I, Robot

By James C. Hess

As a critic and writer, specifically a screenwriter, I am aware of a curious fact: I occupy a very unique position: As a critic I criticize the writings and literary works of others. As a screenwriter I write and know, at some point, my writing will face justified criticism by critics. But with a certain regularity I find these roles juxtaposed, with very interesting results. Results that tend to lend to the revelation of a truth, a fact few are willing to acknowledge and embrace: The Hollywood Machine is dying by inches, has been dying by inches for decades, now, and is now taking the publishing industry with it.

Why? Because both, more often than not, have abandoned that which made them what they are: The writer.

Now I know it would be easy enough to point out that because I am a writer and a critic, such remarks about loyalty and betrayal of loyalty are tempered with an undeniable prejudice. I won't deny this: I do bring a prejudice to my works as a critic and writer, but it is a prejudice that is necessary: For my writings to succeed on as many levels as possible I must acknowledge my source material.

That I do, I suggest, says much about my longevity as critic (ten years plus) and writer (more years than I readily admit to; but I am safe in saying dirt has been around longer than I have).

The Hollywood Machine, specifically, increasingly does not acknowledge its source materials and, as writer and critic, I opine I know why: Because, more often than not, the source material is far superior to what results upon the silver screen.

Take as proof the latest Will Smith summer-time movie vehicle: "I, Robot". Much has been made of the fact this flick is based on the work of the same title by the late Isaac Asimov.

Here's the thing: A careful consideration of both efforts reveals a nasty fact, an ugly truth: The only connection between the two works is, in fact, the title.

All right: So the creators of this movie cite the Three Laws of Robotics, as set forth by the good doctor, years ago.

But. . . watching this movie one tends to realize something: This movie has almost nothing in common with the far superior novel of the same name. Almost nothing.

So why make it? Why betray the source material so horribly?

As Deep Throat once put it: Follow the money.

Almost every summer for at least the past five years Will Smith has announced the arrival of the summer movie season with his latest offering: A science fiction flick one year, an action flick the next, a Western the next.

Understand: There is nothing wrong with this practice. Such predictability in movies and films is somewhat comforting. The problem comes from the abandonment of the original material, the deliberate betrayal of the original source.

Which is precisely what the creators of this abomination did.

"I, Robot" takes place in Chicago around the year 2035, in a city where new skyscrapers share the skyline with such architectual landmarks as the Sears Tower. But be aware: The tallest of these structures is the building that belongs to U.S. Robotics. And it is in this building, on the floor of the atrium lobby where the body of its chief robot designer, is found. The cause of death: Suicide. Apparently.

Enter Detective Del Spooner (Will Smith), a Chicago Police Department detective who doesn't think the cause of death is suicide. Why he thinks owes much to his deep-seated distrust of robots, who, of course, are governed by the aforementioned Three Laws of Robotics.

The dead man is Dr. Alfred Lanning (James Cromwell), who formulated the Three Laws of Robotics, which includes the rule about how, above all else, a robot must not harm a human being.

Now if you know anything--ANYTHING--about science fiction, then you must know about Dr. Asimov and his laws of Robotics, and you must know that these laws came about following a conversation Dr. A. with the legendary editor of "Astounding Science Fiction", John W. Campbell, and you must know that these rules proved so important throughout science fiction as it now exist that to diverge from them is to commit suicide based in deliberate ignorance.

So the fact the creators, the producers of this movie first prescribed to these laws and then ignored them should send a signal just how bad and screwy this flick is.

Aside: In the late 1970s the writer Harlan Ellison, with Asimov's blessing and consideration, penned a screenplay which Asimov proclaimed would result in the first adult, complex science fiction film ever made.

Yes, well. Given the tribulations and burdens Ellison brought to the project by way of his passion and emotional aspects it is nothing less than a miracle the published screenplay now exists. That it does goes to prove and reinforce an important truth herein: "I, Robot", the produced movie, is not true to the original source material.

But never mind. There are several reasons for why this movie must fail. I offer but three: Jeff Vintar and Akiva Goldsman, the credited screenwriters, and the director, Alex Proyas, whose "Dark City" was far, far superior to this cinematic dreck.

As in the case of "Dark City" here the hero is reduced to formulaic cliches and situations: Spooner is a movie cop who insults the powerful, hurls around recklessly, gets his badge revoked by his by-the-book captain, solves the crime at hand, and has incredible, insane adventures.

Oh, yes: There is a woman involved as well: Dr. Susan Calvin (Bridget Moynahan), whose job, according to this diatribe, is to make the robots seem more human than they are.

Yawn.

That she is not successful or good at her job only goes to drive the simple-minded plot as presented. Which brings me back to Asimov's work and the screenplay derived from it: In the introduction to his unproduced screenplay Ellison noted that he spent almost a year writing the screenplay that finally resulted, and while it was his writing that produced the screenplay it was a collaboration of his emotional storytelling and Asimov's cerebral narrative skills.

I wish, oh, how I wish, I could say the same of this movie. I cannot. What I can say is this: I was betrayed by the dreams made of shadows and light.

About the Author:

James C. Hess graduated from the University of Colorado at Boulder, where he earned a Bachelor's Degree in English Literature, with an emphasis on Editorial Journalism and Film Studies.

Hess currently makes his home along the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies.

Article courtesy of http://www.suite101.com.