A psychological master thesis. The Galaxy Invader is the shirt rending tale of alcohol abuse, its terrible combustibility and the damage done to the familial framework.
I should know, I live in Wisconsin; where the brandy old-fashioned narrowly lost to the mosquito (via arm wrestling match) for election as our state bird. As an aside, in case you’ve begun a misguided flirtation that our local politics stray from the status quo, don’t. We had months of obnoxious televised hype over-salting the cracks of our favorite sitcoms. Mosquito flung mud among his smiling, photo shopped entourage (a crayon box of ageless minorities), ensuring us Old-Fashioned was a heartless elitist with precisely zero concern for the provision of safety nets beneath the underprivileged. Brandy O. F. Esq., meanwhile, draped by the staunch conservatism of his family wreck room’s wood paneling, spun shovel full after wormy shovel full that Mosquito was a vile slayer, a vamp burrowing deep into the tender necks of the unborn for their ever delicious stem cells.
The blood rush and division of entrenched politics is fitting for a film that forces its audience all over the spectrum. You’ll grow a bleeding heart as human life is placed two notches below perspiring, fridge entombed, luncheon meat; you’ll become as pleated and dogmatic as a televangelist for fear that the abundance of homo-erotic tension between a professor and his one time student will turn into some well hair brushed face sucking; you’ll become like Ross Perot, in love with the sight of Jimmy Stewart’s cousin zig-zaging through underbrush.
I’m sorry, were you expecting a Galaxy Invader? Nothing doing. This clumsy, rubber, punching bag is just one more thing for a family to argue over (after Scrabble and who should get the wheel barrow); just one more thing for greedy ham’n’eggers to swoon over like high school touchdowns. With no motivation or back story, the galaxy invader might as well not even be in the movie, let alone be its title.
A more accurate title? Let’s see… Vangelis Untunes a Casio, no no no, A Wheelbarrow for a Grapefruit, wait, how bout, Cross-training With Bernard Stewart, I got it, Pulled Punches, The Deep Ditch of Dysfunction, Bitching at J.J., Isn’t It Amazing How Much the 80’s Look Like the 70’s.
Well any of those names might be perfectly fitting for you, but if you’ve ever felt the clammy hand of alcoholism fondle your will to live, if you live in Wisconsin, where squirrels drop intoxicated from boughs overhead like the rotten fruit of our lager drenched hearts, then you know there is only one name for it: The Galaxy Invader.