Mechanoid Daze - A Guide to Artificial Entities

Reflect on the current vogue in zombie material and you find ample demonstration of the extent to which film and television favour a certain number of recurrent elements or motifs. Vampires are another prominent example, which makes two before we even leave the shambling hordes of the un-dead. Broaden those horizons to the world of the living and one cannot but acknowledge the important contributions made by the ever-dependable mob organisation, international terrorist cell, or simple garden-variety psychopath. Entire genres have been built up around archetypes such as these, while for others it must be said that only specific genres afford the conditions necessary for them to function successfully. Zombies, for instance, are unlikely to ever transcend their origins as fodder in B-grade horror fare. Indeed, it is significant that those films which have managed to lead the zombie astray successfully – such as Shaun of the Dead – have been able to do so only through spoofing their typical treatment, rather than truly departing from it. In other words, it's unusual that we find a movie or television show which makes use of zombies as a bit-part. There are no sitcoms – that I'm familiar with, at least – which feature a bunch of hip twenty-somethings and their quirky zombie neighbour. When something features zombies, it's generally going to be en masse, and very much the central concern.

Such is not the case with all of film and television's favourite recurrent staples. Aliens, for instance, have managed to ingratiate themselves into virtually every genre, and with great success. Otherworldly life-forms can be found in anything from horror and action/thriller, sitcoms and drama, all the way through to comedy and children's programs. Those not convinced need only look to the box-office records for the month of June 1982, which saw the feel-good alien capers of Steven Spielberg's E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial rubbing intergalactic  shoulders with the tentacled horror of John Carpenter's The Thing. Very few staples of the industry show such versatility. As fate would have it, that same month in 1982 saw one of the few exceptions represented in the form of Blade Runner, a pivotal moment in the cinematic exploration of robots. Like aliens, robots have transcended their original role as a staple of the science-fiction genre to become a popular element in film and television at large. There is no doubt, in either case, that the key to this success lies in their versatility. Just as aliens can look and behave in almost any way conceivable, there is virtually no limit to the possible forms or functions that might dictate the role played by some mechanical creation, not merely in a practical sense, but in terms of tone and narrative role as well. Compare Fritz Lang's Metropolis with the likes of The Jetsons, or again with Transformers and already you see the wide range of potential uses.

Where these two phenomena differ, however, is in the proliferation of sub-types and techno-jargon. For unlike an alien organism, which is a fairly simple and all-encompassing concept, the technical nature of robotics has come to be reflected in a highly nuanced field of nomenclature. How does an android differ to a cyborg? Does a powered exoskeleton qualify as a robot? Where do the boundaries occur between something engineered mechanically and an organic equivalent? This article hopes to shed some light on these issues, offering a compromise between pragmatic definitions and practical ones.

. : Mechanoid : .

[from “mechanical” – bearing the qualities of a machine, and “-id” – of or pertaining to] 

An umbrella term, under which any of the following may be categorised in some capacity. The only qualifying element is that a mechanoid must resemble a machine in either function or design. This permits the inclusion of borderline examples such as puppets, clockwork pieces, and others which bear a semblance of mechanical automation without functioning as an autonomous unit, or that do so with the aid of mystical, spiritual, or other non-scientific forces. Beyond these examples, the vague definition of something being machine-like without, in fact, being a machine renders the term too broad for the interests of discerning one type from another. A classification of last resort.

. : Exempla

Pinocchio – Pinocchio

Daleks – Doctor Who

Talos – Argonautica

. : Mech / Mecha : .
[an abbreviated form of “mechanoid”] 

While there is no reason to differentiate the term from 'mechanoid' on an etymological basis, this abbreviated form has come to denote a specific class of robotic entity which falls outside the definition of a robot proper. In brief, the defining characteristic of a mech is the presence of a pilot or operator, without whom the unit loses much, if not all, of its functionality. As a staple of the Japanese anime culture, mecha are usually portrayed as an extension of modern military vehicles, such as tanks and aircraft, or construction equipment, such as loaders and excavators. Due to the necessity of physically enclosing the pilot, mecha have a reputation for being extremely large, and often resemble a greatly exaggerated anthropomorphic form. Neither of these characteristics have a defining role, however, as the operator is not necessarily human, nor is it requisite that the mech must resemble the operator's actual physiology.

. : Exempla
Tripods – War of the Worlds
Rosenburg – Men in Black

Gladiators – Robot Jox

. : Exosuit : .
[from “exo-” – outer or external, and “suit” – something worn, conforming to the wearer]

 While it is a point of some contention, the exosuit is perhaps best understood as a sub-class of mech, all of whose defining characteristics it shares, in addition to some more stringent ones. As with mecha, an exosuit is primarily defined by the need for an independent operator. What distinguishes one from the other is the nature of the interface between operator and unit. A mech may be controlled in a variety of ways, ranging from the traditional mode of piloting, through to virtual or direct neural connection, or even remote control. An exosuit, on the other hand, is controlled via a system of direct physical interaction, as the unit both mimics and enhances the operator's natural motion. For this reason exosuits are necessarily closer in shape, scale, and proportion to their operators, giving the sense that they are 'worn' rather than piloted. As with mecha, the application of this technology tends to be directed toward military use, as powered armour, or manual labour and construction.

. : Exempla
APUs – The Matrix: Revolutions
Marauder – Starship Troopers
Powerloader – Aliens

. : Robot : .

[from the Czech “robota” – compulsory labour, or “robotnik” – indentured labourer]

 

More restricted in the scope of application than 'mechanoid', the term 'robot' is nevertheless the most widely disseminated of any on this list, and thus the most difficult to accurately define. Indeed, the all-encompassing nature of the term has contributed much to the dilemma, largely by popularising a tradition of misapplication. Foremost among these is the practise of labelling things 'robots' when they are in fact merely robotic, meaning robot-like. The key to resolving this hinges on the issue of autonomy, of which there are two crucial factors. First of all, in order to qualify as 'a robot', the unit in question must be able to perform its designated function in isolation. This is not to say that it must be either physically disconnected and/or mobile, simply that it comprises a single complete unit, capable of fulfilling its intended function without external assistance. The welding arm on a production line is thus robotic, rather than a robot, because it is merely part of a much larger functioning machine. On the other hand, an automatic gun-turret mounted on a ship may be considered a robot if it is able to fulfil the demands of target acquisition, calibration, firing and reloading entirely on its own, for in so doing in completes an entire function. This brings us to the second factor, which is autonomy not in a mere physical sense, but in terms of self-maintenance. To put it simply, a robot must be able to perform to its maximum capacity without constant external direction. This may range from the most basic on-board programming all the way through to possessing a fully artificial intelligence: from simple self-propulsion through to sentience and actual self-determination. For this reason a mech is deemed to be robotic rather than a true robot. Beyond these characteristics there is no effective limit on how a robot may be manifested, either in size, shape, materials, or configuration.

. : Exempla
The Iron Giant – The Iron Giant
Johnny Five – Short Circuit
R2-D2 – Star Wars

. : Android : .
[from the Ancient Greek “andros” – man, and “-id” – of or pertaining to]

A sub-class of robot, defined by their emulation of the human form. While the Ancient Greek word from which it derives is masculine, the term 'android' is used to encompass humankind as a whole, irrespective of gender. The roles and functions of androids are many and varied, although the added trouble of making the unit resemble the human form is generally attributed to the necessity of being emotionally engaging to the humans around them. As such, they tend not to be designed for manual labour or other functions where brute force may be better served by another, abstract form. It is also important to remember that the imprecise nature of the term – designating something man-like – is open to some degree of interpretation. Any semblance of the human form is quite often little more than a matter of the proportion and arrangement of limbs and sensory inputs, while other features, such as materials, external finish, and facial details are either stylised or ignored completely. There is also a grey area concerning the point at which an anthropomorphically proportioned robot is no longer considered an android simply on the matter of scale.

. : Exempla
C-3PO – Star Wars
Astro – Astro Boy
Data – Star Trek

. : Synthetic : .
[from the Ancient Greek “sunthetos” – combined, or “sunthetikos” – one who combines]

A sub-class of android, defined by their emulation of not only the human form, but also the organic and mechanical operations of human biology. Essentially, synthetics represent analogues of the human body constructed of non-biological materials. While this necessarily results in them bearing a far closer resemblance to human beings than some of the general android class, it is important to bear in mind that synthetics are not typically designed to masquerade as humans, although they can sometimes be put to this use. Instead, their resemblance to biological organisms seems to be based on the design philosophy that the human body is itself one of the most functional of all machines, and is therefore a proven template from which to copy. For this reason, synthetics possess the artificial equivalent of internal organs, circulatory and metabolic systems, and tissues of a similar texture to those of humans as necessary parts of their inherent operation. Other rudimentary details, such as the colour of circulatory fluid, generally exhibit no attempt to pass the units off as human.

. : Exempla
Proto – Ghost in the Shell: SAC
SID 6.7 – Virtuosity
Ash – Alien

. : Replicant : .

[from "replica" – a copy or reproduction, "-ant"– in the capacity of]

A sub-class of android, defined by their emulation not only of the human form, but of molecular human biology, rendering them effectively indistinguishable from natural human beings. While the term 'replicant' itself is rarely used outside of its original context in the film Blade Runner, there are sufficient examples shown in other material to warrant their place as a parallel class to that of synthetics. Rather than being an artificial analogue of human biology, replicants are consciously intended to mimic human beings all the way down to a microscopic level. What physical engineering their creation entails is performed on a genetic level, with the subsequent manufacturing process being virtually identical to organic growth. As such, replicants occupy a grey area that verges onto other technology, most notably cloning. The crucial distinction between the two typically hinges on a combination of psychological inadequacy – with replicants lacking some basic elements of the human empathic response – and an inability to procreate. Like some clones, however, replicants often show greatly enhanced physical abilities, and are often unaware of their own artificial status.

. : Exempla
The Thirteen – Battlestar Galactica
Roy Batty – Blade Runner
Bioroids – Appleseed

. : Gynoid : .
[from the Ancient Greek “gyne” – woman, and “-id” – of or pertaining to]
 

  Strictly speaking, nothing more than the female equivalent of an android. As the term 'android' has moved away from its gender-specific notion, however, and shifted toward a definition of 'man' as in 'mankind', the term 'gynoid' has accrued its own alternative meaning, namely as a byword for an android whose primary function is to operate as a sexual surrogate. Given the disproportionate representation of female robots intended for this function, as opposed to male ones, it is easy to understand how this etymological shift could have occurred. While this casts a dubious light over the attitudes toward gender which allowed such a shift to occur, the designation is nevertheless useful in itself, so long as we match the inclusive nature of the word android and include male sexual surrogates within the sub-class of gynoids too. It is significant, however, that I cannot think of a single example of a male android whose sole or primary function was to be a sexual surrogate, let alone for use by a female.

. : Exempla
Prototypes – Ghost in the Shell: Innocence
Buffybot – Buffy: The Vampire Slayer
Zhora – Blade Runner

. : Cyborg : .
[contraction of “cybernetic” – possessing systematic control, and “organism” – a life-form]

Generally accepted as something which displays aspects of both organic and artificial systems. The vague nature of this definition, however, lends itself to three distinct interpretations, each of which can be placed within the categories of mechanoid, robot, and android respectively:

. : Type I - An organism bearing some degree of artificial augmentation. This is the most common definition, and is generally based on the projection of prosthetic technology to a point where it is equal or superior to natural human abilities. The proportion of cybernetic to organic material can range from something as simple as a replacement arm all the way through to an entire body housing an organic brain. Indeed, the only qualification is that the defining characteristic of the individual must be maintained, the core of which is the elusive component commonly known as the psyche.

. : Exempla
Alex Murphy – RoboCop.

. : Type II - A robotic species that bears all the hallmarks of organic life. This variation is perhaps the least common, and derives from a liberal interpretation of the term 'organism'. This requires that the unit in question not only present mechanical analogues for the organic processes of consuming matter or energy in order to maintain their autonomy, but also be able to perpetuate their own kind through some form of inherent procreation. This does not include the ability to simply produce a copy by making use of a typical production line. As such, this variety of cyborg occupies a grey area between robots and an alien species which just happens to be composed of what we recognise as machinery.

. : Exempla
Autobots/Decepticons – Transformers

. : Type III - An android whose physical construction incorporates some percentage of organic componentry. This is not an entirely satisfactory definition in most cases, but is worth addressing for the number of sources where it is openly avouched. The most prominent example is encountered in The Terminator, where Kyle Reese refers to the T-800 unit as a cyborg, based on the fact that its metallic endoskeleton is housed within organic tissues in order to aid infiltration. The problem with this interpretation is that, while the flesh is undeniably alive in a molecular sense, the same cannot be said for the unit as a whole. Unlike Type I cyborgs there is no continuity from an original organic state, and unlike Type II it fits none of the necessary criteria to be considered a living organism. The issue is effectively sealed later in the film when we see the T-800 able to function perfectly well, albeit without the ability to infiltrate, once all the organic material has been burnt off. As such, it is actually nothing more than a robot encased in a living sheath, the properties of which are advantageous to, but not essential to its functionality.

. : Exempla
T-800 – The Terminator

______________________

So there you have it, a hierarchical guide to the complex and fascinating world of artificial entities. And while I have touched on a number of particularly illustrative examples, there are many more popular and imaginative examples out there. So what are some of your favourites, and how would you categorise them according to this hierarchy? Have your say in the comment section below.

Exposition - The Price of Interaction

Shortly after tackling the subject of game-to-film adaptations, I began to ponder something. If you were to compare my collection of films and videogames you'd find them approximately equal in number. And yet, if you were to calculate the difference in their initial retail value, you would probably find the games weighing in at least two, more likely even three times the cost of the films. Now I'll admit that my knowledge of the finance and production side of the film industry is very limited, and more so for game development, but even so, I cannot reconcile myself with the notion that this should be the case. As we shall see, none of the vague inferences that can be treated with a degree of certainty offer any compelling evidence in defence of such a pronounced discrepancy. To my mind it is simply a matter of evaluating the issue according to three simple points of comparison.

Investment

If we use my personal library as an example, we've established that the ratio of games to films is fairly balanced, while the initial retail value of the former is probably close to three times that of the latter, based on the fact that the price of a premium game title is generally three times that of your standard two-disc DVD at their time of release. If we were to add up the budgets invested in each title and then compare the two forms of media, however, I have no doubt that the discrepancy would be reversed, perhaps to the same order of magnitude, or even more, in favour of film. Whether it is due to a genuine lack of availability, or simply the product of lesser consumer interest, information regarding the size of a typical game budget is far less accessible than that of film, which is often the subject of widespread promotional use. Allowing for the inevitable exceptions, however, I find it difficult to imagine that the typical game budget would be on par with the sixty-five million dollar figure generally attributed to the average Hollywood production, let alone in excess of it. This is not even taking into account the matter of mammoth, blockbuster-aspiring budgets which inevitably become must-haves for your average movie enthusiast. Glancing over my own collection, the likes of Bram Stoker's Dracula, Kingdom of Heaven, and the Lord of the Rings trilogy would have to come fairly close to balancing out my entire game library entirely on their own, as far as representing investment value is concerned. Adding further weight to this argument is the fact that the price of a typical two-disc DVD release fluctuates very little, despite the actual film budget, and quite often in adverse proportion to it. When you consider the initial cinema release, the point becomes still more pronounced, for it costs no more to see the latest big-budget extravaganza than it does to attend a small independent feature. Insofar as investment value is concerned then, there seems no reason why games should cost any more than your average DVD, let alone nearly triple the amount.

Expenditure

Comparing raw budget data is all well and good, but it's only fair to point out that the development of interactive media is very different from that of film, and thus incurs some unique expenses. One of the most frequently cited by game developers is the cost of development kits. With the industry dominated by three key players – Microsoft, Sony, and Nintendo – the purportedly steep cost of the proprietary software required to make games for their respective consoles is largely unavoidable. In addition to this is the necessity of licensing and tailoring existing game engines to suit each specific project, or else incurring the additional time required to make your own from scratch. Then there is the fact that development time is often a good third to a half longer than that of your typical film, if not several times more. All of this must be taken into consideration, and yet, when we really do so, these differences amount to very little. Yes, game development involves a number of costs and considerations peculiar to itself, but then so does film. The time from pre-production to final release may be longer, but even the largest game developments involve far smaller crews than your typical film production. The cost of proprietary software may be an unavoidable expense, but this has its equivalent in the film industry too, including everything from the physical film and camera equipment, to proprietary editing software and the necessity of distributing through private cinema companies. The cost of subsequent distribution can be dismissed outright, as both games and film use exactly the same media, be it DVD, Blu-ray, or digital. Indeed, the game industry is generally able to avoid some of the more significant dents in a typical film budget, such as the cost of first-billing actors, the necessity of location fees, and the astronomical price of insurance at every level of filming. As such, the extent to which the game industry bewails its tenuous profitability on the basis of its unique expenses is a little hard to swallow.

Duration

When you consider that the average film runs for about two hours, being able to play a game for up to ten to fifteen hours for only three times the price suddenly seems more reasonable. The way that games are marketed demonstrates that the industry is aware of the power of this suggestion, and the hope that, while games are not cheap, the consumer nevertheless feels they are getting good value. When you apply even a little critical though to this principle, however, it is immediately exposed as a fraud. In order to illustrate my point I would like to turn your attention to the image below. There we see three forms of media dealing with the same license: a film, a television series, and a game all based on the popular Terminator franchise. Despite widespread criticism of the game for its short length, someone intending to buy the upcoming Terminator: Salvation DVD might still justify the full retail price of the game with the assurance that they are getting at least two-and-a-half times the duration of the film out of it, meaning that they cost roughly the same to experience per hour. First of all, this ignores the obvious fact that most people do not buy a DVD when they only intend to watch a film once. Secondly, how do we apply this measure of value to the television series, which extends to roughly twice the length of the game, and five times the length of the film? Surely if the measure of value is duration, then longer films should be more expensive, or else priced according to the number of times someone is likely to watch it. The principle is even less convincing when it comes to games, for there is no consistent ratio between the amount of effort and expenditure that is invested in a title and the amount of time it is likely to be played by the consumer. If this were true, the cost of something as simple as Tetris, with no real limit to the experience, should be more expensive than the Terminator: Salvation game. For that matter, how could one compare a sandbox game, where you are simply presented with a set of tools and then allowed to entertain yourself, to another where meticulous effort has gone into crafting a story of more limited duration?

For an outsider, with little real knowledge of the game industry, it is difficult to pinpoint where the profit from the exorbitant cost of games is going. However, with Sony openly admitting to the fact that it incurs a loss with every Playstation 3 console it produces, and Microsoft able to absorb the cost of an endemic failure rate in its Xbox 360, it is certain that the profit margins carved out of software sales must be playing a significant role in keeping their operations viable. The seemingly endless cycle of acquisition, merging, and disbanding of game development studios, despite the continued profits of large publishing companies is also conspicuous, even where specific titles have performed admirably on the market. And while the developers may deserve our sympathy for having much of the risk and little of the reward for each project passed squarely onto them, it is the consumer who ultimately pays. Indeed, the only point of difference that appears to have any real merit in the price discrepancy between games and film is the size of the market. Though they are cheaper to make, games simply don't have the same market share as the lucrative film industry, so in order to derive similar margins, the price is set universally high. In effect, people who buy games are paying a subsidy to the industry on behalf of all those who don't, which has the subsequent affect of discouraging new consumers. Still, if everyone woke up tomorrow a certified gamer would anyone seriously expect the price of games to fall accordingly? There is simply no incentive to lower prices when so many are prepared to pay.

Exposition - Dystopia Myopia

I have an aversion to buzzwords. This aversion stems from the fact that they take perfectly good, functional terms and debase them to a point where they no longer have any specific meaning. Once they enter popular lexicon it's virtually impossible to check their progress; isolated cases of misapplication rapidly instigate a domino effect, and before you know it the word has lost much of its original value. An earlier article on the recent proliferation of the term 'reboot' covered some of this ground – although that case is unusual in that there seems to have been no consensus on what the word meant in the first place – but I feel an unconquerable urge to return to the subject in relation to misuse of a far more enduring term, which is the word 'dystopia' and its various conjugations. This is an evocative word, and one that people are understandably fond of using, but increasingly I seem to come across instances of application which dilute or misrepresent its rather unique meaning. More than anything else, this article is intended to be a personal rationalisation, explaining what the term dystopia designates to me as an individual, with the hope that it might inspire others to do the same.

Without resorting to an encyclopaedic citation, there is some background information which is essential to this discussion. Briefly, the necessary points to bear in mind are a) that the word 'dystopia' was coined as an antonym of 'utopia', b) that the word 'utopia' was itself not coined until the fifteenth century, in a philosophical work of the same name by Sir Thomas More, and c) that by the time 'dystopia' was coined, the generally accepted meaning of 'utopia' had divurged from its own original meaning. The last of these points is critical only insofar as it negates the viability of looking directly to More in order to define the meaning of 'dystopia'. Otherwise, it is sufficient to acknowledge the fact that there are two definitions of 'utopia', the first relating primarily to its original use, and the second, more commonly accepted and widely applied meaning. Of these two only the latter concerns us here. So what does 'utopia' mean?

Generally, when we use the word 'utopia' it carries connotations of perfection, total fulfilment, or an ideal state. The last is particularly important in regard to its alternative possible meaning: not as a static mode of being, but as 'the State' of proverbial socio-political significance. The word 'utopia' is not synonymous with others like 'paradise', which tend to suggest a simpler way of life, devoid of negative aspects because they forgo complexity. Paradise is certainly what any true utopia would deliver, but the means of reaching that goal relies on perfecting each individual facet in a finely-tuned machine, rather than dismantling it in order to get back to basics. In other words, a utopian world is one in which society works flawlessly for the satisfaction and betterment of its people, at once delivering and being an ideal state. Utopia is thus a means of attaining paradise, but not all paradises are utopian. The paradise of the Bible, for instance, is not utopian simply because it requires more than two individuals to constitute a society. So what does 'dystopia' mean?

First of all, it's worth noting the unusual spelling. The much more common dis- prefix would result in a negating reversal of the term 'utopia', but instead we have the rarer dys-, which carries a much stronger connotation of actual negative traits, rather than simple mirror opposition. 'Dysfunction', for instance, denotes the aberrant operation of a system or machine, not the cessation of function itself. Indeed, regardless of the actual etymology of the term, it would not be improper to treat 'dystopia' as a contraction of 'dysfunctional-utopia', which suggests a much clearer definition without altering the proper meaning. If we define a utopia as a social system which promotes the value and well-being of its citizens, then a dystopia is surely a similar system whose function produces the equivalent negative affect, i.e. the exploitation and devaluation of individual rights for the benefit of the state. Just as there must be a society in order for their to be a utopia, the same is also true of a dystopia. At their heart, each is quintessentially defined through the relationship between individuals and a state or social system of which they are a part, the latter existing for the benefit of the former in a utopia, and the former used to serve the latter in a dystopia. So what are some examples?

A bleak horizon, but is it dystopian?

One of the more frequent misapplications in recent weeks has been in relation to the Terminator franchise. If we use the definition outlined above, however, this error is clear for two reasons, being a) that the pivotal event of Judgement Day obliterated much of human society, and b) that the small numbers who did survive have actually formed a social order in which the value of human life is paramount. While these survivors certainly endure a harsh existence, as part of a martial society necessitated by the threat of annihilation, theirs is nevertheless a system that not only work but also affirms the value of each human being against that of their enemies, the machines. This is representative of by far the most common misapplication of the term dystopia, whereby it is perceived as being synonymous with any post-apocalyptic world. The world of Judge Dredd, by contrast, is a proper example of both, where catastrophic events have resulted in the creation of huge, overpopulated enclaves. The ensuing upsurge in conflict and crime sees the introduction of a harsh system of justice arbitrated without the right of appeal, with the end result being a pronounced decline both in the quality of human life and its perceived value.

A dreadful vision of the future

It's also important to bear in mind that fictional worlds need not be either dystopian or utopian in their entirety, and yet still feature one, the other, or both. The Star Trek series is perhaps the most ready example, for although it depicts a universe in a state of ongoing inter-species conflict, human society on its own has made great advances toward a state of utopia by abolishing money, achieving real equality in terms of race and gender, and embracing a system of utility whereby an individual's role is dictated by their aptitude and abilities. The original Stargate film depicts the reverse, where a team of realistic modern extraction makes contact with a human society utterly bent to the will of a despotic alien overlord whose effort to maintain their oppression includes banning all literacy. The truth is, the amount of dystopian or utopian societies that can exist in any work of fiction is limited only by the number of distinct states or equivalent social orders which feature in it overall.

An exaggeration of the present day

Of course, there is nothing which dictates that a society need be either wholly utopian or dystopian. It is more accurate and far more practical to imagine a delineated scale extending between these two poles, with each example falling more or less to one side or the other. This brings me to what will not doubt prove to be a controversial case, which is the film Blade Runner. In terms of presenting a speculative vision of the near future, this film is almost without equal. Unfortunately I cannot be as resolute about the common perception that this vision is dystopian. What we see of the year 2019 is certainly far from utopian, but so fleeting and restricted is this exposure that we should be hesitant before leaping to the opposite conclusion. It is a world in which morally bankrupt corporations are shown to unleash horrors upon the general populace and their own creations alike, of over-crowded streets bathed in the garish light and incessant noise of mass-advertisement, filled with poverty and greed, injustice and suffering. But is this substantially different from the world we live in today? In fact, one could argue that the core of Blade Runner's success in presenting a captivating, believable future derives from the fact that it merely reflects current society, with all its positive and negative attributes, and magnifies them. The corporations may be bigger, the builders taller, the streets more crowded, but in terms of the underlying dynamics it all feels so intuitively familiar.

Futureshock - Reality in the Terminator Universe

The recent release of Terminator: Salvation – the fourth instalment in the long-running film franchise – has produced a flurry of articles from various professional websites attempting to compile a complete picture of the various time-travelling escapades that have been a central element of this fictional universe from the very beginning. While none of these have been completely free from error, all have done a fairly proficient job of imparting the major points in what has become an increasingly complex web of alternate timelines, circular causalities, and apparent paradoxes. What has consistently undermined the merits of these articles, however, is the underlying grasp of how the series construes the more fundamental nature of reality, which is most apparent when these articles attempt to represent the timeline visually. The following is an attempt to address this deficiency, relying not upon any real scientific understanding of the nature of time or physics, but instead drawing exclusively upon what has been presented within the series itself.

Forget everything you know about the future

Perhaps the greatest inhibiting factor against the appreciation of reality as the Terminator series presents it are the central conceits of that other great time-spanning Hollywood saga, the Back to the Future series. As they stand, the three current instalments in this popular franchise may be good, light-hearted entertainment, but the way they present the various effects of time-travel are largely nonsensical. An obvious example is found in Back to the Future: Part III, where Marty McFly – the protagonist in the series – discovers a tombstone commemorating the death of Doc – his friend, and inventor of the time machine –  in 1885. The remainder of the film chronicles their efforts to find out how this occurred in order to prevent it from happening. One area where the film leaves credibility behind involves a photograph that Marty carries with him, featuring the tombstone, which is used as confirmation that Doc's out-of-timely death does not occur; once the precipitating events are dodged, we see to tombstone miraculously fade out of the image, which means that someone apparently felt the need to photograph a featureless patch of ground. If the tombstone can miraculously fade out of existence, shouldn't the photograph do the same? This is just one of many examples of how the issue of logical causality is glossed over, the most persistent of which is the fact that, no matter what changes occur to the timeline – even to the point where Marty himself is in imminent danger of fading out of existence – somehow the personal recollection of his own past is never altered. The reason I point this out is not to cast aspersions on the Back to the Future films, but to remove this influential depiction of time-travel from our consideration.

“One possible future – from your point of view...”
~ Kyle Reese, The Terminator

Forget about people or objects fading out of existence. Reality in the Terminator universe is not some vast VHS tape that you can record over at various points without erasing the end. The first hint we are given of this comes from the quotation above, which is uttered by Kyle Reese – a soldier sent back from 2029 – in the original film, The Terminator. Particular emphasis should be placed on the term 'possible future' and the implications of 'your point of view'. Together, the suggestion is clearly that the perception of reality from an individual who has lived in a purely linear fashion – in this case the protagonist, Sarah Connor – are fundamentally different from those of an individual who has come back from a point in the future – both Kyle Reese and the T-800 terminator. To the former, the period between 1984 and 2029 is a limitless horizon of potential realisation, to the latter a single, definite sequence of events. As such, while use of the term 'timeline' is not technically incorrect in either case, it does promote a misleading connotation. There certainly is a linear connection between past, present, and future, but this is not to say that the sequence is necessarily conforms to a straight line, nor indeed that there is only one. In fact, in order to adequately portray the complex potential realities demonstrated in the Terminator series, the only viable model would resemble a branching, segmented tree.

Ants, Acorns, and Oak Trees

The key to understanding this conceptual model lies in a rather simple analogy. Imagine that you are an ant standing next to an acorn. You know that this acorn will someday grow into an oak tree – limbs branching out and out, terminating with each individual leaf – but the idea that you would be able to predict precisely where any one, let alone all, of these junctions will occur is extremely unlikely. At this point the acorn seems to contain the potential to assume any one of an endless variety of eventual forms. Not only that, but your actions one way or another may hold the potential to influence its growth, the more so if the entire hive should exert their combined energy in pursuit of a common outcome. This is how the future appears to Sarah Connor, or indeed to all of us, proceeding through time in a steady, forward motion.

Now imagine that you are an ant perched high upon a single leaf in a mature oak tree. The idea that the tree might not have grown to assume its current shape – with every little junction leading up to your current vantage – seems far less uncertain simply because, looking down, you can easily trace a continuous path all the way to the ground. If you had the means of propulsion, could might easily leave this particular extremity behind and travel down past several different junctions with other twigs and branches without ever having to change direction. This is how the past appears to us, but also how the period between 1984 and 2029 appears to Kyle Reese.

This image below represents the fundamental difference between moving forward and backward through time: the left showing the normal, forward progression, the right the inverting effect of time-travel.

Clearly, if you begin at a single fixed point toward the bottom of each model, the further toward the top you progress, the greater the potential divergence between the relative positions. The model on the left affords a greater number of potential avenues on the way to myriad, equally probable destinations, while the one on the right has only one prevailing course, making the route a certainty.

This is the nature of reality in the Terminator universe, and this is the basic conceptual framework upon which the various timetravels within it fundamentally operate. The reality we are privy to throughout the four-film saga is not a straight line, but a single path along a tree that also features infinite other branches sprouting out of an infinite number of junctions along the way. The fact that those, such as Kyle Reese, who hail from a given point in the future can look back upon a single past is the result of an illusion, arising from the fact that their recollection is necessarily oblivious to the other potential realities that could, and do in fact, exist as well.

“The future is not set – there is no fate but what we make for ourselves.” 

~ John Connor, Terminator 2: Judgement Day

In effect, each of the first three Terminator films depicts the meeting of one party travelling forward into the realm of indefinite potential futures, and another sent back from one of those potential futures to a definite point in their history, either with the goal of enacting some change or in order to prevent it. An inherent aspect of this process, building upon what we've established so far, is the realisation that no matter how much tampering in the past may be minimised, it is highly improbable that a traveller hailing from one future could ever see precisely that same reality play out again. This is due to the fact that any potential reality is constantly being shaped by the complex universal interactions that are occurring in any given instant. In this respect, any sequence of events and the attempt to incorporate them into a branching model is a gross over-simplification. The model is right, but the sheer frequency, scale, and complexity of everything that goes into shaping the future would be impossible for any depiction to ever adequately convey.

For the sake of demonstration, however, let's imagine there being only two possible outcomes to any significant juncture in how reality may unfold, and that there were only ten such junctures between 1984 and the point from which Kyle Reese is sent back in 2029. Using the inverted tree model, no difficulty is incurred sending him to the correct point in the past. Once he arrives in 1984, however, and resumes the normal progression of everyday life, the ten junctures between then and 2029 now offer no less than 1,024 possible iterations of the future, giving him an objective 1/1024 chance of ever seeing the future, as he knows, it realised in identical form. Subjectively, of course, he could attempt to influence the progression of events in favour of reaching such an outcome, but this would require a detailed knowledge of every juncture and its significance, not to mention the fact that there are many more people who have no interest in aiming for such a future, in addition to a T-800 deployed specifically to make sure it doesn't.

Taking into consideration all the points we've examined thus far, it is now possible to actually map the various divergences in the Terminator timeline.

What you see depicted here is:

• The path we are privy to throughout all current films, influenced by:
• The potential future from which Kyle Reese and the T-800 hail.
• The potential future from which the T-800 and T-1000 hail.
• The potential future from which the T-850 and T-X hail.
• The potential futures of which nothing is known.

“You only postponed it. Judgment Day is inevitable.” 

~ T-850, Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines

Few lines of dialogue have caused as much contention and consternation amongst fans of the Terminator series as the one above. The ostensible reason for this is that it seems to openly contradict the emphasis on being able to change the future espoused in the first two films. Just as with the differing perceptions between Kyle Reese and Sarah Connor, however, this apparent fatalism is a matter of perspective. In fact, Terminator 3 has received a lot of unjust condemnation for rules that were established in the first two films, but which it is popularly thought to have broken. Actually there is no such contradiction, with the third instalment merely continuing the monumental change that was depicted in Terminator 2, where Judgement Day was seemingly averted. The eventuality which sees it merely postponed until 2004 is not some immutable force of predestination – which the word 'inevitable' is mistakenly interpreted as meaning – but the actual application of individual free will.

The future is shaped by human endeavour, to the extent that our physical and mental resources allow. It just happens to be the case that a substantial collective will has been unwittingly set to the task of bringing about our destruction during the period between the end of the second film and the beginning of the third.  This only reinforces the fact that it is not only the high-profile time-travelling events of the series that cause deviations in the unfurling of reality, but the  influence of our day-to-day lives; such incursions from the potential futures simply throw the discrepancies between the now and the to-be into the greatest relief. As of the latest instalment, we are aware of at least three alternative futures, represented by each of the time-travelling insurgents from the first three films. and each interaction with with these insurgents actually served to bring about. What we have seen in the present, and now being played out in latest film, is the result of each interaction throwing the timeline into a new juncture, making four distinct courses in total.

Out of these four, the first two alternatives appear to have some degree of congruity, with the same being true of alternative three and the reality we continue to follow throughout, as we see in the various details laid out below:

Alternative 1 – Kyle Reese, T-800

• John Connor is conceived sometime after 1984
• Judgement Day occurs in 1997
• Kyle Reese born c.2004
• SkyNET is upon the verge of defeat in 2029
• SkyNET deploys a T-800 to 1984
• John Connor sends Kyle Reese to 1984
• Events after 2029 unknown

Alternative 2 – T-800, T-1000

• John Connor is conceived in 1984
• Judgement Day occurs in 1997
• Kyle Reese born c.2004
• SkyNET is upon the verge of defeat in 2029
• SkyNET deploys a T-1000 to c.1995
• John Connor sends a T-800 to c.1995
• Events after 2029 unknown

Alternative 3 – T-850, T-X

• John Connor is conceived in 1984
• Cyberdyne lab is destroyed c.1995
• Sarah Connor dies from cancer c.1997
• Judgement Day occurs in 2004
• Robert/Kate Brewster and others join resistance
• Kyle Reese born c.2004
• John Connor and Kate Brewster 'marry' sometime before 2032
• John Connor terminated c.2032
• SkyNET deploys a T-X to 2004
• Kate Connor sends a T-850 to 2004
• Events after 2032 unknown

Current Timeline – Sarah Connor, John Connor

• John Connor is conceived in 1984
• Cyberdyne lab is destroyed c.1995
• Sarah Connor dies from cancer c.1997
• Marcus Wright donates his body to science in 2003
• Robert Brewster and others terminated in 2004
• Judgement Day occurs in 2004
• Kate Brewster and remaining others join resistance
• Kyle Reese born c.2004
• John Connor and Kate Brewster marry sometime before 2018
• Marcus Wright emerges as experimental terminator in 2018
• Events after 2018 currently unknown

“This isn't the future my mother warned me about...” 

~ John Connor, Terminator: Salvation

According to the reality portrayed in the Terminator series, all four of these outcomes are 'real' in the sense that they exist and play out with no objective precedence. The films, on the other hand, obviously place a subjective emphasis on the timeline which follows a particular incarnation of John Connor. This means that, as of Terminator: Salvation, we have a timeline that shares key remnants of at least three other divergent realities. And this is before we even begin to contemplate the myriad small and large deviations to be found in the television series, novels, comics, and videogames.

As Sarah Connor eloquently puts it, while staring along a stretch of dead-straight road ~

“God, you can go crazy thinking about all this.”