Why Teen Alien Obsessions Are Really About Grief—and Why That Matters
Let’s get one thing straight: the best stories about UFO chasers aren’t about aliens at all. They’re about the gaping holes in our lives that we try to fill with something—anything—bigger than ourselves. Out There, Simon Ryninks’ quirky debut, gets this. On the surface, it’s a saucer-eyed teen comedy set in a fictional Welsh town where everyone’s chain-smoking, quoting The X-Files, and convinced the government’s hiding bodies in a military base. But peel back the neon windbreakers and mushroom-fueled hypnosis sessions, and it’s a surprisingly raw exploration of how grief warps reality—and why we’d rather believe in little green men than face the finality of death.
Nostalgia as a Narrative Trap
Setting a story in 1999 feels like a cheat code these days. Instantly, you’ve got audiences nostalgic for Nokia phones and the sweet relief of not being online 24/7. But Out There uses its era more cleverly than most. The Y2K panic isn’t just set dressing—it’s a metaphor for the characters’ existential dread. Maz’s obsession with aliens isn’t born from Scooby-Doo whimsy; it’s a direct result of growing up in a world where the Cold War’s over, Labour’s “got a grip,” and the future feels like a dot-matrix printout slowly unraveling. Personally, I think the film’s 1999 setting isn’t just about nostalgia—it’s a sly commentary on how we mythologize the past as a refuge from present-day chaos. After all, if aliens took your dad, at least they didn’t leave a void no amount of Google searches can fill.
Grief and the Supernatural: A Universal Coping Mechanism
Maz’s dad died in a flash of light. The Ministry of Defence says it was an accident. But she’s seen the saucer-shaped clouds, the weird energy readings—so she’s convinced he’s out there, somewhere beyond the veil. What makes this fascinating is how the film mirrors real-world psychology. Studies show that people clinging to paranormal beliefs often aren’t seeking attention—they’re grasping for control in the face of unanswerable loss. Maz’s alien theory isn’t delusional; it’s practical. If her dad’s alive, her grief isn’t final. It’s a survival tactic. And yet, the film never mocks this. Instead, it asks: Is believing in a benevolent universe where lost loved ones get beamed to Andromeda really more absurd than believing in a world where they just… vanish?
The Comedy of Existential Despair (Yes, Really)
Here’s the thing about mixing hypnotherapy jokes and mushroom trips with a teen’s quest to find her abducted dad: it shouldn’t work. But Ryninks pulls it off by leaning into the absurdity of the human condition. Take Shifty Gruff, the new-age shop owner played by Michael Sheen. He’s a stoner caricature—until he’s not. His line about “commercial opportunity” after accidentally unlocking Maz’s memories? That’s not just a punchline. It’s a thesis statement. We commodify hope. We monetize mysticism. We sell sage sticks and crystals to people who just want to feel less alone. The film’s humor isn’t a distraction from its themes; it’s the spoonful of sugar making the cosmic existential crisis go down.
Why This Story Needs to Be Bigger Than a Movie
The review ends with a shrug about Kimberley Nixon’s underused character and the film’s potential as a TV series. But let me speculate: If Out There expands into a show, it could tap into a cultural sweet spot. Right now, streaming platforms are obsessed with “mysterious small towns” (Stranger Things, Dark), and audiences are primed for stories that blend Gen-X nostalgia with metaphysical questions. Imagine a season arc exploring Maz’s hypnosis visions, the military base’s secrets, and Shifty’s shady past. But more importantly, imagine the show digging deeper into the idea that Caradoc’s UFO lore isn’t just local legend—it’s collective therapy. A town-wide conspiracy to avoid mourning.
The Real Message: Belief Is a Form of Rebellion
What many people don’t realize is that Out There isn’t about whether aliens exist. It’s about the courage it takes to choose meaning over certainty. Maz’s quest isn’t about proving the supernatural—it’s about refusing to let a system (the MoD, the adults in charge) define her reality. In my opinion, that’s why the film lingers in your mind like a half-remembered dream. It’s not the mushroom trips or the Sony Handycam footage that stick. It’s the question: When you’re staring into the void, isn’t it braver to throw your hands up and yell, “Okay, show me something weird!” than to just… turn off the light?
