The movie’s official poster calls Her
“A Spike Jonze Love Story.” The decidedly unofficial “honest”
movie poster created by Uproxx calls it “a two-hour closeup of Joaquin
Phoenix’s face.” More on that in a bit; for now I’d like to focus on the
official tagline. Jonze (of the
genre-bending—and genre-shaping—Being John Malkovich and
Adaptation) is a
filmmaker with an astute sense of the absurd. His films are genuinely
provocative, brazenly original and bravely inquisitive, and Her, Jonze’s screenwriting debut, is no
exception. But the film also offers one of the loveliest romances ever to have
graced the silver screen. The fact that it transpires between a man and his software
only increases my admiration for the delicacy and depth of feeling packed into
the relationship, a brilliant conceptual gag that proves nonetheless sincere
and completely plausible. Wildly inventive, challenging and engaging, this subtly
profound film follows its own quirky, amusing course. It’s a melancholy, eerie
love story unlike anything else you’ve seen this year—or ever.
In Her’s opening shots,
Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix in a quietly heroic, beautifully hushed performance),
is making an unabashed declaration of love to an unseen beloved. The actor, as
well as his character, is unaffected, sincere, disarming. We quickly discover,
however, that his lovely words are not addressed to his beloved at all, that this
is what Theodore does for a living; the character is a latter-day Cyrano writing heartfelt
notes-for-hire at BeautifulHandwrittenLetters.com (the handwriting all
computer-generated, of course). The cuteness is instantly turned to cynicism,
in a movie that is both visionary and traditional, tender and cool, passionate
and wispy. Like the lingering analog affection for handwriting in a digital
age, Her argues for both the past and
the future, with a soulfully poetic spirit that’s become extremely rare in
American cinema.
As demonstrated by his occupation, Theodore is acutely attuned to other
people’s inner feelings, writing out the most intimate thoughts that people he’s
never met could possibly have. He’s less attuned to his own feelings. Theo’s
default setting, you see, is isolation. “I miss you,” his only friend Amy (Amy Adams, unrecognizable from
her portrayal of a self-invented sexpot swindler in David O. Russell’s American
Hustle) tells him. “Not the sad, mopey you. The old, fun you.” The
character is still getting over the breakup of his marriage to Catherine (Rooney Mara),
and is in the process of falling in love with his artificially intelligent
operating system, which calls itself Samantha (voiced beautifully by Scarlett
Johansson, sliding from girlish squeakiness to seductive, smoky lower
registers at will and creating a complex, full-bodied character without any
body at all).
The peculiar triumph of the film is that this affair is seen as only
mildly odd. The software enters Theodore’s
life almost accidentally and, like so much technology today, makes him wonder how
he ever lived without it. Samantha, however, does more than reorganize Theodore’s
files; she also listens to him, commiserates and advises, makes him laugh, and
starts to develop real emotions and something like human consciousness. The most
seductive and unnerving part of this whole enterprise is that the OS can not
only match the conversation, intimacy, and satisfaction of non-virtual relationships,
but might even be better.
Theodore’s initially promising but ultimately ill-fated blind date
(with Olivia Wilde)
certainly proves relationships with human beings can be more demanding and
messier than anything we can channel through a handheld device, and Her has the daring to ask if it’s worth
it. The movie burrows deep into the give and take of relationships and the
eternal dilemma of knowing one’s true self, in or outside of a couple,
developing into a crash course on what it means to be human, and what it means
to love.
More than anything else, Her
is about loneliness and about our compulsion to overcome it, about the need to
connect in a digital age when we’re always plugged into some device but distance
ourselves from actual human interaction. The film asks the right questions,
and, rightly, doesn’t answer them. Does technology foster alienation, help surmount it, or—if it’s even possible—both?
We see people listening to headphones and responding to invisible companions
all day long. Jonze just takes it one step further.
The environment of the movie is only an intriguing step or too ahead of
contemporary reality. Jonze doesn’t necessarily strive for scientific or
cultural coherence, instead creating a beguiling cinematic world of the
not-too-distant but distinctly fantastical future. The filmmaker fashions a
fully imagined and constructed universe that vaguely resembles our own (in all
but the efficient L.A. mass transit system), a universe of smoggy skies thick
with modernistic, steel-and-glass high-rises and hazy, glittering skyscrapers.
In a way, Her’s setting creates a wholly positive counterpart to the
recent Elysium’s social and urban
malaises. Jonze and his superb—and, thankfully, Oscar-nominated—production
designer, K.K.
Barrett, haven’t quite reinvented the world, but rather ingeniously embellished
ours. Everything is simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar.
Judging from the film’s trailer, I was expecting it
to be more like Lars and the Real Girl.
I was wrong. Theo does feel a bit odd at first about his new “girlfriend,” but soon
discovers he is not alone. Amy is also developing a friendship with her husband’s
OS, and, apparently, there are thousands out there in love with theirs. The character
is surrounded by solitaires, all alone together.
A more apt comparison to Her would
be Michel Gondry’s Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless
Mind, especially in its dreamy tone, offbeat romance, slight satire, stylistic
flourishes, and visual panache. Hoyte Van Hoytema’s
muted but vividly tactile cinematography is gorgeous, made up of understated
colors, mellow yellows, tranquil tangerines, and neutral tones of blue and gray
peppered with flashes of bright red. All soft focus and diffused lighting, the
images are infused with an ethereal, enchanted quality, and the strange, melancholy
score (by Arcade Fire) casts a spell of its own.
Phoenix, perhaps the greatest of all screen enactors of exquisite
isolation, here is unprecedently touching, open, and vulnerable, pulling an
impressive about-face from the tortured eccentricity of his role in P.T. Anderson’s The Master. With
a neat moustache, horn-rimmed glasses, slumped shoulders and unflatteringly
high-waisted pants, the actor paints a harmless, defeated picture, as if the
solitude and agonies of this wounded, stunted soul had been drawn from some
deep, unarticulated place in Phoenix’s own being. But, as the two hour mark
approaches, the tagline of the honest poster becomes more and more applicable.
Because Theodore is in a relationship with a non-corporeal confidant, he is
often the only person on screen for extended periods of time. By the end, the
feeling is this beguiling concept was extended beyond its natural breaking
point and spread a bit thinly throughout the sobering but surprisingly soft
conclusion.
One of the biggest, most ardently burning questions of the film is only
implied. In Her, machines can think,
but can humans still feel? Just look around the next time you go out for
dinner. How many two-, three- or four- person tables are there full of people
eating “together” while staring into two, three, or four separate screens? Jonze’s
futuristic love story cuts to the heart of how we live now. Thankfully, when I
ask Siri if she’s a woman, she still tells me gender is for nouns and animals.
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