Contact

Cerebro, activate! And also colostomy bag... activate.

They should have called this movie ‘Daddy Issues’, because that’s all it’s about.

Contact sees Jodie Foster as Dr. Ellie Arroway, a SETI research scientist, who discovers an extra terrestrial signal and manages to decode it with math or some such shit to discover blueprints for some sort of alien machine that looks like a giant desk toy, minus the garish dolphins or the drinking bird.

The Government finds out and decide that there could be no possible consequences to building the massive alien device and set about doing so, until a religious fanatic jumps to the head of the queue with an explosive vest on, utterly destroying the project and Ellie’s chances of being the test pilot.

The movie makes us wait like an hour and thirty minutes to see these elusive aliens we’ve been sitting through this shit for only to find out the look and awful lot like David Morse, who looks an awful lot like a less fat Judge Reinhold.

And why do these aliens – sorry, alien – look like her dad? Because supposedly clever reasons that pretty much equate to lazy writing (and trust me, I know a whole lot about lazy writing). Though, to be fair, I think Ripley would have been far more concerned about being chased through the Nostromo by something that looked less like H R Geiger’s gimp penis and more like David Morse, who also looks like a giant penis but with fewer teeth.

Jodie foster manages to turn something cool like aliens into something gay like feelings. Nice one, you gross lesbian.

The movie is based on the book of the same name written by Carl Sagan who wrote Cosmos, was directed by Robert Zemeckis who directed the Back to the Future series, and produced by Joan Bradshaw who produced Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Back by such a fine pedigree, where did this film go so wrong? Screenplay co-written by James Hart, who wrote Hook – so nothing bad there – and Michael Goldenberg, who wrote... oh, Green Lantern. I see. Well that’s it, we’re fucked.

Here are some other points that I couldn’t fit into their own paragraphs, but are no less important to my complete lack of enjoyment of the film:

• David Morse's massive forehead. Seriously, what the fuck is going on with this thing? I bet it has its own agent, and hands out glossy 5”x9”s of its near aerial hairline.
• Tom Skerritt. That’s it, that’s the whole point.
• Why does Matthew McConaughey sound like he learned to speak by listening to reruns of the Beverly Hillbillies.
• Tom Skerritt.
• Tom Skerritt’s moustache.

Given the choice between sitting through more Jodie Foster and taking a trip to Africa I’d choose contact... with an AIDs dick.

At least Carl Sagan is dead, so he doesn’t have to watch this fucking movie.