Viking (2022)

Viking is special because it treats space exploration like a mirror held up to the rest of us: funny, fragile, and quietly profound, even when it’s unfolding in a sealed-off room on Earth instead of the surface of Mars. Stéphane Lafleur finds a wonderfully offbeat tone—part workplace comedy, part existential sci-fi fable—where the humor comes from believable human friction, not winking punchlines, and the intelligence sneaks in through character behavior rather than speeches. The production design sells the premise with just the right blend of the mundane and the uncanny, making the “B-team” simulation feel both absurd and oddly plausible, while the cast plays it with sincerity that keeps you invested. If you want action or conventional space thrills, this may feel too small and strange, but if you like smart, gently surreal films that linger in your mind, it’s an easy recommendation.

Viking is aiming for a clever, low-key sci-fi satire about space exploration by focusing on the emotional “test run” happening on Earth, and that’s an interesting hook. The catch is that it’s deliberately small, talky, and awkward in tone, so if you’re expecting Mars spectacle, clear comedy beats, or a traditional plot with big payoffs, you may find it slow and oddly detached. The humor leans dry and uncomfortable, and the film is more interested in workplace dynamics, identity mirroring, and quiet psychological spirals than in thrills. If you like deadpan Canadian indie vibes and ideas-over-action storytelling, it’s quietly original; if you want momentum and catharsis, this might feel like an extended experiment you didn’t sign up for.