We know what happened because we saw what happened. There is the genial, self-deprecating contrast between rustic Aussies and a global event, with prime ministers, US ambassadors and an anxious male nanny from Houston dropping in. There is character, character, character. Sam Neill, pipe puffing, woolly cardiganed, is the station director, a widower seeing his dead wife's dream realised a year too late. Tom Long, a whizz at computing and calculations, descends into tongue-tied imbecility whenever the strapping blonde from the town drops in with his sarnies.
Gags run zippily on and on.
All these good-hearted bits of business are deftly hung on the real moon mission, a spine of narrative and old video clips, which develops its own momentum. You don't have much plot because the mission itself is a classic tale of the twentieth century and you relive it. It could have been portentous and it could have been cute, but Sitch always takes evasive action just in time. He wants us to feel good, but never forces it. Neat period detail for time and place.