operator, we become magnetized to the infallible curiosity of the few townsfolk who aren't crammed into the bleachers of the basketball game. Looking for answers, Fay sends the sound to Everett, who taps it into his radio show in order to scour the night for anyone who may be listening, and who may have answers.
This leads our two intrepid teens on a scavenger hunt across town that has first-time director Andrew Patterson rhythmically playing with the conventions of storytelling. He uses the voice of a lonesome caller to conjure images of a man who believes the sound to be of extraterrestrial origin, forcing us to do exactly what the radio once did; trust in our own vision. Patterson's understanding of film as a visual medium is certainly poised, yet it’s how he plays with the old, with the functionality of sound against shots of Everett attentively listening to a caller, or a local woman retelling her first encounters with the very thing they are chasing, that breathes thrilling life into the worn sci-fi genre. This is a film that doesn't just want you to believe in the possibility of extraterrestrial life, but the extraordinary capabilities of the human mind.
While it's clear from the very beginning that Patterson and writers James Montague and Craig W. Sanger are working within the confines of a tight budget, it never feels like it's trying to reach too far into the candy jar. Its set pieces are layered with rich atmosphere that feels aglow in a late summer haze that makes taking in the sights feel sweet without the cavities. There is a bit of a rush to check a few of the boxes that accompany the genre, most notably in how questions don't just need answers but mystery and a face—a similar feeling to the end of 10 Cloverfield Lane, in which the revealing climactic monster replaces the very real horror of human survival. It’s hardly a slight against The Vast of Night, a focused and unfettered debut that helps to remind us of the power of radio, as well as the boundless capabilities of our own imagination.
