The World's End
From the opening credits we see that Gary is an alcoholic—and also a lonely, stuck-in-the-past screw-up who still dresses and acts like a 17-year-old. Alcohol is quite literally the only thing he's got. His friends—Andy primarily, and only really in one scene—try to steer him off the path of self-destruction, but in the end they don't seem to care much about what he does with his life or why. The film advocates the message that "all you really need is good friends," but good friendship here looks mostly like drinking a lot while fending off blue-blooded robot/aliens.
Even as the world crumbles around them, Gary continues his quest to drink a pint at The World's End. Other characters go after love interests. Gary goes after beer. And in the end, everybody seems to get what they want. But has anyone grown in the process?
The overarching ethos of The World's End can be summed up in a bleepable phrase uttered several times in the film: "Aw, f--- it." It's a celebration of apathy, slacker-hood, and the "freedom to be a f--- up." At the end of the world, it's the posture of a shrug. While it's not quite the nihilism of Lars von Trier's Melancholia—which depicts the destruction of earth as the greatest grace ever bestowed upon its hopelessly loathsome inhabitants—it is of a similar spirit.
It's perhaps notable that the "Blood and Ice Cream Trilogy" (aka "Three Flavours: Cornetto") is a pseudo homage to Krzysztof Kieslowski's "Three Colors" trilogy, inspired by the three colors (blue, red and white) of the French flag. In some ways The World's End feels like a skewering of the French tendency to wallow in existential misery and misanthropy in the face of finitude. As Roger Cohen wrote recently in TheNew York Times, reflecting on the "bracing frankness" and malaise of France, "No nation internalizes as completely the notion that in the end we are all dead."
The World's End, owning its Britishness and inborn obligation to diss the French at any opportunity, argues that the world's end should not be met with existential dread or boring philosophizing, but rather with a cheerful toast between mates. This isn't to say Brits are happier or more optimistic than the French; they just prefer not to get all fussy and dreary about their misery. Longtime New York Times London correspondent Sarah Lyall recently described the U.K. as "the land of the pursuit of not-miserableness," observing that "after enough Britons respond with 'I can't complain' when you ask them how they are, you begin to feel nostalgic about all those psyched Americans you left behind."