A tantalizing look at the gap between consciousness mapping and pure AI, we find Creep Box, toeing the line. Written and directed by Patrick Biesemans, this film is based on his original short film of the same name, now an ALTER short, available to view on YouTube now. Giving us an interesting, intricate look at how we could connect with the dead and how much of ourselves can be harvested—consciously—after death, this makes ghosts almost preferable as we listen to the innermost thoughts, fears, and feelings our loved ones had, in life and after it. This overwhelming idea is presented immediately somewhere between code and consciousness, and keeps unraveling like a ball of yarn from the very first moments of the film. We open to a glowing, broken box, and the whispering voice of a woman. She tells of a land unseen and untold, undreamed and untouched; her voice floats as the box seems to project a thought that never seems to finish, as it can never be fully understood.
We are brought from opening credits to an office where a man rehearses phrases, moving to a board room where a meeting is in place—discussing contact with the deceased. Not quite, says a representative, saying that the client, Mr. Nichols (Dan Cordle), will not be speaking with the dead, but instead it’s a simulation, a constructed awareness that can be perceived and explained as conscious, though replicated and fragmented. A doctor, Dr. Caul (Geoffrey Cantor), will be conducting the experiment; also called “whisperers,” these are the individuals that help the client and the deceased make contact through the program. Doctor of psychology and parapsychology, he brushes away scepticism and begins, priming Mr. Nichols with words including, “meadow,” and “peacock.” The words are meaningful to Mr. Nichols and can help connect to the simulation. These words will also help the torrent of thought that arrives when the feedback loop begins. A box is placed on the table, lighting and humming to life – soon, whispering, and with the primer words spoken, the consciousness is ready to connect.
Mr. Nichols calls out to his late wife, Rachel (Elizabeth Ness), as her thoughts race between confusion and anger. He tries to tell her things he never got to say before she passed, but her rage and bewilderment begins to escalate, the thoughts echoing between her controlled speech, when suddenly, the box’s glow turns from white to red, experiencing some type of psychosis. The voice inside begins to panic as Dr. Caul tries to prime the consciousness again, turning off the box. Mr. Nichols reacts violently when he can’t reconnect to her or discover what happened to his wife after the box is turned off, berating Dr. Caul, calling him a “creep” as Nichols and his representative storm out. Dr. Caul takes the box to a technician where we see why they didn’t reveal Rachel’s fate, as her consciousness is purged from the system.
While preparing to leave the office, Caul is stopped by a man, Ellis (Ian Lithgow), who takes Caul to a room where they discuss Nichols’ severance after his experience and the future of the technology. It’s said this is groundbreaking and could reshape the course of the world, but Ellis warns that the Department of Justice is doing mandatory psychiatric evaluations on all senior personnel, and Caul needs to straighten up. The next day we see Caul with a bottle of his own medication, finally heading home, listening to a worried voicemail from his daughter. We soon see why there’s reason to worry, as Caul has his own box in the basement and the consciousness of someone named Sarah there amongst some cartridges. The following day, Caul is called in at work: he’s brought to the body of a dead child (their first juvenile) where he and a lab worker start to map consciousness. Ellis has sent a minder to watch the process (and Caul) so all eyes are on the way this mystery works. Caul gets in to deep science, explaining briefly some of how the “SC” (simulated consciousness) works, but tomorrow is a dry run for this child, and the correct words have not been established yet. With stress and the loneliness creeping in, there’s always the box in the basement waiting.
The opaque nature of the machine is eventually revealed and we finally start our mind-bending journey of resurrecting the dead through this new technology. In this future, this technology is still for the elite, and it’s an interesting thought that this would, like the iPhone, become available to everyone at a certain financial level, in due time of course. The implications of what this technology could do for the DOJ is discussed early, but only in the meat of the film do we understand some of the crimes committed against the dead that this company is not only trying to reconstruct, but potentially hold up in court. This idea of putting the dead on the stand is insanity I felt invested in, as living witnesses are already unreliable and this is just an amalgamation of the various parts of our consciousness, honed in on trigger phrases. This attempt at future crime solving as well as acting as a new method of closure in grief processing is absolutely encapsulating, making each visit and each new contact vital to listen to, every last voice and thought. Suicide victims take a surprisingly special role in this film, and show both the hope and the hopelessness of someone whose inner monologue is pain. It’s also factored in whether or not people believe this technology really matters, or if in the end, they accept death’s limitations and understand that the box cannot truly contain the soul, spirit, or being of their loved one.
The film balances dialogue and silences delicately, sometimes overusing silence and descending into long periods that mimic soundless depression, but in some ways this can disengage you from some of the stimulating conversations that ensue. Camera work and lighting are generally darkened or muted, creating a bleak, corporate or socially isolated canvas. Cantor delicately walks the line between buttoned-up professional and grieving husband and father, his days consumed with whispers and his nights eaten up by silence. Cantor and a very special, particular voice that he negotiates into the box get into the depths of life, death, reality, memory, and being, branching into talks with this code that feel more like a bare therapy session than an empty computerized box regurgitating its experiences. Covering ethics, grief, and the definition of a living being, the conversations had within the film are at the least food for thought. The story is both magical and scientific in nature, blurring the line between the living and dead, the living and the coded, and who is allowed to access this lifeline to reach beyond someone’s final moments. A quiet, cold look into a technologically advanced manner of resurrection in one way or another, Creep Box can absorb and capture your consciousness and attention—if only for 90 minutes.
Creep Box (2023) has featured at the Boston Science Fiction Film Festival 2024: watch this space for further releases.