They’re probably reading a story about a personified object like a train or something. How childish.

It’s been a big year for robots. Ultron was deliciously menacing and Spader-y; Terminators came back as they’re so fond of promising; and if you haven’t seen Ex Machina, you missed what is probably the best movie of the year (and which I may have to come back to in another post).

Those movies — and countless others — paint the robots as villains, as killers, as a sign of doom, the violent end of mankind. But what makes AMC’s new show Humans utterly compelling is how it subverts all of that. These robots don’t have a horrible agenda (mostly). They’re just really good at things. They do menial tasks we don’t want to do, efficiently and without complaint. They take care of the sick who need them. They’re hyper aware of their surroundings so they never hurt any humans, even by accident (unless they’re broken, in which case they are promptly repaired or replaced).

More than any other robot story I can remember, Humans brings to life how robots (or as the show calls them, “synths”) might end up being better than us not just at labor, but at the things we see as making us human — and as a result, taking our humanity away from us not by force, but by merit.

If robots can think and act more precisely, they can take over our most skilled professions, like surgeons or scientists — at which point, why bother trying to compete? They’ve stolen our ambition and aspiration. If they’re more patient, better listeners, and always make rational decisions about what’s best for us, could they be better parents than us at our most frazzled and frustrated? It might be better for the child if they take that away from us too. If a synth is totally loyal, physically perfect, and exists only for our happiness, then to an awkward lonely teen or adult in an unhappy marriage, how could they not pose a tempting alternative to the messiness of real relationships?

The show is a nice mix of mystery and crime story, science fiction and human drama, which makes it extremely watchable week to week. But what makes it special, why it deserves the most credit, is for making us consider how artificial intelligence might not take over suddenly and by force, but by a gradual superiority that leaves even us having to admit to ourselves: maybe they deserve it.

What would be the last things that only humans could do as robots get smarter and more capable?

What things that seem so central to your life now would you be happy to concede to a machine?

What would be the final leap they’d have to make before you could feel like you had a relationship with an artificially created life form?

Are some of the final things that make us distinctly human actually not so great after all, where we’d just be better off without them?

Back to work, lazy emotions.

An interesting thought on the through-line that ties together all the great Pixar films of the last couple decades, from The Awl:

The basic Pixar story is that of an individual seeking to establish, refine, or preserve their function as an instrument within a system of labor. The only way Pixar is able to conceptualize a protagonist is to assign them a job (or a conspicuous lack of one) and arrange the mechanisms of plot to ensure that they fulfill that job. This is why Joy can only accept Sadness once she comes to understand what it is she does.

Pixar’s debut film organized a scenario involving sentient toys as a narrative about two men fighting for the same job. In not one but two sequels, it revisited those same characters in a narrative about how bad retirement is, and how awful it is to be made redundant. In Monsters, Inc., it developed a parallel universe populated by monsters and powered by childrens’ screams to tell a story about a workplace duo striving to be the most efficient employees. Up is ultimately a film about how unthinkable it is to retire; even elderly widowers must find a new vocation. In film after film, Pixar presents narratives chiefly concerned with characters trying to be the best at what they do, or otherwise prove their usefulness.

Does this change how you think of your favorite Pixar films?

Is there another, better unifying theme to the Pixar catalogue?

Is this a good, healthy thing for kids’ movies to be saying, or a strange and troubling thing to be teaching them?

KISS has an army. do you?

From a profile by Chuck Klosterman on his favorite band, KISS:

“One thing I’ve learned in my life is that — creatively — it’s better to have one person love you than to have 10 people like you. It’s very easy to like someone’s work, and it doesn’t mean that much; you can like something for a year and just as easily forget it even existed. But people remember the things they love. They psychologically invest in those things, and they use them to define their lives.”

Is this true for individuals on a purely social level, or only when it comes to creators and their work?
Would you be happier with fewer “friends”, but more very close ones?
What kind of people, or in which situations, is the opposite actually true?