A prison riot leads to the release of genetically engineered monsters on a distant planet, and spaceman Kane Sommerville (not the film's most ridiculous name) must break a quarantine to save his young daughter, assisted by escaped convict Sy Lombrok (there you go). The story is cut into "chapters" with breaks occurring the instant before a scene can achieve some kind of emotional or narrative beat.
The exasperating villains, including Rachel Griffiths as a space bureaucrat and Temuera Morrison as the space warden of space prison, give a lot of cold, indifferent speeches about evolution, perseverance and survival at all costs—bad-guy word salad like, "Don't fight it, don't fear it. Allow yourself to be the manifestation of the monster that I know lives inside your soul." Sweet Jesus, this movie.
But if there's one thing aspiring filmmakers can take away from The Osiris Child, it's this: Jules and Vincent talked about the quarter pounders of Amsterdam 23 goddamn years ago. We've been milking narrative nonlinearity for basically a quarter-century, and now its withered old teats are dry and squirting dust into the bucket. In 2017, telling a story contiguously from beginning to end would be edgy as fuck, the absolute spearhead of avant garde cinema.