Viewing in the 2020s feels unsettling. Sci-fi has consistently shown an ability to forecast what’s ahead, typically in pessimistic ways, and Alex Garland’s bleak first film as director ranks among the darkest. Oscar Isaac portrays the vulgar tech mogul Nathan Bateman, whose reflections on the no longer seem like hollow predictions—issues for future generations. When programmer Caleb Smith (Domnhall Gleeson), dispatched to evaluate Nathan’s most sophisticated AI creation, develops feelings for it, finding compassion becomes difficult.
What once seemed improbable and imaginary now mirrors our actual world. AI has gripped society tightly: a few individuals like Nathan currently dominate global affairs, while countless people resembling Caleb walk directly into their snares. Furthermore, this trap lacks the allure of Garland’s fictional version. Ex Machina at least offers Ava (Alicia Vikander), an attractive android whose intelligence exceeds initial impressions.
While Ava might look similar to Sophia the robot, she shares greater DNA with a Terminator. As the newest advancement in an extensive lineage of androids, Ava possesses complete sentience—conscious of her own being, her creator, and the prison he built around her. Nathan maintains no false modesty or humility regarding his creative powers. He alternates between declaring himself a deity and comparing himself to Ava’s father. This partly explains why he requires Caleb, who has toiled as a low-level employee at Nathan’s authoritarian tech firm, Blue Book. Nathan rescues Caleb from anonymity to administer what’s known as the Turing Test on Ava.
Inside Nathan’s isolated cabin-turned-research-laboratory, Caleb receives orders to conduct a sequence of interviews intended to measure Ava’s degree of consciousness. Is she genuinely possessed of a soul, or merely simulating one, projecting an image of human identity? Her sophistication renders a simple test inadequate, leading to more personal interactions between the two. Soon Caleb concludes not only that Ava can convincingly pose as human, but that she merits a far superior existence than one controlled by Nathan.
The evidence against Nathan accumulates swiftly. As a chronic alcoholic, his appeal fades fast, and his dubious experiments only worsen his culpability. He handles Ava, the less-developed Kyoko (a quiet but remarkable Sonoya Mizuno), and all previous models as if they were toys, captives, or instruments for his personal gratification. He addresses the concept of their sexuality—a characteristic he deliberately engineered into his recent designs—with a disturbingly casual detachment. This proves particularly distressing for Caleb, whose feelings toward Ava remain considerably more selfless, even chivalrous.
Ex Machina‘s fascination lies in how it lambasts the “Nice Guy” archetype with equal severity as its more transparent villain. The movie makes sweeping statements about female exploitation through a science fiction prism—hardly pioneering, yet unlikely to be the final word. However, it dares to question whether someone like Caleb, the proverbial white knight, shares guilt in that exploitation. The film bears Garland’s signature style: no character is too virtuous for scrutiny, and viewed through a feminist perspective, it approaches catharsis. Nathan and Caleb remain so fixated on the “Promethean” dimensions of their undertaking—humans transforming into deities or the reverse—that they fail to recognize they’re being manipulated. Their arrogance might seem comical if this narrative weren’t unfolding on a vastly larger scale in our present reality. Perhaps there was an era when humanity could outwit machines, but now the tables have turned.