"A waste of space."

Rating: 4/10 (23 January 2001)

WARNING: REVIEW CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS
2001 had Strauss. Contact opens with CGIed planets set to snatches of Elvis and The Spice Girls. It all blurs past the screen without subtlety, dragging us into a nauseating prologue.
This gives us Jodie Foster as a young girl, wanting to explore the universe because her dad let her use his CB radio. All of a sudden it segues into gut-wrenchingly-sentimental dialogue about her mother. "Dad... can we talk to mom?" "I don't think even the biggest radio could reach that far" replies her dad as the audience grabs a sick bucket. "Hey dad... do you think there's people on other planets?" she then offers. This is indicative of the contrived nature of the script. And what kind of responsible father would let his daughter talk to truck drivers anyway?
When we meet Foster as an adult she's the young go-getter striving against the system (Cliché #4582200), working under a weary, less intelligent but scornful boss (Cliché #83475971). Her colleagues are a token black man, a token disabled man and the good-looking lead that she shags within the first twenty minutes. The dirty stop-out. In perhaps the only inspired character twist, she walks out on HIM with a "I'll call you".
Tom Skerritt soon pulls the plug on her alien research  well, he would, wouldn't he? Look what happened the last time that he met an alien. But being a living plot device is hard on anyone, and he avoids being in too many scenes. Foster then enters a discussion with a research board for alternate funding. Why is it in films boards never say "Fair enough, we'll give you the cash" and have done with it? Instead Foster gets rejected then loses it, slagging off the review panel. Impressed by her spunk they then give her the money  and that's cliché #471781256.
Pretty soon she's hooked up with James Spader and a token surfer dude who always seem to frequent scientific research departments for some reason. James Wood pops his head round the corner playing the only character he ever plays. In fact, the film is quite name-heavy, with Angela Bassett squandered as a Whitehouse representative. When the aliens send down a transmission of Hitler, the logical Hollywood choice for someone to seethe in indignant rage is a black woman. In fact it's a wonder they didn't throw in Jackie Gleason as well.
The biggest star name though is my favourite US President, randy old Bill Clinton in a brief acting role. This is an amazing feat and a commendable one. Imagine how much more realistic Superman II would have been if Reagan had played himself in that.
The alien transmission is relayed via news broadcasts from all over the world, including  yes!  a plummy English newscaster (Cliché #17537256). We then see how different cultures  hippies, native Americans, religious extremists  deal with the situation. Yeah, chuck another cliché on the pile.
Things improve for the second half, where Foster is in a quest to meet the Vegans. That's the aliens, by the way, not people that refuse to drink milk. Pretty soon she's in a ship, strapped up with a head mike like a telephone receptionist. Her craft is remarkable for two reasons. One is that it looks suspiciously like a Sontaran ship from Doctor Who, the other is that it appears to have no toilet. A four year mission and nowhere to have a poo? When she does meet an alien he's in the form of her dead dad, bringing about a crisis of faith. Yes, it really is THAT bad.
Overlong, undercooked, trite and uninvolving, Contact is a thoroughly missable SF dirge.