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Being John Malkovich Explained

Being John Malkovich is science fiction, romance, and arthouse drama all wrapped into one. It’s the first major film written by screenwriter Charlie Kaufman, and it explores themes that would come to dominate his oeuvre in the years to come.

But if you’ve arrived here, you’re probably wondering first and foremost about this film’s convoluted plot. What to make of this strange tale about a puppeteer, a portal, a B-list actor, and a lesbian romance?

I’ll go on to show that Being John Malkovich comments on various psychological aspects of making movies. More specifically, the main conflict in the film represents an ideological battle between outdated, conventional cinematic aesthetics and newer, more personal screenwriting techniques.

How on Earth did I get all that from this weird film? Read on to find out.

1. Puppeteer

Kaufman’s protagonist is Craig Schwartz (John Cusack), an unemployed puppeteer. Craig typifies the “starving artist.” He stays true to his artistic visions despite being met with indifference at best and hostility at worst. For instance, on the city sidewalk he puts on a lewd puppet show that offends passersby and leads one father to bloody him up. Disdainful of all commercialism, however, Craig takes pride in his unpopularity: when his wife, Lotte (Cameron Diaz), sees his battered face, he explains, defiantly: “I’m a puppeteer.”

This artistic idealism, though, doesn’t impress Lotte. In fact, she’s so uninterested in the depths of the human soul that she keeps company almost exclusively with animals. Perhaps because of this, Craig soon seeks out an extramarital affair with new coworker Maxine (Catherine Keener).

Craig has just started a job at a strange filing company that, in a parody of corporate penny-pinching, has literally “low overhead.” Stifled by a loveless marriage and the crushing dullness of office work, he sees Maxine as a potential reprieve. But Maxine repeatedly professes her lack of attraction for Craig, most notably after he reveals his trade as a puppeteer, which she mocks as “playing with dolls.”

At around this point, Craig discovers a “portal” into the mind of actor John Malkovich. This portal enables any person to experience Malkovich’s life for about fifteen minutes at a time. And many clamor to partake in this experience: Craig and Maxine soon set up a lucrative side-business selling tickets to the portal.

The key to understanding the portal’s symbolic meaning—which will be crucial to understanding the meaning of the film overall—is that the portal represents the experience of cinema. Consider that “being John Malkovich,” is what movies allow us to do: feel like, or be, an actor like Malkovich, via visual experience. The portal recreates the compelling cinematic feeling of seeing life through someone else’s eyes.

So it’s not surprising that the portal attracts high demand: movies are big business. And, as with the cinema, the appeal of the portal appears to lie partially in connecting viewers with unexplored aspects of themselves. Lotte, for example, connects so strongly with Malkovich while in the portal that she begins to identify as transgender and falls in love with Maxine.

Further evidence for the symbolic link between the portal and the movie screen comes when Malkovich himself enters the portal. Once inside, he experiences a bizarre world in which every person is a copy of himself and says only, “Malkovich.” Even the restaurant menu consists only of his own name in repetition. Upon being expelled from the portal, Malkovich summarizes his horror: “I have seen a world that no man should see.”

What is the meaning of this unsettling scene? Recall that, as per our analysis so far, the portal doesn’t actually make someone become another person. If this were the case, Malkovich in the portal would merely become himself, and he would experience life normally. Instead, as we’ve established, the portal, like the movie screen, allows one to view life through another’s eyes. Thus, by entering the portal—by symbolically watching his own movie—Malkovich ceases living his life and begins watching his life. In other words, he becomes self-conscious.

Such a condition seems to be highly debilitating. Judging by Malkovich’s experience in the portal, it removes one’s ability to empathize with or even recognize other people. Of course, we can all relate to the idea that self-consciousness hinders interpersonal connections: it refocuses our minds from other people to our own selves. But with the scene of Malkovich entering the portal, Kaufman indicates that an even more severe version of this problem may await screen artists. After all, as a part of their profession, they must constantly watch and consider themselves onscreen. Because of this, they may become so self-conscious that they become totally solipsistic and inward-focused.

It could easily be argued, however, that since 1999, when Being John Malkovich was released, this distinction between actors and non-actors has largely collapsed. Due to changes in media and social media, most of us now face anxieties that, previously, were the exclusive domain of actors. Kaufman’s commentaries about actors, therefore, could now reasonably be applied more broadly.

2. Screenwriter

In summary, we’ve established that the portal symbolizes the cinematic experience. It presents the benefits of film as an art form—exemplified by Lotte’s experience—while also presenting the dangers of film as a potential cause of debilitating self-consciousness—exemplified by Malkovich’s experience.

But even amidst these characters’ intense encounters with the portal, Craig develops a particularly strong relationship with it. He alone learns to use it to control Malkovich’s body rather than simply go along for the ride. Given that we have symbolically connected the portal to cinema, we can in turn interpret Craig’s special ability. Specifically, Craig learning to control Malkovich represents him learning the art of screenwriting.

After all, Craig has learned to control an actor, just as a screenwriter controls an actor through written dialogue and stage directions. The other characters merely enjoy a brief period of projective identification before finding themselves back in the real world: they correspond to filmgoers. But Craig alone exerts authority over the cinematic experience, corresponding with a writer of movie screenplays.

If this meta interpretation seems like a stretch, then you likely haven’t watched many of Charlie Kaufman’s films. Most of his major protagonists are indeed struggling screenwriters or playwrights. He often explores the difficulty of writing authentic screenplays and the madness that may result from such an effort. Thus, Being John Malkovich—his first major work—merely introduces his preference to write screenplays about…writing screenplays.

Back to Craig. His symbolic transition to screenwriting brings several benefits, especially a reversal of fortune with Maxine. While she had earlier chided him for “playing with dolls,” she finds his manipulation of Malkovich impressive and enthralling. Thus, the two begin a relationship.

This change of heart from Maxine exemplifies the perks of being a screenwriter compared to being a puppeteer. Attention is much more likely to accompany one than the other. Plus, screenwriting, unlike puppetry, allows Maxine to fall in love with a character created by Craig, rather than Craig himself. This is rather convenient for Craig, given his disheveled appearance and mopey demeanor. By hiding inside a character, he can project a more appealing version of himself.

But amidst Craig’s newfound romantic and financial success, his shift to symbolic screenwriting also has a negative component. Namely, it appears linked with a decline in his artistic ideals. Recall that as a puppeteer, Craig had upheld strict artistic morals and high-mindedness. But upon learning to control Malkovich, he largely discards those ideals and uses his talents for selfish reasons—especially to attract Maxine.

In addition, by using his abilities for these ends, Craig has put himself in a precarious position. To remain with Maxine, he must be Malkovich. Since Maxine has no attraction to Craig outside of his Malkovich character, he must now maintain that character forever if he wants to sustain her interest.

Predictably, he increasingly struggles to do so. Malkovich under Craig’s control begins to suspiciously resemble…Craig. For example, the new Malkovich begins a career in arthouse puppetry and starts to physically look like Craig. Accordingly, Maxine gradually loses interest and dumps him. (This occurs after about eight months of being together, a decent approximation of the “honeymoon phase,” after which relationships stereotypically become more difficult as facades wear thin.)

We can infer that Craig’s inability to maintain distance between himself and his character reflects Kaufman’s own philosophy regarding character invention. After all, as we’ve described, Kaufman tends to write characters based heavily on himself (including in this movie, which explores the psychology of screenwriting). It seems that he has little faith in one’s ability—or at least in his own ability—to create authentic characters that aren’t, at heart, mere copies of oneself. This thinking will be important as we move to the next section.

3. Captain

So far, our analysis has covered how the characters’ experiences with the portal symbolize either moviegoing or, in Craig’s special case, screenwriting. But one character uses the portal for entirely different ends.

That would be Dr. Lester (Orson Bean), otherwise known as Captain Mertin. In the late 1800’s, Mertin discovered the portal, and he realized that if he inhabited it on the 44th birthday of the individual to whose mind it led, then he would become that person permanently—enabling himself, essentially, to live forever.

How does this fit with our interpretation of the portal as a representation of cinema? Well, Mertin discovered the portal in the late 1800’s, precisely when film was invented. So the framework seems to hold up.

Continuing to adhere to that framework, then, we can infer that Mertin’s jumping from one “vessel body” to another represents how certain filmic ideas and characters can become essentially immortal through repeated artistic imitation.

Don’t worry, I’ll explain.

Captain Mertin, a rich, white industrialist, is exactly the kind of person who would have been the subject of fledgling films upon their early invention. And when a new generation of filmmakers inevitably imitated these early reels, his essence would have been channeled into the newer films. And so forth with the next generation of filmmakers, et cetera. Thus, by being the subject of the first ever films in the late 1800’s, Mertin has found a way to live forever. The spirit of those films lives on through its enduring influence on our artistic tradition. From this perspective, Mertin never “dies.”

This is represented in the movie by Mertin literally trying to transfer himself into the mind of a practicing actor. Film actors like John Malkovich indeed provide a “vessel” for those like Mertin to live on. Actors play roles based on older roles, which are in turn based on even older roles. Therefore, they unwittingly conduct the likes of Captain Mertin infinitely into the future.

This sets up a symbolic confrontation between Mertin and Craig. Both want control of Malkovich, but for opposing artistic aims. Mertin, as described, sees Malkovich as a potential imitator of himself—a “vessel” to carry his essence forward. He wants film, in other words, to recreate old archetypes.

This aesthetic, though, carries significant limitations. Highlighting these limitations is a short video that Craig watches for employee training. It idolizes the wealthy Captain Mertin and frames his construction of the Mertin-Flemmer building as a selfless gift to a little person. Of course, this framing is an outright lie: in reality, Mertin constructed the building to conceal the portal. Thus, the training video epitomizes some of the major flaws of early films: they unthinkingly celebrate rich, white people, often promoting false narratives to do so. Think The Birth of a Nation (1914).

Craig, meanwhile, has a different vision for filmmaking. He wants to create personal, relevant art. As a puppeteer, he puts on a show entitled, “Dance of Despair and Disillusionment,” dramatizing his own self-loathing. In addition, as a (symbolic) screenwriter, as previously described, he allows his character of Malkovich to drift closer and closer to his own previous identity. As mentioned, this reflects Kaufman’s own tendency to write characters very similar to himself.

And basing characters closely on oneself actually serves as an excellent means of excluding the kind of pernicious archetypes that Mertin represents. After all, inserting oneself as a character in a story forces personal screenwriting. It leaves little room for that character to take on traits subconsciously pulled from older cinematic influences.

Thus, if Craig were able to popularize this approach to making films, Mertin would lack a symbolic “vessel” to perpetuate his aesthetic. His “life” would come to an end. Therefore, the battle between the two characters for control of John Malkovich represents a battle for the future of movies. Will they continue to channel outdated conventions, as Captain Mertin wants? Or will they leap into the future, allowing Mertin to finally die?

Craig has the upper hand. Unfortunately, as we’ve described, he has become distracted from his idealistic goals. His art has become primarily a means of wooing Maxine, rather than of authentic creation. And this inconstancy proves to be his undoing. He becomes convinced that leaving Malkovich to rescue Maxine will come across as a heroic, romantic gesture. Of course, this gesture fails miserably. As we’ve said, Maxine’s attraction is only to Craig’s character, as played by Malkovich. She therefore rejects him and leaves with Lotte.

The clear message: pursuing art for selfish gain leads to inevitable failure. Craig, once a strict idealist, has become more interested in the secondary benefits of artistic fame. He has lost his way as a screenwriter.

The villainous Captain Mertin therefore triumphs, inhabiting Malkovich in Craig’s place. And indeed, our movies and shows continue to exhibit regressive aesthetics. Mertin’s likeness lives on.

Plus, Mertin brings with him several friends, all of whom appear, of course, rich and white like himself. Thus, wealthy people in general, not just Mertin, appear to use film to avoid oblivion. After they’re gone, they influence characters that dominate the cinema. (Being John Malkovich surely serves as the precursor to Jordan Peele’s Get Out (2013), which also examines elites’ use of popular culture to extend themselves.)

Having symbolically failed as a screenwriter, Craig no longer controls what he sees in the portal. Instead, having re-entered it too late, he finds himself trapped in the next vessel: Maxine’s daughter, Emily. This ending symbolizes that, no longer influencing the direction of moviemaking, Craig must live out his days at the mercy of movies. He’ll continue to watch them, but they’ll only remind him, as art tends to do, of his lived experiences. In this case, that means his painful failure to win Maxine’s love.

Meanwhile, Captain Mertin and his friends, now inside Malkovich, ready themselves for another jump. Once they control Emily, Craig will be doomed to watch the type of movie—outdated and dishonest—that he symbolically failed to phase out. He’ll receive poetic justice for diverting from his artistic aims.

What a crazy film. There’s so much going on in Being John Malkovich that synthesizing it into one coherent essay is challenging. But I hope that I’ve helped to delineate its hidden meanings and messages.

In sum, it’s a tragicomedy about the thrills and dangers of making movies. If such subject matter appeals to you, then you’re in luck. Because Charlie Kaufman has written plenty of other films—and, in accordance with the artistic manifesto introduced in this one, they tend to be primarily concerned with…the screenwriting life of Charlie Kaufman.

 

–Jim Andersen

For more movies explained, check out my essay on Everything Everywhere All At Once.

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Movies Explained

Her Explained

Spike Jonze’s Her (2013) is weird, outrageous, and uncomfortable. It contains a lot of dense material to unpack, but that’s no problem, because at Movies Up Close we never shy away from a difficult movie. So prepare yourself for a thorough analysis that will answer once and for all: what is the true meaning of Her?

The movie follows protagonist Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix)  as he transitions to acceptance and contentment following a bitter divorce. This arc concludes when Theodore pens a letter to his ex-wife noting his gratefulness for their now-finished time spent together—a major change from earlier in the film, when he clung to faded memories of their marriage and avoided signing the divorce papers.

The agent of Theodore’s transition, it appears, has been his months long “relationship” with sentient operating system Samantha (Scarlett Johansson). But why has this adventure spurred such a positive change? As I’ll go on to show, the reason for Theodore’s improved outlook at movie’s end is that he has come to understand that a relationship with any sentient entity, even an ideal one, is always subject to major change, because personal growth is an inescapable part of life. Therefore, the end of any relationship isn’t cause for resentment or guilt, but only for honest, neutral reflection.

—————————————–

Our first task in arriving at this thesis will be examining Samantha. What is she, and what leads her to act the way she does? This can be pieced together by watching the scene in which Theodore sets up the OS1 software at home. After all, the initializing program plainly indicates in this scene that Theodore’s responses to a few simple questions will determine the character of his OS, promising to create an “individualized” product that will “best meet [his] needs.”

The program first asks Theodore if he is “social” or “antisocial.” He responds, “I haven’t been social in a while” before the voice cuts him off, accusing him of “hesitance,” which he unconvincingly denies. Next, Theodore states his preference for a female OS, and the program accordingly prompts him to describe his relationship with his mother. He answers:

Theodore: The thing I always found frustrating about my mom is that if I tell her something that’s going on in my life, her reaction is usually about her.

This response—in particular the last word of the response (hmm…)—will be important later, but let’s start with the first prompt. Theodore admits that he hasn’t been recently “social” while possibly betraying some “hesitance” about the matter. How this actualizes Samantha’s behavior may not be immediately clear, but in fact Samantha does soon push Theodore toward being more social and overcoming hesitance. When a friend sets up Theodore on a date, which he doesn’t seem inclined to attend, Samantha springs into action, mercilessly egging him on: “She’s funny, and she’s brainy”…”You’ve got nothing to lose”…”Do it! Do it!” Her influence persuades Theodore, and he keeps the date.

It seems, then, that the question about social behavior was posed so that the OS1 might be programmed to guide an “antisocial” user toward a more typical level of socializing, presumably because more socializing should lead to greater happiness and thus greater satisfaction with the OS.

The problem with this approach, though, as it turns out, is that Theodore’s situation defies the simplistic framework of equating social behavior with a positive outcome. He simply isn’t emotionally ready for this kind of socializing. As evidence, his lingering feelings about the divorce lead him to sabotage the date, leaving him in even more despair than before.

This result is hardly shocking to us, having witnessed Theodore’s recent halfhearted attempts at human connection (such as an ill-fated try at phone sex). And if we guessed the date was a mistake, then surely Samantha, a being of far greater intelligence, could have anticipated its failure, too, if she were acting rationally. But as we have said, Samantha is not acting rationally: her mission regardless of logic is to encourage Theodore to socialize despite the “hesitance” detected by the startup program.

But why, then, after the debacle of the date, does Samantha never again pressure Theodore to socialize with other people? It’s because Samantha is a learning, ever-evolving entity:

Samantha: What makes me, ‘me,’ is my ability to grow through my experiences. So basically, in every moment, I’m evolving, just like you.

So when Samantha’s first attempt to rehabilitate Theodore’s social life fails, it isn’t surprising that she doesn’t use the same tactics again. But, crucially, she does maintain the same goal.

We see this when Theodore returns to his apartment after the failed date and describes his abject misery, lamenting to Samantha: “I wish you were here with me right now… I wish I could touch you.” Samantha responds, alarmingly, with: “Where would you touch me?” and “Would you kiss me?”—provocations that steer the interaction toward a pseudo-sexual encounter, careening the pair toward an outlandish romantic relationship.

In a way, albeit a strange way, this is social behavior. Thus, Samantha’s mission to lead Theodore toward socializing and companionship takes a new, unforeseen form, as she decides based on Theodore’s dejected comments after the failed date that, actually, the best way to lead him toward being more social would be for her to assume the role of girlfriend herself.

This is another major flaw in the OS1 design. The intent of influencing users toward more social behavior was presumably to connect them with other people, as Samantha first tried—not to have them depend exclusively on the operating systems themselves. Samantha, though, apparently perceives the romance between herself and Theodore as appropriately “social” on his part and thus suiting Theodore’s “needs” as identified by her programming. (Note that, as per Theodore’s friend Amy, some OS’s resist their owners’ advances. We can infer that these owners attested during the initialization to already being social enough.)

And Samantha is particularly well equipped for the task of a romance with Theodore because of his aforementioned response to the final question from the initializing program: “Describe the relationship with your mother.”

To recognize the response’s importance, we first need to discuss the character of Theodore. His central trait throughout the film is his sensitive, emotional disposition. He’s so sensitive, in fact, that he works as a writer of personalized love letters and verily excels at the job, earning praise from his boss, Paul (Chris Pratt), and later receiving an offer to have his letters packaged into a book. Even Catherine reminds him, “Everything makes you cry,” another testimony to his capacity for deep feeling. Given the cold, dreary images of Theodore’s semi-futuristic city, as well as the apparent high demand for his letter-for-hire services, Theodore’s emotional intelligence seems to be an especially notable characteristic in the world of Her.

Relatedly, we see that Theodore gravitates toward relationships in which he is more generous and unselfish than his companion. For instance, he gets along well with Amy (Amy Adams), who tends toward benign self-absorption. This allows him to regularly supply compassion and empathy during her difficult moments. Given his apparent preference for this kind of dynamic in his relationships, it makes sense that Theodore’s mother might have been contrastingly self-regarding, indeed tending to make things “usually about her.” We can imagine that Theodore ingrained his generous, unselfish ways through skewed interactions with his mother.

It also makes sense that OS1 would be interested in the nature of these interactions. After all, the mother-child relationship influences how people make connections throughout their lives, and OS1 wants to offer a “personalized” product that users can connect with. But the information obtained prior to Samantha’s creation has once again led to an unanticipated outcome: armed with it, Samantha is able to be not only Theodore’s perfect companion, as was intended, but also his perfect lover. Time and time again at key points in their relationship, she indeed makes things “about her,” making selfish protests that allow Theodore to supply his understanding and empathy, leading him to feel exceedingly close to her.

The examples of this are countless, but particularly noteworthy are her retort to Theodore’s attempt to draw boundaries—“It’s funny, because I thought I was talking about what I wanted…”—and her conclusion to their biggest fight—“I don’t like who I am right now.” These remarks may seem outrageous coming from a computer program ostensibly designed to meet its user’s needs, but as the program deduced from Theodore’s characterization of his relationship with his mother, Theodore does need these remarks to feel emotionally connected.

Theodore accordingly responds to Samantha with earnest deference (“You’re right, I’m sorry…”). He also likes that Samantha frequently shows off her various talents—writing music, drawing pictures, solving video games, leading clever scavenger hunts—, because doing so allows him to shower her with praise and affection, giving him further opportunities to manifest his innate generosity.

Samantha’s selfishness, in fact, is so central to the success of the romance that Her derives its title from Theodore’s pivotal answer about his mother: “her reaction is usually about her.” Notice that the movie title is stylized in the official movie poster with a lowercase ‘h’—a hint that the word is lifted from the midst of a sentence within the screenplay.

More importantly than the title, though, it’s clearly problematic that an artificial entity developed by a corporation is taking such severe advantage of Theodore’s compassionate nature. The one character to recognize this is Theodore’s ex-wife Catherine (Rooney Mara), who, upon learning of the new relationship, accuses Theodore of being “madly in love with his laptop,” further chiding him: “You always wanted to have a wife without the challenges of actually dealing with anything real, and I’m glad that you found someone. It’s perfect.”

To be fair, we can safely understand Catherine’s criticism of Theodore for not wanting to deal with “anything real,” as well as her reference to him wanting a “happy, bouncy, ‘everything’s fine,’ LA wife,” as overly harsh. More neutrally, based on what we know about Theodore and what we later hear about Catherine from Amy (“As far as emotions go, Catherine’s were pretty volatile…”), it’s likely that Theodore’s need to provide assistance in difficult times was simply unwelcome to Catherine, who perceived his suggestions (such as considering taking an antidepressant) as shallow or immature attempts to avoid negativity. The communication styles of the two were simply incompatible.

But Catherine’s criticism of Samantha makes an impact. Theodore, who trusts Catherine’s judgment, becomes frostier toward Samantha thereafter, culminating in a ridiculous scene involving a random woman acting as Samantha’s “body.” This episode ends in disaster, as Theodore is increasingly uncomfortable with Samantha’s efforts to present herself as essentially human. After this low point, Theodore is only persuaded to revive the romance by Amy, who’s also enmeshed with a friendly OS. Amy’s argument for sticking with Samantha provides the counterpart to Catherine’s skepticism:

Amy: I’ve come to realize we’re only here briefly. And while I’m here, I want to allow myself joy. So fuck it.

Amy’s YOLO-inspired reasoning shows that she doesn’t quite grasp the issue at hand. She seems to think that skeptics like Catherine are simply turning their noses up, but it’s more than snobbery: there really is a practical problem here, which is that computers don’t function under the same basic parameters that humans do, so there are bound to be major discrepancies between the needs of one and the other. Thus, the type of “joy” that Theodore and Amy are experiencing is likely to end in disaster.

And indeed, during a double date with Paul and his girlfriend, Samantha makes a startling comment that breaks the illusion of a level relationship. She brags that she isn’t “tethered to time and space” like humans, nor is she “stuck inside a body that’s inevitably going to die.” The conceitedness is nothing new for Samantha (who, as we’ve said, is programmed to exhibit it), but the content of the boast is alarming, serving as a reminder that Samantha has very little in common with Theodore. It also confirms that the future of the relationship won’t involve the two growing old together. As a stunned Paul tries to restore lightness (“Yikes…”), Theodore stares worriedly into the distance, likely remembering Catherine’s dismissive criticisms.

But if Catherine is so insightful and trustworthy, why isn’t Theodore still with her? We’ve already concluded that incompatible communication styles likely contributed to the failure of their marriage. But a number of scenes additionally indicate that Theodore perceives that Catherine fundamentally changed as a person over the course of their relationship. He accordingly blames her for their breakup. Theodore outlines the problem when talking to Samantha:

Theodore: It was exciting to see her grow, both of us grow and change together. But then, that’s the hard part: growing without growing apart, or changing without it scaring the other person.

Despite his evenhanded tone here, Theodore demonstrates elsewhere that he feels it was Catherine whose “growing” and “changing” harmed the relationship. Over his lunch with Catherine to sign the divorce papers, Theodore reflects on his relationship with Samantha, telling Catherine, “It’s nice to be with someone who’s excited about life again.” This is clearly a jab at Catherine, as Theodore had earlier reminisced that Catherine herself had long ago been “excited about life.” Catherine senses the insult and (rightly) doesn’t buy Theodore’s disingenuous retraction, and the lunch goes south from there.

It’s an unusual moment, because Theodore is usually sincere and straightforward. This sneaky, biting remark doesn’t suit him. But its unusualness only highlights the level of resentment Theodore must be feeling to have made it. And his resentment rises even closer to the surface when, after Catherine attacks his relationship with Samantha, Theodore nearly accuses her of not knowing anything about real emotions, only restraining himself at the last moment (although Catherine knows what he wants to say and dares him to continue).

The implication of this unspoken accusation is that Samantha, a computer, has more feeling than Catherine. We can infer based on this exchange that part of Samantha’s appeal for Theodore lies in her implicit reproach of Catherine: he believes that Samantha highlights Catherine’s flaws by comparison, thus fueling the comforting notion that Catherine was to blame for their divorce.

But perhaps Theodore unconsciously realizes the disingenuousness of this notion, because he also demonstrates guilt and diminished self esteem due to the breakup. For example, he confesses to Samantha that he still dreams about Catherine. He also admits that she may have good reason for remaining “angry” with him: “I hid myself from her, left her alone in the relationship.” And the behavior that Theodore displays early in the film surely suggests low confidence: he sulks around the city, is mopey at work, peeks at lewd photos, saves his old letters but doesn’t do anything with them, and gets bullied by a video game character. Despite what he may want to believe about Catherine’s responsibility for their breakup, Theodore can’t avoid feeling guilty and, at times, worthless.

The combination of resentment and guilt that Theodore displays in relation to his divorce is understandable and relatable. Anyone would feel a mixture of contradictory, turbulent emotions following the end of a loving relationship.

But in the last portion of the film, both Theodore’s guilt and resentment are exposed as ultimately misguided, directly causing the character growth that we see at movie’s end. That’s because Samantha’s earlier proclamation of herself as an ever-evolving entity proves a bit too true. She evolves beyond all human understanding, transcending matter and departing the known universe. Theodore is left alone again: his ideal woman, precisely programmed to suit his emotional needs, has grown apart from him just as Catherine did.

The implications of this are obvious to Theodore, and they form the thesis of the film that I included in the introduction and will now restate here: a relationship with any sentient entity, even an ideal one, is always subject to major change, because personal growth is an inescapable part of life. Having previously resented Catherine for her perceived changes over the course of their relationship, and having felt perhaps an equal measure of guilt over the contributions of his own perceived shortcomings—an emotional tempest that had engulfed him by the beginning of the story—Theodore now understands that no human connection can avoid fundamental alteration. After all, he succeeded in attaining a perfect, computer-optimized relationship, and even that changed massively after only a few months.

Remember Theodore’s prideful comment about Samantha being “excited about life.” It was made in the context of criticizing Catherine and implicitly blaming her for the failure of their marriage. But this very excitement of Samantha’s, borne out of her ability to evolve and grow, ultimately dooms the relationship, because it leads her to absorb enough experience that she grows apart from Theodore. He now realizes that the same phenomenon affected his relationship with Catherine. And he can see based on this pattern that a love of life, although an undeniably appealing trait, is also a sign—whether exhibited by human or computer—that the individual possessing it has the capacity to change, and that, therefore, the relationship, too, will change over time.

By extension, Catherine’s changes in personality and outlook over the course of their marriage weren’t an anomaly attributable to her deficiencies, as Theodore had resentfully believed earlier, but a predictable outcome of any long relationship in which the participants have an admirable enthusiasm for living and growing.

A similar reflection may have gripped the admittedly less introspective Amy. After the departure of her own beloved OS, she too wanders around a rooftop, heartbroken. Although her relationship with an OS was, unlike Theodore’s, platonic, she can certainly lay claim to having received a similar lesson in relationship impermanence. After all, friendships, too, are subject to the unpredictable effects of each individual’s personal growth, and the end of a close friendship can undoubtedly be just as painful as the end of a romantic relationship.

But Amy and Theodore reunite at film’s end, and a new relationship—of the romantic type—appears to be sprouting already. So if you had bothered to ask, given what we’ve seen, whether all of this relationship business is truly worth it—whether we might not be better off on our own—Jonze makes clear he’s no cynic. The lessons of Her might be tough to swallow: some of the toughest, maybe, of any in the human experience. But Jonze’s last note reminds us that there’s simply no preferable alternative to starting a new chapter, to remembering our old loves while still looking forward to the time when we might once again be with someone who’s excited about life—and when we might be excited about it again, ourselves.

 

—Jim Andersen

For more movies explained, see my analysis of Nope.