WALL·E

The last time I watched this movie was when I was three years old, with not enough media criticism under my belt to discern the most basic theme of this movie (pollution and waste = bad, love our planet). It goes without saying that this movie is visually stunning and incredibly constructed—the first thirty-five minutes are perfect and possibly the most beautiful thing Pixar has ever put out. But even with the language I have now to describe art I enjoy, I think I emerged with exactly the same takeaway as toddler me: WALL-E’s an adorable little guy. He shows more joie de vivre than most, and all of us could stand to learn how to love from him. WALL-E collects trinkets. He makes friends in happy accidents. His fingers twitch and his lenses dilate whenever he’s near EVE.  When did I start exorcising Roombas instead of cooing at them? Like the Curiosity Rover singing “Happy Birthday” to itself on Mars or the computer poetry of J.M. Coetzee,* WALL-E brings me back to a time where robot creativity and self-expression provoked empathy rather than Luddite cynicism. In our generative day, anything that brushes against the concept of artificial general intelligence is either the bubble-inflating talk of a Y-Combinator grifter or a grave premonition of existential risk (often both). And WALL-E certainly comments on corporate greed bringing us to ruin, on how the best consumers are ones who are placated to the point of inability, but its warnings aren’t nearly as strong as its hope.  I think I love stories about non-humans showing humanity because I generally subscribe to “if they can do it, I can do it too”—it’s as logically sound as any other manifestation mantra, but it motivates me to pursue difficult things. The tide of capitalism (or any less sardonically poetic term for it) is isolating, deafening, and unyielding. But if one trash compactor with binocular eyes could renew the indomitable human spirit, it shouldn’t be too hard for each of us to find it within ourselves.