Runtime: 92 mins
Director: Andrew Bujalski
Cast: Wiley Wiggins, Myles Paige, Patrick Riester, Robin Schwartz
A work as sublime as it is surreal, Computer Chess is the latest microbudget oddity from independent filmmaker Andrew Bujalski. Set at the advent of personal computing (sometime during the early 1980s), it follows a group of programming hobbyists over one weekend as they compete in a friendly machine-vs-machine chess tournament. The aim: to engineer a piece of software that can not only out-think another computer, but ultimately out-think a human.
Its form is as idiosyncratically retro as its content: Bujalski chose to film on some of the earliest commercial video cameras, both for the vintage authenticity and to add "a transcendental character to the image," that would, according to cinematographer Matthias Grunsky, "help express the sometimes unexplainable things that happen between man and computer." True enough to the imperfect and unpredictable technology of the time, bright lights burn trails in the lens and people blur through fuzzy grey matter; like the characters, we chase glimpses of ghosts in the machine.
The search for higher artificial intelligence gives rise to some unexpected philosophical inquiries, but the socially-aloof nerd herd are often too short-sighted to grasp what anything could, or will, mean—a big part of the comedy comes from knowing that these hapless dorks will one day inherit the Earth (for an age of technological enlightenment, things are almost comically unexciting.) But what really is driving these computer-obsessives, tinkerers and scientists? What is happening between man and computer—or more worryingly, who is driving who? As we watch characters struggle and fail to break out of their own unconscious grids and behavioural loops, it becomes clear that the quest for a machine with a soul is far less pertinent than the quest for the soul in man.
Comedic elements ebb in and out of the rambling narrative: a New Age self-help group are also occupying the hotel, and the inevitable clashes between the emotionally-cold geeks and the self-loving hippy-types offer genuinely cringe-worthy laughs.
But the most arresting moments happen when Bujalski breaks the rules of his own carefully procured aesthetic: the black-and-white documentary beats that open the film eventually give way to stranger, more anarchic forms, as the video begins super-imposing on itself, reversing, slowing down, splitting in two, and for a brief moment even switches to colour. The film ends up being strangely psychedelic, but also alive to the possibility of one small thing: Change. Much of Computer Chess seems to be an attempt to grapple with that one pet theme.
Bujalski also slyly reflects the rise of independent filmmakers (his debut feature, Funny Ha Ha, helped launch the early-aughts 'mumblecore' movement) and the birth of his own child in the narrative, gifting the film with a surprisingly autobiographic tone, and the criss-crossing lines between hobby, obsession, love and family stealthily work their way into the fold without any explicit foregrounding.
Four features in, Mr. Bujalski continues to be one of American cinema's most distinct voices, and much like the unassuming pioneers at the heart of Computer Chess—who also focus on the wide implications of imperceptibly small actions—his influence may be greater felt in the years to come. Forget the singularity; as a filmic experience Computer Chess is itself, singular.
★★★★½
Pierre B
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