“Robots,” with the voices of Ewan McGregor, Halle Berry, Robin Williams, Mel Brooks, Greg Kinnear.
Blue Sky/Fox Animation Studios
If only to be a fly on the wall for this pitch: “Would it not be just so fucking cool/funny if elements of the real world were displaced to a parallel world inhabited by robots?! They’ll sing Britney and shop at Robot Mart or some other punny, half-assed contrivance!” Harrumph.
A far cry from the technological dystopias of “The Matrix” or “Terminator” trilogies, the titular bots occupy a hermetic universe where they behave just like humans (if we all were far less subtle than Charlie Chaplin). There is a startling lack of intelligence of any kind, be it artificial or otherwise. Yes, the writers figured out a plausible way for robots to flatulate (the one thing missing from Chaplin’s repertoire…thank you talkies!). “Robots’” wearisome conceit is that robots, who know of no other life form, make wisecracks about being robots and sprinkle in ‘clever’ twists on pop culture references (“I’m singing in the oil, just singing in the oil…”). If there is no counterpoint to robotdom and robot culture, an urging to “grow some bolts” is stupid and puerile. At least say “grow some nuts,” so I can giggle knowingly. The jokes are consistent, and rapid fire, enough that kiddies and the simple minded will not notice.
Let the positives be briefly trotted out: the look of the film is a welding of towering pictorial pulchritude and painstaking detail. The robot city gleams majestically and is so magnificently baroque that if the film had a little more sense and grace it could have allowed us some time to be mesmerized. The city’s transportation system is like a glorious Hot Wheels set, replete with loop de loops and stunning near-misses. The robots are easy to differentiate, each lovingly constructed, and neat little touches like a robot “mowing his lawn” (actually polishing a section of green metal in front of his house, which in spite of my previous rant I found amusing). It is perfectly acceptable to ignore the pyrotechnic plot and pick out the loving detail with which every frame was crafted; in fact, I would recommend it.
Animated films cannot just coast on their aesthetic beauty, however. The Disney/Pixar entity has set the bar too high: from the elegance of “Little Mermaid” and “Beauty and the Beast” to the tautness of “Finding Nemo,” story, dialogue, pacing, etc. matters. In “Robots,” motivation is often hazy. The freewheeling velocity of the proceedings occasionally obscures the inanity: why the fuck is that teapot-domed robot dancing in slow motion? It is ceaselessly kinetic, but not towards any narrative purpose. It’s got more digressive episodes than an art film and the dialogue displays less wit than a Nicholas Cage vehicle. The ending, not to mention most of the antics, are telegraphed and there are perilously few clever moments on the way. The sentimentality is hackneyed beyond belief and the jokes all came from entering “metal” into thesaurus.com.
The film employs a unique distancing device that I call the “we fucked up” effect. Place and space are rarely coherently established: you do not know where you are or what could possibly happen next since we have escaped the realm of plausibility and, instead of this being a liberating process, it’s soul-deadening. All you know in life is that what’s next is going to be fast and loud and otherwise abrasive, and you detach yourself from reality for protection, and because you are so over stimulated your senses have shut down as well, and you fall asleep or plot Robin William’s assassination.
Oh, Robin Williams, you’re so silly. I can excuse your many years of bothering the shit out of me because you grow a beard and take on dramatic roles. If a film is going to get a star to do a voice, he/she has to efface themselves and fit the character. Look at “The Little Mermaid:” no-names were perfectly cast for every voice and the effect is sublime. The peerless Jonathan Taylor Thomas put his ego aside and spoke the hell out of his role as young Simba in “The Lion King.” There are exceptions that prove the rule. In “Antz,” the main ant Z, voiced by Woody Allen, played smartly off his nebbish persona. Even Robin Williams himself, when he played the Genie in “Aladdin,” was well cast. His hyper-schizo brand of humor was organic to the character: a genie should probably be a flashy huckster with a heart of gold.
“Robots,” to its detriment and eternal damnation, is grafted to the Robin Williams sensibility. Even in good Robin Williams comedies and especially in awful ones (not to mention at every public appearance he’s ever made), there are scenes in which several different voices and characters meld into a fusion of asinine and unfunny. Is it a surprise that “Robots” was written by the same uninspired hacks that brought you Williams’ “Father’s Day?” Robin, we know you can do half-baked imitations really quick…that’s awesome. You’re a one trick phony. Imagine the Robin Williams methodology sustaining an entire film. In “Robots,” even though he is not the top-billed talent, Williams permeates every second. He nominally voices the robot Fender, but what he is doing instead is an unintentionally stone-faced caricature of himself (and not in a funny or appealing way). The result transcends dim-witted pandering as we know it; it attains the realm of the platonic conception of same. Robin, and “Robots,” wants you to laugh so badly. Every conceivable angle is exploited, until you are gang-raped into submission. All you have left to do is surrender with a weary half-smile and a chortle in spite of your conscious efforts to retain your dignity. Manipulative bastards.
Rating: 2 bullets to Robin’s preening, mugging gourd out of 4.
Robots @ Destinta
Rated PG, 1 hr 30 min
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