The Electric State wants to be a requiem in retro-futurist tones, a tale of loss and wanderings, robots with forlorn eyes, and a girl drifting through the ash-heap of civilisation. But though the frame is stunning and the budget considerable, the film slips through the fingers like vapour.
The Russo brothers summon their usual largesse of scale, but seem uninterested in the subtler contours of feeling. The performances are hemmed in by the architecture of the film. Millie Bobby Brown, oddly airbrushed and disconcertingly polished for someone meant to carry the ache of memory, never quite finds the soul of the part. Her face, perhaps shaped more by surgeons than experience, distracts from the emotional weight the role asks of her.
The robot companion, tender in design and nearly mute, is meant to be the beating heart. Instead, it feels like window-dressing for a story that can't commit to intimacy. There are fragments that glint, an abandoned cinema, a voice on a forgotten radio, but they aren't allowed to resonate.
I watched it unfold with admiration for its mechanics and a growing indifference to its meaning. The Electric State has all the signs of a journey, except the feeling of having gone anywhere at all.
