Films from the Future

by Andrew Maynard

  Mandelbrot fractals became all the rage in the 1980s. As a new generation of computer geeks got their hands on the latest personal computers, kids began to replicate the Mandelbrot fractal and revel in its complexity. Reproducing it became a test of one’s coding expertise and the power of one’s hardware. In one memorable guest lecture on parallel processing I attended, the lecturer even demonstrated the power of a new chip by showing how fast it could produce Mandelbrot fractals.

  This growing excitement around chaos theory and the idea that the world is ultimately unpredictable was admirably captured in James Gleick’s 1987 book Chaos: Making a New Science.15 Gleick pulled chaos theory out of the realm of scientists and computer geeks and placed it firmly in the public domain, and also into the hands of novelists and moviemakers. In Jurassic Park, Ian Malcolm captures the essence of the chaos zeitgeist, and uses this to drive along a narrative of naïve human arrogance versus the triumphal dominance of chaotic, unpredictable nature. Naturally, there’s a lot of hokum here, including the rather silly idea that chaos theory means being able to predict when chaos will occur (it doesn’t). But the concept that we cannot wield perfect control over complex technologies within a complex world is nevertheless an important one.

  Chaos theory suggests that, in a complex system, immeasurably small actions or events can profoundly affect what happens over the course of time, making accurate predictions of the future well-nigh impossible. This is important as we develop and deploy highly complex technologies. However, it also suggests that there are boundaries to what might happen and what will not as we do this. And these boundaries become highly relevant in separating out plausible futures from sheer fantasy.

  Chaos theory also indicates that, within complex systems, there are points of stability. In the context of technological innovation, this suggests that there are some futures that are more likely to occur if we take the appropriate courses of action. But these are also futures that can be squandered if we don’t think ahead about our actions and their consequences.

  Jurassic Park focuses on the latter of these possibilities, and it does so to great effect. What we see unfolding is a catastrophic confluence of poorly understood technology, the ability of natural systems to adapt and evolve, unpredictable weather, and human foibles. The result is a park in chaos and dinosaurs dining on people. This is a godsend for a blockbuster movie designed to scare and thrill its audiences. But how realistic is this chaotic confluence of unpredictability?

  As it turns out, it’s pretty realistic—up to a point. Chaos theory isn’t as trendy today as it was back when Jurassic Park was made. But the realization that complex systems are vulnerable to big (and sometimes catastrophic) shifts in behavior stemming from small changes is a critical area of research. And we know that technological innovation has the capacity to trigger events and outcomes within the complex social and environmental systems we live in that are hard to predict and manage.

  As if to press the point home here, as I’m writing this, Hurricane Harvey has just swept through Houston, causing unprecedented devastation. The broad strokes of what occurred were predictable to an extent—the massive flooding exacerbated by poor urban planning, the likelihood of people and animals being stranded and killed, even the political rhetoric around who was responsible and what could have been done better. In the midst of all of this, though, a chemical plant owned by the French company Arkema underwent an unprecedented catastrophic failure.

  The plant produced organic peroxides. These are unstable, volatile chemicals that need to be kept cool to keep them safe, but they are also important in the production of many products we use on a daily basis. As Harvey led to widespread flooding, the plant’s electric power supplies that powered the cooling systems failed one by one—first the main supply, then the backups. In the end, all the company could do was to remove the chemicals to remote parts of the plant, and wait for them to vent, ignite, and explode.

  On its own, this would seem like an unfortunate but predictable outcome. But there’s evidence of a cascade of events that exacerbated the failure, many of them seemingly insignificant, but all part of a web of interactions that resulted in the unintended ignition of stored chemicals and the release of toxic materials into the environment. The news and commentary site Buzzfeed obtained a logbook from the plant that paints a picture of cascading incidents, including “overflowing wastewater tanks, failing power systems, toilets that stopped working, and even a snake, washed in by rising waters. Then finally: ‘extraction’ of the crew by boat. And days later, blasts and foul, frightening smoke.”16

  Contingencies were no doubt in place for flooding and power failures. Overflowing toilets and snakes? Probably not. Yet so often it’s these seemingly small events that help trigger larger and seemingly chaotic ones in complex systems.

  Such cascades of events leading to unexpected outcomes are more common than we sometimes realize. For instance, few people expect industrial accidents to occur, but they nevertheless do. In fact, they happen so regularly that the academic Charles Perrow coined the term “normal accidents,” together with the theory that, in any sufficiently complex technological system, unanticipated events are inevitable.17

  Of course, if Hammond had read his Perrow, he might have had a better understanding of just how precarious his new Jurassic Park was. Sadly, he didn’t. But even if Hammond and his team had been aware of the challenges of managing complex systems, there’s another factor that led to the chaos in the movie that reflects real life, and that’s the way that power plays an oversized role in determining the trajectory of a new technology, along with any fallout that accompanies it.

  Visions of Power

  Beyond the genetic engineering, the de-extinction, and the homage to chaos theory, Jurassic Park is a movie about power: not only the power to create and destroy life, but the power to control others, to dominate them, and to win.

  Power, and the advantages and rewards it brings, is deeply rooted in human nature, together with the systems we build that reflect and amplify this nature. But this nature in turn reflects the evolutionary processes that we are a product of. Jurassic Park cleverly taps into this with the dinosaur-power theme. And in fact, one of the movie’s more compelling narrative threads is the power and dominance of the dinosaurs and the natural world over their human creators, who merely have delusions of power. Yet this is also a movie about human power dynamics, and how these influence the development, use, and ultimately in this case the abuse, of new technologies.

  There are some interesting side stories about power here, for instance, the power Ian Malcolm draws from his “excess of personality.” But it’s the power dynamic between Hammond, the lawyer Donald Gennaro, and InGen’s investors that particularly intrigues me. Here, we get a glimpse of the ability of visions of power to deeply influence actions.

  At a very simple level, Jurassic Park is a movie about corporate greed. Hammond’s investors want a return on their investment, and they are threatening to exert their considerable power to get it. Gennaro is their proxy, but this in turn places him in a position of power. He’s the linchpin who can make or break the park, and he knows it.

  Then there’s Hammond himself, who revels in his power over people as an entertainer, charmer, and entrepreneur.

  These competing visions of power create a dynamic tension that ultimately leads to disaster, as the pursuit of personal and corporate gain leads to sacrificed lives and morals. In this sense, Jurassic Park is something of a morality tale, a cautionary warning against placing power and profit over what is right and good. Yet this is too simplistic a takeaway from the perspective of developing new technologies responsibly.

  In reality, there will always be power differentials and power struggles. Not only will many of these be legitimate—including the fiduciary responsibility of innovators to investors—but they are also an essential driving force that prevents society from stagnating. The challenge we face is not to abdicate power, but to develop ways of unde
rstanding and using it in ways that are socially responsible.

  This does not happen in Jurassic Park, clearly. But that doesn’t mean that we cannot have responsible innovation, or corporate social responsibility, that works, or even ethical entrepreneurs. It’s easy to see the downsides of powerful organizations and individuals pushing through technological innovation at the expense of others. And there are many downsides; you just need to look at the past two hundred years of environmental harm and human disease tied to technological innovation to appreciate this. Yet innovation that has been driven by profit and the desire to amass and wield power has also created a lot of good. The challenge we face is how we harness the realities of who we are and the world we live in to build a better future for as many people as we can, without sacrificing the health and well-being of communities and individuals along the way.

  In large part, this is about learning how we develop and wield power appropriately—not eschewing it, but understanding and accepting the sometimes-complex responsibilities that come with it. And this isn’t limited to commercial or fiscal power. Scientists wield power with the knowledge they generate. Activists wield power in the methods they use and the rhetoric they employ. Legislators have the power to establish law. And citizens collectively have considerable power over who does what and how. Understanding these different facets of power and its responsible use is critical to the safe and beneficial development and use of new technologies—not just genetic engineering, but every other technology that touches our lives as well, including the technology that’s at the center of our next movie: Never Let Me Go.

  Chapter Three

  NEVER LET ME GO: A CAUTIONARY TALE OF HUMAN CLONING

  “Who’d make up stories as horrible as that?”

  —Ruth

  Sins of Futures Past

  In 2002, the birth of the first human clone was announced. Baby Eve was born on December 26, 2002, and weighed seven pounds. Or so it was claimed.

  The announcement attracted media attention from around the world, and spawned story after story of the birth. Since then, no proof has emerged that baby Eve was anything other than a publicity stunt. But the furor at the time demonstrated how contentious the very idea of creating living copies of people can be.

  There’s something about human cloning that seems to jar our sense of right and wrong. It instinctively feels—to many people, I suspect—as if it’s not quite right. Yet, at the same time, there’s something fascinating about the idea that we might one day be able to recreate a new person in our own likeness, or possibly “resurrect” someone we can’t bear to lose—a child who’s passed, or a loved relative. There’s even the uneasy notion that maybe, one day, we could replicate those members of society who do the work we can’t do, or don’t want to—a ready supply of combat personnel, maybe, or garbage collectors. Or even, possibly, living, breathing organ donors.

  As it turns out, cloning humans is really difficult. It’s also fraught with ethical problems. But this hasn’t stopped people trying, despite near-universal restrictions prohibiting it.

  On December 27, 2002, Brigitte Boisselier, a scientist working for the organization Clonaid, announced that a cloned baby girl, Eve, had been delivered by cesarian section to a thirty-one-year-old woman. Clonaid was founded in 1997 with the express aim of cloning humans. But the company’s mission was far more ambitious than this. The organization had its roots in the ideas and teachings of one-time racing car test-driver, and subsequently self-proclaimed religious leader, Claude Vorilhon. Vorilhon, who later renamed himself Raël and went on to establish the Raëlian religious movement, believes that we are the creations of a “scientifically more advanced species.” These aliens—the “Elohim”—have, he claims, discovered the secret of immortality. And the key to this is, apparently, cloning.

  You could be forgiven for feeling a little skeptical at this point. Raël’s stories and beliefs come across as fantastical and delusional, at least when they’re boiled down to their bare bones. But they offer a window into the world of cloning that bizarrely echoes some of the more mainstream ideas of transhumanists, and even some technology entrepreneurs. They also create an intriguing canvas on which to begin exploring the moral dilemmas presented in the movie Never Let Me Go.

  Never Let Me Go was never intended as a science fiction movie. Its scriptwriter (and the author of the novel the movie’s based on), Kazuo Ishiguro, was interested in what it means to live a meaningful life, especially if that life is short and limited. Ironically, the setting he used to explore this was a society that has discovered the secret of a long and disease-free life. But the technology this secret depends on is a program of human cloning, developed for no purpose other than to allow the clones’ organs to be harvested when the appropriate time came to keep others alive and healthy.

  To Ishiguro, the clones were simply a plot device. Nevertheless, the characters he created and the circumstances of their lives reveal a dark side of how technologies like cloning can, if not used ethically and responsibly, lead to quite devastating discrimination and abuse.

  Never Let Me Go is set in a fictitious England in the 1970s to 1990s. On the surface, it reminds me of the England I grew up in; the settings, the people, and the culture all have a nostalgic familiarity to them. But, unlike the England I remember, there’s something deeply disturbing under the surface here. What unfolds is a heart-wrenching story about dignity, rights, and happiness, and what it means to have value as a person. And because the movie is not focused on the technology itself, but on the lives it impacts, it succeeds in providing a searing insight into the social and moral risks of selling our collective souls as we unquestionably embrace the seeming promise of new technological capabilities.

  At the center of Never Let Me Go are three young people, bound together by a common experience. The story starts with them as young children, at what looks at first glance like an exclusive private school in the English countryside. They seem like ordinary kids, with all the usual joys, pains, and intrigues that accompany childhood. Except that these children are different.

  As the movie unfolds, we begin to learn that these particular students have been “bred.” They don’t have parents. They don’t even have full names. Instead, they’re destined to give their short lives for others as part of the National Donor Program, “donating” their organs as they become young adults until, around the third or fourth donation, they will “complete” and die on the operating table.

  As the students get older, they are made increasingly aware of their fate. They’re taught that they need to look after their bodies, that this is their purpose in life—that their role is to die so others can live. And most of them accept this fate.

  Yet, despite their being treated as a commodity by the society they’re created to serve, we begin to learn that not everyone is comfortable with this. Their principal, Miss Emily (Charlotte Rampling), is concerned about the ethics of the National Donor Program. But, as we discover, she is less concerned about the existence of the program than about how it’s run. She wants to find evidence supporting her gut feeling that her students should be treated as people, rather than walking organ donors. It turns out that her school, Hailsham was set up as a progressive establishment to explore whether these clones have that (apparently) quintessential indicator of humanity, a “soul.” This, from the perspective of Miss Emily and her supporters, is essential in determining whether the students are worthy of being treated with the dignity and respect afforded other members of the human race.

  Against this backdrop, a deeply moving story of love, empathy, and meaning plays out. Ultimately, the three clones we follow become a yardstick of what constitutes “being human” against which their creators are measured.

  Standing at the core of Never Let Me Go is the relationship between Kathy (played as a child by Izzy Meikle-Small, and as an adult by Carey Mulligan), a kind, empathetic young woman trying to make sense of her life, and Tommy (Charlie Rowe/Andrew Garfield), a trouble
d young man whom she cares deeply for. Then there is Ruth (Ella Purnell/Keira Knightly), a sometime-friend of Kathy and Tommy’s who desperately wants to fit in with those around her, and who selfishly robs those close to her of what’s precious to them as she does.

  As the three children grow toward adulthood, they begin to hear talk of a “deferment program,” a means of delaying the start of their donations. It’s rumored that, if a couple can show that they truly love each other, they can request a deferment from donating. This would provide them with a short stay of execution before they give up their organs and ultimately die in the process. And, according to rumor, Miss Emily, their former principal at Hailsham, has some influence here.

  As they enter adulthood, the three young people move on from the small community they live in together, and lose touch. Kathy becomes a “carer,” looking after other donors as they move toward completion. But some years after the three of them have gone their separate ways, she runs across Ruth. Ruth is recovering from a donation which hasn’t gone well, and Kathy steps in as her carer.

  As the two rekindle their old relationship, they reconnect with Tommy, who has also begun his donations. Ruth has been keeping track of both Tommy and Kathy, in part because she is wracked with guilt about how she treated them. She admits that she was jealous of the deep bond between Tommy and Kathy when the three of them were together and, because of this, stole Tommy away from Kathy.