The Electric State (2025)

The book is expensive, and the illustrations by the Swedish illustrator give off a darker, more melancholic vibe. The backdrop of the human-machine war originally had a strong Matrix feel, except here, humanity wins the war using neural projectors... but the side effect of abusing these neural projectors is that people become addicted to the virtual world. The real world gradually falls apart, while the complexity of the virtual space gives rise to a sentient AI—_Brain Intelligence_—that yearns for a physical body.

With such a massive world-building setup—think *The Matrix*, *Cyberpunk 2077*, and artificial intelligence—the screenwriter had all the ingredients for a solid sci-fi film at their fingertips. But then you actually watch the movie: huge budget, big production, and yet it feels like I'm watching some busted-up amusement park. The epic human-vs-machine war? Apparently it's all about throwing stuff at each other. And the search-for-family storyline suddenly morphs into *Ready Player One*. Maybe it works for kids.

The Russo Brothers have become almost synonymous with the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Films like *Captain America* and *Avengers* didn't just rack up astronomical box office numbers—they also left countless fans teary-eyed.

I still remember being treated by a classmate to see *Avengers: Endgame* back in 2019. When Iron Man whispered "I love you 3000," the entire theater was filled with muffled sobs. Everyone was devastated—except me. I was completely lost, because *Endgame* happened to be my **first-ever** Marvel movie.

Maybe I got into the MCU too late. Even after going back and watching the earlier films, I struggled to form a deep emotional connection with the entire universe. *The Electric State*, though not branded as a Marvel product, exudes a familiar Marvel-esque vibe in its storytelling, visuals, and character design—as if it were an unofficial superhero film cloaked in sci-fi aesthetics.

Adapted from Simon Stålenhag's 2018 illustrated novel of the same name, the original work presented a hauntingly melancholic dystopia. It follows a young woman and a silent robot traveling through a decaying America littered with derelict warships and abandoned drones. In this alternate history, machines gained consciousness in the 20th century and launched a war against humanity, which we barely survived.

Set in a parallel 1990s, extreme capitalism and virtual reality have obliterated human social bonds. People become addicted to neural projectors—devices that plug them into a VR-like world, leaving their physical bodies in a semi-vegetative state, numb to reality. The original carries a profound sense of loss—a mourning for a world of faded glory.

The Russo Brothers could have taken this premise and turned it into a powerful critique of humanity's overdependence on technology—something in the vein of *WALL-E*, where the apex of civilization leads to its downfall. Another path might have explored the seduction of violence through virtual combat, examining how characters become addicted to the video-game-like thrill and lose all sense of real-world consequences, causing even greater catastrophe.

But no—they chose instead to fall back on traditional blockbuster storytelling, mirroring their approach in *Avengers*: a classic superhero formula that dials down the tech critique and replaces it with a familiar "evil corporation conspiracy." Once again, the Big Bad turns out to be a powerful capitalist pulling strings behind the scenes for the sake of "peace," at the cost of mass sacrifice.

This logic is essentially *Thanos 2.0*. The core dystopian themes get sidelined, making way for a standard action-adventure, with emotional beats centered around family and friendship. All crises are resolved with a few motivational speeches. Amid jokes and quips, yet another world-ending plan is heroically stopped.

Today's popcorn flicks, in their quest to manufacture "warmth," are not much different from China's so-called "warm realist" films. These often showcase social issues, only to avoid the real hardships and offer idealized, sugar-coated solutions that blunt the edges of reality.

*The Electric State* falls into the same trap. While it seemingly portrays a society addicted to neural projectors, the narrative barely interacts with this premise. The ending suddenly pivots back to the issue and delivers a clichéd, slogan-like moral: "Return to reality," "Embrace the real world," "Treasure real life."

Such idealized conclusions and supposedly "wholesome" values are little more than emotional placebos—lacking true insight into reality, offering no workable path forward. Imagine someone storming into the internet hub one day and cutting off the global network—no more games, no more TikTok—would you really cherish their lecture on "real life" and hold it dear?

Even from a world-building perspective, the story is riddled with inconsistencies. For instance: in a world dominated by neural projectors and robot proxies, why are students still required to attend physical classes? And if they are in-person, why force them to wear neural projectors in the classroom? It's nonsensical—like adding a mustache to a Mona Lisa just because you can.

The dialogue doesn't fare much better. There's a scene with a voice-activated light switch, yet the character loudly yells "Clap on" and *then* claps—just in case the audience couldn't figure out the connection. When the protagonist finds a package in the car, she reads every word of the label out loud—purely for the audience's benefit, not because it makes any sense in real life.

The plot moves entirely by coincidence. The protagonist just *happens* to open her foster father's trunk and *happens* to find a package that *happens* to reveal the next location. While on the run, she *happens* to meet a robot from the quarantine zone, who then *happens* to take them there. Once in danger, they *happen* to run into a tiny delivery robot with a letter that *happens* to spark the next leg of the journey.

These plot conveniences drive the story forward without emotional investment. The audience is dragged from scene to scene by the mechanical rhythm of the script, rather than any meaningful momentum.

And yet, this is where the Russos excel—they create a sense of urgency and spectacle that numbs the audience into ignoring all these logic gaps. They're not good at fixing the seams—they're just great at covering them up.

On a technical level, the visual effects, action choreography, and pacing meet the standards of a Hollywood blockbuster. Some details do show satirical flair—like a line about Mr. Peanut signing a surrender treaty with President Clinton—a clever bit of alt-history absurdity. But overall, nothing truly innovative or memorable emerges. It feels like reheated leftovers from better sci-fi films.

Which leads us to a bigger question: What is the purpose of cinema? Is it purely to entertain, or should it offer aesthetic and intellectual stimulation? The Russo Brothers, backed by the flawless machinery of the film industry, have created a technically "flawless" film—but one that lacks personality and depth.

Such movies immerse audiences in standardized visual pleasure, leading them to believe this is all cinema has to offer. Meanwhile, films that truly reflect reality and confront the world's complexity become sidelined in the mainstream. This expansion of entertainment-driven consumerism is the real danger.

If this continues, the cinematic landscape will be flooded with dazzling yet hollow productions. Audiences will grow increasingly susceptible to surface-level emotional cues and feel-good clichés, while genuinely thought-provoking, soul-stirring films become rare relics. For cinema, the greatest danger is not failure—it's **succeeding too safely**, until we forget its role in exploration, in provocation, and in the pursuit of truth.

💸 Critics Consensus:

Despite its massive budget, the film is considered a failure in almost every meaningful dimension—narrative, character, and theme—with only the visual effects earning a modest nod of approval.

🧠 Core Plot:

In this alternate timeline, a robot uprising triggered by human oppression leads to war in 1990. Humanity manages to win by 1994 using "Neural Casters"—devices that allow remote control of robots. After the war, tech tycoon Skatch (played by Stanley Tucci) commercializes the caster technology for mass entertainment, plunging society into VR addiction while exiling robots to a "forbidden zone."

Enter orphan Michelle (Millie Bobby Brown), who discovers her brother Christopher's consciousness is trapped inside a robot named "Cosmic Boy." Teaming up with black market smuggler Kitts (Chris Pratt) and his robot sidekick Hermann, she embarks on a journey to save her brother and confront the powerful Skatch.

🔍 Core Criticisms:

1. Thematic Confusion & Contradiction

- The film tries to explore the relationship between technology and humanity but lacks a clear stance: The villain profits from devices that isolate people, yet the movie preaches that "progress is irreversible," only to later call for a return to the past. It's philosophically incoherent.

2. Shallow Characterization

- Protagonists: Michelle has little personality beyond snarky quips; Kitts lacks clear motivations. - Robots: Though creatively designed (e.g., Mr. Peanut, Baseball Bot), they're emotionally hollow. Even the star-studded voice cast can't disguise their narrative shallowness.

3. Narrative & Pacing Issues

- The film drags with bloated dialogue and over-reliance on clunky voiceover exposition. - Despite being set in a "retro-futurist" 1990s, the era lacks authentic detail. Classic rock hits like *"Breaking the Law"* and *"Wonderwall"* are overused to artificially inject nostalgia.

4. Visuals & Special Effects

- The robot effects are polished, but the film lacks any truly iconic imagery. - Action sequences are clustered at the end, feeling rushed and tensionless. The final battle, in particular, is a flat, underwhelming climax.

5. Performances

- Millie Bobby Brown and Chris Pratt deliver mechanical, formulaic performances. Their costumes and makeup feel disconnected from their supposed backstories. - Ke Huy Quan and Stanley Tucci are criminally underused, reduced to mere plot devices.

🎬 Direction & Production Analysis

- The Russo Brothers: Following the underwhelming *The Gray Man*, their creative decline continues. Many now accuse them of producing "AI-generated content"—technically efficient, but soulless and sterile. - The Script: Written by Marcus and McFeely (of Marvel fame), the screenplay leans heavily on superhero tropes, with little originality or emotional authenticity. - The Netflix Factor: Critics argue the film was algorithmically engineered for mass appeal, sacrificing artistry for "streamability."

📝 Final Verdict & Recommendations

- Bottom Line: Considered one of the worst films of the year by multiple critics. A mechanical, hollow, and soulless work that mistakes noise for substance. - What to Watch Instead: The original illustrated novel offers far more visual and philosophical depth. Or revisit classics like *The Iron Giant* or *WALL-E* for more heartfelt, thought-provoking alternatives. - Industry Reflection: The film is emblematic of how streaming giants waste vast resources on spectacle-driven mediocrity. It's time to give daring, original voices a bigger stage.

"Electric State": A Warm Cyberpunk Rhapsody in Retro Tones

If I had to sum up The Electric State in one word, it would be charming. This film is like a Walkman stuffed with retro mixtapes dancing disco atop cyberpunk ruins — far from perfect, but utterly captivating.

A Visual Feast: Vaporwave Meets Wasteland Aesthetics

The Russo Brothers go all in this time. Neon signs from the '80s, cassette recorders, vintage motorbikes — all patched together with post-apocalyptic rust, floating drones, and crumbling towers. Somehow, they make decay feel romantic. The opening long shot of a girl riding a shape-shifting Harley through the wilderness yanks you straight into a vaporwave dream.

Special mention goes to the film's color palette: mushroom clouds dyed peach pink, abandoned highways carpeted in fluorescent moss, robot wreckage entwined with glowing vines. This "saccharine apocalypse" aesthetic blends the gloom of Blade Runner, the Zen stillness of Ghost in the Shell, and even echoes the burning twilight of Akira.

AI Reimagined: When Robots Love Better Than Humans

What surprised me most was the film's tender portrayal of AI. Chris Pratt's robot character "Pete" isn't guided by cold algorithmic logic like in Westworld, but instead oozes the cocky charm of a cowboy with a soft heart. When he takes a bullet for the girl and says, "My code says protect you... but I want to protect you," he feels more alive than any human in the film.

The road trip repeatedly emphasizes this paradox: as humans become zombified by their virtual addictions, this bot — who hums "Hotel California" — learns to feel the wind, pause for sunsets, and wonder. It's a gentle reminder of a post-human truth: sometimes machines are better at being human.

Pacing & Substance: A Lo-Fi Sci-Fi Road Movie

If the film falters, it's in the final act — the escape scenes feel rushed, some story threads get snipped too abruptly. But this looseness also makes the middle stretch of the road trip feel unhurried and healing: the girl teaching the robot how to smoke, dancing in an abandoned disco, or using cassette tapes to patch up broken memories — all scenes echoing the gentle soul of Spirited Away.

As for depth? No, it doesn't try to tackle deep philosophical quandaries — but who said sci-fi must be didactic? When that memory-laden truck rides into the horizon at the end, I believe what the filmmakers are truly offering is a simple cyber-age truth: love and memory are the most powerful algorithms.

Final Thoughts: A Flawed Yet Romantic Manifesto

The Electric State is like a scratched vinyl record spinning beautifully off-key — an aesthetic rebellion against the polished conformity of sci-fi blockbusters. It may not be the best film of the year, but it's certainly the one you should watch with 3D glasses on and the volume turned up loud.

Of the 4.5 stars I'd give it, half a star goes to its unfinished ambition — but the other four I gladly pay for this twin adventure of visuals and emotion. In an age ruled by cold precision and content algorithms, a film this sincere — this delightfully "un-smart" — feels like a luxurious kind of happiness.