A New Look at Superheroes

Matthew Vaughn’s 2010 film Kick-Ass is based on a 2008 comic book series of the same name, written by Mark Miller and illustrated by John Romita, Jr. While watching this film, I tried to keep our class discussion of Terry Zwigoff’s Ghost World in mind while watching this film. Both films are adapted from graphic novels; Kick-Ass, however, adds the superhero element in both its graphic novel and film. The main character, Dave Lizewski, wakes up one morning and decides to become a superhero, without any semblance of a real purpose or power behind his decision.

An example of a page from the original comic book series Kick-Ass. 

Like Ghost World, Kick-Ass incorporates some of the drawings from the actual source text–or at least drawings that have the same style as the source text. Kick-Ass adds an additional element of an interactive comic, which serves the purpose of explaining the origin of the two “actual” superheroes of the movie, Hit Girl and Big Daddy. This sequence makes the viewer feel like they’re actually inside the comic book. It also breaks down the traditional montage sequence, giving it a substance most film montages cannot dredge up.

This clip shows Kick-Ass’ comic book montage within the otherwise live-action film.

The film also involves intertextuality, engaging with both itself and other texts. After Dave’s superhero persona gains notoriety, someone writes a best-selling comic book in his honor. The book on display in the shop some of the characters frequent is the actual book upon which the film was based.

The film also incorporates considerable mention of and allusions to other superheroes. At one point, Kick-Ass’ voiceover indicates that “with no power comes no responsibility,” which is obviously a play on Spider-Man’s adage “With great power comes great responsibility.” Numerous other references include the 1978 Superman, the 1989 Batman, the 2000 X-Men, the 2005 Fantastic Four, and the 2010 Scott Pilgrim vs. the World. Furthermore, according to trivia on IMDb, Nicholas Cage purposefully talks like Adam West’s 1966 portrayal of Batman.

The film essentially subverts the expectations of modern superhero tales. Kick-Ass’ release coincided with the 2007 Spider-Man 3, and the 2008 film The Dark Knight, second in yet another Batman series. Kick-Ass provided a fresh look at the superhero genre, refusing to abide by the gore or language guidelines of a PG-13 movie like one of the other films of its genre. This film is not your child’s movie; its use of violence and offensive language likely shocked those entering the theater expecting another safe superhero film. By first engaging with the texts listed above, it then revolutionizes the genre by defying all expectations of a superhero flick.

Multiple Ends to a Meaning

From an adaptation standpoint, I was curious about Jonathan Lynn’s film Clue, based on the board game of the same name. Though I have only played the actual board game a handful of times, I used to play the computer game almost every day as a child. I had never seen the 1985 film Clue before, and after watching it I thought it was a borderline miracle that they managed to get so much material out of something so superficial.

The six main characters of the Clue computer game, all of which appear in the 1985 film of the same name.

However, the more I thought about it, I realized that the possibilities were almost endless. The original board game has six characters, six weapons, and nine rooms, which allows for 324 possible outcomes.

Lynn’s film, however, works with only three of those outcomes. The film was originally released with three different endings, unbeknownst to unsuspecting audience members. Today’s DVD version, however, allows the user to either watch the film with a random ending, or to cycle through all three endings. In comparison to many more modern films with “alternate endings,” each ending of the film was a viable ending at the time of its release.

One of the images the movie plays when you watch all three endings at once on the DVD version. 

Because I came into the film knowing about the different endings, I think I had a different perspective than that original audience. I approached the film with the idea that the plot was mutable but the message was not. In the end, it doesn’t really matter who killed whom. They were all brought to Hill House because they were being blackmailed by the owner, Mr. Boddy, and each of them have a motive to kill at least one other person in the house. Each of the characters worked for some facet of the government. Though the film was set in the 1950s, the apex of the anti-Communist era, two of the three endings refer to Communism as simply a red herring. Rather, the film calls into question the fragility of truly “American” values, like capitalism, freedom, and unchecked power. The film was released near the end of the Cold War, a time of uncertainty when America lost their overconfident sense of entitlement to the above mentioned values. In all, Clue accomplishes much more than I ever would have imagined in a two-hour film adaptation of a board game.

The Integrity of Shakespeare

Baz Luhrmann’s 1996 Romeo + Juliet and I got off on the wrong foot. If we rewind to 2004 and pause during my fourth-period Honors English class, we’ll likely find a disgruntled ninth-grade version of myself. My teacher at the time (I won’t name names) was of the persuasion that movies were just as good as literature and should be substituted for them at all costs. That’s how we came to watch the film version of Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, Romeo and Juliet (the list goes on) in place of reading the texts. Always an avid reader, I much rather would have read the books, and I even tried to read some of these works on my own time.

In the case of Romeo and Juliet, I distinctly remember watching at least two film adaptations of the text in class. The first, Franco Zeffirelli’s 1968 Romeo and Juliet, matched my skewed idea of fidelity to the original text. When we watched Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet the next day, however, I was appalled. Though I hadn’t read Shakespeare at the time, I simply knew that this film flagrantly defied all the laws of Shakespeare. It replaced swords with guns, the narrator with TV anchorpeople, and made the warring families into glorified gangs–all of which I could have dealt with if not for the language. The film maintains Shakespeare’s original language, which is initially jarring against the backdrop of the late twentieth-century Verona Beach.

Recently, however, I decided to revisit the film that would have otherwise lived in infamy in my lackluster high school memories. I think my academic study of Shakespeare in college also helped me sweep the slate blank. After taking a Shakespeare course in England, I realize that Shakespeare’s play lend themselves to constant interpretation and reinterpretation. His stage directions and descriptions of settings are minimal at best, allowing directors to make their own meanings out of Shakespeare’s original guidelines. His works are easily appropriated as well, as films like 10 Things I Hate about You (a retelling of Taming of the Shrew) and She’s the Man (a retelling of Twelfth Night) prove. Romeo + Juliet is also an appropriation of its source text, even though it is more obvious about its ties to Shakespeare than the above two films.

                

Some people would never guess that Shakespeare is at the root of some modern movies.

From the perspective I have now, as opposed to my close-minded ninth-grade self, I realize that Romeo + Juliet relates Shakespeare to modern culture in a way that no other film has done before or since its release. I realize now that by retaining the original language, he refuses to break ties with Shakespeare, instead relating the source text to modern issues like gun control, the war on drugs, and the increasing appearance of gangs in the inner cities. Luhrmann must relate modern issues to the viewer, otherwise he would have had no audience. Everyone knows the story of Romeo and Juliet, regardless of whether they’ve read the play or not; two star-crossed lovers meet, woo, and die within a period of three days. Were Luhrmann to have simply adapted the 1968 film into a slightly more modern version of the same film, his sales would have been much less. Instead, he found a way to use Shakespeare’s language as a way to enter into a new conversation about how the text can be applied even today.

Baz Luhrmann maintains Shakespeare’s dialect while also relating Romeo and Juliet to modern issues.

Life Eternal: One Robot’s Journey to become a Boy

Before watching Steven Spielberg’s A.I. Artificial Intelligence in class, I had seen the film numerous times (albeit not in the past three or four years). I had no idea that taking Film Adaptation would allow me to glean so much more from the film than I ever had before. 

The biggest thing I hadn’t picked up on before was the religious undertone of the film. The source text, Brian Aldiss’ short story “Supertoys Last All Summer Long,” indicates that man created robots to cure man’s increasing loneliness in a nation with a strictly controlled birth rate. The film expands on that loneliness, equating man with a god who wants someone to serve him and love him unconditionally. A female colleague of Professor Hobby’s asks him, “If a robot could genuinely love a person what responsibility does that person hold toward that Mecha in return? It’s a moral question, isn’t it?” In response, Professor Hobby says, “The oldest one of all. But in the beginning, didn’t God create Adam to love him?” HIs colleague suggests that because this new robot can feel, man has an obligation to consider his feelings. But if the robots are being created solely to fulfill a void in a couple’s childless life, then unlike God’s selfless creation of man, it is a selfish creation. We see proof of this through David’s eternal, unanswered devotion to a mortal mother who cannot even fully love him back during her lifetime. 

I was also able to discern intertextuality within the film that I previously hadn’t noticed. I had, of course, picked up on the Pinnochio element: Haley Joel Osment’s character longs to become a “real boy.” The less obvious references include those to the Wizard of Oz and William Butler Yeats’ poem “The Stolen Child.” David and Gigolo Joe journey to Rouge City, obviously a play on the Emerald City, in the hopes of Dr. Know answering all their questions. Furthermore, Yeats’ poem serves as a signpost along David’s way, beckoning him to follow the blue fairy to the ends of the earth. 

Professor Hobby uses William Butler Yeats’ poem “The Stolen Child” to lure David back to the site of his creation.

Although many people take issue with the ending of the film, I had no problem with it either five years ago or just a few days ago. This most recent viewing, however, I realized that I didn’t quite understand the ending the first go-around. This time, I viewed the aliens/SuperRobots as suspicious characters; they had the ability to “recreate” almost anything from David’s memory, but these ultimately proved to be just extremely believable manipulations of the mind. Thus, I viewed Monica’s recreation with skepticism: true, she could love David in a timeless world free of the complications of Martin, Henry, and the inevitability of time, but is that a real love? And if the other depictions of David’s memory are ultimately false, might not Monica and her love be just another slight of hand? 

David is given one more day with Monica, only to lose her once again. 

I also picked up on the film’s implication that David dies at the end of the film.  At the end of her one-day lease on life, Monica falls to her final sleep, and the narrator tells the audience that “David went to sleep too. And for the first time in his life, he went to that place where dreams are born.” After reading the trivia on IMDb, I learned that Haley Joel Osment suggested his character not blink to prove his mechanic nature. Spielberg loved the suggestion, and instructed all of the robot characters to do the same. This sheds new light on the fact that David closes his eyes and goes to sleep with Monica; perhaps he too will never open his eyes again. Before rewatching the film and learning this piece of trivia, I assumed that David would go on living his life in devotion to a mother whom he was now certain he would never again. In this way, the film gives David peace and releases him from the emotions which man selfishly made him feel. In a roundabout way, the film answers the question posed at its beginning, suggesting the implications of shirking the responsibility for its own creation. Like Frankenstein and his monster, man had no place trying to play God for his own scientific gains.

Same Structure, Different Movie

Although I had already seen Danny Boyle’s 2008 film Slumdog Millionaire, it had been about three years, so I attempted to come into it with a clean slate. I tried to relate it to Vikas Swarup’s Q & A more than my previous knowledge of the film. 

On that note, I was disappointed with the transposition of the novel to the film, especially regarding the overall structure. The novel was structured around 12 questions that Ram had been able to answer based upon his own life experiences. I thought this really tied together the narrative. Though I was skeptical about the seemingly illogical organization of the questions at the beginning, my qualms were resolved by the end: Ram had gone on the show to avenge Nita’s mistreatment at the hands of the Regis Philbin-wannabe. 

The movie was arranged similarly, explaining how Jamal knew some of the answers based on his life experiences. However, some of the questions were given to him, either with the aid of a lifeline or with the announcer’s help (or lack thereof). I understand this was a way to condense the narrative in the name of time constraints. And though the idea that Ram was lucky enough to know every answer based on his life experiences is a bit contrived, I felt the novel was better executed than the movie. The only upside to the movie on this front was its ability to easily switch back and forth between the show and Jamal’s life. This provided a little more context and was more “in the moment.”

I also thought the religious aspect that was such a big part of the novel was missing from the film. The complexity of the main character’s name is evident in his three-part name: the Hindi name Ram, the Muslim name Ram, and the British name Thomas. This captures the religious divisions that define modern India. The film, however, didn’t communicate to me its religious stance, if there was any. Maybe I “watched it wrong,” but most of the film was spoken in Hindi, though “Jamal” and “Salim” are Muslim names. The scene at the beginning, when Jamal’s slum is attacked by Hindu zealots, indicates that he is Muslim, and the trains carrying the Hindus are obviously symbols of religious warfare here. However, this was the only instance (at least that I noticed) of a religious aspect, as compared to its complexity in the novel.

The film does, however, emphasize the issue of globalization. The quiz show in the novel is obviously a ripoff of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, but it at least disguises itself with a new name. The film, however, makes no such effort. It calls itself by the same name, uses the same lifelines, and looks like a carbon copy of Millionaire‘s set. The idea that India’s pop culture relies on America is offset by the fact that America’s workforce has been displaced to India. Jamal works at a call center in India and is taught to speak to people from across the world as though he were right down the street from them. I was instantly reminded of Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger, which I had to read for my British Literature class. In this novel, the main character also works at a call center for a time. Both this novel and Slumdog Millionaire highlight the fact that the West outsources its workforce and then complains when the service is lacking.

The set of India’s Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? is almost a carbon copy of
America’s game show set.

Though I understand what the film was trying to accomplish, I think it fails as an adaptation of Q & A. The two texts were almost completely different, and both separately sufficient, but they do not work as a pair.

The Unadaptability Quotient

Many novels or various other genres of texts are considered to be “unadaptable.” it’s simply a common belief that they cannot–and perhaps should not–be adapted into a film. The go-to example is David Foster Wallace’s novel Infinite Jest, due to its length and breadth of topic. The novel is over a thousand pages long and contains 388 footnotes, some of which have their own footnotes. Prior to its recent film release, David Mitchell’s novel Cloud Atlas was thought to be unadaptable. I’ve yet to see the film, so I won’t assert my opinion on that front.

I can, however, add to the list of works that (at least, I believe) should not be adapted. Mark Z. Danielewski’s sprawling, genre-defying novel, House of Leaves, spans over 600 pages. These pages aren’t your grandmother’s pages, though. Some pages are crammed with text going every direction possible–sideways, diagonal, in columns, etc.–while others might have just one word on the page. This creates an atmosphere for the reader that reflects the characters’ experiences. The novel has many layers and narrators, but the main narrative focuses on Will Navidson, who finds a secret labyrinth in   his closet that makes no architectural sense. Will and his brother Tom, as well as other crew members, explore the depths of the mysterious, expanding labyrinth that drives people to insanity and even murder. The pages’ design reflects the ebb and flow of the the at times expanding and at times suffocating nature of the house, making the reader experience the same nervousness and claustrophobia as the characters. This element of the book is vital to its execution and could not be replicated on screen.

An example of the unique text placement in House of Leaves.

Furthermore, the different layers of the narrative I mentioned above would not lend itself to a two- to two-and-a-half-hour production. Bits of the story are narrated by many different characters. The first narrator is Johhny Truant, who discovered The Navidson Record, narrated by another character Zampano. The Navidson Record details the occurrence in Will Navidson’s house. Navidson also narrates some of the story, as does his brother Tom and wife Karen. Truant’s mother also narrates a section of the story, through her letters at the end of the book. An unnamed set of “editors” also interject their opinions in many of the footnotes. In this way, no film could incorporate all the layers of the novel; they would have to pick and choose the layers, and in the process, would detract from the essence of the novel.

While surfing the internet and looking for information on House of Leaves, I came across a few fan-made videos on YouTube that I think prove the insufficiency of any film based on the novel. Even the most well done of the lot proved to me that the idea of a grumbling house that drives people to inner insanity isn’t that scary on screen. The novel literally terrified me, in a way that I don’t think a film could. The novel imbeds itself in one’s mind, and a film would not be able to capture that. Watch the example for yourself though.

The Adaptable Drama

In class we talked about films that are based upon stage plays and discussed whether they can truly be adapted for the screen. Although Night of the Iguana fits the bill, I wanted to apply it to a more modern film. In that vein, I chose John Mitchell’s 2010 film Rabbit Hole, based upon a stage play by David Lindsay-Abaire. Both the play and the film focus on a married couple, Howie and Becca, eight months after the passing of their four-year-old son.

The first thing I noticed about the film was the star appeal. Howie is played by Aaron Eckhart, best known for his recent appearance as Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight. Released in 2008, The Dark Knight‘s high grossing figures are an indicator of the many people that saw the film. Those same people watching Rabbit Hole would likely recognize Eckhart in a heartbeat. I’ll confess that my first exclamation of the film was, “It’s Harvey Dent!” Not to mention Nicole Kidman, who is a well-known actress. It’s likely that the producers of the film capitalized on Eckhart’s popularity and Kidman’s more serious roles. Audience members who liked Kidman’s performance in her more critically acclaimed movies, such as Cold Mountain and The Hours, would watch in expectance of another top-notch performance.  

Eckhart and Kidman live up to the producers’ expectations for them, and it’s a good thing too, because they are on screen for much of the film due to the nature of the storyline. Kidman and Eckhart’s characters each grieve in different ways; Kidman shines as the stoic, introverted griever, and Eckhart’s need for external grief clashes in an effective execution of family drama. 

 

Nicole Kidman and Aaron Eckhart play a grieving couple who recently lost their young child.

The only downside I picked up on was the limitation of the source text. Perhaps my prior knowledge swayed my viewing, but I could tell the film was based upon a play. Though some action takes place in the outside world, much of it occurs in the couple’s house. It felt to me like the producers were scrambling to come up with ideas for other locations, and the best they could come up with was a bowling alley, a park bench, or someone else’s house. Although it made it feel like a play to me, I don’t think the lack of locations was a complete failure. The couple’s child died right outside their house, and the house serves as a constant reminder of the child’s absence. In this way, because much of the action occurs there, the house suffocates both the couple and the audience.

Overall, I thought the casting choices, acting, and location combined to make a successful adaptation from play to screen. Sometimes I guess you can have your cake and eat it too.

A Twist on Twist

Tim Greene’s 2004 film Boy Called Twist feels like a mashup of Slumdog Millionaire‘s style and the content of Charles Dicken’s Oliver Twist–with a heavy reliance on the plot nuances of David Lean’s 1948 film Oliver Twist. The film both engages with these texts and makes statements of its own, with varying degrees of success.

Just as Dickens calls attention to the Poor Laws of his time, Tim Greene brings the modern mistreatment of children to the forefront of his film. The South African setting calls attention to child slave labor, an important problem in many parts of the world today. The beginning of the film focuses on the orphanage Twist grows up in. The woman in charge of the orphanage frowns upon the help getting attached to the children, because she knows not many of them will live for very long. She will inevitably sell those children who do live into slavery, just to make enough money to keep the orphanage afloat. This vicious cycle exhibits the system’s inherent, socially accepted corruption.

Once the narration shifts to the cityscape of Cape Town, Africa, Greene immerses us in the lives of Fagin’s gang of child thieves–something that neither Dickens nor Lean accomplish as well as Greene does. The audience witnesses the street kids’ solidarity through various scenes involving only the children. In both the novel and Lean’s adaptation, we witness most of this part of the narrative’s action through the perspective of Fagin or Oliver, and the street kids are more of an afterthought. In Boy Called Twist, however, we become part of their “strolling,” and their drug use and general debauchery alerts us as to how corrupted they really are. Fagin is living proof that children are not only bought and sold by the government; as he indicates, they must “earn their keep.”

Greene throws Twist in the midst of the street kids, blurring the lines between the black and white that Dickens and Lean clearly established. In both Dickens’ and Lean’s texts, Oliver is markedly innocent–almost impossibly so–and remains unchanged throughout the entirety of the texts. Greene, however, is more ambiguous about Twist’s innocence. Twist succumbs to peer pressure, taking drugs and aiding in the pickpocketing–which Oliver would never do. Though I understand the idea that no one is that innocent and could resist such peer pressure, Greene contradicts himself and suggests Twist’s innocence via other means. For example, anytime Twist is pictured either with Ebrahim Bassedien or in his house, he is dressed all in white. Furthermore, Greene refuses to let Twist die, saving him with a conveniently placed (and symbolically white) blanket. Frankly, Twist’s innocence felt a little hokey, at least in the world Greene created.

Note the difference between Twist on the street and Twist in Bassedien’s house.

Monks’ narrative also seemed to fall flat. Perhaps I couldn’t understand the–albeit limited–exchanges that involved Monks, or maybe I’m just missing something, but Monks seemed like an unnecessary character in this adaptation. He appears as a creepy stalker who haunts Twist’s childhood, driving by the orphanage what seems like every two seconds. I assume that Monks’ storyline is virtually the same as that in Lean’s adaptation, but I never received that clarification in Greene’s film.

Overall, Greene’s film brings to light some issues that relate Oliver Twist in a modern perspective. However, his reliance on the original text and David Lean’s adaptation sometimes hinders this initiative.

No Twist Here

David Lean’s 1948 film Oliver Twist is almost a straight adaptation of Charles Dickens’ novel. The only major plot device missing is Rose Maylie’s subplot, and the film is no less of an epic tale because of this slight. However, some of the film’s nuances say much more about the time period around which the film was released.

The Jewish element was emphasized through Fagin, and in fact the movie was banned for three years in the U.S. for being anti-Semitic. However, I don’t think it’s necessarily as black and white as some people would have had viewers believe. Granted, Fagin’s makeup, particularly his prosthetic nose, brings his Jewishness to the forefront, and he is portrayed as greedy, stingy, and abusive to the boys under his charge.

David Lean’s version of Fagin plays up his Jewish heritage, adding an obviously fake nose for the finishing touches.

However, there are undertones of the Holocaust near the end of the film that suggest a different side to the story. The band of thieves have barricaded themselves in their lodgings, complete with piles of wood in front of the doors. This behavior alludes to the Holocaust, when Jews went into hiding from the Nazis. The angry mob of citizens, who come “in the name of the king,” resemble an impending regiment of soldiers. To make things even more obvious, when Fagin is confronted by the men, he says, “Strike them all dead! What right have you to butcher me?” One can’t ignore this allusion to the horrors of the Holocaust. In this way, I think Lean uses the Jewish stereotype just to subvert it.

Lean’s technical applications such as angles and cuts provide another layer to the already complex storyline. His use of high angles showcases the idea of observation. For example, at the beginning of the film, the boys in the workhouse are seen looking down upon the board members, who are feasting upon meals the boys can only dream of. The camera looks up at the boys, which would usually indicate that they are in a position of power. A similar shot occurs when Nancy watches the exchange between Fagin and Monks. She is also presented at a high angle, but she is observing them in secret and is in constant fear of being discovered. Both of these scenes serve to indicate that the women and children within them are not held in regard: they do not have power and, as Nancy’s death will prove, they are disposable.

Lean’s use of cuts, especially within the first few scenes, elaborate on the satire that is an important facet of the original novel. For example, when discussing conditions in the workhouse, the board is shown discussing their dwindling powers of punishment. One member indicates that the workhouses have become places of entertainment. Immediately after his comment, Lean cuts to an actual scene in the workhouse, in which the inmates are working their fingers to the bone. This adds to the idea of a blindly ignorant government that can be a danger to society.

Overall, the 1948 film doesn’t change much about Dickens’ classic; it simply modernizes it to relate to the times in which it was filmed.

A Halloween Treat

For a Halloween double feature, Tod Browning’s 1932 film Freaks and David Cronenberg’s 1986 film The Fly make for a queasy ride at times.

I’ll grant that Freaks was less of a gore-induced nausea than The Fly, though. I felt that the film focused on the spectacle of the sideshow rather than the woman’s punishment like in the short story. From today’s perspective, I could watch the movie from the viewpoint of audience implication. I found myself simultaneously intrigued and disturbed by the characters. Many of the characters’ deformities were emphasized by lingering shots, and I found myself being reprimanded for looking so intently. However, I’m not sure the movie intentionally did this; I think people of the 1930s were genuinely entertained by and inconsiderate of people with deformities.

The camera often lingers on the performers, highlighting their struggles with everyday tasks.

However, I did enjoy Cleopatra’s form of punishment in the film. Rather than being punished by her husband, the freaks band up in defense of one of their own kind. Punishing the mistreatment of the freaks by making her join their ranks is poetic justice at its best. In the short story, I could feel pity for her character. In the film, though, her character is judgmental and conniving through and through, leaving no room for pity.

Cronenberg’s The Fly embraces the grotesque head on. Whereas in Freaks, Cleopatra’s transformation from human to “freak” is implied, we witness every step of Seth Brundle’s transformation from human to human/fly.

I thought this appropriation of George Langelaan’s original short story was a successful representation of a prevailing sentiment of the 1980s: the uneasy feeling toward technology. At the beginning of the film, the teleportation device “can’t deal with the flesh yet.” The device must learn the ways of the flesh like Brundle, the socially awkward scientist who has sex with Geena Davis. In his first human teleportation experiment, the flesh is contaminated by the fly, causing the experiment to go horribly wrong. This exacerbates the paranoia about technology: how one tiny mistake can have a dangerous ripple effect upon human life.

Seth Brundle prepares to teleport himself, mixing technology and the flesh with what ends in terrible results.

The technology’s main flaw is that it is controlled by the user. The device relies only on what Brundle tells it to do; it cannot think for itself, and thus it cannot redeem itself. It ruins human life because it knew no better. This reflects the idea that though humans think they control technology, there can be unforeseen repercussions. I felt like the film captured the same anti-technology sentiments found in the short story, only in a way that related to the time period of the film’s release.

All that being said, I’ll never be able to look at a fly in the same way. Or a chicken, for that matter.