Artificial Intelligence (or 'A.I.' as it is titled) is like a Mother's Day
card printed on a computer. The design is always impeccable. The border
superlatively etched out. The graphics smooth and flowing. The script
contained within is level and even. Yet, no matter how many individual
touches are added it still feels impersonal unless the giver handwrites the
sentimental verses that are found inside. If not, the card seems too cold,
too calculating, too perfect to have come from a human being.
Technically, 'A.I.' is darn fine filmmaking. The acting is of the highest
standard. The special effects are dazzling. John Williams' music is as
magnificent as always. Steven Spielberg's direction is the best and most
creative it has ever been. In spite of all of this, 'A.I.' is critically
and fatally flawed. It falters in trying to accomplish its primary
objective and that is to make us feel for David Swinton (Haley Joel
Osment), the android boy who wants nothing other than for his human mother
to love him as if he were her own flesh and blood child. We should cry when
he cries. Laugh when he laughs. We don't. Not once, not ever during the
film's inflated running time. There is no emotional hook to pull us in and
because of that we have no stake in what's transpiring before our eyes and
ears.
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