In the early '40s, science fiction shifted into the discourse of positronic brains having human consciousness when Isaac Asimov introduced the three basic tenets of the robotic laws. The relevance of these laws makes them applicable to this day, not just in pop culture but also in future robotic advancements. But the notion of "thou shall not harm" a human becomes moot when sophisticated artificial intelligence evolves to process vulnerable emotions as it inherits the inherent flaws of its creators. Netflix's latest anime series, Pluto, pushes that idea to its limits until the boundary between humanity and machines fades with one fundamental question hanging overhead: do robots have a soul?
Adapted from Naoki Urasawa's manga of the same name that reimagines "The Greatest Robot on Earth" story arc from Osamu Tezuka's seminal work Astro Boy, Pluto is directed by Toshio Kawaguchi and produced by Netflix, with Shinshuu Fuji and Youko Hikasa voicing the protagonists Gesicht and Atom respectively. The show takes the audience to a world not unlike the one right now, ravaged by war borne out of imperialist ambitions and political agenda. When a mysterious robot named Pluto destroys the most advanced robots the world has ever created, one after the other, Interpol's robot detective Gesicht takes charge of the case. As he unravels the mystery surrounding the deaths, his own checkered past starts to resurface while the world feels the shaking rage of a vengeful Pluto.
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Pluto unfolds the intricacies of its world ever so slowly. On the surface, it looks like a utopian society that has accepted robots as their neighbors and co-workers. Yet, the menial work and hazardous jobs in store for them display the power imbalance their human overlords enjoy over them. The show is big on showing events through the eyes of its characters rather than simply telling them to the audience. The first episode is a good example of this tactic. From the outpour of grief on Mont Blanc's death to Gesicht hitting one wall after another in his investigation, the storytelling hinges on capturing the lives of everyone concerned to create an interconnected web of narratives. This also creates a unique pacing issue. Although both robots and their creators become the target, instead of going deep into the murder mystery, the story takes a step back and focuses on the emotional drive of each of the robots. It is all about the buildup to their inevitable fate. Their hopes and dreams stand as a testament to their humaneness. While it may seem like a red herring for some, the mounting evidence of the evolution of the most sophisticated AI to not only mimic but also understand human emotions becomes the central theme later in the plot.
The to and fro between character backstories initially pushes Gesicht to the sidelines. It comes down to the structuring of the manga plot, with the anime series taking the liberty to change the sequence of events. But what it really does is clear up all the distractions before making room for Gesicht's past. And that is a baggage that takes time to unravel. As a detective without the firepower to match the battle-hardened robots, he can only watch as, one by one, the world's most advanced robotics fall prey to the behemoth that is Pluto. That is until a subplot regarding an anti-robot cult opens up Gesicht's past and plots the course for his future. When the audience first sees him, Gesicht comes across as a devoted husband and a law-abiding robot. His core conflict arises from his faulty memories that point to something far more sinister than he has ever experienced. Balancing his acts between searching his past and finding the culprit behind the homicides, Gesicht becomes a conflicted protagonist whom humans would probably call amnesiac. As the story goes on, it becomes clear that the detective shares similarities with his prime suspect in more ways than one, turning the cat-and-mouse chase into a yin-yang debate of evil within the good and good within the evil.
This balancing act can also be found in Toshio Kawaguchi's direction. Netflix's Pluto is a deeply political tale. It follows the real-life developments of the Second Gulf War closely. It reimagines it as a futuristic war between the Persia Kingdom and the United States of Thracia, where robots are nothing but tools of war. In a world where the hubris of man has made robots in their image, giving them the ability to feel emotions, the same humans readily invalidate their feelings of extreme sorrow and even hatred stemming out of trauma from participating in a destructive war. Pluto juggles these two themes constantly throughout the series. In some episodes, the conspiracies go as deep as a rabbit hole, taking up the entire runtime. Other times, it stalls progression to stop and smell the roses, asking deep philosophical questions that the anime does not answer outright. This duality can also be persistently seen in the deuteragonist Atom and the antagonist Pluto, both hailing from completely different ends of the spectrum. Atom was the poster boy of the 39th Central Asian Conflict and is a symbol of peace around the world. In contrast, Pluto is the direct aftermath of the war, born of pure, undiluted hatred. Ironically, using the robots as his own tools, Toshio Kawaguchi tells in more than mere words how violence only begets violence.
The world of Pluto is expansive. The story often crosses over borders, moving between real countries and fictional nations. And as it does, the landscape, the culture, and even people's names change, immersing audiences in an international tale of mystery. But it is not the world-hopping but the worldbuilding that is the backbone of the series. Netflix's Pluto does it episodically, like stacking blocks on top of one another. While it is just as easy for the whole thing to crash down, Pluto does not rely just on its protagonists to carry the weight of the plot. Instead, it creates pockets of stories for each of its supporting cast. Sometimes, the series dedicates more than a single episode to create an overarching tale. Deep within these moments resonates pain and grief, soaking the narrative in the struggles of the human condition. And therein lies the commonality between beating hearts, biological or otherwise. Relationships in a familial setup are a big part of the story, especially father-son relationships that take a make-or-break approach during the final act. Given how the source material has strong depictions of abandonment and fatherly love, Pluto unwittingly follows in similar footsteps and applies the formula to the other characters in the show. As a result of this, both Gesicht and Pluto open up a part of their lives that the audience might not be ready for.
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While Studio M2, the primary animators behind Pluto, may not have a proven track record, the sheer quality of their animation here is spellbinding. With assistance from other big-name studios, including MAPPA and Tezuka Productions, they go for spectacular stages and beautiful backgrounds that seamlessly blend ethnic and techno-modern looks. From a beam of sunlight peeking through the blinds with dust particles sparkling around it to an endless field of flowers blooming as the camera runs through it, every small and big detail minutely placed in the frame has a place in the storytelling. Astonishingly, despite the scope of the anime to do so, Pluto does not go into spectacular fight sequences from the start, leaving most of it for the back half of the series. The focus is always on bringing the key visuals of the manga over to the animation, deepening the drama and the palpable thriller through impeccable facial animations. This gets even more amplified when the voice acting complements the visuals on the screen, with their intonation enough to read the room.
The story of Pluto is a journey of a thousand miles. From a 1964 story to a perfectly relevant reimagining, from a devastating war to a world-shattering conspiracy, the show is a sum total of the characters' experiences in their pursuit of fulfillment. But more than that, it tests Asimov's laws, not with its blatant infringement, but by understanding what makes an artificial intelligence reach a point where the black and white of truth and falsity comes to nothing in front of fomenting human emotions. Pluto asks fundamental questions. "Can robots feel hatred to kill?" "Can they lie?" "Can they cry?" While the answers do not shock the audience, they shake the core belief of seeing robots as simple metal tools as opposed to intelligent beings capable of autonomous thoughts and actions. Yugo Kanno's ethereal music that swings with the moods and charges up the atmosphere can melt even the coldest, metallic hearts as it dances from episode to episode, playing tunes that pulsate with the tension. Pluto's animation style and investment in its character developments absolve any pacing issue the series may indulge in, especially the sudden rush burst just before the ending. But honestly, the mere achievement of keeping up with Urasawa's pièce de résistance is an art in itself.