Robot Dreams

A Spanish-French co-production, Robot Dreams skips dialogue altogether. That it manages to have something profound to say about loneliness and striving for connection without saying a word is one of the small marvels of this lovely and touching film, nominated last year for a Best Animated Feature Oscar.

We’ve all been there: dead-eyed on the couch, bleary from playing Pong or some other pleasurable-until-it’s-not time suck. In Robot Dreams’ imagining, it happens to dogs too – in this case, a dog named Dog. After another frozen mac & cheese eaten solo on the sofa, Dog has a eureka moment when a TV offer pops up onscreen. (“Are You Alone???” the commercial blasts in neon.) Dog places an order right away for a robot companion, the Amica 2000, and soon Dog is assembling a new robot friend.

Hand in hand, Dog and Robot explore a vibrant 1980s New York together – passing a monkey punk on the street that’s flipping them the bird, then an octopus busker banging on drums in the subway. (There are no names in this animal kingdom, and no genders either.) A perfect day in Central Park includes roller disco – the cheeky era signifiers tap Earth, Wind & Fire, Basquiat, and Kim’s Video – but another seemingly perfect day on Fire Island ends in a sad separation for Dog and Robot.

This is Pablo Berger’s first animated film, but not his first no-talkie; 2003’s Blancanieves, a black & white film that retold Snow White with matadors, used the occasional title card but otherwise let silent-era expressionism tell the story. Based on a graphic novel by Sara Varon, Robot Dreams is less showy (well, excepting a delightful Busby Berkeley homage). It’s such a sweet curio, I don’t want to oversell it or overburden it with weighty expectations. It leaves a lot of room for interpretation – depending on how you come to it, you could read Dog and Robot’s relationship as platonic or romantic, straight or queer – but the takeaway is all tenderness.

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This article appears in June 14 • 2024.