No stranger to family drama, Steven Spielberg consistently finds a way to inject the subject into work regardless of drama. One of the most important scenes of Jaws, for instance, lacks any presence of the titular predator, instead honing in on Martin Brody and his youngest son at the dinner table. While Martin is visibly distraught over the state of his firstborn, Sean emulates his father by burying his face in his hands and audibly sighing. This both relaxes Martin and fills him with determination, providing him with the resolve needed to board the Orca. It would be completely unnecessary to explain why Sean’s actions soothe Martin; though the source of their shared trauma is apparent, the bond between a parent and their child can safely be presumed. In this context, A.I.: Artificial Intelligence is Spielberg’s blank slate and his opportunity to truly consider the familiar structure in the absence of presumption.
At the film’s onset, a prolific robotics engineer considers a child’s love as a commodity. Already mirroring humanity in appearance with his previous creations, Professor Hobby ponders if one of a child’s most common inclinations, to invest fully in one’s parent, can be programmed. Hobby is less concerned with producing a being capable of sincere love, but rather satisfying the need for a parent to be loved. The inventor tugs at a biblical thread, seeking to ensure the satisfaction of God at the expense of Adam. Thus, Hobby resolves to craft a “Child Mecha,” a life-like machine capable of fulfilling a parent’s need. However, the artificial children would never change, maintaining a perpetual sense of whimsy, curiosity, and dependency.
In the film’s opening moments, Spielberg conjures one of his most compelling cinematic questions: Can one commodify and sustain the gratification of raising a child? To a greater and self-reflective extent, are emotions simply reactions, something that can be partitioned and engaged in controlled doses like watching a movie? With haste, the filmmaker considers if love is a culmination of sensations and experiences, or something more ineffable. Spielberg is also quick to acknowledge via one of Hobby’s colleagues that producing a being capable of love may not be enough. Ultimately, the Mechas’ manufacturers find it much more relevant if love can be reciprocated by their clientele.
In the wake of their son’s seemingly terminal illness, Henry and Monica Swinton are the first candidates to receive a Child Mecha, David. Lacking any of the flourishes androids are known for, David is the spitting image of a young boy. However, David appears to the Swintons as an emotional blank slate, an automaton struggling to hurdle past the slippery precipice of the uncanny valley. It is barely enough for David to simply run through the motions, and thus he’s given an imprinting mechanism. When the time is right, Monica can irrevocably bond David to her.
Here, Spielberg’s consideration shifts from viewing love as a linear and one-way force to that of a perpetual engine. Though the imprinting process is a literal switch for David himself, the process’s relevance comes with the symbolic metamorphosis it represents. Out of context, the string of words Monica dictates are rather meaningless, but in unison serve as the pact between herself and David; they are the parental validation needed for the Mecha’s own actualization. For a brief period following the procedure, David lives happily as Monica’s effective surrogate, fulfilling virtually every chasm in the latter’s heart.
Similar to the aforementioned scene from Jaws, David finds emulation to be the strongest stimulant in cultivating the reformed family’s love for one another. Even in moments of frustration, such as when David adorns Monica’s perfume, their bond continues to grow. David’s mistakes are what endears and animates him, pushing the Mecha incredibly to his goal of synthesizing the role of a child. Unfortunately, the return of Martin, Monica and Henry’s biological child, disintegrates this progress.
David abruptly finds love, at least in a reciprocal and familiar sense, is inconveniently contingent upon a disposition he will never actually obtain. A series of provocations by an incident involving Martin pushes David towards ostracization. After nearly wounding Monica and drowning Martin, both in unintentional instances, the Swintons resolves to expel David. Despite her distress, Monica mostly complies but opts to leave David in the middle of a forest rather than return him to the manufacturer. At this point, David discerns Martin’s physical connection to Monica to also be the catalyst for her love, and he resolves to attain this by finding the Blue Fairy of Pinocchio fame.
Spielberg’s conundrum grows more complicated as what sustains love is torn between obligation and association. Despite David’s ability to suffice and even exceed Martin in practice and behavior, he is still a product, a “super toy” with a single purpose. The axiom Monica screams in the film’s opening moments, “there is no substitute for your own child,” resurfaces as a tragic constant. Where David’s capacity for love is pivotal to his existence, his ability to proliferate it is at a disadvantage by default.
David’s function is his curse, and Spielberg uses this variable to explore the plight of unconditional and ceaseless love as the automaton vies for mortality. Even in a best-case scenario, the love David receives in response to efforts is finite, dependent upon his parent’s continued existence. A.I.’s final movement painfully illustrates this inevitability, as even two millennia removed from Monica, David is still bound by the parameters of the imprinting process. The film is, in this sense, difficult to be thought of as anything less than tragic. Yet somehow, the notion of reciprocal love may be beside the point.
In Jaws, Martin Brody’s love for his son compels him to embark upon a suicidal hunt, paradoxically risking this bond to ensure Martha’s Vineyard’s beach access (this risk proves a bit further moot a few sequels later). However, Martin’s resolve is not necessarily for love but rather fueled by it. Similarly, love in A.I. is ultimately a catalyst, a reason to persevere amid the most desperate of circumstances. David’s tale is among Spielberg’s cruelest and most enlightening works, examining an institution central to almost all of his films, yet meticulous in its scrutiny and care.
