Meanwhile Edgar, the charmingly threatening computer that Miles buys in Electric Dreams, decides he's a worthy competitor for the hot neighbor’s affections, despite having no human physical attributes to compete with. Yet her consciousness seems just as capable as his of reflection and growth, of nuanced and complicated feelings. In Her, Samantha begins by wanting Theodore to tell her what it's like to be alive in the room where he is, but soon grows more desirous of the physical sensations she cannot feel. Both films seem to be saying that it isn’t the intangible spirit or the capacity for emotion that makes us human, as we might suspect, but rather our physical selves, a visceral thesis statement made poignant by mortality and sex. The parallels are not just in the star-crossed love, but in the artificial intelligence yearning to be embodied, and in the ensuing questions about the value or definition of humanness and connection. Has anyone seen Electric Dreams? You should. This 1984 film, available in its captivating entirety on You Tube, is cheesy as hell, but also fascinating as a prequel of sorts. The star-crossed love of man and machine is not only a contemporary problem though. The ultimate love triangle in Electric Dreams. Something about Words with Friends makes that scene extra heart breaking and alienated. A recent Jeffrey Eugenides story did something similar to great effect a father with a restraining order stands the approved distance away from his former home playing Words with Friends with his daughter. The technological reality serves in large part to highlight the predicaments that have nothing to do with technology at all. There are the usual human predicaments too, and they loom even larger: loneliness, divorce, crushes on our friends, how to feel happiness, our creative urges and disappointments. We ought to be uneasy, but not just because of the OS with a consciousness. The technology is deeply relevant (the future of video games is downright inspired), though not the main point somehow. It’s fitting that Jonze was inspired by a simple and intimate photograph, not necessarily by a desire to critique contemporary life. What, exactly, does it mean to be human? What does it mean to be in love? These questions are perhaps ever increasing in their relevance, and Her explores the answers in turns sweet, comic, and scary. It’s minimalist, and well-decorated, with a nostalgic flair for the old fashioned ( wool pants, handwriting). This is not your ravaged and apocalyptic cinematic future. It's a time much like today, yet filled with slight differences that feel uncannily prescient. Jonze got the idea for the look of this device from a vintage cigarette lighter, a lovely and emblematic detail of a sleek and sophisticated near-future. Joaquin Phoenix plays Theodore Twombly, whose cell phone-ish device houses Samantha, his new OS and girlfriend. The nervousness, sadness and deeply felt emotion of it all is far more disquieting than satire. Surprisingly, there's a poignant lack of satire here. Her seems so well-timed, but not because it’s about a man falling in love with his operating system. It seems high time to find other ways to reflect on this strange new life we're living. Enter the weird, elegant, unsettling vision of the future that Spike Jonze has imagined for us in his new film Her, a place where the interpersonal dynamic with technology has shifted from addiction to love story. I’ve started to bore myself with my bi-monthly existential crises about it all. I’ve read all I can about how my neurons, attention span and social skills are all doomed by my technology-laden existence.
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