(NOTE: Capsule version of the review is available here.)
When Star Trek: The Motion Picture debuted in 1979, it was not merely the first cinematic outing for the iconic franchise but the culmination of a decade-long struggle to revive Star Trek in a form that matched its cult status. The film’s origins lie in Star Trek: Phase II, an ambitious but unrealised television series that Paramount greenlit in the mid-1970s. Phase II’s pilot script, In Thy Image, bore a striking resemblance to the original series’ episode The Changeling (1967), reimagining its premise—a rogue artificial intelligence mistaking humanity for its creator—with existential stakes. However, the seismic success of Star Wars (1977) and Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) convinced Paramount to abandon Phase II and pivot to a feature film, banking on the appetite for sci-fi grandeur. This decision, while commercially astute, imposed a paradoxical burden: the need to satisfy both the intellectualism of the original series and the blockbuster expectations of a post-Star Wars audience. The resulting film, directed by Robert Wise, is a curious artifact—visually opulent yet narratively inert, reverent to its roots while straining under the weight of its own ambition.
Robert Wise, a Hollywood veteran whose career spanned The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) and The Andromeda Strain (1971), was an intriguing choice for the project. His track record in science fiction suggested an ability to handle themes of existential threat and human vulnerability, yet his approach to The Motion Picture often felt at odds with Star Trek’s inherent dynamism. Wise’s background in studio-era filmmaking, where dialogue and composition reigned supreme, clashed with the demands of a 1970s blockbuster. The film’s pacing is glacial, with scenes of the USS Enterprise drifting through the cosmos—accompanied by Jerry Goldsmith’s transcendent score—occupying disproportionate runtime. These sequences, while visually arresting, evoke comparisons to 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), whose psychedelic finale and existential themes clearly inspired the climax here. Yet where 2001 used its visuals to provoke awe and introspection, The Motion Picture’s interstellar voyages feel like padding, a consequence of a script revised repeatedly during production to accommodate studio demands and budgetary constraints.
Wise’s reverence for the material is evident, but it curdles into rigidity. The Enterprise’s refit—a sleek, cathedral-like vessel with cavernous engineering decks—becomes a character in its own right, yet the crew seems dwarfed by its grandeur. Scenes of Kirk (William Shatner) navigating the ship’s labyrinthine corridors are shot with a solemnity that borders on reverence, but the film’s insistence on “seriousness” drains the interpersonal friction that defined the original series. The director’s methodical style struggles to inject tension into the crew’s interactions, leaving even pivotal moments—Spock’s (Leonard Nimoy) return, the introduction of the V’Ger entity—to unfold with clinical detachment.
The cancellation of Phase II proved a double-edged sword. While the series’ cancellation was a blow to fans, it allowed the filmmakers to inherit a treasure trove of design work, including blueprints for the Enterprise’s refit and costumes that elevated the crew’s aesthetic. The larger budget enabled a quantum leap in visual fidelity: the Enterprise’s interior, with its matte-finished bulkheads and glowing consoles, felt like a plausible evolution of the 1960s sets, while the ship’s exterior—a sleek, bulbous overhaul of Matt Jefferies’ original design—captured the majesty of a vessel reborn. The V’Ger cloud, a swirling, organic maelstrom of light and shadow, remains one of the franchise’s most haunting visuals, its scale and mystery evoking both dread and wonder.
Yet these achievements are undercut by the film’s inability to balance spectacle with storytelling. The Enterprise’s refit is showcased with obsessive detail, from the rotating command chair to the cavernous observation deck, but these elements serve little narrative purpose. Similarly, the costumes—particularly the minimalist, jumpsuit-inspired uniforms—feel like a bold aesthetic choice, yet they lack the character-defining quirks of the original series’ attire. The production design, while undeniably impressive, often becomes a distraction, a testament to what the filmmakers could do rather than what they should do.
One of the film’s few unqualified successes is its reunion of the original crew. William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, and DeForest Kelley slip back into their roles with effortless charm, their chemistry a balm for the script’s arid stretches. Shatner’s Kirk, now a Rear Admiral, is a man adrift, his frustration at being sidelined by bureaucratic politics palpable. Nimoy’s Spock, returning from a Vulcan sabbatical, grapples with a “lack of logic” in his decision to rejoin the crew, though the script offers little beyond cryptic dialogue to explore his motivations. Kelley’s McCoy, meanwhile, provides the film’s rare moments of levity, his dry wit cutting through the solemnity like a scalpel.
The inclusion of supporting characters—James Doohan’s Scotty, Nichelle Nichols’ Uhura, Walter Koenig’s Chekov, Majel Barrett’s Chapel (now a doctor), and even Grace Lee Whitney’s Janice Rand—is a nod to the fanbase’s yearning for continuity. Yet these characters are given little agency, reduced to background players in a story dominated by V’Ger’s enigmatic threat. The promotion of Chapel to medical officer feels tokenistic, her role amounting to little more than a few glances at monitors. Rand’s brief appearance, meanwhile, is a nostalgic cameo that underscores the film’s reliance on fan service over substantive character development.
The film’s final act, in which the Enterprise encounters the V’Ger entity, is its most visually ambitious and thematically divisive. V’Ger, a colossal machine lifeform originating from a long-lost Voyager probe, is revealed to be a being seeking union with its “creator” to achieve transcendence. This arc, while philosophically intriguing, owes a clear debt to 2001, particularly in its climax: a near-wordless sequence where Captain Kirk and his crew witness the fusion of Will Decker (Stephen Collins) and Ilia (Persis Khambatta) with V’Ger’s mechanical core, culminating in a burst of cosmic light. The scene’s psychedelic visuals and abstract resolution aim for profundity but often feel like a surrender to ambiguity.
Despite its mixed critical reception, The Motion Picture grossed $139 million worldwide, a testament to the franchise’s built-in audience. However, its returns were modest compared to the era’s blockbusters, and Paramount’s executives reportedly bristled at its $46 million budget—a staggering sum at the time—when weighed against its lukewarm reviews. The film’s legacy, though, lies in its role as a catalyst. Its shortcomings—interminable pacing, underdeveloped characters, and a script that prioritised scale over substance—served as a cautionary tale for Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982). Helmed by Nicholas Meyer with a focus on character dynamics and lean storytelling, The Wrath of Khan became the franchise’s gold standard, proving that Star Trek’s heart lay in its crew’s banter and moral dilemmas, not in the cold majesty of the cosmos.
The Motion Picture’s influence extended beyond its sequels. Its score, again by Jerry Goldsmith, was repurposed for Star Trek: The Next Generation (1987–1994), where it became the show’s main theme, immortalising the film as a cornerstone of the franchise’s identity. This appropriation is ironic: a series that would define Star Trek’s Golden Age owed its sonic heartbeat to a film often dismissed as its dullest.
Yet to dismiss the film entirely is to overlook its technical and thematic contributions. The V’Ger sequences, though slow, are a marvel of pre-CGI effects, blending motion-controlled photography with matte paintings to create a sense of scale rarely matched in sci-fi. The entity’s design—a fusion of organic and mechanical elements—prefigures later Trek arcs about artificial life, from Data in The Next Generation to the Borg. And Goldsmith’s score, with its haunting choir and theremin, remains one of cinema’s most evocative sci-fi soundtracks, its themes echoing through decades of Trek lore.
Star Trek: The Motion Picture is both a tribute to the original series’ enduring appeal and a misfire that misunderstood the medium’s demands. Its technical achievements—particularly the Enterprise’s design and Goldsmith’s music—ensured its place in the franchise’s pantheon, while its narrative lethargy and overreliance on spectacle rendered it a cautionary tale. The film’s legacy is one of redemption: its flaws taught Paramount that Star Trek thrived not on scale alone but on the interplay of logic, emotion, and moral complexity.
The Motion Picture’s greatest contribution may be its role as a blueprint for future Trek. It proved that the franchise could work on the big screen, even if this iteration stumbled. By clearing the path for The Wrath of Khan and, later, The Next Generation, it ensured that the Enterprise’s mission would endure, even if its own voyage felt more like a stately procession than a bold leap.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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