Robot & Frank: Exactly What it Needs to Be

I cannot rightfully qualify any singularly superlative quality to Robot & Frank. The impressive cast, led by Frank Langella, is cogent and compelling, but not unparelled. Christopher D. Ford’s screenplay is witty and well executed but it’s no masterpiece. Jake Schreier directs his feature debut with impressive rhythm and nuance but does not strike the viscera with any lasting quality of emotional resonance.

So how did Robot & Frank come to win the coveted Alfred P. Sloan Prize at this year’s Sundance? What is the secret to the indie comedy’s critical acclaim? Like so many great films, it all starts with a compelling logline:

In the near future, a retired cat burglar learns to love his new robot caretaker when its unique skill set helps him pull off his greatest heist yet.

Add to that a solid structure filled with clever quips, a sprinkle of satire, and a flawlessly planted final plot twist, and you have yourself a wholly memorable and enjoyable film. There’s a reason screenwriting professors refer to “the formula,” and Robot & Frank exemplifies why the formula works.

The narrative is emotionally grounded in the titular protagonist Frank’s (Langella) worsening diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. His son, Hunter (James Marsden), burdened by the responsibility of caring for his own family and his father, buys a robot caretaker to look after Frank to assure that he gets the best care while Hunter is gone during the weeks.

“That thing’s gonna murder me in my sleep,” Frank tells his son as the Robot makes himself at home inside.

It isn’t long before Robot wins Frank over—almost as quickly as he wins over the audience. Peter Sarsgaard undoubtedly steals the show as the voice of Robot; the all but imperceptible inflection of his soothing robotic drone adds comedic punch to even the driest of lines:

“That cereal is for children,” Robot tells Frank. “Eat this grapefruit.”

I’ve never heard an audience so tickled by a line about fruit.

The moment where Robot truly earns Frank’s affection comes at the small boutique shop that used to be Frank’s favorite restaurant (a restaurant he routinely forgets has been replaced). Frank satisfies his lingering thievery instincts by shop lifting small useless items from the shop—“Did you steal a fizzy bath balm, you son of a bitch?” the storeowner accuses (Ana Gasteyer) as Frank scurries out. So, when the storeowner confronts Frank again upon his return, Frank drops his latest steal only to find later that the Robot, unbeknownst to the owner, retrieved it for him before he was kicked out.

As it turns out, Robot’s programming to care for Frank takes priority over the law, and Frank immediately begins training Robot in all his thieving knowledge—lock picking, safe combination breaking, etc. Their first target is the library, where Frank spends much of his time flirting with the head librarian, Jennifer (Susan Sarandon). A wealthy scumbag investor named Jake (Jeremy Strong) plans to “digitize” the entire library, eliminating all hard copies of books and instead allowing the library to be a “community” where people can come together to look up digital copies of books—one of many points of sharp satirical commentary littered along the narrative. Frank & Robot break into the library disguised in all black—Robot’s black cape of course proves more hilarious than inconspicuous—and steal an original copy of Don Quixote to give to Jennifer.

When Robot & Frank attend an event honoring the opening of the new library, Frank decides to take his work with Robot to the next level. Knowing all the money Jake is making from investors in the new library and seeing the millions of dollars in jewels hanging around Jake’s wife’s neck, Frank relies on Robot’s unique safe-breaking abilities to break into Jake’s house and steal their multi-million dollar jewelry collection.

Due to Frank’s criminal record as a jewel thief, the local police instantly peg him as a suspect. Frank has covered his tracks well, but Robot’s memory bank remains the most incriminating evidence against him. Herein lies the tension that carries the third act as Frank struggles to bring himself to erase Robot’s memory, an understandably difficult task to ask of an Alzheimer’s patient.

Though Robot & Frank compensates for its slightly sluggish second act with a poignant and dexterously executed third act twist and resolution, the most pleasant surprise of the film arrives in the form of its brilliantly timed satirical quips. Jake oozes with the self-aggrandizing intellectualism of a privileged and wealthy hipster, a characterization epitomized in his exchange with Frank at the library grand opening event: “You’re so square you’re practically avant garde,” he smugly snickers.

Even better, however, is Frank’s daughter, Madison (Liv Tyler). Madison has spent the last few years overseas performing philanthropic work in various third world countries (most recently somewhere in Africa, if I recall). She vehemently opposes Frank’s use of a robot caretaker—either because it’s inhumane or un-human, or a combination of both—and she speaks of her work with that condescendingly self-satisfied admiration: “I fell in love with the people…so beautiful, but so sad,” she reminisces, “so beautiful, but so sad.”

You can really sense Christopher Ford’s sarcastic inclinations throughout the film, especially in the earlier half where seemingly every other line provokes a chuckle. It’s almost a shame that Ford didn’t take an even more biting approach to the narrative’s satirical potential, because the moments where he chose to capitalize are undoubtedly the most memorable. But Robot & Frank is hardly more satire than it is drama (though it is undoubtedly a comedic force to be reckoned with). Quite simply, it is a film that knows exactly what it has set out to achieve and does exactly that—nothing more, nothing less. And given the acute need for emotionally and intellectually grounded comedies in today’s market, Robot & Frank deserves all the praise and accolades it has garnered—nothing more, nothing less.