Don’t Look Up is a wild ride. Two astronomers spot a comet zooming towards Earth. They try to warn everyone, but good luck with that. Themes of politics, media and society’s total indifference swirl around. It’s a chaotic blend of laughs and facepalms. Grab some popcorn and enjoy!

Meet the characters from Don’t Look Up

Dr. Randall Mindy

Randall is that anxious, endearingly nerdy astrophysicist who keeps trying to be calm and failing spectacularly. He knows the math, can explain comets with a whiteboard and forgotten coffee mugs everywhere, and is oddly charming when panicking. He wants to be taken seriously but also tells terrible jokes in meetings — like the guy who brings a guitar to a science seminar and then cries about deadlines, maybe. Also, he collects obscure tie clips? Or maybe it’s bookmarks, I can’t remember, but it’s adorably specific and slightly embarrassing.

Kate Dibiasky

Kate bursts in like a hurricane — passionate, furious, and totally unwilling to sugarcoat the apocalypse. She’s a comet-discovering grad student with a blunt tongue, messy hair and a taste for shouting truth into rooms that don’t want to hear it. Beneath the fire there’s vulnerability; she cares so hard it sometimes comes out as self-sabotage or just walking out of a restaurant mid-conversation, which she swears was intentional. Also, she probably owns a dozen notebooks she never opens, and insists she hates romantic comedies while secretly quoting them — I think?

President Orlean

President Orlean is pure performative glamour with a political brain that’s mostly about optics — sequins first, strategy maybe later. She thrives on stagecraft, loves being adored, and seems to judge foreign policy by how photogenic it looks, which is chaotic and oddly mesmerizing. There’s this disarming mix of thin-skinned insecurity under layers of lipstick and a weirdly sincere patriotism that makes her both infuriating and kind of pitiable. And honestly, she probably keeps a comfort scarf in the Oval Office drawer and eats pizza with a fork sometimes — I might be making that up but it’s vivid.

Brie Evantee

Brie is the glossy TV anchor with the perfect hair and a gift for asking exactly the wrong question at the right smile. She’s polished, hungry for ratings, and somehow manages to be both relentlessly cheerful and palpably calculating. Sometimes she feels like a walking PR slogan: she says the lines with conviction but you can almost see the seams. Still, she can surprise you with a moment of real curiosity — or maybe that’s just a rehearsed twitch; either way it’s compelling.

Dr. Teddy Oglethorpe

Teddy is the quietly exasperated, disarmingly polite scientist-bureaucrat who’s basically the voice of reason with a British accent and a dry joke at hand. He has the patience of someone who’s seen many bad ideas and the low-key moral backbone to keep pushing for real science despite conference-room politics. He drinks tea like it’s a ritual and collects tiny flags or pins, or was that coins? Anyway, he has hobbies that scream ‘mildly eccentric but harmless’. He’s stubbornly optimistic in that very English way where optimism comes with sighs and spreadsheets.

Jason Orlean

Jason is the polished son-of-power who smiles like a brochure and treats crises like bad PR assignments — coiffed, friendly, and oddly unbothered. He’s charismatic in a very performative, curated way, loves social media, and probably has a branded phone case; he believes charisma is a strategy. There’s a shallowness to him but also this ridiculous eagerness to be liked that makes him almost pitiable, like a golden retriever in a suit. He says the president’s lines like he’s reading a script — which, well, he is — and somehow manages to make chaos look like an influencer moment.

Peter Isherwell

Peter is the slick tech billionaire with the unsettling smile and a plan for absolutely everything — your future included, whether you asked or not. He’s brilliant, charismatic, and terrifyingly sincere about his own infallibility, like someone who fell in love with spreadsheets instead of people. He speaks in metaphors about ecosystems and optimization and also does odd things like petting plants on stage, which is either dramatic or completely sincere, I can’t tell. There’s a weird messianic vibe — he thinks technology will save us, and he might mean it, but also he’s totally comfortable with the collateral. Also, he probably drives a car that’s quieter than a whisper and has a monogrammed blanket in his office; very on-brand, maybe a little haunted.

Jack Bremmer

Jack is the full-throttle PR guy who can sell anything with a grin and an agenda, the personification of spin with a charming handshake. He’s breezy, confident, and always hunting for the narrative that makes everything seem fine — or at least profitable. Underneath the banter there’s a careerist who genuinely believes messaging can fix reality, which is impressively delusional or very strategic, pick your vibe. Also, he probably keeps a joke book in his desk drawer and can make a terrible pun at any moment; annoying but effective.