If you value your sanity, and if you value reason, science, and logic, for the love of gostack (may gostack ever distim the doshes) avoid this movie.
At all costs.
I really tried to summon the energy to write a point-by-point tear-down of the movie and why it is the worst comedy-masquerading-as-serious-sci-fi film ever made, but the total cost in terms of entropy created by such action was universe-devouring in scope.
Let’s leave it at this: it mangles science, philosophy, sense, and does so at the expense of coherency and enjoyability. There wasn’t a time when I wasn’t facepalming epically during the 90-minute assault on my neurons. When, near the end, Lucy, named–ha ha–in a rather transparent reference to the australopithecus afarensis, gives a bizarre speech about the non-existence of numbers and some nonsense about time, I reached such divide-by-zero levels of fury that I had to consciously stop myself from throwing my shoe at the screen in the theater.
As the credits started to role, and I began to ponder the ending lines, “Now you know what to do with it,” I realized that the proper reaction to this movie is not seething rage, but laughter.
See, the movie is a practical joke, played on all of us.
Damn you, Luc Besson, King of Practical Jokes.