It starts with a man, Andriy, alone in an aging, decaying spaceship traveling through the cold, infinite expanse of the universe. His dull and Sisyphean task is transporting Earth’s radioactive trash to Callisto, one of Jupiter’s moons. Nonetheless, even the dullness of this labor feels strangely poetic, like a tragicomic homage to humanity’s propensity to outsource its demise.
Andriy, a Ukrainian space trucker played with endearing vulnerability by Volodymyr Kravchuk, is not a hero or even very competent—he’s just a blue-collar and humble man trying to make it through another day. Then, the unthinkable occurs: Earth explodes. There’s no explanation, no grand reveal of the cause, just a quiet cessation of everything he’s ever known. Andriy believes he is alone, wandering in the literal and existential void of being the last human alive.
Pavlo Ostrikov’s film, U Are the Universe, deviates from the tried-and-true science fiction formula. Instead, it combines genre components to create something unexpected: a tender romantic comedy, a sad drama, and a subtle satire on human tenacity. It’s a film that dares to wonder if love can exist without proximity and if joy can endure in the face of destruction.
The tone shifts between deadpan humor, which is frequently provided by Maxim, Andriy’s robot companion, whose “cheerfulness” is both programmed and infuriating, and moments of aching sincerity, where the infinite silence of space feels like a mirror of Andriy’s solitude. It is simultaneously ludicrous and profound, a contradiction that the film easily wears as a cosmic joke shouted to the heavens.
The Lonely Astronaut
Andriy is not the kind of protagonist we anticipate from spacefaring novels in The Lonely Astronaut. He is not a stoic hero, a great scientist with impeccable logic, or a savior complex. Instead, he is tragically, gorgeously flawed—a man with modest aims and even lesser accomplishments whose survival feels more like a cruel twist of fate than an act of will. Volodymyr Kravchuk’s performance catches the ordinariness with such heartbreaking clarity that it’s difficult to imagine anyone else in the role.
There is a weight to how he reclines in his rickety pilot’s chair, a quiet resignation in how he halfheartedly argues with Maxim, his robot companion. Even in his darkest moments, a spark remains—an irrepressible flicker of empathy and humor. It feels so real, so raw, that I questioned whether Kravchuk was drawing from his own life and private heartbreaks.
For much of the film, Andriy appears to exist in a kind of emotional limbo, alternating between denial and reluctant acceptance of his isolation. He drinks, murmurs to himself, and spins old records on a belt-driven turntable as if the scratchy vinyl could somehow drown out the deafening silence of space.
There’s an early scene in which he drunkenly dances in the cramped confines of his ship, a sloppy, endearing shuffle that’s both comedy and tragedy. I couldn’t help but see myself in that moment—how we all attempt to distract ourselves from the unbearable weight of loneliness, even for a few fleeting minutes.
But what makes U Are the Universe so compelling is how it depicts Andriy’s subtle transformation. Things shift when Catherine, a French astronaut’s disembodied voice, enters his life. At first, their interactions are timid and almost awkward, as if Andriy had forgotten how to connect with another human. However, his defenses gradually begin to disintegrate. He creates a clay sculpture of her face based on her descriptions, a gesture so earnest and charmingly ludicrous that it feels like a toddler attempting to make sense of the world. And in that act, we witness the beginning of something profound: hope. Hope not as a grand, spectacular insight but as a quiet, stubborn refusal to give up.
This emotional arc—this journey from despair to connection—lingers long after the titles roll. Andriy’s evolution is not linear or easy; it’s messy, full of blunders and self-doubt. But it’s also incredibly human, a reminder that even in the vast, indifferent expanse of the universe, we can still find meaning in the smallest, simplest gestures of love.
Connection in the Void
There’s something incredibly tender—and deeply unsettling—about how Andriy and Catherine’s relationship unfolds. Stranded light-years apart, their connection is built on static-laden transmissions and hours-long delays, the kind of half-conversation that feels personal and incomplete.
It’s a romance without touch, shared space, or even the tangible presence of the other. And yet, it feels achingly real. Maybe it’s because U Are the Universe recognizes something essential about human connection: it doesn’t require proximity, only vulnerability.
Andriy’s initial texts to Catherine are awkward and almost defiant in their silliness. In a drunken moment of hubris, he refers to himself as “Captain Galaxy,” mocking the heroism he knows he will never embody. When Catherine responds, her voice is clear and serene but tinged with wonder, as if the universe has broken open to allow in a sliver of light.
Their conversations begin with cautious and awkward banter. Still, there is an unsaid urgency underneath the surface, a common understanding that they are each other’s only connection to the human race. It isn’t long before they fall into something deeper, exchanging parts of their lives, hopes, and worries. The time lag between texts becomes a kind of poetry, a reminder that connection takes patience even in the vast expanse of space.
I found myself uncomfortably thinking about my own relationship with distance—how often I’ve tried to bridge it with words and gestures in the vain hope that a text or a phone call could replace the warmth of another’s presence. This romance felt so poignant to me because of that. It’s a love story formed out of necessity but also out of defiance—a refusal to let the void prevail.
The fragility of their bond is what makes it so poignant. Catherine’s orbit is decaying, her station plunging toward Saturn’s crushing gravity, and she and Andriy are both aware that their time is running out. They are still talking. Still, they have hope. Their connection becomes a rebellion against the indifferent cosmos in a world that has ended. Andriy’s decision to risk everything to reach her is more than just romantic; it is existential. It is a declaration that even in the face of destruction, meaning may be found—not in survival but in reaching out to someone else.
Perhaps that is what makes U Are the Universe so unsettling. It does not shy away from their situation’s loneliness, hopelessness, or simple absurdity. However, it does not let those things define people. Instead, it demonstrates that even in the cold, everlasting darkness, we are still capable of love, connection, and creating small moments of joy. How bizarre and amazing that feels.
Existential Echoes
The way U Are the Universe addresses mortality is strangely comforting—not as a grand, dramatic reckoning, but as a quiet, continual hum in the backdrop of Andriy’s journey. The film does not attempt to address the big questions; in fact, it does not appear to want to pretend to. Instead, mortality is depicted as a given, as vast and unknowable as the space Andriy travels through.
Despite this uncertainty, there is an almost defiant undertone of hope. Andriy’s decision to seek Catherine—a lady he’s never met, a voice brought to him across inconceivable distances—feels more like an act of defiance than a quest for salvation. It’s as if he’s saying, “I know the end is coming, but I’ll find meaning in the interim.”
The spaceship becomes a metaphor, its creaking, analog machinery mirroring Andriy’s frail humanity. It is neither sleek nor modern but rather lived-in, cluttered with remnants of a past life that no longer exists: a dusty turntable, a clay sculpture of Catherine’s face, and the faint green glow of Maxim’s outmoded interface.
Just like Andriy, the ship is coming apart, but there is beauty in its imperfection. It reminded me how, when everything else feels uncertain, we cling to objects like photographs, books, and scraps of paper, as if these small, tangible things can tie us to the world.
Then there’s space itself, rendered not as a spectacle but as a void—silent, indifferent, and eternally cold. It’s difficult not to perceive it as a stand-in for the existential concerns that we want to ignore. What’s the point of all of this? Does it matter that no one remembers? Nonetheless, U Are the Universe does not let the void win. It insists, quietly but forcefully, that meaning is something we create rather than discover. We create sculptures, connections, and love even in the face of destruction. In a way, isn’t that sufficient?
The Light Between Stars
The way U Are the Universe seems to have a kind of poetry to it—not poetry of grand, sweeping vistas but of something smaller, quieter. The spaceship, with its scuffed walls and analog controls, feels less like a vessel of exploration and more like a secondhand apartment, cluttered with Andriy’s scraps of living: plants drooping in makeshift pots, a turntable spinning records that crackle with nostalgia, and a clay sculpture of Catherine’s face that appears to crumble slightly under its imperfections.
It’s a grungy, retro-futuristic style that defies typical science fiction’s antiseptic, chrome-plated allure. Instead, it insists on being tactile, lived-in, and deeply human.
The cinematography reflects this intimacy. The camera lingers in tight, claustrophobic frames, locking us in Andriy’s isolation. Nikita Kuzmenko’s lighting is gentle but intentional, with the glow of control panels illuminating Andriy’s face in green and gold, as if space is closing in on him. Nonetheless, the darkness outside the ship is vast, infinite, and indifferent—a tension that Ostrikov employs to great effect. A beam of light slashing across the void carries an emotional weight that no discourse could.
One scene sticks with me: Andriy, intoxicated and alone, clumsily dancing to a scratched record. The camera does not mock him; it tenderly holds him, watching the ship’s fluctuating lights bounce off his face. It’s absurd, tender, and tragic all at once—an apt representation of how the film’s visuals convey its emotional contradictions. Even the tiniest gestures are given meaning here.
The Fragility of Creation
It is difficult to see U Are the Universe without feeling the weight of what it took to make it. The film, shot and edited in Kyiv during the early months of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, carries a real intensity as if it were constructed in defiance of destruction itself.
I kept thinking about this as I observed the attention to detail in every shot of Andriy’s ship, a space that feels both decaying and alive. How can you tell a story about isolation and survival while living it? How can you write a love story while your world is crumbling?
In this environment, Pavlo Ostrikov’s direction feels softly subversive. His perspective isn’t bombastic or self-congratulatory; it’s intimate and almost stubbornly human. You can sense his influences—Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey and Tarkovsky’s Solaris—but U Are the Universe lacks their grandeur.
Instead, it reclaims the cosmic for the every day, anchoring its philosophical reflections in the unsettlingly banal. The international collaboration between Ukraine and Belgium further reflects this spirit of resilience and connection, serving as a reminder that even in times of rupture, art finds a way to cross gaps. That has a genuinely affecting quality—a quiet determination that stories, like people, can persevere despite overwhelming circumstances.
A Universe of Emotions
Watching U Are the Universe feels less like watching a story evolve and more like being gently brought inside its quiet, delicate core. It lingers with the intimacy of a whispered confession rather than the bombast of many science-fiction epics.
The film’s emotional resonance lies in its ability to blend the infinite and the personal, the fleeting and the cosmic, into something deeply human. Andriy’s path is ours; it reflects our desire for connection, dread of the void, and steadfast determination to find meaning in the face of chaos.
What struck me the most was how, despite its existential weight, the film refuses to give up hope. It reimagines the genre not as a cold meditation on humanity’s insignificance but as a tender investigation of what brings us together. Perhaps that is what science fiction should be—a space for intimacy, not just wonder. If the universe is vast and indifferent, what else can we do but reach for one another?
The Review
U Are the Universe
U Are the Universe is a quiet, profound examination of loneliness, love, and the frail threads of connection that make life meaningful, even in the face of vast indifference in space. Pavlo Ostrikov's delicate direction, Volodymyr Kravchuk's genuinely human performance, and the film's tactile, retro-futuristic style combine to create a work that goes beyond its sci-fi trappings to touch something universal. It serves as a reminder that even in the face of destruction, hope and meaning live on in the ties we establish. Tender, imaginative, and emotionally moving, this is a rare masterpiece in the genre.
PROS
- Tender and humanistic approach to science fiction.
- Volodymyr Kravchuk’s nuanced and magnetic performance.
- Emotionally resonant exploration of love, loneliness, and hope.
- Inventive, retro-futuristic production design and cinematography.
- A delicate balance of humor and poignancy.
- Thought-provoking existential themes presented with subtlety.
CONS
- Some predictable narrative beats and familiar genre tropes.
- The pacing may feel slow for viewers expecting conventional sci-fi thrills.
- Limited character interactions due to the solitary nature of the story.
