THE BELIEVERS

Joe Kim is a lifelong believer, his faith in extraterrestrial visitors an unshakable cornerstone of his identity. Abandoned as a child by his mother—left in a dumpster like refuse—he's rewritten that searing trauma into a comforting delusion: he wasn't discarded, but abducted by aliens, marked as special. Raised by foster parents, he always felt alien himself, a quiet disconnect he never probed too deeply.

The truth—his biological family rejecting him—is a wound he refuses to face, burying it beneath layers of fantastical narratives that shield him from the raw pain of being unwanted. Joe clings to this self-made mythology because it fuels his passions and keeps his profound loneliness and depression at bay. He's built a fragile existence chasing UFOs, a pursuit that gives him purpose even as it isolates him further.

As ginger haired Jewish American adoptee raised by Korean parents in a humble donut shop, Joe's search for belonging adds emotional depth to his UFO obsession. His arc from internet famous UFO nerd to hero and lover embodies the power of personal transformation amidst cultural chaos.

Dennis Tanner is a charismatic cult leader who'd scoff at the label, cloaking his dominion in the guise of cosmic enlightenment. Armed with self-hypnosis techniques, he's crafted a UFO-centric religion dubbed S.C.U.M.-5 Protocols—short for Summoning Craft of Unknown Materials of the 5th Kind.

A twisted riff on the real-world CE-5 (Close Encounters of the 5th Kind), his doctrine preaches that humans can initiate contact with extraterrestrials through sheer mental focus. Dennis has convinced himself—and his fervent followers—that he can summon and commune with alien beings, a feat he claims with messianic certainty. Yet, when pressed to demonstrate this under controlled conditions, he sidesteps scrutiny with practiced ease, dismissing skeptics without a glance.

From this foundation of delusion and showmanship, Dennis has erected a sprawling empire: self-help books, pricey seminars, a slick mobile app, even a branded cryptocurrency—all peddled to the desperate and the dreaming. With his long-suffering husband Brian (originator of the film's recurring "I'm just jossin'" catchphrase), their dynamic creates comedic gold while exploring the thin line between belief and exploitation.

Bill MacQuoid is a grizzled, tenacious local news journalist with a reputation for digging up dirt on corrupt businesses, exposing fraud, waste, and abuse with a relentless, almost obsessive drive.

Early in his career, he stumbles across Bob Lahzer, a mysterious figure claiming to have worked at Area 51 reverse-engineering crashed UFO technology. Sensing a career-defining scoop, Bill produces a gritty, no-frills exposé for his small-tv station. The interview explodes beyond his expectations, thrusting him from obscurity into global fame virtually overnight.

This sudden spotlight lures Bill into the shadowy, lucrative world of UFOlogy, transforming him from a scrappy reporter into a wealthy, larger-than-life personality. Now a millionaire, he guards his newfound empire fiercely, willing to do whatever it takes—ethical or not—to sustain his income and relevance. Fame becomes Bill's drug of choice, an addiction that eclipses his original pursuit of truth.

It drags him into a downward spiral of excess—cocaine, whiskey, and a bloated sense of self-importance—eroding the principles that once defined him. The mysterious "33-page document" he promises to reveal becomes the catalyst for his cathartic confession that undermines UFO culture profiteering. For Bill, the line between journalist and showman has long since blurred, leaving a man chasing the next high, whether from the crowd's applause or something stronger.

Jeremy McGowan is a battle-hardened combat veteran and systems analyst with a rough edge and grit forged in war zones and tempered by a restless, analytical mind.

With his marriage fraying at the seams, he's found solace—and obsession—in unraveling the UFO enigma, tackling it with the same disciplined, scientific rigor he once applied to military ops. Jeremy's no saint; he's flawed, stubborn, and prone to missteps, but when he stumbles, he does so with full-throttle commitment, owning his errors without a hint of excuse.

Pouring his life savings into his passion, Jeremy built OSIRIS—Off-road Scientific Investigation and Response Informatics System—a rugged, custom vehicle bristling with detection gear designed to chase UFOs across unforgiving terrain. It's his pride and joy, a rolling testament to his relentless curiosity, though its complexity brings a litany of headaches: breakdowns, glitches, and maddening malfunctions that test his patience daily.

He dreams of securing investment to assemble a fleet of OSIRIS units, but money and fame aren't the goal—he shares every scrap of data he collects freely, a lone crusader in a cluttered field of profiteers. His mobile lab becomes a visual centerpiece of the film's production design, and his dogged pursuit of the unknown, fueled by equal parts intellect and grit, sets him apart in a world of noise.

Linda Joan Clarke began her career as a researcher driven by a sincere hunger for truth, her curiosity sparked by the unexplained. In the late 1970s, she carved out a pioneering niche as the first woman to produce a documentary on the eerie cattle mutilation phenomenon sweeping Colorado—a gritty, boots-on-the-ground investigation that earned her early acclaim. But over time, her quest for answers morphed into a quest for relevance and profit.

Linda settled on a version of "truth" that aligned with her beliefs and padded her bank account, cherry-picking mysteries that dazzled rather than clarified. Dismissing rational explanations, she leans hard into the unverifiable—crafting films, books, and TV specials that thrive on enigma rather than evidence. Dubbed UFOlogy's "Queen of Mystery," Linda commands a loyal following, her regal persona masking a shrewd opportunism.

Beneath the mystique, she's as much a grifter as her peers, peddling cosmic intrigue with a performer's flair, her once-genuine curiosity now a distant memory traded for the spotlight and the paycheck. Yet, away from the cameras and the UFO lore she pushes as fact, Linda transforms into a warm, devoted mother and grandmother—doting, grounded, and fiercely protective, a stark contrast to the enigma-weaving showwoman her audience knows. Their relationship represents the film's balance between broad comedy and genuine human connection.

Leslie Mayer is the beating heart of Hooker City, Oklahoma—a pragmatic North Star of rationality in a town built on a fantastical lie. Raised in a family that spun the Hooker City UFO Convention from thin air, she inherited a legacy of calculated deception designed to resurrect their dying dustbowl town.

What began as a desperate tourism ploy has become the lifeblood of the community, and Leslie, a shrewd and steely businesswoman, wears that heritage like armor. The con courses through her veins, not as a source of shame but as a tool—she knows it's the only thing keeping Hooker City from fading into oblivion.

Leslie doesn't flinch at getting her hands dirty, expertly extorting the scam artists who flock to her convention peddling UFO nonsense. She's a master at turning their greed against them, siphoning their profits to fund her town's survival. Her constituents adore her for it, electing her as a public servant who delivers results.

As an educator, she's made it her mission to arm her students and residents with skepticism, teaching them to see through the delusions and beliefs that prey on the naive. Everyone in Hooker City knows the "UFO crash" at the heart of the convention is a fabrication—Leslie's ensured that—but they also know it's the golden goose that sets their annual budget, paving roads and keeping schools open. The town's manufactured UFO crash story is openly acknowledged as "total bullshit" while still profiting from believers.