What if I told you that the universe’s greatest mysteries aren’t hidden in the stars but in the way we humans process grief? That’s the strange, wistful question that lingers after watching Out There, a YA comedy-drama that masquerades as a lighthearted alien adventure but is really a meditation on how we cling to hope when faced with the void of loss. Simon Ryninks’ debut film isn’t just about saucer-eyed teens and conspiracy theories—it’s about the way we invent entire galaxies to avoid confronting the small, terrifying truth that some things are just... gone. And honestly? That makes it far more profound than most sci-fi blockbusters I’ve seen this year.
Let’s start with the obvious: this is a movie about a teenager named Maz who’s convinced her father wasn’t killed by a mysterious flash of light in 1994 but instead spirited away by extraterrestrials. Her obsession isn’t just quirky—it’s a window into how trauma warps our perception of reality. You see, Maz witnessed her dad’s death as a child, sneaking into a Ministry of Defence base in the back of his car. But now, years later, her memories are fragmented. Is this PTSD? Or is it the universe’s way of protecting her from the horror of accepting her father is truly dead? Personally, I think it’s both. The film doesn’t just ask whether aliens exist—it asks whether we need them to exist, even if it’s a lie.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how Ryninks layers the absurdity of the premise with genuine emotional weight. The supporting cast—Elis, the anxious best friend; Bryn, the rambling ufologist; and Shifty Gruff, the drug-dealing hypnotherapist played with perfect deadpan by Michael Sheen—aren’t just comic relief. They’re reflections of the ways we all try to make sense of the inexplicable. Take Shifty Gruff, for instance. His line, ‘I have done regression therapy in a past life…’ isn’t just a joke. It’s a commentary on how people weaponize spirituality to avoid facing uncomfortable truths. When hypnosis ‘works’ and Maz starts recalling fragments of her father’s final moments, the film leans into the unsettling idea that memory itself is a fragile, malleable thing. What if the truth isn’t what we remember, but what we want to remember?
And here’s the kicker: the movie’s humor is its most effective tool for dissecting these heavy themes. The 1999 setting—dot-matrix printers, Sony Handicams, New Labour jokes—creates a cozy, nostalgic bubble that contrasts sharply with Maz’s internal chaos. It’s a clever choice because it reminds us that even in the darkest moments, we find ways to laugh. But don’t be fooled: beneath the comedy is a quiet melancholy. The film suggests that UFO belief isn’t just about aliens—it’s about refusing to accept that this life, this Earth, is all we have. That’s why Maz’s quest feels so relatable. Who among us hasn’t tried to believe in something bigger, something that might make the pain of loss feel less permanent?
What many people don’t realize is that Out There is a masterclass in subverting genre expectations. It could have been a typical ‘teen finds aliens’ story, but instead, it’s a psychological thriller wrapped in a comedy. The hypnotherapy subplot, for example, isn’t just a silly diversion—it’s a metaphor for how we all try to ‘unlock’ the past, even when the past is irretrievable. And when Gruff quips, ‘With great ability comes great commercial opportunity,’ it’s a biting satire of how easily our deepest fears and hopes can be commodified. This isn’t just a movie about aliens; it’s a movie about the human condition, packaged in a way that’s both entertaining and deeply unsettling.
If you take a step back and think about it, Out There is a microcosm of our collective relationship with the unknown. We’re all Maz in some way, searching for answers in the dark, hoping that somewhere out there, the universe will give us a sign. But what if the real alien is us—the part of ourselves that clings to hope, to mystery, to the idea that maybe, just maybe, the light that took our loved ones wasn’t an end but a beginning? This raises a deeper question: What if the greatest alien abduction isn’t of a scientist by extraterrestrials, but of a grieving daughter by her own mind’s need for a miracle? The film doesn’t answer that. But isn’t that the point? Sometimes, the mystery is the only thing that keeps us from giving up entirely.
