After a mysterious plague wipes virtually every living thing from the face of the planet, nebbishy David Arnott is, to all initial appearances, the last man on Earth. This gives him plenty of time, and even more moral high ground, to drop observations like, "Someone didn't get loved, so they got even." But it seems the plague hasn't wiped out belabored poetic justice, so before The Last Man is over, that statement and several others will come back to haunt him. Adopting mannerisms inherited from Albert Brooks, Arnott spends much of the film making a record of humanity's final flickers by speaking to a video camera, frequently comparing civilization's missteps to the enlightened practices of a narratively convenient South American tribe he studied as a grad student. "My whole life has become one giant Twilight Zone episode," Arnott observes early on, but by that point, most viewers will have beaten him to the punch. The debut writing and directing effort of Harry Ralston, The Last Man plugs a tiny handful of clever ideas into a formula made familiar by The Twilight Zone and other science-fiction war-horses. But few of those ideas survive the leaden execution of Ralston and Arnott, who is, at least, convincing whenever the film requires him to be extremely annoying. In time, Arnott stumbles upon Jeri Ryan (of Star Trek: Voyager fame), but after the initial joy of finding a fellow survivor wears off, they start to experience the problems of any pre-apocalyptic couple, such as squabbling over sex and where best to park the Winnebago to wait out the end of the world. Eventually, the arrival of dreamy, dimwitted backpacker Dan Montgomery Jr. creates a triangle of dissatisfaction, but No Exit this is not: Last Man's flatfooted humor makes it resemble a misdirected improv skit more than a feature film. By the time Arnott's whining monologues begin to number in the dozens, the notion of a swift apocalypse seems like a good idea.