Wifelike (2022)

Wifelike has the pulpy, neon-lit allure of a late-night sci-fi thriller that’s less interested in rockets than in the haunted question of what we owe the things we create—and what they might owe us back. James Bird builds a sleek near-future world where grief is commodified and identity is a moving target, and he keeps the mood simmering with mystery and moral unease rather than cheap jump scares. Jonathan Rhys Meyers brings a weary intensity to the detective at the story’s center, while Elena Kampouris gives the film its most compelling spark, playing a “companion” whose growing self-awareness turns every quiet moment into a loaded one; their chemistry helps sell the premise even when it leans into genre melodrama. It’s definitely not for everyone—there’s a deliberately creepy, sexualized edge and R-rated content that can feel provocative—but if you like smart-looking sci-fi that toys with memory, control, and the blurry line between love and programming, this is an entertaining rabbit hole worth dropping into.

Wifelike is clearly aiming for a sleek, noir-ish sci‑fi thriller about grief, AI rights, and the unsettling ethics of “owning” a human replica, and the premise is strong enough to hook you at the start. The problem is it plays like a patchwork of better films: the mystery twists feel more like confusion than cleverness, the pacing drifts, and the big themes (misogyny, control, exploitation) are raised but not meaningfully explored. It also leans hard into sexualized imagery and a deliberately creepy vibe, which can feel less like critique and more like the movie indulging in what it’s supposedly questioning. If you’re here for thoughtful, coherent sci‑fi, you’ll likely be frustrated; if you can tolerate schlocky execution for a few moody moments and a committed performance or two, it might still scratch a late-night watch itch.