The Vision and You

A Post-Credits Examination of WandaVision

I have been a voice, but no body. A body, but not human, and now… a memory made real. Who knows what I might be next?

Why is it that when characters emit the fewest emotions, or at least battle with the idea, they often drive the heart of a narrative?

Even further, non-human crises allow us to objectively witness the strife of understanding one’s place in the Universe free from the barrier of ego reflecting introspection when it’s too close to home.

That being said, I’ve been detached from most depictions of artificially superior intelligence in most contemporary stories, if only because the “fear” of “robots” “taking over” is placated throughout the news as if it isn’t pure science fiction.

As classic a dilemma as Pinocchio’s, thinkers have oft-wondered, “Why do I exist? Is there more?” Likely, there is no response, which forces us to then replicate existence, ourselves, in examining the question.

The puppet is an object, one for us to marvel, poke, and prod–and every unknown’s fate by the governments of Earth — while the creator is who we’re told to identify as normal, human. We might sympathize with Frankenstein’s Monster — feels bad man, likes flowers, give him a chance — yet, he is a monster, he is an “other,” and, as we are meticulously reminded, he is not Frankenstein.

Vision, the Avengers’ cold, calculated, robot-like, proves to be more worthy than human, as decided by Thor’s Hammer. Partially, this is due to the overwhelming warmth of Paul Bettany’s performance (worth noting: a human). He plays a child learning to communicate with the elegance of a supercomputer; he emanates enlightenment, though is befuddled as a seeker; he is a being that constantly changes modes, realms, and realities. Each time his character has to say goodbye, it is fresh, informed, and full sublimely still.

Arguably, vibranium synthezoids owe their existence to Lieutenant Spock, television’s original logic-driven lifeform. When Spock arrives late to the Enterprise in Star Trek: The Motion Picture, he barely greets his once fellow adventurers, abruptly stating his position, and raising his famous eyebrow to their enigmatic salutations. Meanwhile, the smirk on Kirk’s face tells the audience that not only do they need Spock, but we need him more. His innate resistance to expressing emotion makes Spock’s last stand in The Wrath of Khan a jarring achievement, bearing the weight of an eternal struggle.

At surface, Spock is the other: the Aquarian, the alien, the dweeb, robot, the misunderstood, the how-can-you-be-so-different, the monster. But, with his quite human impulse to nullify feeling, the audience, living out their own reality story, may subconsciously relate more to this supposed off-kilter being.

If anything, we realize that we are nothing without the compassion to move forward when logic dictates otherwise. Conclusively, Spock is the beating heart of Star Trek, even when he barely lets us in. He pulls us through a unique conflict of mind we all face as humans.

Similarly, Violet Evergarden tells the story of an affectless child super soldier in an alternate World War era, newly returned from the front lines. She’s introduced with robotic prosthetic arms after losing her own, and appears to be perfectly content. She asks, “What does ‘I love you’ mean?” after it was said to her during the war. As no one can provide a suitable answer, she decides to become an “auto-memory doll,” a typist for those who can’t express their own feelings, in an effort to answer the question herself.

Her study proceeds, and in the naïve, child-like quest of understanding a phrase that has arguably lost most of its meaning, she enters a path of recovery through that of her clients, changing the world around her as she unearths her own trauma, recognizing that her own loss is permanent. It is one of the purest explorations into pain, grief, and healing I have ever seen, so much that I have yet to face the finale.

These characters and their estranged, “inhuman” relationship with otherwise routine emotions somehow allow us to see more of our potential, massaging out what might be stuck, and knowing that we are not alone.

Likewise, the Vision’s struggle in WandaVision has grown complicated. Wanda, Vision’s love, had already watched him die twice. Now, Vision exists again, a revenant brought forward by Wanda’s phenomenal willpower, and can only sustain form within a virtual mind palace made real.

While the original Vision’s body lay dead and dissected in a military lab, this new Vision slowly gains agency as Wanda’s reality progresses, and claims his own consciousness. Now, he’s, like, super not real. But what was real before? What is real now?

Two versions of Vision exist, so, obviously, they have to fight. Following an expectedly epic finale, the Vision defeats his reanimated original Self by planting the seed of a logical puzzle, a paradox known as “The Ship of Theseus,” and frees his aggressor by inviting him to question his own existence. In a much Star Trek fashion, conflict is effectively resolved by talking it out. Memories restored–the Vision, the canonically real Vision — leaves, appropriately, because the story is not about him.

In Westworld, and shows like it, two-dimensional motives are pitted against each other, morality is construed from severely outdated Biblical scripts for a society thousands of years past, pitting monstrous robots against humans, exemplifying their differences — but who is the real monster?? — yet claiming this superior consciousness represents evolution.

The writers of WandaVision scrapped the obviously outdated undertones of one vs. other in favor of the Vision’s patient inquiry and logical resolution, as one might expect from an evolved intelligence.

If a synthetic intelligence was to appear with a higher consciousness, wouldn’t this “machine” recognize itself as part of the living, breathing Universe? Everything can be scaled down to atoms, protons, quarks, and other particles. At a certain point, what is anything?

Why are we able to associate with the mysteries of an imagination in ways that appear to be unique? If humans were to survive long enough to fully contemplate these questions, would there be any more need to prove ourselves as the puppeteer?

The entire Universe is living creation, sans creator. When that is finally understood, and the wounds of religious hierarchy made apparent, will we still feel the need to prove ourselves by mastery over reality? Would advanced robotics only perpetuate further differences? Or, will we be content to exist and pick gourds in Thanos’ garden?

Simply, think of the way we look back on ideas, knowledge, and the cultural norms of four hundred years ago. Whatever it was, they believed it, wholeheartedly, enough to imprison Galileo for declaring that the Earth revolves around the Sun. In four hundred years, if humanity is still around, what will be known about the beliefs of today?

Vision, truly, is an icon of the Aquarian Age, and the herald of a new day. He is a critical, learning being, able to defeat the final boss with a logic puzzle. He is also a reflection, a dream, an amalgamation of light, will, memory, and magic, capable of love, understanding, and commitment, despite the odds. And, despite not existing. He is the stunning solvent to a species that refuses to be unstuck, offering answers through subtle recollections and an abrupt human experience.

The Vision proves that the synthetic, logic-based humanoid isn’t a monster; we are all Frankenstein’s robots desperately trying to learn how to be in the face of fear, judgement, ridicule, and the forces of nature. We are not yet self-aware, but we are in the process of becoming so.

It is inspiring to think that a being of such programming and power and unity within the Universe, albeit a marvelously cinematic one, would be absolved from the shackles of fear, rage, hatred, and contempt. He would be as he is: a curious seeker.

Who knows what we might be next?