What happens when grief collides with the absurd? That’s the question at the heart of Out There, a film that dares to ask why we cling to cosmic conspiracies when faced with the raw, unvarnished truth of loss. Simon Ryninks’ debut isn’t just a YA comedy-drama; it’s a mirror held up to our collective obsession with escaping reality through the lens of the extraordinary. Personally, I think the film’s greatest strength lies in its refusal to take itself too seriously while still grappling with deeply human emotions. It’s like a campfire story told by someone who’s been staring too long at the stars, wondering if there’s something out there that might make the pain of here on Earth feel less permanent.
Let’s start with the premise: a teenager named Maz, haunted by her father’s mysterious death, becomes convinced he was abducted by aliens. This isn’t just a plot device—it’s a psychological tightrope walk between denial and hope. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Ryninks frames the search for extraterrestrials as a metaphor for grief. Maz isn’t just looking for her dad; she’s looking for proof that death isn’t the end. And why not? If you’ve ever lost someone, you’ve probably wondered if the universe has a way of keeping them close, even if it’s through a glowing light in the sky or a cryptic message from a higher power. The film doesn’t answer that question, which is part of its charm. It lets the mystery linger, much like the ache of unresolved loss.
The setting—1999 in a fictional Welsh town—feels like a time capsule. Think dot-matrix printers, Sony Handicams, and a New Labour government that’s somehow both groundbreaking and hilariously anachronistic. But what really stands out is how Ryninks uses this era to ground the absurdity of the plot. The contrast between the mundane (smoking in pubs, hypnotherapy sessions with a shroom-dealing shop owner) and the cosmic (alien abductions, interstellar memories) is jarring in the best way. It’s like watching someone try to explain quantum physics using a VHS player. The humor comes from the juxtaposition, but the deeper implication is that we’re all trying to make sense of the universe with tools that might be hopelessly inadequate. In my opinion, this is where the film’s true genius lies—it doesn’t mock the characters’ beliefs; it gently teases the futility of trying to find meaning in chaos.
Then there’s the cast, particularly Michael Sheen as Shifty Gruff. His performance is a masterclass in playing the eccentric without descending into caricature. Gruff’s line about hypnotherapy being a ‘commercial opportunity’ is both hilarious and tragically human. It’s a reminder that even the most outlandish ideas can have a kernel of truth. What many people don’t realize is that belief systems—whether in aliens, gods, or conspiracy theories—are often just proxies for deeper emotional needs. Maz’s quest isn’t about finding aliens; it’s about finding a way to reconcile with a loss that feels too big to comprehend. And Gruff, with his drug-fueled wisdom, becomes the reluctant guide who helps her see that the answers might not be out there, but right here, in the messy, beautiful chaos of existence.
The film’s quieter moments, though, are where the real magic happens. There’s a melancholy undercurrent that suggests UFO belief is less about aliens and more about the inability to accept that this life, this Earth, is all we’ve got. That’s a truth that resonates far beyond the Welsh countryside. If you take a step back and think about it, how many of us have looked up at the stars not out of curiosity, but out of a desperate need to believe that something—or someone—is watching over us? Ryninks doesn’t shy away from this. He leans into it, using the absurdity of the plot to explore the very real pain of grief. This raises a deeper question: What if the aliens aren’t out there? What if the real mystery is the human capacity to invent entire universes just to avoid facing the void?
As for the film’s potential as a TV series? I’d say it’s a no-brainer. The world Ryninks has created is rich with untapped stories—what happens when Maz actually finds her father? How does Elis deal with the fallout of their reckless plan? And what about Bryn, the local ufologist, who’s clearly more invested in the spectacle than the truth? These are all questions that could fuel a season of drama. But more importantly, the film’s legacy might lie in its ability to spark conversations about how we cope with loss. In a world where so many of us are grappling with existential uncertainty, Out There is a reminder that sometimes, the most profound journeys are the ones we take within ourselves.
