Friendship’s Death (1987).
IMDb meta-data is a runtime of 1h and 18m, rated 6.5 by 754 cinematizens.
Genre: Sy Fy; Species: Cheapo.
DNA: Jordan.
Verdict: As static and wordy as a Mamet play.
Tagline: I knew it! She’s a machine.
Two people talk in a tatty Thistle hotel room during Black September civil war of 1970 in Amman Jordan while conflict rages outside (boom, crack, wham). The man is a cynical Scots journalist who, in the best tradition of the profession, makes up reports without leaving his room. The woman claims to be an ambassador from an alien civilisation whose astro-limo misfired and dropped her in there instead of the USA. A miss is as good as 10,000 miles. Her code name is ‘Friendship.’ No Gort in sight.
They talk and talk and talk, and talk some more. The talk is full of learned references without any momentum. It just goes around in circles. Off camera each does leave the room.
But mostly, they talk and talk…zzzzz….
At least she does not lecture the viewer, as is the preferred method of exposition by a considerable number of contemporary film makers, who in an earlier age would have gone to the priesthood to denounce our sins numerous: ecological, climatic, racial, social, technological, inequitable, venal, mortal, and more.
By the way, this alien did not travel light, sporting new clothes in nearly every scene with perfect makeup.
When Tilda says something like, ’I appear to be a human, but that’s a veneer; inside I am a machine.’ I said: ‘I knew it all along, Tilda, you are a machine!’