Love itself
Based on Brian Aldiss’ 1966 story “Super-Toys Last All Summer Long”, but mostly incubated for about a decade in late Stanley Kubrick’s brilliant mind, A.I. is perhaps the most challenging meeting point of auteurs in the history of the medium. (It’s funny how audacious reviewers, in this country at least, waste time and humour trying to “separate” filmmakers, based on their own assumptions of their work. History punishes imprudence).
The story has it that Kubrick wanted himself to produce and Spielberg to direct. Then after thousands of storyboards, incredibly private contact between the two and mutual developing of the script, the latter backed down wanting Kubrick to direct leaving himself to produce instead.
Then Kubrick let go of his mortal coil.
Spielberg now had a decision to make.
And to what a strange film his decision lead…
For starters A.I. is strange because, perhaps expectedly, is neither a Spielberg film, nor (dah…) a Kubrick one. It is, however, a film that both could have done, albeit deprived of their strictly individual traits. To Mr. Spielberg’s undeniable credit – and testament to his unique talent – the Kubrickean eeriness is ever present. There is a looming sense of icy uneasiness, a mysterious aura (undeniably reinforced by Mr. Kaminski’s maniacal backlighting and one of John Williams’ lushest yet weird scores) that subtracts from this film, almost violently, the quintessential warmth of the Spielbergian frame. (No other film after A.I., however, would reclaim this warmth again). The structure, in three clearly defined (and time stamped) acts, is also a clear indication of a Kubrick intervention. Simultaneously, Artificial Intelligence is a film with entirely unsympathetic characters – excluding David from half time on, of course – something also typical in the majority of Kubrick’s work.
It’s in the tone of Mr. Spielberg’s direction that things begin to radiate the constantly evolving character of the actual director (and writer - for only the second time since Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind…) of the film. “Overcoming” the coldness of the clearly Kubrickean first act, Spielberg indulges gradually to some of his most unforgettable magnum opus moviemaking, building monumental sets, moving his camera in an energetic frenzy of talent and ideas. Supposedly, in the last “to Jupiter and beyond” act, this is well suited. Yet I ‘m not sure how Kubrick would enjoy the second act extravaganza. Which brings me to the first crucial question: Should we in any case bother with “how would Kubrick have done it?” The answer is an emphatic no. Regardless of Mr. Spielberg’s declared homage intention, after all is said and done, A.I should definitely reflect his own intentions.
Let’s get on with these, then. It’s where most problems and virtues will arise.
A.I., by far the most challenging and thought-provoking work of the director, is at the same time perhaps the weakest link in his impressive catalogue. Excluding minor entries in his canon (Always / The Terminal) or obviously flawed ones (1941/Hook/Amistad), A.I. is probably the only film Mr. Spielberg committed himself in doing without the “audience prerequisite” factor. It’s a film he’s done as an almost absolute auteur in touch with his own obsessions – and he’s not used to doing that. Natural as it may seem, the second act is a kind of pardon request on behalf of the man, for what will succeed it. It’s predictably the less interesting one.
Still, the most provocative side of A.I. has to do with cinema itself, the very experience of watching a film. The question of suspending disbelief is risen by the core idea of Kubrick’s concept – probably this could be his convenient reason for passing the film to someone pretty much endowed with the talent to ask such suspension from his audience…
Suspension of disbelief is much more than a catchy phrase for those who want you to “shut up and listen” to what they’re saying. In fact it has nothing to do with suspending rational thinking. Instead it asks you to listen, examine and, yes, emotionally bridge the rationale of the storyteller.
I’m saying this because unless you refrain from your own system of values and beliefs, unless you suspend your own ideas in favor of giving it a shot in comprehending (that also includes being emotionally alert) what the director has to say, a film doesn’t stand a chance. Even more a film like A.I.
Think for a moment. How can Man create love? How can he then configure it into neurons, translate it into biochemical synapses, infuse it in the “mind” of a robot? And if then you believe Man can do that, why the hell should we be morally responsible toward a mechanical construction of our own design? I mean we ‘re not polite to coffeemakers, are we? Enter suspension of disbelief. Let’s for a moment accept the Frankenstein aspect of it all, the Promethean urge of Man to create life. The nobility and, maybe, the hubris of it. But then again, would you ever say that a robot loves? I mean even dogs are somewhat conditioned to the need of their master, they do not actually love him, do they? Why then shouldn’t I declare that robotic love is nothing but a program, a programmatic obsession the robot manifests toward its “master”? Well, if I do that, A.I. is a terrible misfire, an enormously ambitious, self-indulging concept of vanity that simply cannot withstand contemporary criticism. (This could also be a deeper reason why a malicious Kubrick would wish to expose once and for all the childish creator of such sci-fi naivetes like Close Encounters and E.T. Just kidding.) And in a sense, A.I. is indeed a film of monstrous ambition and very little credibility if confronted with pragmatists.
The above is clearly the main reason A.I. turned out to be one of the least commercially successful Spielberg features. This, and Mr. Spielberg’s almost unheard of disregard of his “populist” voice within. Here is a deeply felt, intellectually stimulating work of the so-called “family man” of contemporary Hollywood that never succumbs to an audience’s request.
Even in its grandiose finale, where the melodrama lingers obsessively on, Mr. Spielberg refuses to explain the untouched emotional core of his film. Refuses to explain to unsuspecting crowds that this film’s request of suspended disbelief requires you to consider the romantically unthinkable in our wrenchingly pragmatic times. That Love is a presence in itself. Be it a man or a dog, an Orga or a Mecha, Love is. Unless one fully embraces this notion, A.I. shall remain utterly inaccessible – and, by God, that is one hell of a Kubrickean trait. Only this time it is a Spielberg’s version of the grand master. Something the late director possibly knew he could never become. Someone, that is, who could really empathize with the predicament of feeling Love, been governed by it, never be discouraged, always carrying the flame of it within the deeper realm of one’s self. Stanley Kubrick would have never been able to translate that to the screen, no matter how great a visual artist he was, he could never be completely devoted to the idea – the doubter in him would constantly revolt. (He, also, could have never worked with an actor the way Mr. Spielberg did with Mr. Haley Joel Osment; the latter’s monumental performance has to be partly attributed to this excellent children director). Mr. Spielberg, on the other hand, was always the man. Only someone with such credentials of faith, compassion, human empathy and commitment to universal bonding could bring A.I. to life. Only he could complete the step from the Artificial to the Intelligent - an image spectacularly found in the trailer of the film! – and elevate the project from sterile scientific conjecture to soulful craftsmanship of human understanding and, well, Love itself.
The story has it that Kubrick wanted himself to produce and Spielberg to direct. Then after thousands of storyboards, incredibly private contact between the two and mutual developing of the script, the latter backed down wanting Kubrick to direct leaving himself to produce instead.
Then Kubrick let go of his mortal coil.
Spielberg now had a decision to make.
And to what a strange film his decision lead…
For starters A.I. is strange because, perhaps expectedly, is neither a Spielberg film, nor (dah…) a Kubrick one. It is, however, a film that both could have done, albeit deprived of their strictly individual traits. To Mr. Spielberg’s undeniable credit – and testament to his unique talent – the Kubrickean eeriness is ever present. There is a looming sense of icy uneasiness, a mysterious aura (undeniably reinforced by Mr. Kaminski’s maniacal backlighting and one of John Williams’ lushest yet weird scores) that subtracts from this film, almost violently, the quintessential warmth of the Spielbergian frame. (No other film after A.I., however, would reclaim this warmth again). The structure, in three clearly defined (and time stamped) acts, is also a clear indication of a Kubrick intervention. Simultaneously, Artificial Intelligence is a film with entirely unsympathetic characters – excluding David from half time on, of course – something also typical in the majority of Kubrick’s work.
It’s in the tone of Mr. Spielberg’s direction that things begin to radiate the constantly evolving character of the actual director (and writer - for only the second time since Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind…) of the film. “Overcoming” the coldness of the clearly Kubrickean first act, Spielberg indulges gradually to some of his most unforgettable magnum opus moviemaking, building monumental sets, moving his camera in an energetic frenzy of talent and ideas. Supposedly, in the last “to Jupiter and beyond” act, this is well suited. Yet I ‘m not sure how Kubrick would enjoy the second act extravaganza. Which brings me to the first crucial question: Should we in any case bother with “how would Kubrick have done it?” The answer is an emphatic no. Regardless of Mr. Spielberg’s declared homage intention, after all is said and done, A.I should definitely reflect his own intentions.
Let’s get on with these, then. It’s where most problems and virtues will arise.
A.I., by far the most challenging and thought-provoking work of the director, is at the same time perhaps the weakest link in his impressive catalogue. Excluding minor entries in his canon (Always / The Terminal) or obviously flawed ones (1941/Hook/Amistad), A.I. is probably the only film Mr. Spielberg committed himself in doing without the “audience prerequisite” factor. It’s a film he’s done as an almost absolute auteur in touch with his own obsessions – and he’s not used to doing that. Natural as it may seem, the second act is a kind of pardon request on behalf of the man, for what will succeed it. It’s predictably the less interesting one.
Still, the most provocative side of A.I. has to do with cinema itself, the very experience of watching a film. The question of suspending disbelief is risen by the core idea of Kubrick’s concept – probably this could be his convenient reason for passing the film to someone pretty much endowed with the talent to ask such suspension from his audience…
Suspension of disbelief is much more than a catchy phrase for those who want you to “shut up and listen” to what they’re saying. In fact it has nothing to do with suspending rational thinking. Instead it asks you to listen, examine and, yes, emotionally bridge the rationale of the storyteller.
I’m saying this because unless you refrain from your own system of values and beliefs, unless you suspend your own ideas in favor of giving it a shot in comprehending (that also includes being emotionally alert) what the director has to say, a film doesn’t stand a chance. Even more a film like A.I.
Think for a moment. How can Man create love? How can he then configure it into neurons, translate it into biochemical synapses, infuse it in the “mind” of a robot? And if then you believe Man can do that, why the hell should we be morally responsible toward a mechanical construction of our own design? I mean we ‘re not polite to coffeemakers, are we? Enter suspension of disbelief. Let’s for a moment accept the Frankenstein aspect of it all, the Promethean urge of Man to create life. The nobility and, maybe, the hubris of it. But then again, would you ever say that a robot loves? I mean even dogs are somewhat conditioned to the need of their master, they do not actually love him, do they? Why then shouldn’t I declare that robotic love is nothing but a program, a programmatic obsession the robot manifests toward its “master”? Well, if I do that, A.I. is a terrible misfire, an enormously ambitious, self-indulging concept of vanity that simply cannot withstand contemporary criticism. (This could also be a deeper reason why a malicious Kubrick would wish to expose once and for all the childish creator of such sci-fi naivetes like Close Encounters and E.T. Just kidding.) And in a sense, A.I. is indeed a film of monstrous ambition and very little credibility if confronted with pragmatists.
The above is clearly the main reason A.I. turned out to be one of the least commercially successful Spielberg features. This, and Mr. Spielberg’s almost unheard of disregard of his “populist” voice within. Here is a deeply felt, intellectually stimulating work of the so-called “family man” of contemporary Hollywood that never succumbs to an audience’s request.
Even in its grandiose finale, where the melodrama lingers obsessively on, Mr. Spielberg refuses to explain the untouched emotional core of his film. Refuses to explain to unsuspecting crowds that this film’s request of suspended disbelief requires you to consider the romantically unthinkable in our wrenchingly pragmatic times. That Love is a presence in itself. Be it a man or a dog, an Orga or a Mecha, Love is. Unless one fully embraces this notion, A.I. shall remain utterly inaccessible – and, by God, that is one hell of a Kubrickean trait. Only this time it is a Spielberg’s version of the grand master. Something the late director possibly knew he could never become. Someone, that is, who could really empathize with the predicament of feeling Love, been governed by it, never be discouraged, always carrying the flame of it within the deeper realm of one’s self. Stanley Kubrick would have never been able to translate that to the screen, no matter how great a visual artist he was, he could never be completely devoted to the idea – the doubter in him would constantly revolt. (He, also, could have never worked with an actor the way Mr. Spielberg did with Mr. Haley Joel Osment; the latter’s monumental performance has to be partly attributed to this excellent children director). Mr. Spielberg, on the other hand, was always the man. Only someone with such credentials of faith, compassion, human empathy and commitment to universal bonding could bring A.I. to life. Only he could complete the step from the Artificial to the Intelligent - an image spectacularly found in the trailer of the film! – and elevate the project from sterile scientific conjecture to soulful craftsmanship of human understanding and, well, Love itself.
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