The bird is pathetic. Two English geeks, a redhead and a moron, go to the United States to study places of UFO glory. Starting Comic-Con, the godless receptacle of world infantilism, the guys continue the journey of one-story America, finishing in close contact with the devil knows how much. The object of close contact is a broken alien named Paul, aka Seth Will, aka Paul Rogen, the most ordinary, technically unequipped alien. Further, interesting personalities will travel to the American outback, make friends with an alien eccentric, charm cyclopean women and show each counter-cross comic of their own making, with alien boobs on the cover. Counter-cross, which is characteristic, the comic will be approved, because alien boobs it really counts, there is no going anywhere. Well, the chase, the chase in hot blood; as the pursuers of careless nerds are: the man in black, two idiots and the good old Sigourney Weaver. Heroes swear, car dent shoots, Charles Darwin kills Jesus Christ, Paul jokes about Mulder, everyone jokes about gays. And only the animals on the background are not laughable, but there is such a thing, the strongest, natural selection survives, evolution, baby.
It would seem that the appeal of remarkable (albeit somewhat overrated) British eccentrics to sci-fi cliches could not but end in triumph. And at first glance, everything is ordinary good here - quotes are thrown beads across the timepiece, the authors shoot with two hands in Macedonian, numerous genre clichés turn inside out. But this is only at first glance; looking a little closer, it is impossible not to notice that it turned out somehow too small and pusato, and the concept is boring and creaking sand on the teeth. The circus is burned, clowns are cut into a cloth on the ashes, and a sad magician pulls out of the hat not a rabbit, but a corpse of a rabbit. The same old words in the new font (strong male with action and a hint of latency) turn into a monstrous interruption of intonation, zero values of spectator empathy and a depressing percentage of successful jokes. Even the second plan with wild collective types highlights not so much by, say, Twain, as by the satirist Zadornov; and in some places, I dreadfully want to level the whole fuckin' mess with an excavator. And the problem is not in the direction - Mottola, one of the most attractive representatives of the Apatov formation, performs a tolerable drive, and a fussy camera, and Pshutovsky angles. The problem is only in the script authored by Frost and Pegg, who dumped rather incompetent garbage; this would not have pulled Spielberg in his better years. The concept is clear, down to the last comma: the creators saw “Extra-Terrestrial”, and the audience saw “Extra-Terrestrial”, let’s make friends at home. But the thing is that this concept strangles the film with a Stolypin tie, preventing Paul from rushing up Jacob's stairs. Too plush, too little sarcasm, too much love, too much desire to show Hollywood sluts that stains and blots are on the right level. For a sane expression of respect, a special temperament is necessary, in the absence of which the spots go to the background, and the cinema is likened to a captive alien who does not exist in his own plate. And I'm getting into the handicrafts of Grandpa Stephen with extravagances - still not the best application of strength and talent.