Imagine an alternate 1990s where robots weren’t just sci-fi dreams—they were part of everyday life, hauling boxes, cutting hair, maybe even babysitting. Then they rebelled. Humans won the war, but instead of scrapping the bots, they corralled them into a fenced-off wasteland dubbed the Electric State, where they’re forbidden to leave.
That’s the setup for The Electric State, a wild ride of a story that starts when Michelle’s girlfriend—grieving the loss of her entire family—gets a surprise visitor: a pint-sized robot with a message. Her brother’s alive, and he’s stuck in that robotic no-man’s-land. To get him back, someone’s gotta sneak past the barbed wire and into the heart of machine territory. Game on.
This is The Electric State, a Netflix blockbuster that hit screens on March 14, 2025, directed by the Russo brothers—yep, the same duo who gave us those Avengers epics. Starring Millie Bobby Brown, Chris Pratt, and Stanley Tucci, it’s a post-cyberpunk mashup that feels like Artificial Intelligence meets I, Robot with a dash of Ready Player One. It’s based on a book by Simon Stålenhag, a Swedish artist you’ve probably stumbled across online—think haunting paintings of foggy fields dwarfed by hulking robots and cryptic tech. His work’s already spawned Tales from the Loop and a board game, but this film takes his vibe and cranks it into overdrive.
Now, if you’re expecting a moody, mysterious trek like Stålenhag’s book—well, buckle up, because the Russos went full Hollywood. This is no quiet art piece; it’s a loud, jokey, action-packed spectacle that swaps eerie ambiguity for explosions and one-liners. Netflix threw a fortune at it—making it one of their priciest projects—and it shows. The visuals scream big-screen energy, with shots that could’ve been ripped straight from Stålenhag’s canvas: towering bots looming over dusty roads, retro 90s tech clashing with futuristic decay. But don’t get too attached to the book’s plot—only the opening beats survive. Screenwriters Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely (veterans of Marvel and Narnia) built a whole new story, keeping the aesthetic but ditching the tone.
Purists might clutch their pearls and cry, “The book was better!” Fair enough, but let’s be real: Stålenhag’s a visionary artist first, writer second. His books are more like gorgeous sketchbooks with captions—vibes over narrative. This isn’t Dune or Lord of the Rings, where straying from the text is blasphemy. So, let’s judge this beast on its own terms and see what the Russos cooked up.
The film kicks off with Michelle (Millie Bobby Brown), an orphan schoolgirl in a world still reeling from the robot uprising. The book’s version of her is a lonely teen navigating a dying landscape, but here’s the snag: Millie’s 20 now, and she looks it. Watching her shuffle through high school hallways feels off—like she’s cosplaying a kid she outgrew years ago. Next to her “little brother,” she’s more mom than sister. It’s not her fault—she’s still got that raw, believable spark from Stranger Things—but the Russos should’ve tweaked the script. Call it a college, cut Pratt’s “You’re a child!” lines, something. Instead, it’s a weird disconnect they just roll with.
Speaking of Pratt, meet Keats—a wisecracking rogue who’s nowhere in the book. He struts in to Glenn Danzig’s Mother, and from there, any trace of Stålenhag’s somber mood evaporates. Pratt’s doing his Star-Lord thing: charming, goofy, a little shady but golden-hearted. He’s teamed up with Herman, a snarky robot who’s equal parts Rocket Raccoon and Groot—sassing Keats one minute, melting your heart the next. Their banter’s a riot, like when Keats tries to con a villain who’s already three steps ahead. It’s pure Russo flair, and while it’s lightyears from Stålenhag’s bleakness, it’s the film’s secret weapon.
The bad guys, though? Ethan Skate (Stanley Tucci) and Bradbury (Giancarlo Esposito) are your standard cold, calculating types—think Elon Musk with a darker edge and a hired gun with no soul. They’re fine, but so similar in vibe you’d mix them up if not for the casting. Meanwhile, the robots steal the show. These aren’t your sleek Terminators—they’re clunky, broken-down oddballs: a magician bot, a barber-chair bot, even a bot stuffed inside another bot. The Russos clearly had a blast designing them, and they’re adorable in a tragic, toy-soldier way. In the book, Stålenhag’s robots were creepy despite their quirks; here, they’re just victims—sweet, misunderstood, and caught in a human-robot morality play straight out of Detroit: Become Human. Are they stand-ins for the oppressed? Maybe, but the film doesn’t dig deep enough to say.
Visually, it’s a feast. Robot brawls—complete with special forces getting smoked by baseball bats and fastballs—look like they ate half the budget, and the retrofuturistic 90s setting (big CRTs, Clinton on TV, Judas Priest on the soundtrack) nails that “what if the past dreamed the future?” vibe. But the logic’s shaky. Why build sentient androids for menial jobs? Why does VR need human bodies à la The Matrix? Why’s the whole world just America? Stålenhag left his universe vague and haunting; the film overexplains and still trips over itself.
That’s the rub: for all its robot love, The Electric State leans hard into old-school technophobia. VR’s the big bad—some evil force to smash—when in 2025, we know it’s just a tool, not a boogeyman. It’s less a future warning and more a 90s nostalgia trip, a “cyberpunkpunk” rollercoaster that’s fun if you don’t overthink it. The ending tugs the heartstrings but sticks to blockbuster tropes—Stålenhag’s abrupt, open-ended fade-out had more punch.
So, what’s the verdict? It’s not Stålenhag’s quiet apocalypse—it’s a Russo party with killer visuals, killer bots, and Pratt being Pratt. Don’t come for deep sci-fi; come for a 90s-style romp with heart and chaos. It’s flawed, it’s flashy, and it’s worth a spin. What do you think—ready to sneak into the Electric State?
