Review: ‘A.I.’ is a higher ‘Intelligence’

Geoff Carter

Wednesday, June 27, 2001 | 5:10 a.m.

A.I.

Grade: Three-and-one-half stars.

Starring: Haley Joel Osment, Jude Law.

Screenplay: Steven Spielberg.

Director: Steven Spielberg.

Rated: PG-13 for some sexual content and violent images.

Running time: 145 minutes.

Steven Spielberg's "A.I. Artificial Intelligence" was first screened for critics almost two weeks ago. It was an unusual maneuver on Warner Brothers' part; most films are screened closer to their release date, to keep us from thinking about what kind of fresh hell we've just witnessed.

Perhaps it was the supreme confidence (or hubris) that takes over a studio when they have an Event Picture from a Major Director. Perhaps the studio hoped critics would debate the film amongst themselves, giving each other fresh insights and a clearer look into the film's themes. (Fat chance; film critics are lucky to talk to anyone, let alone each other.) Or perhaps, the studio realized that it would take reviewers that long to figure out their feelings toward "A.I.", and they were right: a few ill-informed snap judgments aside, I haven't read a single reviewer yet who's figured out if he or she liked the film or not.

I like it. Took me a better part of a week to come to terms with that, but I did. I don't like all of Spielberg's films -- would be happy never to see "Hook," "Always" or "The Lost World" again -- but when he hits, he hits hard. I've never known a soul able to resist the director's vision when he's looking at the world the right way. Think of the first 40 minutes of "Saving Private Ryan," the slave ship flashbacks of "Amistad," practically all of "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and "Jaws." A tale of machines trying to gain the acceptance of man, "A.I." will fit neatly into that catalog of dreams, artistically and thematically.

Except that it's not Spielberg's dream: "A.I." was developed -- script treatment, concept sketches, etcetera -- by Stanley Kubrick. The late director offered the film to Spielberg shortly after "Jurassic Park" was released in 1993; despite Kubrick's offer of remaining aboard as producer, Spielberg demurred. Frustrated by the film's second act and lacking the technology to make the effects look convincing, Kubrick made "Eyes Wide Shut" instead. Kubrick died shortly after "Eyes" was completed; Spielberg elected to do "A.I." in homage to his friend.

And as an homage, it's practically impeccable: the first and third acts are so thoroughly informed by Kubrick that you wonder if Spielberg held daily seances. Here is the coldness, the emotional disaffection, the clinical examination of humanity that made Kubrick's name. I've never seen a director treat another director's work with such restraint and dignity. Spielberg never gives your heartstrings a deliberate pluck, though we all know he can. Even John Williams, whose orchestral sweetening of Spielberg's emotional moments are as distinctive as a thumbprint, goes incognito - his score is at times dissonant and unstable, as if unsure of its footing.

Perhaps that's because the protagonist isn't sure of his. Haley Joel Osment underplays the role of David, a robot child trying to win the love of human parents, absolutely perfectly. You're only behind him in theory: while you want his character to persevere, you don't necessarily want him in your home. Many of Kubrick's protagonists are like that; Spielberg and Osment deserve a lot of credit for making the robot kid as real as the late director would have made him. He changes moods as readily as you change your socks, and he never becomes cute; in fact, he's downright chilling at times.

For reasons I won't go into here, David finds himself out in the world at the beginning of the second act, where Spielberg takes the reins from Kubrick and Jude Law takes the picture from everybody. His "pleasure mecha," Gigolo Joe, becomes an unlikely but steadfast guide to David, all the while dancing about him (sometimes literally) and dazzling him with bawdy one-liners. He's a joy to behold: a sex toy with a conscience. Spielberg has fun with him, and with the second act - this is where you'll find most of "A.I.'s" kinky fun and humor.

That said, "A.I." isn't exactly a crowd-pleaser. Ironically, Kubrick thought "A.I." would be his sole commercial hit; in Spielberg's hands, it becomes a thoughtful, disquieting big-budget art house film that will likely get lost in this endless Summer of Junk. "A.I." makes you ponder the nature of love -- what it is, why it exists, and how it can destroy more easily than it saves. Not exactly the kind of thing Angelina Jolie could put her padded bosom behind, or that Vin Diesel could soup up and drive to the bank. Young kids won't like it, and parents either will choose not to or be unable to explain it to them.

Now, like any filmmaker, Spielberg stumbles once or twice. Williams' score, though good, doesn't quite fit at times. William Hurt is miscast. And the voice of Robin Williams -- heard for less than two minutes of screen time -- is distracting. But "A.I." is a noble experiment despite these failings, and a good film. I will very likely see it again this weekend, and spend another week haunted by it.