A.I.

Being Steven Spielberg, apparently, means never having to say you’re sorry. With “A.I.,” Spielberg, arguably our most successful and accomplished filmmaker, has crafted an intriguing but ultimately frustrating vision of a dystopic future which owes a lot more to others than perhaps could be wished for. As has been widely reported, the late, great Stanley Kubrick was interested in this material for a long time, and had even held discussions with Spielberg about how they might work together on it. (Spielberg actually gives Kubrick an onscreen credit for the project.) The picture is based on a short story by Brian Aldiss called “Supertoys Last All Summer Long” (and Spielberg should have kept that title, by the way). Spielberg himself wrote the script (though Ian Watson gets a “screen story” credit), and that may be part of the problem. Not all great directors are great writers. The story is set many years in the future, when thinking robots have become commonplace, used for everything from domestic chores to sex play. The one thing that robots cannot do, apparently, is love.

This conundrum is laid out in dreary detail in the movie’s plodding opening sequence, in which Professor Hobby (Hurt, giving an uncharacteristically dull performance in a rather small role) challenges what appear to be his students (or perhaps his employees at his big cybertech firm) to consider the implications of a robot who can love (specifically, even if you can make a robot love a human, can you make a human love a robot?). Hobby has this idea that such a robot could replace a lost child for grieving parents, or assuage the pain of couples who cannot conceive. (There is also some nonsense about the fact that laws limit the number of children a couple can have, so that a robo-child would be the perfect, environmentally sensible replacement. In the sort of muddle-headed thinking that characterizes much of “A.I.,” nobody asks the professor what to do about the fact that such a creation would never grow old, up, or out.) Meanwhile, it seems that Henry and Monica Swinton (Sam Robards and Frances O’Connor) have just that problem. Their son, Martin, is in a coma due to some unnamed illness (apparently, medical science has its limitations, even in the future).

By the sheerest coincidence, Henry works at Hobby’s cybercompany, so he is offered the opportunity to test drive the new child robot, David (played by Haley Joel Osment). Naturally, Monica is mortified at first, but then she decides that a robo-child is better than no child at all, so she proceeds to activate David’s imprinting program, by reading a list of random words to him, in yet another scene that is too self-important for its own good. David becomes a surrogate child, and, although he is a quick study, he is obviously no human. He does, however, become very enamored of the story of Pinocchio, and decides that he would like to be a real boy. (Later, he even goes on a hunt for the Blue Fairy, whom, in a peculiar example of a computer thinking in a not very computer-like fashion, he believes to actually exist.) Then, in a melodramatic twist that is beneath Spielberg, Martin Swinton makes a miraculous recovery and comes home. It turns out, though, that he is something of a bad seed, tormenting David and treating him like, well, a toy, which you have to admit is somewhat understandable. After a series of misunderstandings and miscommunications, the Swintons decide that David is a hazard, and must be returned to his maker.

And, although this is an era in which robots can walk and talk like people, apparently they can’t be reprogrammed. According to David’s operating instructions, once he is “imprinted,” he cannot be un-imprinted; he must be destroyed. Monica plans to drive him back to the company for recycling (in one of those three wheeled vehicles that probably would have looked really futuristic in a sci-fi movie circa 1950), but, experiencing a pang of either regret, guilt, or bad acting, she instead sets him free, to run away, and live, dammit, live! (Or something like that; who can say?) At this point, you may be starting to wonder what Spielberg actually has in mind here. I know I was. For we now embark upon the third phase of “A.I.,” in which forlorn little David seeks the Blue Fairy, in order to become a real boy, and earn the love of his Mommy (literally--he actually says this, several times). In the midst of his wanderings, he meets up with the robot Gigolo Joe, played by Jude Law in the one performance with any snap.

Together they escape the ravages of something called a “Flesh Fair,” (in which the ritualistic destructions of robots is presented as entertainment to hordes of angry looking humans) and travel to a robotic red-light district in order to help David find the Blue Fairy. The narrative really comes apart at the seams here, as David’s quest assumes ever greater and yet sillier proportions. Finally, the picture appears to stagger to a halt, except that Spielberg tacks on a twenty-minute coda that would be laughable if it weren’t so dull. So what is Spielberg guilty of exactly, for what has he earned the right not to say “I’m sorry”? He recycles many of his well-worn visual clichés, the use of shadows and back lighting, and beams of smoky illumination, all of which hearken back to the days of “E.T.” (There is even a giant moon visual; remember the famous visual of the flying bicycle against the moon from that picture?) He turns the gifted young Osment (so good in “The Sixth Sense” and “Pay It Forward”) into a collection of parlor tricks and tics (the batted lashes, the soulful eyes).

He elects to include a super Teddy Bear who walks and talks (who seems just as sophisticated, if not more so, than David, and who is called, with a distinct lack of charm, Teddy), in the mix (and thinks the fact that the bear has better lines than the rest of the cast is the height of cleverness). And, with the exception of Law, he doesn’t get a decent performance out of anybody. Spielberg completely loses control of his story (which is why he probably should have let somebody else write it) and fails to recognize how deadly dull all this piousness is. The central irony of “A.I.,” of course, is that the robots are more caring and empathic than the humans, but how much do we need to be hit over the head with that? It is obvious that Spielberg intended the film to be dark, but does that mean we have to forego all humor, all energy? The “jokes” in the picture play flat, they add little joy and no life.

Lastly, in his ill-advised ending, he channels Kubrick and “2001: A Space Odyssey” so blatantly (although he is for some reason compelled to insert some glowing, willowy, ethereal, completely off the rack aliens) that it is hard to tell if it is an homage or a rip-off. In fairness, the picture does maintain at least a minimal level of grim interest throughout (I wasn’t tempted to leave until the aliens appeared), and some of the scenes involving the robots are possessed of a harsh technological beauty. “A.I.” demonstrates, rather starkly, the difference between a great writer and a great director (those who are both are few and far between). Spielberg had a vision, no doubt, but he does not appear to have had the skill to bring it to life as a story. In truth, the themes that intrigue him are old, so old they would not appear out of place in a vintage episode of the “Twilight Zone” (in fact, I’m willing to bet that just such an episode exists). That’s OK; Hollywood is nothing if not a factory for recycling ideas (it has been said many times that there are no new ideas, just new ways of using old ones).

For all of the cult of auteur-ship that has sprung up around directors, here is a picture that demonstrates how essential skilled writing really is. I am not even talking about great or brilliant writing, just competent story telling. A gifted writer would have seen the flaws in this story and fixed them. “A.I.” had a great director at the peak of his career, a presumably unlimited budget, first pick of any actors, and state of the art technical support. What it lacked, unfortunately, was intelligence, artificial or otherwise. (7/8/2001)