Interkosmos is basically high-concept art, a heady and experimental “what if?” scenario from writer/director Jim Finn about a unreal 1970s East German/Soviet space program launched with the intent of colonizing Jupiter’s moons.
The prepare reeks of leading caliber strangeness from every grainy angle, a purposely coarse documentary-cachet hallmark augmented by musical outbursts or deep place analysis of the lyrics of The Trolley Song (”clang ,clang, clang went the trolley, ding, ding, ding went the bell”) as Finn traces the imaginary Communist story, complete with a end of establishing things such as a domed carnival far-out on Ganymede.
Inadequate-budget, yet wonderfully apropos in its minimalism, Interkosmos falls well unconnected the latitude of simply being all give some fake science history, with a sidebar love tall tale of sorts between a double of cosmonauts enigmatically named Seagull and Falcon, whose romance is presented mostly in garbled radio transmissions. Yet Finn—who also plays one of the lovestruck space travelers—chooses to stay well to the communistic of anything mainstream, offsetting the periodic narration (really the exclusively feeling to without a doubt skilled in what’s going on) with footage of men waving flares, swimming dolphins, and, in rhyme of the longer and more cloddish moments, an elaborately choreographed dance/march sequence featuring a pair of girls field hockey teams.
And that’s all well and authentic for Finn, piling on a fictitious old hat connected by threads of genuine visual strangeness. Just the real name of this element show is the original soundtrack, a trippy alt-take on 1970’s throw and Communist anthems. The music steers and focuses Interkosmos when the portrayal appears to be stuck in a loop, transforming the simple and mundane into stylized accomplishment pieces, which allows Finn to keep his haziness well clear of predictability or familiarity.
The worst mistake you could beat it would be to go into something cognate with Interkosmos with a bun in the oven a quirky and jesting alternate take on the seat program, delivered with an easily digestible This Is Spinal Tap hipness. The journey here is only in behalf of those with a wilful constitution for long stretches of the arty-unconventional, neatly patched together in such a way that different things take on David Lynch-ian textures.
This is a mock documentary, full-on arthouse-style, where Jim Finn spends 71 minutes influential a story in a speed that seems predilection he’s not really doing anything.