Alright- there’s nine alien teenagers on our planet and some other evil aliens want to kill them. IN NUMERIC ORDER. Gotta admire that attention to detail. The head bad alien is like, “Guys..guys! We gotta go by the murder list! If we kill Number Five and then Number Three I’m going to lose track of where we are and we’ll have to start all over again and I am not driving back to the store to get more weird red goo for our laser guns.”
Just in case there is any doubt who the Number Four in this movie is, it’s the main blond teenager, not the secondary blond teenagers. Also, he clears up the whole “which one is Number Four?!!” issue by thoughtfully telling the audience he’s Number Four in the first five (four?) minutes of the movie. To which I can only imagine The Count from Sesame Street stood up and whirled his cape around and thunderously applauded. Ahhh! One blond teenage alien! Two blond teenage aliens! Three blond teenage aliens! Four blond teenage aliens and Count I’m going to go ahead and stop you right there at four.
One thing that really bugged me in this movie is that Number Four left the default Earth wallpaper as his homescreen on his iPhone. Can’t you change the wallpaper to a picture of Timothy Olyphant or something? Anyway, the movie starts with Number Four having summer fun on the beach with some beach hotties! Jet skis! Bonfires! Some super-chill Jack Johnson music, maybe? No? Okay.
Number Four gets a text from a beach hottie (on that damnable default Earth wallpaper) to come meet him in a lagoon. Then they swim around in the night ocean and she looks up and says, “Oh, look- the stars. There’s my favorite, the Big Dipper!” All the constellations in the sky and you pick the Big Dipper? Oh look a big old spoon in the sky! So much cooler than a bear or a scorpion or a guy shooting an arrow. Think of all the cereal you could eat with that enormous sky spoon!
Number Four’s leg starts doing some light-up alien shit and the beach girl flips out and she flees, presumably to protect her spoon collection. Timothy Olyphant, who is also an alien and has the thankless job of protecting Number Four, says, “We gotta get the fuck out of here.” Then he throws all their pictures in a fire along with their license plate. Is it that easy to burn a license plate? I thought they were made of metal. Is a beach campfire hot enough to incinerate metal? If so, then Sarah Connor should try to lure all the Terminators to a Jimmy Buffett concert.
So they go to Ohio and Number Four falls in love pretty much five (four?) minutes into attending his new high school. Also, what is going on with the soundtrack in this movie? The Black Keys, The xx, Adele? You know you were choosing songs for I Am Number Four, right? That’s like wrapping a Target gift card in ornate gold foil paper and putting an origami bird on top of it. I mean, thanks for the Target card, I needed to get some Claritin and batteries, but wow.
Number Four and his new girlfriend Sarah go walking around downtown and she’s like, “I’m a photographer! I was hanging out with the cool popular kids but then I chose photography instead, which is a choice pretty girls are often forced to make.” Afterwards, she takes a photograph of two little girls running away from her partially blocked by pedestrians in the middle of the night with no flash. Then she takes a photo of Number Four’s chin. Wheeee I’m Ansel Adams lens cap!
Then rainbows come out of Number Four’s hands until he jams them in a janitor’s bucket. “Rainbows coming out of your hands until you jam them in a janitor’s bucket” is also a euphemism for a terrifically erotic but forbidden sex act. This kind of thing keeps happening until the bad aliens find Number Four and (spoiler!) Timothy Olyphant gets his ass killed. Turns out all the aliens disintegrate into stone and ash when they die, both the good and bad aliens. I thought they were from different planets, though. Is this some kind of chimney sweep solar system they’re all from? Jesus.
The main bad alien guy keeps making snide remarks about comic books and gadgets and watching too much TV. I’m surprised his dying words weren’t, “I don’t even own a television!” Sorry, I forgot to mention the bad guy dies. But I will let you find out for yourself whether he was killed clutching a copy of Wine Spectator magazine. The End!