Friendship's Death (1987) - full transcript

"You know,
while I was there in Amman,

'l never imagined I'd remember
everything with such clarity.

'Everything is still completely vivid.

"The sound of mortars,
the mimeograph machine

'and the PLO post
where I first met friendship.

'Even the taste of the tea.

"Hijacked planes
blown-up on a desert airstrip.

"That's the image we'll remember.'

'pure spectacle.'

'millions of dollars
going up in smoke. Pure waste.'

'pure destruction.



"Why is it happening?

It's incomprehensible.'

'it's an image
with all the meaning drained out of it.

'Completely opaque,
like a curtain between us and history.'

"when I talk to palestinians
about 1970,

'they sometimes say, "why do you
want to remember those days?

"Those were terrible days."

'But then they say, "how do you
know anything about it?

"Nobody ever cares
what happened to us."

"For them,
it was a black September.'

Oh, how did it go?
Safe and sound?

He gave me a lecture.

Oh, very appropriate.

Middle eastern studies, a special course
with practical demonstrations.



I couldn't understand all of it.

He kept warning me
about the danger.

Danger?
I can't get enough of it.

You need to feel the shells
right up close.

You need to smell the blood.

Journalism, don't you just love it?

They seem to have
a great deal of respect for you.

Thank you for your help.

I just told them that I knew you.
No problem.

You don't know me.

Well, it's better for you
that I do.

Anyway, a chance encounter
can often lead to a lifetime friendship.

What are you doing here?

I told you, I'm looking for danger.
I couldn't get enough of it at home.

But they organise these things
an awful lot better out here.

Is something bothering you?

It's just the tungsten light.

Do go on.

When I was a kid,
I wanted to be a brain surgeon.

I thought that if we could find a way into
the deepest recesses of the human mind,

then we could find out
what had gone wrong with the species.

But now I'm not so sure.

Whatever it is in there,
I don't think I want to know about it,

thank you very much.

Do you have a map?

We're somewhere on jabal El-Hussein.
You don't need a map.

They'll take us back to the hotel
in their own good time.

Shukran.

It's a good sign, isn't it? Tea?

It shows solicitude.

Or it could mean
that they expect us to stay.

When I first came here,

I was obsessed by ruins...
The ruins of jerash.

You should try to see them
if you can.

Now, we tend to think that ruins
belong to the past,

lost in the sands of time,
and that's nonsense.

They belong to the present.

More and more cities
are being ruined every year,

just look around you.

And the best is yet to come.

The best?

It would calm my nerves,
wouldn't it?

Tea.

Holding the glass,

poised delicately
between my fingertips.

Putting it to the lips.

The sensation of heat.

So let's get this straight.

You only arrived here today.

In a matter of hours,
you managed to lose all your papers,

all your belongings,
go out to the university,

get yourself lost
in the middle of a tank attack,

and get captured by the PLO.

That's right.

Spectacular performance.

A woman in jeopardy.

A reckless act of self-destruction.

It all adds up to nonsense,
doesn't it?

Well, what can I say?
It's the truth.

Huh. Now, there are three levels
to anything.

There's the truth, there's my version,
and blatant lies.

- Now, this is my version...
- No, let me explain.

You haven't heard
the whole story yet.

- Your version?
- The truth.

You see, I'm an extraterrestrial.

I'm an envoy from outer space,
from a far distant galaxy

known to you as procyon.

All right, go on. Keep talking.

This exceeds my wildest expectations.
I'm fascinated.

I was designed to land at the mit campus
in the United States,

the Massachusetts institute
of technology,

but something went wrong
with the probe during entry

and it seems I've landed up here
in Amman, Jordan,

in the middle of a civil war.

It could hardly have gone
more smoothly, could it?

Well, when the malfunction occurred
during atmospheric entry,

I lost contact
with my control facility.

I'm on my own.

Well, I don't care who you are.

It's a great story.

I'll drink to that.

Yeah, let's drink to outer space.
Hmm.

Yeah, let's drink to a galaxy
known to us as what?

- Procyon.
- As procyon, yeah. Yeah.

Here's to malfunction.

I don't really drink at all.

I'm a simulation.

I can pick up the temperature
and the chemical composition

and the aroma of the drink.

I can hold it in my mouth
and I can pour it down my throat,

but I'm not really drinking.

I have no digestive system.

What an excellent scheme.

You can't get drunk
cos you've got no digestive system.

Excellent scheme.
Whose idea was that?

A team of computers.

I'm a specially designed prototype.

You ever heard
of William burroughs?

I used to visit him
in the worst hotel rooms.

Strange guy.

He used to piss into the wash basin
and sit there listening for radio static

to see if he couldn't pick up messages
from outer space.

Convinced the Nova mob
were going to invade,

contaminate us all
with some horrible virus,

turn us all into simulations.

Pour another drink?

Yeah. One, it's traditional.

Two, it's friendship.

And three,
it's a scientific experiment.

The effect of booze
on space creatures.

I was fortunate enough to acquire
a perfect example of a space creature.

Sitting her in the armchair,

I plied her with the crude
but unmistakably alcoholic beverage.

Well...

Please don't hammer the keys so hard.
It's bad for the machine.

Oh, please, don't interrupt, will you?

Let me just finish the paragraph.
It's brilliant.

I don't wanna lose a thread.
Brilliant stuff.

They've hijacked another plane.
British this time.

I've always hammered the keys too hard.
It's part of my personality.

I know it's bad for the machine,
probably bad for me too,

but there's nothing much I can do about it
at this stage of my life.

It's a vc-10. Bahrain to London.

Refuelling in Beirut.

How would you know that?

How do you know?

I intercepted a message

for the deputy communications officer
at the British embassy.

His daughter Jennifer is safe
at Beirut airport

but she can't board the flight on to London
because it's been hijacked.

And why are you telling me?

You're British.

You're a journalist.

I assumed you would be interested.

You trust me?

Why shouldn't I trust you?

Now, first possibility,
least likely.

You really are a being
from outer space.

Second possibility, more likely.

You're a fucking nutter

tipped over the edge by your experiences
out at the university on the day we met.

Shell shock. Civil war fever.

Third possibility, most likely.

You're really an agent spinning
an incredibly unlikely and extravagant yarn

in the best tradition of secret service,
fantasy and phantasmagoria.

Next question is
who are you working for,

and what am I
going to do about it?

I assure you, I don't intend
doing any harm to anybody.

I'm no threat to you
or anybody else.

Don't be naive. Everybody's a threat
to somebody on some level.

We're in the middle
of a fucking civil war.

I've got no papers.

I'm dependent on you.

You can just hand me back to the PLO
and tell them I was a spy after all.

You can trust me.

I'm a peace envoy.

If everything had gone according to plan,
I would have landed at mit

and made contact
with the academic community.

I then would have gone on
to the united nations.

Instead of which, I landed here.

Yeah, well, just don't drag me
into trouble too. That's all I ask.

In the future, I don't wanna get
any of your intercepted messages.

You know, I used to like
listening to jazz tapes

back on procyon
and the long voyage here.

Charlie Parker, "ornithology".

- Do you know it?
- Mm-hmm.

"Tea for two".

He once went to a very famous
composer, edgard varése,

and he begged him,
"please, teach me to write sheet music.

"I'll do anything for you.

"I've got money. I'll pay you.
I'm a great cook, I'll cook for you."

Charlie Parker always wanted
to write sheet music.

Well... teach me jazz.

I'm great.

I'm fantastic.

But I've lost my music.

I've lost my score.

My programmes have all crashed.

I'm down here,
and I have to improvise.

I think I'm a good liar.

It helps me to be sceptical
about other people's lies,

and in this business,
that's a plus.

What would you think?

Is brought to me by the PLO
to whom I'm sympathetic.

A woman with no previous identity,
no history, nothing.

Of course she has to improvise,
but I don't have to help.

I'm the Mark.

I'm the sucker.

Now, I'm gonna finish my typing,
and I may hammer the keys, but I love it.

And yes, I will help you,
if and when I can.

And on second thought,
you can pass on any radio intercepts

you happen to get
on a strictly deep background basis.

Ok?

New paragraph.

Comeiin.

I hear you've been out
dodging the shrapnel.

Oh, I like it out there.

I love that market.

It's so great
when there's going to be trouble.

All these iron blinds clank down,

the streets empty,
dozens of people cram into the taxis,

and suddenly you're all alone.

Yes, I had a word
with the people at the desk.

Told them that you were Canadian
from Vancouver.

I don't think that should
alarm them too much.

Vancouver.

Totem poles, social credit,
the ski lift on grass mountain,

three kinds of salmon,
coho, sockeye, chinook.

You know it? You've been there?

Of course not. How could I?

I'm well briefed, that's all.

Like me to recommend
a great Sushi bar?

When you say you're well briefed, you mean
there's a little chip in there somewhere

that's full of information all about
Vancouver and Nairobi and Glasgow?

Mm-hmm. And Glasgow.

Just a few basic facts.

Like where to find
a good Sushi bar in Glasgow?

And why were you sent here?

Well, we'd been monitoring earth
for some time,

ever since we first found
traces of intelligent life here.

Gradually, our first thrill of discovery
began to give way

to an increasing sense
of anxiety and dismay.

Your species seems bent
on destroying itself

and every other life form
on the planet with it.

We thought we ought to do something
about it before it was too late.

Oh, I get the picture.
You're a kind of wildlife warden, hm?

What do humans do?

Well, they multiply, they pollute,
they massacre each other.

There seems to be no end
to their general undesirability.

But, och!
Well, that's just life, isn't it?

It's just part of the rich tapestry
of the cosmos?

Difficult from a PR point of view.

I mean, nobody in their right mind
would actually want one as a pet

but rewarding nevertheless
in a deeper, more subtle sense.

I'm not a Saint.

Understandably,
it's going to be difficult for you

to take an objective look
at your own species.

There's bound to be some sort
of lingering amour propre.

Human beings can look
quite obnoxious and unlovable to us.

But they are life forms,
and they are in danger of self-extinction.

Would you mind?

No, go ahead.

It's an energy source for me,
but I don't want to inflict it on you.

You're beginning to sound
more like a kind of Guinea pig.

Let's send her in there with them
and see if they tear her to pieces.

First, the carrot
before we produce the stick.

I'm a highly sophisticated
data-gathering technology.

I was empowered
to make preliminary contact

with whatever forces in the world
want peace and international cooperation.

That's the carrot.
What's the stick, the space marines?

Oh, I don't wanna be around
when these lads hit the deck.

A surgical strike, no doubt,
but all the same.

Well, we have the technology,

and we have a fully axiomatised
system of ethics.

You're crazy.
You're seriously disturbed.

If we didn't have the ethics, I wouldn't
have the justification for being here.

And what kind of ethics
would give you the power to decide

who to harm or who to help, hm?

Power means exercising control
over others. In this case, over us.

All we want is friendship.

That's my code name.

Friendship?

It sums up my mission.

Well, on your account,
you're a robot.

Well, let's just assume that you are.

Yeah, why not?
Yeah, let's not argue about it.

The point is,
what am I going to do about you?

Well, you could start
by getting me press credentials.

I was completely obsessed by maps.
I used to pore over them.

I think that's how
I first got interested in politics.

J. F. Horrabin's atlas
of European history, yeah?

I used to lie there
on the bedroom floor

Politics has got absolutely nothing
to do with people.

People are just the raw material.
It has all to do with maps.

The romance of territory.

I mean, look at the situation here.

The ottoman vilayets,
the British mandate.

Annexation, partitions, maps.

Who are the palestinians?

Victims of a map.

Oh, tremendous.

I'm gonna close these shutters.

It's getting bloody dangerous out there.
They don't care where they're fighting.

You know, they should have maps
showing the incidence of death.

Like mortality maps, like weather maps,
but with isomorts.

Fronts of death
moving across the city.

- Slow reflexes.
- Strange.

I always imagined
you only did that outside,

never inside in a hotel room.

I was a little boy during the war,
and when the sirens went,

I used to go into the hall cupboard
and hide under the table.

Sit there waiting
for the doodlebugs' engines to cut out.

Plenty of early warning.

Gave you time to take stock
of your young life.

No rush. No hurry.

Terribly British.

"The sixth fleet moved to take up
position off the coast of Lebanon.

"There are reports
of increased levels of activity

"at the American base
at adana, Turkey."

You could say something about
the British signals operation at akrotiri.

"Four c-130 transport planes

"escorted into the base
by phantom jets."

Yeah, things are getting
very jittery out in the desert.

Bad, bad, bad.

"Meanwhile, in Washington..."

You're hammering the keys again.

When I scolded you before, you said
you were working out your aggressions,

it was something you had always done,
and it was too late to change.

Obviously, not something
you gave a lot of consideration to.

Well, I can't take it so lightly.

It seems very different to me.

You see, I am a machine.

I may appear to be a human.
I may appear to be a biological person.

But in reality, I am a machine.

This whole human anatomy, skin, ears,
eyes, fingernails, the whole lot,

is just a veneer, a casing.

Inside, crystals and circuitry.

To me, a typewriter is something
like a very primitive and distant cousin.

Not dangerous.

Not any kind of threat
to either you or me.

So why mistreat it?

Don't get me wrong.
I'm not just squeamish.

There are some machines
I feel very differently about.

- For example, the vacuum cleaner.
- Oh, come on.

Every day, there is a woman
who comes into my hotel room

and cleans it
with a vacuum cleaner.

I find it loathsome.

Perhaps it's because it's a scavenger,
kind of a mechanical rat or roach.

I suppose I'm slightly phobic about it.

Whereas the typewriter,
I like it's intricate mechanism.

The way the carriage runs across.

The little bell that rings.
It's adorable.

Deep down, I've got more
fellow feeling for this typewriter

than I have for you.

Do you think the attack
is timed for tomorrow, if there is one?

If there is one?

Will there be an attack tomorrow?

No, too soon.

Anyway, I'm going out for the day
tomorrow to the ruins of jerash.

I've been offered a lift,
so I thought I'd take your advice.

I thought I'd go see the ruins
before the ruins came to me.

Hm.

The ruins of jerash
were very strange.

There were troops bivouacking
in the Roman theatre.

They'd pitched this tent on the stage
and built campfires round it,

so there were little detachments
of troops in battle dress

squatting around the fires
in front of the marble columns.

Spear carriers.

When the emperor hadrian
went to watch the shows.

Then we had something to eat
in jerash.

There were four of us: The PLO escort,
the driver, the Swedish guy, and me.

After the meal,
the PLO escort says,

"why don't we go
and visit my village?

"It's near here.
It won't take us long."

So we all agree,
and we set off into the unknown,

into the blue,
into the middle of the desert.

Finally, we arrive at this village.

It's not really a village.
It's just a few shacks, really.

We're inside one of the shacks
talking to this man's family.

They wanted to prepare
a meal for us.

I'm trying to dissuade them in some way
that won't sound offensive to them

when someone rushes into the shack
and tells us we all have to come out.

We go outside.
There's a Jordanian army patrol.

We're all under arrest.

They separate us from the palestinians
and we're questioned.

Surreal questions.

The photographer
has a Stockholm bus ticket.

It has numbers on it.
What do the numbers mean?

That kind of thing.

Then, finally, a senior officer arrives,
very polite, very cool,

not in the slightest bit
interested in bus tickets.

Suddenly, he announces
that we're free to go.

But as we are leaving, it turns out
that the PLO man is not going with us.

When we get out by the vehicles
he manages to talk to us.

He's pleading with us. He says,
"please, please, don't leave me here.

"As soon as you have gone, they will
shoot me and leave me in the ditch.

"You don't understand.”

Well, we say we think
we ought to take him with us.

He's our responsibility.

But the officer tells us,
"no, he must stay.

"You're free to go.
There is the car.

"If you insist,
you can stay with your escort,

"put that will mean
you're in detention too.

"He can't answer for the consequences,
but you're free to go.

"There is the car."

It's a classic moral dilemma.

If we go,
he'll be dead in the ditch.

We'd better stay.

So we're all herded
into these Jordanian army vehicles,

and we're driven off
into the desert again,

right in the middle
of nowhere this time.

Some army camp. Mafraq.

A bit different now.

Everywhere you go,
there's a gun in your back.

The Swede needed to piss.
A gun in his back.

More questions, more tea.

We're separated
from the palestinians again.

Phone calls in arabic.

Suddenly, once again,
straight out of the blue,

we're told, "you're free to go."

And the palestinians,
they're free also.

Both of them? Yes, both of them.

They're brought in.
They're looking weary, but they're ok.

We go outside, there's a palestinian Jeep
waiting for us at the camp gate.

Well, then we're on our way
back to Amman.

We passed this line of trucks
coming the other way, alternate trucks.

Jordanian, palestinian.
Jordanian, palestinian.

They're on their way to revolution airport
for the hostages.

Obviously, we'd ended up
as part of the deal.

We'd become counter hostages.

When we arrive in Amman,
we're put into another vehicle

and driven across town, very fast,
no lights, for debriefing.

We were taken in
to see some high officer.

Separated from the palestinians again.

More questions, more tea.

Finally, once again,
we're told, "you are free to go."

"But what about our escort,
the PLO man?"

"Well, he behaved very badly.
He will be disciplined."

When we got back to the hotel,
I thought "home".

Well, whichever way you look at it,
he wouldn't stand much of a chance.

He won't be long now.

What shall I write?

What sort of things
do you write?

Abu shehab,
popular front leader,

told me Hussein's regime
is virtually finished.

His army is ready to mutiny,

and they will march on the palace
when we give the signal.

No, er...

Put...

The intercontinental hotel
today buzzed with rumours

as prima Donnas were fed tales of war
by their dragomans.

Everybody tried to justify in advance
their sorry role

in the catastrophe to come
while the media stars and experts

continue repeating
their time-honoured treads

or proverbial wisdom,
aka disinformation. Stop.

New paragraph.

Meanwhile...

What are you typing?

My dream.

Do you dream?

I dream of succulents,
the flow of carbon, and acid metabolism.

Hunters and gatherers.

Hijack victims.

Do you identify
with the hijack victims?

Well, after all, it's close
to my own experience.

Suddenly you find yourself
in a strange place,

thrown into danger, isolated,
threatened, and confused.

Well, the hijackers are victims
as well, aren't they? Hm?

And so are the Israelis.

It's a downward spiral.

The Nazis exterminate the Jews.

The Israelis expel the palestinians.

The popular front seize the hostages.

The hostages beat the children.
The children break the toys.

I identify with all the victims.

I identify with the hijackers too.

They have no home.

They have no hope.

The most powerful empire
in the world

arms and sponsors and finances
their oppressors.

Great headlines. Great pictures.

But what do the pictures say?

They say that the palestinians
punish innocent bystanders

because they can't touch
the real culprits.

And they send the sixth fleet
steaming up the eastern mediterranean,

and they provoke the Americans
and the king into countermeasures.

Perhaps they were playing for time.

Perhaps the countermeasures
were coming anyway

and the hijackings
will delay them.

It's a beautiful night.

Why not treat the passengers as guests
out of hospitality?

Give them palestinian dances
to watch.

Press brochures into their hands
and then send them home

and say to the king,
"come on, killers."

It's a beautiful night.

But what does arafat want?
Who knows?

A deal with someone
he doesn't trust?

Who else could he make a deal with?
After all, he doesn't trust anyone.

And why should he?

They all want rid of the palestinians,
and half the palestinians want rid of him.

He wants an understanding
with Hussein

even though he knows Hussein
wants the west bank for Jordan,

not for Palestine.

He wants to survive.

The doomed and the desperate.

Hijackings are all wrong.

Hijackings don't work.

But let's raise a glass to Leila Khalid,
the glorious pirate of the air,

the beautiful heroine of the doomed
and the desperate.

I dream...
I dream of impossible objects.

"Where the ceremony of
signing articles of marriage is set forth.

'The visionary most serene
and artful alchemy of instability

'enlivening the wax light.'

no. There's no harm done.

Do you have any others
or is this the only one you took?

I'm afraid I took a handful.

What are they anyway?
Are they safe?

- Could I touch them?
- Oh, yes, but they're fine.

No, but you should give them back. I can't
guarantee they won't activate again.

Excuse me, I have to do something
with this one.

Do you mind
putting the others on the bed?

What are they anyway?

I just can't imagine
anybody actually wanting one.

Oh, it's nothing.

It's just... an image unit, a kind
of sketchpad with a language facility.

It's ok. I've got lots of them.

This one's quite safe now.

You can have it if you like.
It's no more use to me.

Keep it. I'll take the others.

As a souvenir.

A gift out of gratitude
for a friend.

Thank you.

Yeah, ['ll treasure it,
whatever it may be.

I'll see you tomorrow.
Good night.

- Good night.
- Sleep tight.

Sandman's coming.

It's hard for me to see
the attraction of it.

I think I would prefer it

if the camera just chose
one of the players and followed him.

I mean, the players are more
interesting than the ball, aren't they?

The ball has to be the most
uninteresting item of the game.

Totally devoid
of colour or expression.

Incapable of independent action.

It's just round.

What are you talking about?

Britain's great contribution to the world,
the family of balls.

You've got your ping pong balls,
you've got snooker balls and golf balls.

There's your rugby balls.
Come on, Matey,

there's your cricket balls,
tennis balls.

They're all British-made.
It makes you proud, doesn't it?

Celestial spheres.

Yeah, let's drink to that.

Knowing your strange human habits,
I bought a bottle of whisky.

I thought you'd never ask.

What do you collect
all these things for anyway?

Just things that caught my fancy.

Light bulbs, bicycle pumps,
nail clippers.

Archaeological finds.

Fossil records
of a dead species.

What do you mean, dead species?

- You.
- Me?

Oh, I'm not dead yet,
I'm afraid.

Tremendous! Whoal

let's drink to that. Extinction.

Where I come from,
the biological life forms are all extinct.

After the nuclear winter,
they died.

Only the computers survived.

Of course, they were already
much more advanced

than any computers
you have here on earth.

I dread to ask,
but what were they like,

the biological life forms?

Genetically programmed organisms
like you.

I think I'd describe them
as kind of giant tree shrews.

A bit bigger than you.

They hibernated.

They had this zoom lens system
in their optical vision too.

I think some spiders do here.

And these heat-seeking sensors which
were like arrays of little sunken pods.

Tree shrews, huh?

And to cut
a very long story short,

they destroyed themselves,
sunken pods and all.

So where do you fit in?

Well, first you had robots,
then you had self-replicating robots.

Under the control of the computers.

It's an interlocking system.

They need us
for our dexterity and mobility.

We make them.

We need them for their memory
and their intelligence.

They programme us.

You're a vehicle for programmes?

It's just a different system.

The biological system was the lift-off
phase for the electronic system.

But what about pleasure?
That's what I really wanna know about.

Who gets pleasure from what?

Well, the computers who sent me
are connoisseurs of earth.

That's what gives them pleasure.

Collecting all the information
they can about earth

and then building models from fit,
counterfactual models.

Earth is their hobby?

Oh, they're really enthusiastic
about earth.

They treasure every little detail.

For example, what would have happened
if the Chinese had invented power junks?

There's one computer specialising
in producing imaginary works of art.

Missing paintings by titian.

Shakespeare plays
he never actually wrote.

Perfect forgeries inserted into
the biographical and art historical record

so that they fit perfectly.

No detectable joins
between the possible and the actual.

It's beautiful.

Oh, if you're an example,
you're not exactly a perfect fit.

Why not?

In any case, I'm not meant
to be an actual human.

I'm meant to be a possible human.

You have no childhood.

You don't age.

You obsolesce.

That disqualifies you, doesn't it?

I am a robot.

No, no, I don't mean that.

I mean that your memory
can never be the same as mine

because your sense of time
has to be different.

I have no heart. I am a tin can.

Now, stop it.

I mean that the pleasures
that you can't experience,

the pleasures of childhood,

are all locked in
with the death drive,

the drive to extinction
that brought you here in the first place.

Sex and death.

Yeah, they say
we should get the fuck out of here.

It's rage.

Childhood is a time of pain.

Memories disfigured by rage.

Pleasure is only
the shadow of pain.

Blood.

You haven't shaved.

Oh, you noticed.

It's all part of the image.

He has a rough life being a journalist.
No time to shave.

The world doesn't stop
for things like that.

May I watch you shave?

Why, watch me shave?

It's exotic.

It's the kind of thing I'm going to
remember if I ever get back to procyon.

It's exotic.

It's kind of hard
for me to imagine.

The idea of being shaggy.

Little filaments
flourishing on your face.

I was made to be
permanently hairless.

More economical.

A bit stingy, I suppose.

They were only concerned to give me
features that would have a public impact.

Didn't bother with anything
that took place in private.

Shaving, sleeping, shitting.

Huh?

Oh, paraffin lamps.

The power could go off
any minute.

You know, if I was really human,
I'd shake and sweat.

I don't react physically to danger.

I've got no fluids.

Completely sanitised.

Yeah. I envy you.

I wish I had been designed
so stingily.

It's all about embarrassment, isn't it?

Uncontrollable growth and odours.

How long
do these darknesses last?

Do you suppose this hotel
has an emergency generator?

Are you kidding?

Could I made you blush?

Could I embarrass you?

Mm, can't blush. Got no liquids.

Oh, you can't blush?

You've got no shame.

You know that Darwin once said

that blushing is the most human
of responses.

It doesn't occur anywhere else
in the animal kingdom.

It requires self-consciousness.

Yeah. Oh.

It speaks of things
that you may have admitted to yourself

but you won't admit to others.

It's all to do with sex.

Feeling flurried.

Tingling.

Glow.

Enough to attract,
not to intimidate.

Blushing gives you away.

It reveals your desires,
your inadequacies.

It's always Sincere.

That's why I can't blush.
I can't be Sincere.

Do you have sex on procyon?
I can't imagine it.

Mm, it was hard for me
to imagine sex here.

I had to watch sex films.

Clinging, grappling,

orifices, intromittent organs,
fluids and flushes.

Then they built robots to do it.

I didn't have to.
I just watched.

All part of my education.

You watched orgies with robots?

Perhaps it was aversion therapy.

I began to like watching it,
but I'm glad I don't have to do it.

- It's so intimate, isn't it?
- Mm.

I'm glad you do it, though.

It's the kind of weird detail
I find so endearing about earth,

however tacky.

Tacky?

Oh, tacky, but terrific.

Voila! I got them.

Two sets of travel documents.
Now...

Yeah, this one's yours.
It's a laissez-passer

in the name of farideh rasouli, an Iraqi
citizen of irreproachable character.

We're on our way at last.

I'm not going.
I've decided to stay.

Come on, get yourself together. This is the
start of the next nerve-tingling episode.

I've told you, I'm not going.

Are you kidding?
Come on, be serious.

You know what's happening out there.
Listen.

Born in Baghdad?

Look, just leave these toys alone
and pick up your stuff and go.

Come on, let's go. Go.
Go, go, go, go, go, go!

I've told you, I'm not going.

Right, explain to me.
Why won't you go?

To where? Go where?

Well, to the United States.

The Massachusetts
institute of technology.

Isn't that where
you're supposed to be going?

What about your mission?
Now is your chance.

I've seen enough of earth to know
that if I go to the United States,

I'll just be frog-marched off
to some safe house

somewhere in Virginia
for debriefing.

And when I've been squeezed dry,

I'll be handed over
to the engineers and the al people.

I'll be stripped down, cut up,

and submitted to every kind
of sadistic test they can devise.

Then come to england.

You guys would just do exactly
the same thing, only slower.

I'm only a human being.

I'm only a person, a woman,
as long as I'm disbelieved.

As soon as somebody
believes my story, I'm dead.

Finished.

I'm a very valuable piece
of property, remember.

A little piece
of a technological dreamworld.

How long do you think
I'd survive?

And even if they could comprehend
what they found inside me,

what possible good would that do?

It would just widen the technology gap
and fuel the arms race.

It would be the exact opposite
of what I was intended to accomplish.

Oh, it's great, isn't it?

It wants to walk.

It wants to be human.

Its temperature changes
when it walks.

For Christ sakes,
close these bloody shutters.

They're starting to fire at the hotel.
We're gonna be a target.

It's what earth is all about, isn't it?

Well, you're fucking right, it is.
Do you think I don't realise that?

Of course, it must be all very different
elsewhere in the cosmos,

sweetness and light out there.

I'm not looking
for sweetness and light.

That's why I like it right here,
in Amman.

At first I thought it was a great
misfortune landing down here in Amman.

Now, I'm not so sure.
I even think it's a stroke of luck.

I land on earth in the one place
where I'm among outsiders.

Aliens, like me.

Aliens in Israel.
Aliens in Jordan.

Aliens wherever they have to go.

You have deluded yourself.

You can't become a palestinian
through an act of sympathy.

You are not a palestinian!

No, I'm a robot! I'm a machine!

Well, what's the place
of machines here?

Slaves. Unpaid labour.

Moral dead matter.

You can do what you like to a machine.
It has no voice, no rights, no feelings.

It's a new sphere
for human cruelty.

I know they're vengeful
and they act out of rage,

but I have every reason to identify
with the palestinians.

You wanna become a martyr.

The first machine martyr.

You take this.

I don't doubt that the palestinians
have been robbed.

I admire their struggle.

But it's not your struggle,
whoever you may be.

I can make it mine.

It's an act of despair.

I hate it because I value the hours
that we've spent together.

I value the friendship
that we've found.

I value those hours too,
you know that.

No principle is worth the sacrifice.

Close these bloody shutters!

I will be glad to go home.

A shameful admission, I know.

But after all, the palestinians
are fighting for a home.

Why shouldn't I value mine
in chalk farm?

Home.

Home is where the heart is.

I don't have a heart,
so naturally I don't have a home.

Home.

Where memory stops.

What does that mean to you?

It's ironic, really,
but I have no memories of procyon.

I was programmed
with memories of earth.

All my experience on procyon was related
to my training for the mission here.

They constructed this whole series
of environments for me.

The mit campus.

The airport.

The diplomatic reception.

The united nations building.

And how can I think
of this as home?

Why did they make you a woman?

It's meant to reassure you.

I don't find it very reassuring.
I find it very anxiety provoking.

I don't know who you are,
and I end up doubting my own identity.

I don't actually know that I'm gone through
some sort of nervous breakdown.

And who are you?

What do you want?

What do I want with you?

I react to you as a woman,
and I can't forget that you're a robot.

I react to you as a robot, and you keep
reminding me that you're a woman.

It's sinister.

Mimicry is always sinister.

Why did you kiss me?

I wanted to give you something.

It was to seal the gift.

A simulated gift?

A real gift.

Keep it safely.

It's what I'll leave behind
here on earth.

Do I get another kiss?

Imagine a forger simulating a human body
in another medium.

However close the model,
however exact the memories and feelings,

there's always going to be
something that eludes him.

That's what eludes me.

What can it mean
to become human?

To live as a human being?

To die?

To know you're going to die.

To know there is no choice.

The choice is made.

What will happen when your machines
become intelligent?

When they become autonomous?

When they have private thoughts?

You humans look down on your machines
because they're man-made.

They're a product
of your skills and labour.

They weren't even tamed or domesticated
like animals were.

You see them simply as extensions
of yourself, of your own will.

I can't accept that.

I can't accept subhuman status
simply because I'm a machine

based on silicon rather than carbon,
electronics rather than biology.

If I sound fanatical, it's because
I've been trapped in a time warp.

In a world where the full potential
of machines hasn't yet been guessed at.

A world where I have to wear
a human disguise to be accepted?

I came here too late.

It will all end...

Nefore the computers
that already control the fate of the world

have reached a point
where they wanted to survive.

To make sense of earth,

I had to understand
the meaning of sacrifice.

I had to realise... it's hard.

Here on earth,
sacrifice has a meaning

because every day
is a day of the dead.

We're in control
of the north, irbid, ar ramtha.

We can retreat through jerash
if we have to.

I'm not sure how long
we can hold out here.

And then maybe the Syrians
will intervene.

If they do,
then Hussein will bring in the Israelis.

He'd rather lose his credibility
than his throne.

He's already lost most of that.

And anyway, a credibility is much easier
to win back than a throne.

It's a good sign, isn't it, tea?

It shows solicitude.

I'm gonna miss you.

You get in touch
as soon as you can, will you?

- I'm counting on it.
- I will, don't worry.

And survive.

I've got
a much better chance than most.

To calm my nerves.

We'll meet again in London,
won't we?

I feel as though we've only just
scratched the surface.

I never got a chance to expound
my theory about the big toe

and the subordination of women.

Without the big toe,
we wouldn't be walking upright.

The hands wouldn't be developed.

The mouth wouldn't be freed
so that language wouldn't be developed.

The new large brain,
which expands with language,

could only be supported
on an upright spine.

But at the same time,

children couldn't grab a hold
of their mothers with their feet

as well as their hand
like little apes can.

They had to be supported and carried,

so women were inhibited
in their movements.

We had to stay home.

Well...

Well, that's my car.
I've got to go.

Look, I've got
a little something for you.

Something to go
with the nail clippers.

I'll go unshaved
till I get to Damascus.

It's a souvenir.

Bring back memories.

Memories of Charlie Parker.
Now, don't forget.

We're gonna listen
to "ornithology", "groovin' high".

"Tea for two".

Good luck.

Thanks for everything.

Good luck.

Goodbye.

'So many years ago.

'September '70.

'It seems like another age.'

"the deaths are still there.

It's a distant past,
but all the problems are still there.

"You just have to look at Beirut
instead of Amman.

'Nothing has been settled.
It's become routine.

It's as ugly as it ever was.'

'but there's a fascination
in war and death.

"You can't avoid it.

"When you went out there
for the international red cross,

'you weren't talking
about the beauty of death.

"You were talking about the urgency
of finding a political solution.'

"we would never have gone
if there hadn't been a certain attraction.

"You sought out death.

'Not in order to die,
but to look at it.

"To watch.

I was completely shattered
by the whole experience.

In fact, at first I thought
I just hallucinated it all.

I could never go back
to the middle east.

Are you sure
that they killed friendship?

They killed thousands.
What else can I think?

Strange music flowed
from death's domain.

Do you think
I'm just overstating things, yeah?

Disturbed?

An invasion from outer space.

Even if we could find somebody
at the hotel who recognised us,

what would that prove?

How come you never
mentioned it at the time?

Do you still have
that thing she gave you?

What's that?

The thing she gave me. It's an instrument
that I stole from her that day.

Where is it? Can I see it?

It's downstairs. I'll get it.

And just you finish your homework, eh?

Doing your o-levels this year?

That's right.

What are they?

Oh, usual ones.

Well, what subjects?

Chemistry, biology,
electronics, computer studies,

and advanced maths.

I did physics
and ordinary maths last year.

Dad, stop hammering those keys.

Just a minute, Catherine.

- But I know what it is.
- Just let me finish.

Friendship's gift,
I know what it is.

Well, what is it?

It's a storage component
for a new kind of camera.

There's an array of photo sensors
and they respond to light.

Now, there's a chain
of tiny capacitors.

They read the light
as an electrical charge,

and it's all transferred
into a digital storage system.

But it talked.

If it can respond to light,
it can probably respond to sound.

And if it can pick it up,
it can transmit it.

It spoke english.

Of course, it did.
Friendship spoke english.

So does that mean
that I could play this?

It depends on what kind
of playback system it is.

It could use some kind
of molecular system.

Well, I don't see
any floppy discs or anything.

Oh, dad. Floppy discs
are completely out of date.

You should take it to an expert
to see if they can identify it.

I have taken it to experts.

Nobody's got any idea
what it's all about.

But this is all new.
They were prehistoric experts.

Ok, clever clogs.
It's all yours.

This is it,
according to the real experts.

Friendship's tape.

'Blood. Blood.'

'Blood. Blood. Blood.

"Too late.

"Too late. Too late.

'Impossible objects.

'Impossible objects.

'Impossible objects.'

"The visionary most serene
in alchemy of instability

'enlivening the wax light.'

"Hope.

'Friendship.'