Bicentennial Man (5 Stars)

Netflix Thursday #47

"Bicentennial Man" is a film that was made ahead of its time. When it was released in 1999 it seemed faintly embarrassing, yet it has aged into something quietly fascinating, commonly being called a cult film. Directed by Chris Columbus and starring Robin Williams, it was initially dismissed as overlong, sentimental and tonally confused; a family film that strained toward philosophical seriousness without quite earning it. But in the age of contemporary AI, its reputation has shifted. What once felt naive now feels oddly prescient.

The film, loosely based on Isaac Asimov's novella "The Bicentennial Man", charts the 200-year life of Andrew, an android who evolves from a household appliance to something approaching a human being. At the time, this arc was framed largely as a Pinocchio-style fable; a machine who wants to become "real". Today, that premise lands differently. The question is no longer abstract. With the rise of machine learning systems and conversational AI, Andrew's journey speaks directly to contemporary anxieties about consciousness, identity and rights.

One reason the film has become a cult object is precisely because of how unfashionable it once was. In 1999, audiences were primed for sleeker, more ironic science fiction; the same year saw "The Matrix" redefine the genre with cyberpunk cool and philosophical edge. By contrast, "Bicentennial Man" is earnest to a fault. It takes its time, embraces melodrama and leans heavily on Williams' gentle, increasingly restrained performance. That earnestness, once a liability, now reads as sincerity. The film is not trying to be clever; it is trying to be humane.

And that is the key to its afterlife. Modern AI discourse is often dominated by fear; job displacement, surveillance, loss of control. "Bicentennial Man" approaches the subject from the opposite direction. It asks not what machines will do to us, but what it would mean for a machine to join us. Andrew's desire is not to surpass humanity but to belong to it; to love, to create, to die. The film's central provocation is quietly radical: humanity is defined not by biology, but by experience, vulnerability and mortality.

There is also something newly poignant in the film's incrementalism. Andrew does not leap into consciousness; he inches toward it over decades, through small acts of creativity and self-modification. In an era when AI progress is rapid and opaque, this slow, legible evolution feels almost comforting. It suggests a continuity between tool and personhood that modern systems, with their black-box complexity, often lack.

The film's flaws have not disappeared, but these very flaws are now considered its strengths. The romance subplot used to divide critics; how could a woman possibly have a romance with a robot? But today there are common news stories of people forming relationships with online chatbots, which contributes to its cult appeal. The film is marked as a sincere attempt to grapple with big ideas within a mainstream framework; something increasingly rare.

Ultimately, "Bicentennial Man" endures because it asks a question that has only become more urgent: if a machine can think, create and feel, what, exactly, is left to distinguish it from us? In 1999, that question felt speculative. In 2026, it feels uncomfortably close.

What was once a misfire now plays like a time capsule from a more optimistic technological imagination; one that believed the endpoint of artificial intelligence might not be domination or disaster, but a quiet, hard-won recognition of shared humanity.

The film has returned to the public eye through being revived by Netflix. For that we can be thankful. The DVD releases from the turn of the century are now difficult to find. On Netflix the film is in HD quality, even though it's never been released on Blu-ray. Discerning fans are clamouring for a Blu-ray or even 4K release.

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