Objects from space always seem accidental in their arrival and much the worse for wear. Meteorites shrivel to pebbles, if they make it to the surface at all. Satellites meet a fiery end high in the atmosphere. Astronauts huddle in capsules, dangle from parachutes, plunge ignominiously into the ocean, and bob around awaiting rescue. The space shuttle used to land like a plane, but with a few obvious missing parts.
Perhaps as a result, every space movie feels definitively of the future the moment you see a ship land respectably. But landing is more than technical bravado. A universe in which a ship lands is one in which the ship’s well being is not incidental. In the most involved stories, the ship isn’t a disposable jetpack but a fellow journeyer, a strong and loyal friend. Filmmakers devote lavish establishing shots with dramatic lighting to these silent voyagers, and movie characters dote on them and fight with them like spouses. We find this depiction endearing and relatable because we don’t care merely about our journey’s destination but also about the stories of those we meet along the way. Landing is what allows the silent voyager to have any story at all. Unsurprisingly, five-year-old moviegoers dream of stepping out of a temperamental but well-loved Millennium Falcon, not ditching alone and helpless into the sea
Today, for the first time in human history, a rocket has lifted payloads into orbit and returned to tell its tale. This machine has flown through clouds and seen the stars and deployed satellites and reckoned its position and turned around in a vacuum and throttled and vectored and glided and landed and needs to prove nothing to nobody. Sitting on its broad struts with quieted engines, it is the first space-faring object that looks like it meant to return. And as it awaits its next mission, it whispers to your inner child: I have come from afar and will yet voyage further but here I am for now with you.