Who Wants to Marry an Astronaut?

The Gravity of Letting Go

If the romantic comedy is a genre defined by the inevitability of union, David Matamoros’s *Who Wants to Marry an Astronaut?* (*¿Quién quiere casarse con un astronauta?*) is a film defined by the frantic, beautiful chaos of separation. While the premise suggests a high-concept farce—a man rejected by his partner of fifteen years decides to hold the wedding anyway with a stranger—Matamoros is not interested in the mechanics of a reality show stunt. Instead, he uses this absurd deadline to explore the vacuum left when love evaporates, and the sheer, stubborn human will to fill that void with noise, movement, and neon lights.



Matamoros, a filmmaker who has previously navigated the darker, more cerebral waters of production on films like *The Platform*, here adopts a visual language that is deceptively bright. The film is saturated in the Technicolor optimism of a classic road trip movie. The landscapes of Route 66 and the garish sparkle of Las Vegas are shot not as tacky tourist traps, but as dreamscapes—a "Wizard of Oz" for the brokenhearted. The cinematography mirrors David’s internal state: a desperate attempt to keep the lights on and the music playing so he doesn't have to hear the silence of his own loneliness. The camera lingers on kitsch Americana with a loving, almost melancholy gaze, suggesting that in a world where long-term devotion can end in a sentence, perhaps the only thing we can trust is the plastic consistency of a roadside diner.

At the center of this whirlwind is Raúl Tejón as David, a performance of remarkable vulnerability. It would have been easy to play David as a delusional eccentric or a pathetic victim. Instead, Tejón imbues him with a "dopey hopeless romanticism" that feels like a shield. His decision to find a replacement groom in ten days isn't an act of insanity; it's a trauma response. He is a man trying to outrun the grief of a fifteen-year relationship by sprinting toward a finish line that no longer exists. The film essentially asks: Is the ritual of marriage about the person standing next to you, or is it about the validation of your own capacity to be loved?



The film’s "heart" lies not in the "will-he-won’t-he" tension of finding a new groom, but in the deconstruction of the "happily ever after" myth that gay cinema has only recently been allowed to fully embrace and subsequently dismantle. For years, queer cinema was tragically defined by suffering; then, it shifted toward the fight for marriage equality and the right to the white picket fence. Matamoros takes us to the next stage of evolution: the messy, non-linear reality of gay divorce and mid-life reinvention. The interactions between David and his potential suitors, including the introduction of characters who challenge his rigid view of romance, serve as a mirror. They reflect a protagonist who is in love with the *idea* of an astronaut—someone who can take him to the stars—while failing to realize he is the one untethered, floating in zero gravity.

Ultimately, *Who Wants to Marry an Astronaut?* is a deceptive film. It wears the costume of a screwball comedy, complete with a ticking clock and a road trip, but beneath the sequins, it is a tender meditation on resilience. Matamoros suggests that the "knight in shining armor" (or the astronaut in the spacesuit) is a fallacy. The triumph of the film isn’t a wedding, but the realization that one can survive the crash landing. In a modern cinematic landscape often polarized between gritty trauma and sanitized content, this film dares to be something messier and more human: a joyful eulogy for a love that died, and a celebration of the life that persists.