While multiplex-dwelling sci-fi has spent a lot of time, and a lot of money, pondering how many buildings, robots and Tom Cruises can be smashed into one another, craftier film-makers have found room to explore the more humanist details of what the future might hold. In The Lobster, Yorgos Lanthimos crafted a savage parable borne from the societal pressures placed upon single people to match up; in Her, Spike Jonze imagined a future where artificial intelligence could act as a stand-in for a flesh-and-blood partner; and on the small screen, Charlie Brooker’s Black Mirror episodes San Junipero and Be Right Back have offered heart-swelling and heartbreaking views of future romance.

Writer/director Michael Almereyda (who also wrote the screenplay for the kitschy yet daring 1987 film Cherry 2000, set in a world where men marry sexually compliant androids) has created a worthy addition to this soulful subgenre in a big-screen adaptation of Jordan Harrison’s Pulitzer prize-nominated play Marjorie Prime. He’s smartly retained the off-Broadway casting of Lois Smith, the 86-year-old industry veteran who plays Marjorie with such soft ease that it’s impossible to imagine anyone else in the role.

At an unspecified point in the future, a service has been introduced that allows people to resurrect a loved one in holographic form. Customers are able to re-create them at whichever age they prefer, yet all models require a hefty amount of programming, involving daily conversations to fill in their backstory assembled from anecdotes. Marjorie has chosen to bring back her husband, Walter (Jon Hamm), at the age at which she met him, yet her deteriorating health means that her grasp on the past is often no better than his.



Marjorie’s daughter Tess (Geena Davis) is mostly disturbed by the presence of a father facsimile while her husband, Jon (Tim Robbins), has taken it upon himself to act as the programmer, feeding him with memories to flesh out his character. As the family learns to cope with their new old visitor, they are forced to confront the past and also the future.

Given the obnoxious flash that often accompanies the science fiction genre, it’s always refreshing to see a film that posits us in the future without the need for overly tiresome exposition and attention-grabbing effects. The technical minutiae of Marjorie Prime’s conceit isn’t on offer here and neither is a view of the wider effect it has on the world. This is a small film, largely set in just one location, yet its thoughtful meditation on how we construct our relationships and our lives through a frequently unreliable lens of our own making is of universal significance. Without conscious awareness, we’re constantly rewriting history with age, the details shifting to fit our own narrative.

In the opening scene we’re faced with Marjorie’s memory of her marriage, sullied by time and her ill health, contrasted with her holographic husband, whose recollection of the past is the result of his son-in-law’s second hand stories. Who is better equipped to remember their relationship? Did he propose after Casablanca or My Best Friend’s Wedding? Like many scenes in the film, we’re thrown into a dialogue without entirely understanding how we got there. There’s a dreaminess to Almereyda’s direction, which coupled with a woozy Mica Levi score, makes Marjorie’s house feel otherworldly and we’re never too sure who might be real or artificial.

And while the film might be too talky for some, there are scenes of remarkable insight for those willing to look past the unashamed staginess. There’s also pain in the forced retelling of difficult times and the ever lingering awareness that physical intimacy is achingly out of reach. At times it recalls Robot & Frank, a similarly staged gem from 2012 that saw an elderly cat burglar, played by Frank Langella, bond with an android. Both films use their fantastical setups as a device to explore questions of mortality.

As mentioned, Smith is a joy, her face acting as an exquisitely painted canvas of confusion, regret and love. There’s a frisson between her and Hamm, who inhabits a hologram with both an eerie confidence and an empathetic warmth, eager to become more human, acting as a sort of digital counsellor. Davis and Robbins make for a lived-in example of a married couple, their story taking unexpected turns throughout, the script throwing in a few curveballs.

It’s a haunting little film that ends with a somewhat overwhelming poignancy. It’s about the impression we leave on others, the details we remember, the stories we re-craft, the lies we tell ourselves and the love we’re lucky to experience. I’ll find it hard to forget.