Somewhere in the cold, vast emptiness of the galaxy, there’s a planet inhabited solely by emotionless male clones trying to conquer Earth via sex. And from that same corner of the void came this movie, What Planet Are You From?—a limp, aimless sci-fi sex comedy that thinks it’s edgy but couldn’t get aroused at a strip club with a fistful of singles and a backstage pass.
Directed by Mike Nichols—yes, The Graduate Mike Nichols, somehow dragged into this intergalactic frat party—What Planet Are You From? stars Garry Shandling as an alien named Harold. Harold is sent to Earth with one mission: impregnate a human female. Because apparently, on his all-male planet of clones, female reproductive capacity is a hot commodity. His species’ master plan for galactic domination? Awkward small talk and slightly-above-average missionary position. Bold.
Shandling, who co-wrote the script, plays Harold like a wax sculpture of a man who studied Earth culture through reruns of Friends and awkward HR training videos. He’s not so much “fish out of water” as “cod flopping on the floor of a Rite Aid.” Every line is delivered with the charisma of a man who just woke up from a root canal and immediately had to do a table read.
Oh, and here’s the movie’s grand running gag: Harold’s alien penis makes a mechanical whirring sound whenever he gets aroused. That’s right. A whirring noise. It sounds like a cordless drill trying to bore through shame itself. This is the joke they bet the whole movie on. They didn’t double down. They went all in. And lost. Spectacularly.
Annette Bening shows up as Susan, the Earth woman Harold targets to fulfill his sacred mission of impregnation. Bening is wildly overqualified for this. She plays her role with a strange blend of earnestness and visible regret, like a master chef forced to cook with gas station nacho cheese. You keep waiting for her character to wake up from the bad dream that is this script, but no—she commits. Like a soldier. A confused, dead-eyed soldier.
Ben Kingsley plays Harold’s alien superior, which is another sentence that feels like a cosmic typo. That’s Sir Ben Kingsley, Shakespearean titan, in a shiny robe, giving pep talks about Earth vaginas like he’s doing alien stand-up at a bowling alley.
Greg Kinnear gets wasted in the role of Perry, Harold’s womanizing co-worker, who exists solely to show how “normal” Earth men woo women (with lying, booze, and relentless smirking). His role could’ve been filled by a cardboard cutout of George Clooney and a voiceover by a drunk frat guy. It would’ve had the same emotional impact.
The comedy here is painful. It’s a parade of uncomfortable sexual innuendo, robot penis jokes, and scenes where Shandling bumbles through life like a less charming version of Data from Star Trek, minus the intellect and with added creep factor. At one point, he’s spooning with Bening and whispering, “Your eyes are like… two brown… things.” That’s the pickup line. That’s what we’re working with.
And if you think the sci-fi angle might save this from being a total wreck, think again. The alien planet is a chrome-plated Apple Store full of emotionless clones standing around like extras from a Cialis commercial. The “threat” of galactic takeover never feels real. It’s not even subplot—it’s window dressing. Like someone stapled a Men’s Health article to Coneheads and hoped no one noticed.
The pacing? Glacial. The romance? Zero chemistry. The climax? Forgettable. At one point, the plot hinges on Harold developing feelings—you know, the thing his species supposedly can’t do. It’s like if Spock fell in love with a sandwich. You don’t buy it, and you’re mostly annoyed that the movie thinks you should.
Final Verdict:
What Planet Are You From? is a tone-deaf, painfully unfunny mess of a film that confuses awkwardness with charm and science fiction with loosely glued together sex jokes. It wastes a talented cast, a respected director, and your time.
1 out of 5 stars.
One lonely star for Annette Bening, who shows up like a pro and somehow keeps a straight face while being courted by a guy with a whirring groin. Everyone else involved should have their SAG cards temporarily suspended as a courtesy to the rest of us.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to file a noise complaint against this movie’s mechanical genitalia.
