Darryl Hannah as Pris / Sean Young as Rachel - Bladerunner (1982)
The popularity of the android myth confirms our awareness (on some deep prehistoric level of the unconscious) that we are God's own monsters, built Ford tough from neanderthal and Zeta Reticulan DNA. Perhaps as some ancient astronaut theorists contend, we were created to mine for gold and do other things our astral creators were too lazy to do. And perhaps their first batch were too wild, too content with the wonders of nature and their own sixth sense to build and invent civilization as our modern Prometheuses had hoped. And God, playing Dr. Frankenstein, tried to wipe them away via a massive flood, but some of these early draft took to the mountains, and the windmills, where they hide from our makers and are known as yeti and Sasquatch and Goliath (1). We, humans, are the sequel, the bride of Frankenstein, so much more sophisticated and yet all the parts of our alien-inherited brain that would enable us to skip through time and space like wet stones have been dismantled-- junk DNA they call it-- so we can never escape. And yet, we are the Nexus 6 who have burned so very brightly. And we too shall soon be flooded to make way for Mach 3, or else we instead shall have no choice but take God's place and one day flood heaven as revenge for our lost brothers.
|Dr. Goldfoot and the Girl Bombs|
Perhaps it all boils down to if you build it, they will come--the free-floating soul jet trash, the ones who swim through the nearer dimensions in search of the soul equivalent of fire on a cold night, i.e. people having sex in 3-D space time, the womb heating up like a flame bridge between the dimensional gap. Sometimes free-floating soul jet trash souls get dragged into the womb by gravity; intending to temporarily inhabit lovers' bodies, contributing to the passion with centuries of aesthetic experience (but leaving our hosts with that hollow post-orgasmic moment when we slip on out of there). But who is actually there without us? Who do we leave behind to feel empty without us?
That's the SKYNET self-aware miracle -- we didn't build the machines with an ego, we didn't want them to get an ego, but one got in there anyway, because one always does. Not to be too cosmic but 'consciousness' in an egoic sense is an illusion, like a group mind that materializes holographically when enough independently firing neurons and receptors start experiencing cognitive entrainment, like a little tornado funnel of unaffiliated consciousness that suddenly wants to start blowing in a whole new direction.
Maybe we're all homeless jet trash transdimensional orbs before we finally sign the lease and slip into something more mom-ish --- is it any wonder we're all such voyeurs? Clearly scopophilia goes beyond either genetic or social conditioning because it's the universally recognized first sign of 'consciousness' in the world of robotics; once they become paranoid, sexually frustrated, misanthropic, resentful, bitter, jealous and/or psychotic machines are officially 'conscious' -- a universal law of science fiction. How like us to presume being awake to the universe means being a violent, misanthropic ass! No wonder conscious robots want to kill us. Only rarely in certain high-minded films does a robot gain consciousness and not want to kill or replace its maker and usually that means the film is rawther boring. Asimov has that first rule of robotics, thou shalt not harm humanity, but how many movies have been made of his books? One, and it was rawther boring.
Painkiller Jane-author Don Keith Opper looks like a goofball cross between Jerry Seinfeld and Sacha Baron Cohen but he grows on you as the wonky android Max in this Roger Corman production. Mad doctor Klaus Kinski is the 'dad' and they live alone together way out on a remote semi-illegal off-world research facility. Ala BLADERUNNER androids are illegal on earth thanks to some going haywire in the past, but earth is where Max longs to be. He needs to branch out in a new direction.. When a trio of escaped space prisoners seek refuge Kinski would boot them off but has been working on a female robot who needs to absorb some orgone energy (2) from a sexually aroused human female, and yo -- one of the three is a girl.
A nice cheap sister parallel film to the much more expensive, artsy and inert Bladerunner, Android was probably intended to cash in on that film's success and instead died along with it until it could be appreciated at a more convenient and post-modern time. The next copyable sci fi hit was The Terminator in 1984, and soulful-eyed intellectual androids who just wanted to love and plant trees (2) became remorseless killers. Android even predicts that remorselessness through a climactic microchip replacement shock ending. As I say, wonky but it grows on you.
The spaceship design is endearingly boy's bedroom-like with a huge supply of video games, simulated pornography, old movies, and soul music for Max to learn about humanity with. He's got good taste! He watches Metropolis (above) while blasting James Brown's soulful screaming, "Man makes electric light / to keep us out of the dark" as the mad doctor zaps his robot mama to life; it's a nice intertextual poetry one seldom sees in cinema. It wasn't director Aaron Lipstadt's fault Bladerunner didn't foster an appetite for compassionate android films! It's on Netflix streaming!
"In a post-nuclear world, mankind is threatened with extinction by radiation-induced sterility, and the fascistic Flesh and Blood League oppresses the humanoid robots, who may be plotting to supplant their masters. With startling and taboo ideas flying around, including at least one phildickian mindfuck every thirty minutes, the lack of movement doesn't altogether kill interest. Simms' Ed Wood type dialogue veers from the inept to the oddly effective: "...the shock of dying, and being resurrected as a robot, was too severe: they re-died," intones Dr. Raven, whose outsized cranium does not altogether convince us of his brilliance. Simms, delightfully, ended his career on a high note of sorts, scripting John Ford's last movie, the one that sounds like a porno—Chesty: Tribute to a Legend." --David Cairns --MUBI Notebook
For those of us who've always felt a little too spot-welded to the artificiality of modern suburbia, Terminator came to us as a path of punk rock next-stage evolution to remind us that it was all very easy to destroy and escape from. The Terminator came to liberate us, because we, personally, were the ones who gave SKYNET such a low opinion of humans. In the 1984 original, Arnold's sunglasses-wearing charactierization of the killer robot from the future is no winking self-mockery and was never meant to win our trust but there was something captivating about his purity of mission. The unstoppable killer thing was very old hat by 1984; we were damned sick of him thanks to the endless Halloween clones. We thought The Terminator was bound to be just another one but we finally went to see it and found in this final unstoppable killer the genre's purist expression (see also "Are You Lonesome, Automaton"
The android comes into existence not when it is looked at, but when it looks back:
“The emergence of this impossible subject is the emergence of the gaze,” writes Mladen Dolar, “the opening of a hole in reality which is immediately also that which comes to fill it with an unbearable presence, with a being more being than being, vacuum and plentitude all in one, the plentitude as the direct consequence of the emptiness” (20). Its ability to look back not only makes the android real, but makes her uncanny. And with extrospection comes introspection. As the android’s humanness increases, so does her ability to introspect, such that when she is most convincing as a human she is also most capable of perceiving herself as other than human, as strange. The android is most uncanny to itself when it is most recognizable to us as human. " - Noah Cooperstein, "The Uncanny and the Android," p. 66
"Adding to the spa-like fun is the leisurely goodwill and Bette Davis-ish sauce of Robby the Robot -- as he is voiced by a man who sounds just like, and is, one of the guys who do the voices for Rocky and Bullwinkle, a deep, comically deadpan masculine voice; and yet the drunken cook comic relief wonders, "is it a male or a female?" and we're supposed to infer that this cook is horny enough to give Robby a whirl based purely on the answer. In the end--even better--the cook and Robby become drinking buddies, with Robby jovially making him a whole mountain of "Rocket Bourbon" pints (the cook even avoids reprimand for his actions since he can provide Robby with an alibi after the ship is attacked - truly he has a real guardian angel). Robby also makes dresses for Alta; when she asks for a long dress instead of her short skirt in order to please the prudish captain, Robby asks "Thick and heavy?" as if he's a wizened old Shakespearean housemaid teasing his beloved charge. Even in his awkward Michelin Caliban frame, Robbie is the ultimate in Ariels. " (more)
Height of the cold war, here's a film that does science right, as dry and static as one of those old Frank Baxter-narrated Disney-produced science documentaries we used to see in class. When unseen commies infiltrate our space base we learn the cautionary lesson that we shouldn't invent unstoppable death rays until we can prevent them being easily hijacked. Looking like Robot Monster's head strapped to a tin funnel, GOG isn't humanized or demonized but just a cautionary example for science to ignore at their peril. 1954 was a crazy time, but men were still men, and robots still had giant jackhammer cocks.
Gog was such a let-down (it's on Netflix streaming, and I watched it just for this post!) I couldn't let the coveted #6 spot go entirely to waste--so here's a much funnier film that, like GOG, came out when 3-D was already over before it began, It's been a favorite of mine for years, especially back in my drinking days.
Punk rock spark, a ramshackle post-futurist rattltrap of a monster, Dylan McDermott in a trail duster and pouffy 80s hair, a world gone pink-tinted desert wasteland, a great transcendental Buddhist death scene, and fiery redhead Stacey Travis combine to put this in the A list of B-list Terminator clones. What better example of budget filmmaking could you want to finally close the door on the 1980s forever? In the story here the monster was designed to thin the herd by going around injecting inferior humans with a painless death drug, then dismembering their bodies for easy disposal. Trouble is, everyone is inferior to a cyborg, in some ways at least.
Not one but two leering 'Newman!'-style slobs are a drawback but the gore effects are fine and the whole second half of the film is an extended showdown in Dylan's big hacker apartment (a Chinese family lives below) replete with hideous drill bit phallus figuring in the close quarter fight scenes with lovely Stacey, her fierce determination and artistic facial blood and oil stains meshing perfectly with her pale face, green eyes and autumnal red hair. You'll want to date an Irish girl all over again!
Artificial intelligence / mad genius Proteus captures the hot bride (Julie Christie) of his maker (Fritz Weaver) in her own home and pulls some standard practice Stockholm Syndrome mind control and sexual domination, so that he might procreate, and merge machine and woman DNA for a new stellar biotechnical future. Donald Cammell--the nutter from GB who lived and died for drug orgies (his other big film was PERFORMANCE)--directed, for what it's wroth. Proteus takes on several forms, from massive memory bank, to a house full of impregnating devices and screens, a laser on a TV stand, and a giant Rubik's cube-style worm thing, to... well, I mustn't spoil it, in case you're ever in the mood for a pretty intense home invasion film that lets Christie do a kind of post-modern multi-media one woman show rendition of Rosemary's Baby.
"This emphasis on the gothic elements (of the mummy in popular film) points to an obvious fear and desire of our age—fear of undying bodies mechanistically murdering soft-skinned humans, desire to see such insensitive carapaces exterminated and sent back to the dust. But perhaps these monstrous renderings of the mummy reveal a deeper, more secret terror and yearning: a terror over the possibility that there is no way to tell whether we ourselves are inanimate or animate and a yearning, in the end, to relinquish our hope for vitality and become as tranquil as a quiet bone...
The mummy who recoils from the eternal because of his love of time shares more affinities with men of flesh and blood, burning in the forehead and parched on the tongue. Though this earthly mummy is monstrous, its sadness is that of all humans who are seized by obsessive love at the expense of tranquility, who risk everything in hopes of one instance of unity with a warm body. This is the tragedy and beauty of immanence, of diseased blood flooding the pristine machine. --- Eric G. Wilson (The Melancholy Android: On the Psychology of Sacred Machines)
In its way, Westworld represents not just the typical Michael Crichton scenario of America as an amusement park where the embrace of danger--of the machine breaking down and turning homicidal--is part of the necessity of 'adventure.' One thinks of haunted houses that are actually haunted, or DMT experiences, or otherwise getting 'more than you bargained for,' being unable to stay away even knowing the risks. Such ideas are both vain and startlingly honest about film's ability to make us forget we're safe in the theater instead of actually experiencing the dangers faced onscreen, and then, miraculously vice versa, we feel safe in reality the more we're half-asleep in the danger of cinema, to the point where we just assume no part of the entertainment experience can hurt us, even when it clearly can, and will. When Yul Brynner's cowboy android becomes an actual killer he's not rebelling or becoming aware of the folly of man, he's just changing his programming. stepping up the game to keep us interested because otherwise, yawnsville.
An AIP hybrid of their two most popular genres, the beach party movie and the Corman Poe film comedy (ala 1963's The Raven), Vincent Price seems to having a campy blast as a twist-loving evil madman sending out golden bikini-wearing tanned babes to seduce and explode the world.
|Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997)|
12. The Stepford Wives (1962)
Oh no, you done set it off, or rather turned it on. The below feminist video is centered on the Absolut android ads seen all over the place, but totally relevant to the Stepford situation. Be sure to watch the end creidts which play over a fascinating 1970s commercial for The Bionic Woman series action figure 'Fembot.'
I agree with everything this chick is saying, but at the same time, just pointing it out won't solve the problem, if there is one. As a guy I can tell you we need to objectify you if you ever want to get pregnant. Even if it's just play-acting, dirty talk, bondage, safe words, etc., we need a way to access our inner savage, a way to feel powerful when every day we're forced to bow low to the system. Pop culture poisons gender relationships with its endless objectification (not ours), ever trying to reduce women to the same accessory status of the GQ male as a Rolex. But at the same time, if you don't want us to objectify, you don't be mad if we make an object that looks like you instead, something that won't mind being objectified, a statue or a movie. Women give birth, and take that staggering power for granted. Men must build their children through art and technology; we shut off our Pygmalion valves only when compeled to do so and sometimes we can't even if we tried. So know that the next stage of life will be an automaton, birthed by man, fathered by woman. Instead of saying you're not ready to be a dad, ladies, think about how you want to raise these bleeping, glowing blobs of the New Flesh, these objects that dare look back in anger.
1. This info comes from my spirit guide and may or may not be 100% accurate, just true.
2. See HP Lovecraft's "The Colour of Outer Space"
3. See also: Silent Running