Monday, May 6, 2013

A Dance to the Music of Modern Time


First off, if you are not familiar with the band/dance troupe, World Order, then here is an apt introduction:


I think one of the reasons I keep watching their music videos is because there is this prideful strangeness or eccentricity that seems to be expressed by these virtually expressionless men, that, and the exactitude of their dance that makes it mind numbing to even begin to think about how they pulled these moves off. I was introduced to this band almost a year and a half ago by none other than Roger Ebert who linked a video on one of his many posts during a random day. Watching their videos for the first time sparked an unrestrained amount of excitement and curiosity within me.

World Order, their history in a nutshell, is a Japanese music group and dance troupe started by a former mixed martial arts fighter named Genki Sudo. Their music and dance are hinged upon the motivation to find a certain commonality within our modern age, an age rampant in busyness and technology. This commonality, Sudo believes, is what can bring us together. If I were to generalize the dance style of World Order, it would be something along the lines of scientific chaos or mechanical harmony...a combination of both...but that's why I don't want to generalize. There are many things that are going on within each and every video of theirs. One thing is for sure is that they embody the sporadic pace of our civilization. This is not to say that they are satirizing it in any way (though there are moments where that could be the case). Rather, they are expressing it unabridged and unaware. For instance, I feel their signature move is the way they run from one place to another, shown briefly in the video above, their running is characterized by a rhythmically quick change from fast to slow, usually when one foot is in the air. The spastic subtlety correlates with such rhythms like traffic accelerating at a green light and coming to a stop at a red light, among other things we find in our contemporary landscapes.

The rest of their choreography can be described by a multitude of adjectives including explicit, thought-provoking, minimalist, and robotic. Take, for example, the last piece they performed in 'Machine Civilization,' which seemed to reflect the way gears work or, in other words, they way small parts run together to move a bigger machine (this dance was introduced by several shots of giant pieces of machinery). It is a way to inject our sense of humanity within the machines we create and vice verse because our world is dependent on such machinery. World Order strives to interpret such a need through their dances. In another video, 'Boy Meets Girl,' they illustrate the modern relationship through dance that evokes almost sporadic, but certainly fragmented, emotions, maybe highlighting the nature of text messaging and social networking in which feelings are not felt in a continuous manner as one would expect when talking face-to-face but rather isolated from one another, one feeling per text or instant message and then you must await for the next one. Nevertheless, the quite funny video also reflects what you may expect in a pop video, seen through some of the dances and most certainly through the cinematography and setting.


Though 'Boy Meets Girl' does not really depict this, one key aspect to the novelty of World Order is its knack for public dancing. Most of their numbers have them go virtually anywhere and dance their odd dances. What is remarkable about this from the standpoint of performance art is how the bystanders react or even their lack of reaction. These dances pulsate with the vitality of the modern age, yet they provide an interruption of this normal vitality by offering an illuminating reflection of what we take for granted. Moreover, the exactitude of such numbers asks not just the bystanders but the viewers of the video, as well, to regard subtlety and minuteness, something we may not regard in our busy, everyday lives. The public spaces they perform in are crucial to stress these themes as well as to advance their unifying motivation. These bystanders regard the group but do they simply ignore them or do they contemplate? There are a wide variety of reactions from many of the videos. Here is one video they performed in New York City.


The swiftness of the internet, the lumbering nature of city traffic, the movement of automatic doors, the serenity that is man and machine working together to create a functioning, well, machine civilization: this is represented through the dance of World Order. They express an almost limitless range of feelings yet do so with measuring sublimity. Their bodies show both an outflow of feelings but also restraint; their faces remain dormant while their bodies move in what seems like tedious precision, the same way we communicate instantaneously without seeing each others faces, so why would their facial expressions matter?

Dance is an interpretation of feelings, and the act of dancing creates a gateway between one's feelings and the observers. It is one thing that the feelings of an individual are expressed, but it is another thing that such dancing transcends such expression and provides a gateway into our ways of living or our feelings towards our constructed environments, virtual and physical. World Order represents our symbiotically complicated relationship with the modern age and this representation induces imagination and contemplation (as well as an ample amount of awe).

Ah, well that is the reason why I love dance so much and why I participate in such expression. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do.


Monday, April 8, 2013

Roger Ebert: We Were Both Fans of Bo Diddley


The title of this post refers to the closest I have ever gotten to my favorite film critic and one of the most influential people in my life, Roger Ebert. Now, this wasn't a closeness in the physical sense or even in a relationship sense, though I wish I had the chance to meet him. It was during the 2011 summer and I was browsing Facebook like I have done for countless hours of my life when I stumbled upon...no that's foolish, I never stumble upon Ebert's Facebook posts, I got on Facebook religiously just read them. Anyways, I scoured through my newsfeed for the most recent Ebert post and he happened to post about the birthday of Bo Diddley. Now, Bo Diddley is one of my favorite musicians of all time and to see Ebert post about his birthday, something that I had done an hour before, was, for lack of a better word, cool. It was even better that I actually had a worthy comment to post with Ebert's. I had recently seen a concert film, titled Let the Good Times Roll, that showcased Bo Diddley as he sang, wailed, gyrated, and eroticized (is that a word?) his performance to create an unflinchingly visceral experience. So when I saw Ebert's post I was determined to comment on it with the sole purpose to ask him if he had seen and reviewed this film. Of course, I could have just searched it on his website, something I have done countless times by other films, but that would be stupid. Here was an opportunity to ask a reasonable question while also letting Ebert know I exist in this world. Along with saying that Bo Diddley appeared in this film and asking him if he reviewed it, I explained that the film had an editing style that was a descendant to the landmark film Woodstock, a film that was elegantly analyzed by Ebert in his Great Movies section here (disclaimer: I'll be linking a lot of my favorite Ebert essays throughout this piece. They are all worth reading over and over and over again).

So, yea, I commented on his post and was all giddy with curiosity and anticipation, awaiting if this man who I have observed digitally for years and have admired for his infinite knowledge of a topic I was passionate about would respond to one out of his hundreds of thousands of fans. Well, later in the day, I checked Facebook once again...actually almost forgetting about the earlier post...with the pleasant surprise of seeing my name, my full name, in Ebert's latest post:



Yeah, like, my full name and all. He dedicated a whole post to me. Not only that, he even quoted me and all the glory that was my naive analysis (okay, using the word 'descendant,' wouldn't really be called naive but maybe rash). Well, eventually my fanaticism gave way to humbleness. My admiration for his willingness to connect with his fans grew insurmountably. It struck as to how much he probably wanted to continuously share his own passion and experiences with everyone else. I'm not sure how mush sense that must make for someone who is not me, but there was just a click in me where I said to myself, "sharing is a damn good thing." I had a blog a while before I started reading Ebert's reviews and essays, yet I wrote really for myself. It wasn't a form of writing that invited discussion or imagination, it was rehashing cliched descriptions one after another to construct a passive excitement for subjects that reanimated my passion for creativity and exploration. I felt like I wasn't doing any justice to anything I was talking about. Reading Ebert's blogs and essays, and a lot of his reviews, I felt an established connection, an allowance for the reader to share an experience had by the film critic. Ebert's writing style creates an intriguing relationship between the intricate and the simple, such that his more complicated prose holds this elegant simplicity and his simple statements echo with profound depth.

There is a certain intuitive approach Ebert uses when he observes and studies films. It has remnants of academics but I certainly don't even consider it a loose derivative. Frankly, he pours too much feeling into each and every word that it would be far too personal to be much of an academic style. I say that because his foundations rests in the way we learn how to view films, one of his influences if the incomparable David Bordwell, who made studying film its own discipline and not come constituent of other literary studies. Ebert took that and made it his own, flexible style. This style approached its zenith whenever he wrote for his Great Movie Collection, a series of films he deemed important historically, aesthetically, and emotionally. It was a perfect, canonical list. Instead of depending on a ranking system that, ultimately, obscures the greatness that each film would have just for being on the list, the Great Movies Collection is unnumbered and dynamic, meaning it is ever-growing. This list offered me the most compelling and wonderful expose of films, genres, history, culture, and people. He introduced me to some of my favorite films that I hold dearly, films like Ikiru, which happens to be my favorite Akira Kurosawa film where he states, "And here we see the real heart of the movie, in the way one man's effort to do the right thing can inspire, or confuse, or anger, or frustrate, those who see it only from the outside, through the lens of their own unexamined lives." 


He was the first to introduce me to another one of my favorite filmmakers and films, Errol Morris's Gates of Heaven, a documentary that is as dazzling as it is simplistic, showing the compelling, infinite landscape of the human mind. It was in one of my first moments of perusing the Great Movies Collection and I was just going down the list and looking at films I have never heard of. Gates of Heaven was one of the few documentaries on his list, and reading the first few paragraphs I realized how mysterious, silly, and exciting this film could be. I never thought a film about a pet cemetery relocation could capture my imagination and lead me down a road of more Morris films that are all just as captivating (see The Thin Blue Line, Fast, Cheap, and Out of Control, and Tabloid). That is what set me off to obsessively watch the films on his list and to anxiously await his next film to be added.

He showed me some of the most jovial of films in My Neighbor Totoro and one of the most heart-wrenching in Grave of the Fireflies. He reintroduced me to the genius that was Louise Brooks in her greatest performance, Pandora's Box, an actress I had casted doubt upon after seeing her in an earlier silent film where she was portrayed as an overtly passive doll and rushed to generalize that that was the only kind of performances she like to give. When Ebert explained that, "Louise Brooks regards us from the screen as if the screen were not there; she casts away the artifice of film and invites us to play with her," it convinced me so much that not only did I view Pandora's Box, I went to go see Brooks' grave site, a humbling experience to say the least. On a similar note, he taught me how to regard actresses for their coupling of beauty and ingenuity. Katherine Hepburn, Louise Brooks, Grace Kelly, Ginger Rogers, and Olivia de Havilland became something more human than what I was brought up to think: the stereotypical classic glamour girl. Regarding beauty isn't considered objectifying but, with respect, illuminating. I feel I have gained respect for these actresses even more now that I can describe their personalities and mannerisms almost to the point to where one may think I knew them. 

Romance was never really a topic I discussed in films mainly because, frankly, I am not experienced in it. Reading the way Ebert describes romance as a delicate, fluctuating and sometimes painful phenomenon has at least brought me some nuance to the subject. But more importantly, like with the actresses of yesteryear, I came to respect its almost infinite complexity, generated from essays like Wings of Desire, Casablanca, and The Lady Eve. My growth intellectually and emotionally came when I first read about the films and then watched them, my eyes observed the many facets our our multi-layered world. At one point, following his thoughtful review of Shame, he made a blog post specifically about orgasms. I would be lying if I said I wasn't slightly nervous as to what the content of the blog really contained, but I read it anyways because I trusted in Ebert's intellect, experience, and vision of the human condition, which he attributed to his discussion.

He introduced me to foreign films, most significantly the Japanese films, which I have grown to love so so much, but also French, Italian, Indian, and Iranian films. He blew the door open with silent film, an era in film that is as pure, magical and beautiful but also somewhat disconnected from the rest of film history. He idolized Keaton for good reason, with one essay to culminate his whole cinematic career, and he gave praise to Chaplin, though I will always have a personal grudge against the way he softly denounces the endings to his films (here, here, and here). Nevertheless, his descriptions are always inspiring, and silent film has been a form that I have almost obsessively tried to recreate in my films and also promote to my friends and family.




It is strange, I actually found out quite awhile later after reading his essay religiously that he had his lower jaw removed from cancer. Indeed, it first struck me when I conducted a naive image search for him and saw many of the photos of his unfortunately disfigured face. Honestly, it did frighten me. It came as a shock and something I didn't know how to comprehend. Yet, this uncertainty dissipated with his unequivocal strength and perseverance as well as his loquacious attitude that gave me comfort. His ability to use the internet as his prime vehicle of expression turned out to be a great achievement. While many use it to unload superficial ideologies and feelings, Ebert, from his essays and blog posts to his tweets, made sure whatever he wrote was thought-provoking or at least an instigator for further exploration. I modeled my Facebook posts after that and refuse to write anything that only has a significance within a minute moment. At a given point, I forgot about his handicap, or maybe it just didn't seem like it mattered. What mattered was that he connected with his fans, he continued to express his passion, and he did it in what seemed to be a normal way, a consequence to rising above his weakness. That is not to say his cancer was something to ignore. No, no, it should never be ignored. It is just when it came to his brilliant ideas and imagery, they shone too brightly for my consideration on other facets.


Again, I did not know Roger Ebert. I wish I did. My envious notions ring in my head...for just once can I meet someone distinguished and passionate in film and just, well, talk? To talk about films four hours upon hours and then some. I came to love film at a young age, but he put my love in perspective. It is one thing to dream about doing the thing you love, it is another to improve upon its clarity, to lay forth a path that I could walk on and venture further into my dream, a dream that is slowly (but surely) coming into fruition, into a perceptible actuality. This coming from a man, a strong man, a smart man, and a thoughtful man, a man I never knew but that has become irrelevant  Hell, that is why it was quite pleasant to see that we both enjoyed listening to Bo Diddley. Maybe I'll go listen to some of him now.


I've embedded Roger Ebert's TED talk, a speech about how he is in the process of gaining his voice back, no matter the physical limitations. Bravery seems to surround the animated film critic.



Monday, April 1, 2013

A.I. Artificial Intelligence: A Program Lost in a Fairy Tale



I remember the first time I had watched Steven Speilberg's 2001 film, A.I. Artificial Intelligence, many years ago, around the time it came out in theatres. I came out of the film not liking it that much mainly because it left me in a state of melancholy. I guess you could say that the film ended, "Happily ever after," but, even at a young age, I looked at it with much more cynicism. The robot suffered through so much to obtain the love of his mother yet only is able to receive one day of happiness, or 'happiness.' This melancholy that I felt I think is the core of this film's narrative and emotional power. It is drawn from the uneasiness of the main character who may or may not be acting on feelings and rationality but by the next line of code in its program. Roger Ebert began his thoughtful Great Movies essay on the film with the launchpad for my exploration into the film:

David has been programmed to love. Once he is activated with a code, he fixes on the activator, in this case his Mommy (Frances O'Connor). He exists to love her and be loved by her. Because he is a very sophisticated android indeed, there's a natural tendency for us to believe him on that level. In fact he does not love and does not feel love; he simply reflects his coding.

The idea that David, played incredibly by Haley Joel Osment, is an android who  may or may not be becoming more human in this age-old fairy tale illuminates the depth of Spielberg's film, a film that upon reviewing after all these years, I have come to the realization of its majesty and its mysteriousness. the focal point being David's human obscurity. Retrospectively, Artificial Intelligence is one of Spielberg's most ambitious projects in the last fifteen years. It does not sidestep ambiguity but at the same time does not ignore convention (it is loosely based on Pinocchio after all). The film blends both together to guide us through a familiar narrative executed in an unfamiliar way. Osment's subtleties in his performance grant us a consistency in this form.

Take note, for example, the scene in which the mom abandons him, his mother has both of her arms on his shoulders, crying as she tell him about the failed relationship. David first looks blankly, for a moment we wonder if he will even process this situation. Then, like clockwork, he begins to panic, as if the program executed has followed the most logical path surmised by the situation at hand. This is just one of a series of uncanny events, and I use the word 'uncanny' to evoke the phenomenon in artificial intelligence, between David and his family, who adopt him (in a sense) in the absence of their devastatingly ill son in a coma.

Spielberg's longtime cinematographer and one of the best in the business, Janusz Kaminski, curiously explores David's face and especially his eyes along with isolating him even upon making a connection with his family. David doesn't blink; his eyes processes every little thing he sees his human parents do. At the dinner table, when David laughs explosively upon seeing food on his mother's face, it is done so with the effect that he is not actually laughing but because that is the next logical step in the situation, to an extent. It is as if David totally disregarded tone, volume, and brevity of his laugh. Of course, this is early in the film, but it certainly begs the question of David's, well, existence. His adoptive parents have no understanding how how to react, the same goes for the audience.


Nothing, during this first act, expresses any sort of deep, emotional connection between David and his family. David only begins loving after a series of code is essentially executed by his mother and after that David bases his actions around loving or, more specifically, loving his mother. His love for others is only attributed to the way in which his mother loves them. In the scene directly after the pool incident, the mother looks through some colorful letters written by David always addressed to her. Each one states that he loves her but the variable is who else he loves or who else he considers to be part of the family. Sometimes he doesn't even mention the father or Martin, other times it is at the expense of Teddy (a teddy bear I feel is a lot smarter than anyone imagines). Granted, it is written in a manner that is similar to how most kids express themselves early on, but if we regard David for what he is, then it becomes problematic since the focus of his expression and of his love is only from the mother. If the father and Martin were not there, they would be disregarded.

This first 'family' act of the film, shot with purity and soft lighting, illustrates an interruption of human normality with the continuous existence of artificial intelligence. Though the world, in this case the house, David inhabits is essentially as sterile and clean as he himself (note how featureless his face is), the function of human beings is far more dynamic, complex, and chaotic to grasp. David fits with the environment because he resembles this futuristic, sterile look as does the furniture and decor. The void between the organic and the mechanic is that uncanny valley in which humans can never fully regard AI because of difference in perception of reality. One sees it in constant flux with feelings and emotions as part of the whole sense perception. The other sees it in a logical algorithmic matrix. When David grabs Martin and drags him into the pool after being poked by a knife (even when the kid with the knife said he was not going to hurt him), there is almost a blatant ignorance of anyone who is not mommy. Martin becomes an object in the programming function that may allow David to protect himself himself from what he perceives as danger. Then, when he is left by his mother, the algorithms change to reflect the person he is dealing with, the object of his love. After this, we never see David again with his family. The experiment is over, now the AI must confront the world. This is where artificiality and, to some extent, intelligence, begins to obscure.

But, this is also where the most crucial part of the story begins and its origins come from the first act with the family and that is the telling of the fairy tale of Pinocchio. David encompasses himself with a goal and proceeds to make the goal possible. Now, this sort of ambition signals some hints of what some people call rationality and something that can be tied to human function. Again, though, this goal is constructed out of the one task he was to do. Nevertheless, David has equated this fairly tale with a mission of becoming more human in real life. Another way of looking at it is that David's attempt to comprehend a situation that he couldn't before is done so with with help of a fairy tale (and it is intriguing to note that this element of the narrative coincides with the focal point of a more recent film).


The second act, the adventure, so to speak, is one that illustrates this rational David as he takes the best step to achieving his goal. It is also a showcase presented to David about his own identity, as a 'mecha' instead of an 'orga' as well as his own notion of being, which is depicted in the flesh fair sequence. This unsettling sequence reverberates over many different perceptions. In terms of Spielberg and his body of work (see Raiders of the Lost Ark, Schindler's List, and Munich) one could loosely equate this event to the systematic killing of Jews during the Holocaust (yes, I know that seems like a stretch, but echoes of it, I feel, are still felt because I feel Spielberg bases much of these sorts atrocities on the Holocaust). Metaphor or not, the flesh fair's impudent display of torture towards entities all humans participating think are not alive suggests an unabridged hatred towards the rise of artificial intelligence. The scene gives us an expose of androids of all shapes and sizes, offering many interesting insights as to the diversity of artificial intelligence. They all have their own personality traits, one is a maid, another seems to reflect the character of Buck Turgidson (an observation I'll get to later). David witnesses the deaths of many and equates it with the possibility of his own death and when the time comes for his turn, along with the Gigolo Joe, he pleads his life that he is not Pinocchio, which is the tale that is rooted in his goal to reattain his mother's love. Once again, David equates his existence with his task though this time it moves people enough to let him and Joe go free.




Yet again, David is practicing rationality to an extent. One of the audience members shouted out that AI don't beg for their lives. Though there was one other bot who fought and stated that he could still work, it wasn't in desperation that he is going to die but that he could not perform his duties. Through this, David is saved as well as Joe and they embark on a journey to find the blue fairy, essentially a symbol that will achieve David's goal. It is worth noting that Joe really only helps him because the mention of the 'blue fairy' has him equate this terminology to woman and since sex is his trade he equates his trade to helpfulness towards David's quest, most likely thinking David wants to actually get with a woman. This leads them to Rouge City, a landscape of phallic symbols and lusty ambiance. It is a cityscape of sensory overload, a far cry from the sterile interiors of the family home. Despite this, David remains fixated on finding Dr. Know, who could lead him to the blue fairy. Besides the plot advancement the scene with Dr. Know provides, there is significant insight that I will elaborate on later occurring within this scene. The only way David is able to find the question and the answer he is looking for is to combine fact and fiction/fantasy or, to put it in a slightly different but crucial manner, to suspend rational beliefs and allow the belief of the unbelievable to determine judgement and action. Of course, the rationality David exhibits, as stated earlier, is the projection of his pragmatic desire to return to his mother. Again, you can ask yourself, does he really think he is combining fact and fiction or does has he attributed this story to be an exact and realistic possibility?

His eagerness to go to Manhattan, or as it is referred to, "The End of the World," worries Joe ("There's a reason why they call it, 'MANhattan.'") in which he then professes his perceptible fear of orgas, a ironclad separation of identities. Here, Joe unfolds his conclusions to David in robotic austerity:
JOE
Wait! What if the blue fairy isn't real at all, David? What if she's magic? The supernatural is the hidden web that unites the universe. Only orga believe what cannot be seen or measured. It is that oddness that separates our species. Or what if the Blue Fairy is an electronic parasite that has arisen to hold the minds of artificial intelligence? They hate us, you know? The humans...They'll stop at nothing. 
DAVID
My Mommy doesn't hate me! Because I'm special, and...unique! Because there has never been anyone like me before! Ever! Mommy loves Martin because he is real and when I am real, Mommy's going to read to me, and tuck me in my bed, and sing to me, and listen to what I say, and she will cuddle with me, and tell me every day a hundred times a day that she loves me!
Joe understand that there is this unseen force that influences humans in many ways and understands that this force is immeasurable for androids. It is intriguing he labels it as an oddness, for it is the oddities of artificial intelligence that obscures our symbiotic relationship, or attempt thereof, with an android. David responds by outlining his whole program, and with moderate menace, lists all the nice things his mommy will do for him when he is real. As Joe retorts, maintaining his austerity, it is worth noting the lighting of David's reaction shot (pictured below) which echoes the first shot of David in the film (the first picture up top). The overexposed light seems to surround David and swallow some of his face. This visual motif is the illustration of a conflicted identity and a projection of our hesitation to understand him as an android becoming more human.


The third act begins when David and Joe arrive at Manhattan, a beautiful tragedy of a city submerged in water. The film becomes more reflective and contemplative as David discovers the hollowness of his existence. There is a certain barrenness or loneliness that is expressed in the city, one that captures David as he makes one discovery after another about his futile uniqueness. John Williams's score provides a creeping shrill to highlight such revelations. David initiates a sort of dismantling of his program, his mission, as he finds out about his many existences. Professor Hobby, the creator of these child robots, explains to David that he is unique because of his experiences. He provides what seems to be existential reasoning to justify David's revelations but, as we hark back to doubt, could David even perceive such an identity based on experience, does he equate his adventure with himself and his growth? What transpires is a negation to Prof. Hobby's justifications. What he can see, what is measurable, is what counts for David, so much that his dismantling of his program seems logical. Only if David is unique will he be able to become a real boy so that mommy can love him else, he cannot become a real boy. It is worth noting during these scenes the use of makeup. David looks far more weathered and, well, human than his plastic counterparts, symbolic of his experiences. Though we can make this visual difference and equate it to a compelling adventure, David cannot. So he goes outside and sits high up on the edge of the skyscraper eventually throwing himself off. In a delicate shot, we see the reflection of David's fall off the aircraft's window from where Joe is watching. David acts as a tear on Joe's face.


This sublime imagery is hard to really flesh out verbally. And, frankly, I did not catch this until I scanned the internet for analyses and found this site. What makes this shot so remarkable are the layers of perception it gives. Joe witnesses what seems to be the self-destruction of a mecha existence. Yet, is he really feeling pain for David because from his perspective we know he is just seeing the boy fall; we as the audience see this superimposition. Could he be sad? To an extent yes, considering what he feels in terms of mecha existence in relation to humanity as expressed in the scene following Dr. Know. At the same time, could he extract the notions of David's situation and apply it to himself in a way that does instigate sadness? This ambiguity is further emphasized by the clearer fact that it is not a real tear falling from his eyes but a reflection of a mecha. In a way, this shot composes two integral parts of the problem artificial intelligence faces, to understand their existence and understand themselves. There is a fragility here, experienced firsthand by these androids whether they know it or not, that transcends these characters within this story because, think about it, aren't the problems they face the same as ours?

What culminates is an ending that was and still is controversial in the eyes of many viewers. Conflicted moviegoers attack its indecisiveness in aesthetic practice, an indecisiveness that is attributed to the fact that this was originally Stanley Kubrick's story but was later transformed under the lens of Steven Spielberg. This transformation, some say, made the ending tacky, forcing a sentimentality that didn't need to be there. Honestly, I can see some justification since the previous scenes seemed so dark, but it is the coalescence of the biggest part of the film, the connection between orga and mecha. The moment David saw the blue fairy in the amusement park, his goal materialized once again within his framework. The program rebooted and David sought after his goal, doing an inhuman thing and remaining with the blue fairy for 2,000 years. Once again, David is lost in the fairy tale.



Note the use of the reflection again, this time, although there are some similarities with this and the tear, it is directed more towards the conflict between fact and fantasy. The fantasy of the blue fairy (her face, specifically) superimposed by the flat fact of David's (artificial) existence. This can be coupled, through this same shot, the conflict between the fact of true, human emotions and the fantasy of artificial, android emotions. A human, starting from a certain age, and certainly the age David is suppose to be, could identify this fairy as fake. David has no line in his code to acquire such information. And so for 2,000 years he remains in hopes of his transformation. He gets it, but in a manner that is quite unlike what he probably expected. In two millenia, artificial intelligence is the only sentient being on Earth, an Earth that is a frozen wasteland. It seems like this highly advanced and evolved AI has initiated an excavating project as the camera follows an abstract aircraft into winding tunnels. They have found David, Teddy, and the blue fairy. David and Teddy are frozen; David's eyes still fixated on the fairy. Yet later, upon his touch, the fairy shatters. The advanced AI has other plans.

The whole simulation of David's wish (i.e. the final scene), to understand it fully and to begin to realize its lack of sentimentality, is first and foremost a research project conducted by the advanced AI. They want to observe a living human. Granting the wish for David benefits the AI for their project, it just also benefits David at the same time. Even the AI acknowledge the brevity of an occasion that David would want forever. So we return to the sterile house from the beginning. This time, it is filled with shadow, almost as if the simulation, taken from David's memory, is disintegrating in depiction and accuracy. When David finally sees mommy, it is in a shot that, at first glance, doesn't reflect the way mommy first saw David, but it shares one huge aesthetic quality. In the shot, instead of being shrouded in light, mommy is covered in sheets, far more gentler, yet hinting at some sort of disconnect (as well as maybe some Freudian significance, but that is definitely not the topic I wish to discuss).

\
The perfect day flows blissfully and dreamlike. We return to the overexposed lighting, which protrudes from the outside, making us wonder what really is outside since it is certainly not the familiar, defrosted Earth. David is continuously happy, his program has finally executed its steps and has achieved its goal, there is no room for any other feeling because David is fulfilling his duty. So when David falls to sleep, never to see his mommy again, there is peace with him. Many people leave it at that and it is not a wrong or bad way to perceive it but there is still more that can be discussed by how this film ends. Looking at it a different way, let us return to Roger Ebert's essay:
Of course we must ask in what sense Monica is really there. The filmmaker Jamie Stuart informs me she is not there at all; that an illusion has merely been implanted in David's mind, and that the concluding scenes take place entirely within David's point of view. Having downloaded all of David's memories and knowledge, the new mechas have no further use for him, but provide him a final day of satisfaction before terminating him. At the end, when we are told he is dreaming, that is only David's impression. Earlier in the film, it was established that he could not sleep or therefore dream.
 I agree, and look at it this way too: if you still think David became a real boy and actually started dreaming, then what good would this transformation be if there are no other humans. In other words, what does David have to live for now that his one and only time of seeing his mommy is over? Years ago I felt that anguish but only connected it to the eeriness of the situation, the physical and temporal distance David had with all the other characters, like his mother. Now, I have come to feel a more specific sadness. A goal unknowingly failed (well, unknowingly is not the best word, I could sense David grasping the brief encounter, but nevermind that) and a chance long gone. His mother gone forever, David will never be a real boy.

Or is he? I mean, he did shed a tear right before his mother went back to her eternal sleep.

I conclude this essay with the paramount expression of a film I have long ignored and considered eccentrically unappealing. The film's themes and visuals have a sort of articulation that can only spawn with the combination of two of the greatest filmmakers in the history of cinema. I feel it extends far beyond its eccentricities. In fact, this oddness helps create the world of the film and establish the fundamental conflict within the film: Our relationship to artificial intelligence. Through this, the film asks the audience to invest in it far more than most films. Throughout this extensive essay I have explained at what points the film David could be acting on 'human' notions but may as well be acting through a program. Yet, I will not decisively announce that there is no humanity in David. No, that is for each viewer to decide.

See, the problem of artificial intelligence is our perception of its existence. It is up to the individual to decide how much credence they should uphold as they gaze upon a humanoid being. Moreover, it is up to the individual to decide the magnitude of humanity they project on the humanoid. Similar to a toy (aka Pinocchio) and a pet. Yet, what differentiates those two is, for one, pets are organic, but, two, there is no sense of the uncanny because they don't resemble humans. So it is up to each viewer to decide how much humanity they project on David as he goes through his fairy tale adventure. Do you feel his pain, his abandonment, his loneliness?

To put in a larger perspective, consider the film Blade Runner, which has nearly human robots called replicants rebelling against a decaying human race to prolong their brief lifespans. The replicants in this film exhibit their own sense of humanity or their lack of humanity; some of the characters progress and show authentic emotion while others digress into plastic artificiality. They are their own agents. In Artificial Intelligence, there is no such agency or, probably more accurate, such agency is far more ambiguous. Through the tediously amazing makeup and acting, we observe the strangeness that David expresses and we are always left to wonder how authentic and organic his feelings are. As a viewer, we can choose how much faith we put into David's pursuit of humanity. If we feel the emotions David is feeling or should be feeling, then there is a good enough reason to say that he is becoming more human because we can forgo his oddities and identify with his strife. It is the same reason why David's mommy did not terminate him and why the crowd in the flesh fair did not want to kill him, their quantity of humanity applied to a mecha swayed their perception of David. But, again, this discretion that arises is the problem of artificial intelligence the film so brilliantly illustrates. In the future, when artificial intelligence becomes so advanced that it does exhibit human-like qualities, how are we to judge them and to interact with them and how do we place our own human existence within this growing context?

Yet, like all great science fiction films, Artificial Intelligence and its focus on the android say a lot about us, humans, than we think. Science fiction can defamiliarize the familiar by taking it out of present-day, realistic setting and placing it in a time that is unfamiliar. The strangeness of the times and of the technology is always another way of looking at ourselves and what we struggle with. This film does it most eloquently with David and Joe. Even though they are mecha and have their own struggles because of that, their struggle for normality, for understanding is not foreign to humans. The motivational reason that we can begin to apply any feelings on David through his journey is because, from the start, his idealization of a fairy tale is so familiar to how we cope with the absurdity we face in our everyday lives. For those who say that David eventually becomes human in the end are not wrong at all, they are expressing a human desire of peace and normality that they apply to the main character because our familiarity with a struggle for love cannot be faked. And it is love that is the driving feeling for David, whether it is just from his program or not. In the film's universe, love seems like it is hard to receive and give: Mommy and daddy cannot love their ill son love for a while and have a hard time loving David, Professor Hobby lost his son and is denied such love and, thus, goes on to create the many Davids, Joe's occupation as a mecha is to give love to women who cannot receive it from human males, and of course David's search for a mother's love.

I realize now how much I missed when I first watched Artificial Intelligence and I am happy to have come back to it. It is a dense narrative with lush visuals that only add to such density. Ambiguity acts somewhat as a self-evaluation of how we understand our own feelings as we are taken on this magical adventure. I feel this film is one of those films many people have seen but only a long time ago. I also feel that this film is well worth returning to.