I am more than willing to receive a Volcan salute and a kick in the pants, Stephanie, and to give as good as I get. The mark of good science fiction is that it is rooted in plausibility, i.e., in good physics. Gravity is a work of science fiction hiding behind a rather thin veneer of present-day science fact, which makes its failings in the realm of plausibility far worse: the Russians fire a missile at a satellite whose debris may threaten to annihilate their own space station; no tendons are ripped in half; no bones are torn from their sockets; no one has a spine shattered by the high-speed collisions during his or her “spacewalk”; no space suit is shredded by the sharp and varied surfaces of the space stations or escape pods; etc. The film is entirely risible. As for the dialogue, is there a single moment of nuance in it or a single ontological or philosophical reflection that is even worth contemplating? No, Stephanie, this is not 2001. It is entirely insipid. I am embarrassed to be of the same species that made this film or that thinks that it is among the “10 finest films” to see the light in 2013 in the U.S., in a year that also saw the emergence of Faust, Leviathan, Upstream Color, Blue is the Warmest Color, Vanishing Waves, The Machine Which Makes Everything Disappear, The Act of Killing, and Selfish Giant, not to mention Ginger and Rosa, Lore, Nebraska, 12 Years a Slave, and the Past. Gravity has all the acute failings of the culture that filmed it: fascination with an incessant series of “calamities”; the inanity of the “adrenaline rush”; the absence of any compelling insight; a “subtle” residue of Cold War disdain for the Russians; a jejune mythic sense of its own ability to be heroic; along with an immense dose of trifling special effects that are free of any content and are often free of any scientific plausibility.