If you haven’t heard of Netflix’s latest feature film, The Electric State, consider yourself lucky, you’re not missing much. For those unfamiliar, it’s the latest effort from the Russo Brothers, adapted from Simon Stålenhag’s novel. Set in an alternate, technology-ravaged 1990s, the film follows a teenage girl and her robot companion as they journey across the U.S. in search of her long-lost brother.
I haven’t read the book, so I can’t speak to how well this adaptation holds up, but I do know that the source material is a bleak, thought-provoking meditation on the dangers of technology and capitalism. Which makes it all the more baffling that the Russos decided to strip it of its depth and transform it into a generic, uninspired road-trip action comedy—one weighed down by every tired, cynical hallmark of corporate filmmaking. And somehow, this misguided vision came with a staggering $320 million price tag.
If The Electric State had only cost around $100 million, I’d still be deeply disappointed because I know that every single person involved in this production is capable of delivering something far better. But the fact that this movie had an absolutely obscene budget of $320 million, a number so outrageous that it practically begs for a money-laundering investigation, makes me outright furious. This isn’t just wasteful spending; it’s an insult to both the industry and the audience. How do you justify pouring that kind of money into a film this lifeless, this uninspired, this utterly devoid of anything remotely worth that price tag? The sheer excess on display here is maddening, and the result? A movie as stale as it is infuriating.
The Electric State is the kind of film that feels less like a creative endeavor and more like an algorithm-generated checklist of tired blockbuster tropes. It’s a cookie-cutter action-comedy with a splash of road-trip banter, but so devoid of originality that it borders on insulting. Every narrative beat is predictable, every character feels ripped from a template, and every attempt at humor lands with a hollow thud.
Bald, one-dimensional corporate villain? Check. Angsty teenage protagonist? Check. Chris Pratt playing yet another grizzled yet effortlessly charismatic antihero? Check. A quirky, wisecracking robot sidekick designed more for merchandising than storytelling? Check. A bombastic, CGI-heavy third-act battle against faceless, disposable enemies? Check. A barrage of unfunny, self-aware quips and painfully forced needle drops? Check and check.
It’s not just that The Electric State plays it safe, it doesn’t even attempt to carve out an identity of its own. The film exists in a creatively bankrupt space, where spectacle is mistaken for substance and familiarity is valued over innovation. It is, in essence, the worst kind of corporate filmmaking: soulless, lifeless, and entirely forgettable. And somehow, that’s not even its greatest offense.
The most egregious failure of The Electric State is its misguided attempt to position itself as a serious cautionary tale about the perils of technological dependence and the loss of human connection. From what I’ve gathered, the original novel serves as a sweeping metaphor for the impact of social media, illustrating how it erodes our humanity. This thematic core, so integral to the book’s message, is almost entirely discarded in the film adaptation—aside from a few fleeting, half-baked attempts at profundity that clash awkwardly with the film’s otherwise generic blockbuster sensibilities.
Whenever the movie does try to engage with its supposed themes, the execution is so shallow and clumsy that it borders on parody. These moments arrive sporadically, jarring in their tonal dissonance, as if the filmmakers suddenly remembered they were supposed to be saying something meaningful. Instead of provoking thought, these half-hearted stabs at social commentary only elicited eye-rolls. And by the time the credits rolled, I found myself entirely indifferent. For a film that ostensibly encourages audiences to disconnect from their devices and embrace the present, The Electric State is, ironically, one of the most disengaging, background-noise experiences in recent memory.
Even the performances in The Electric State are as lifeless and uninspired as the film itself. Millie Bobby Brown, unfortunately, continues her streak of delivering some of the most uninspired performances of her career in these Netflix productions. Her portrayal here is wooden and emotionally vacant, making it increasingly difficult to overlook the possibility that she simply lacks range as an actress.
Chris Pratt, as expected, plays yet another variation of his usual persona—but this time, it feels like a tired, disinterested version of even that. Meanwhile, Ke Huy Quan and Stanley Tucci, both immensely talented actors, are completely wasted in roles that give them nothing to do. Giancarlo Esposito, typically known for his gravitas, instead veers into unintentional comedy with an over-the-top Southern accent that feels more cartoonish than menacing.
Yes, The Electric State was undoubtedly an easy paycheck for its cast, but was there not a single actor in this ensemble willing to rise above the material? The performances here don’t just feel uninspired, they feel indifferent, as if everyone involved knew they were stuck in a film unworthy of their efforts and chose to coast accordingly.
In the end, The Electric State stands as one of the most egregiously wasteful projects in recent memory. It fails to justify its astronomical budget, squanders a potentially strong ensemble cast, and, worst of all, reduces a compelling story to a hollow, formulaic spectacle designed for maximum consumption with minimal effort. This is corporate filmmaking at its absolute worst, safe, uninspired, and utterly devoid of artistic ambition. If there’s any takeaway from this debacle, it’s that the Russo Brothers should be kept far away from the director’s chair for the foreseeable future.
My Rating: D
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