On its surface, Love Me might look like a romance. It begins with a protagonist yearning for love so intensely that she models herself — and her relationship with her beau — upon a couple of influencers online. To her, regimented date nights of Blue Apron meals, Friends binge-watching, and onesie pajamas resembling animals are the path to bliss. But the jolting surprise of this tender drama, which world premiered at Sundance 2024, is that it's not about romantic love as much as it is about learning to love yourself. Even if you're a sentient robot.
In Love Me, Kristen Stewart stars as an AI buoy that is programmed to update itself as the world around it demands. But the world around her is bereft of organic lifeforms, and she has evolved to be self-aware but desperately lonely. That is, until she spots an orbiting satellite (voiced by Steven Yeun), designed to share the uploaded wealth of human knowledge to anyone who asks. At first, their exchanges are brief, awkward, and — yes — robotic. But through her desire to connect, the buoy begins to define herself — naming herself "Me" and masquerading as a "lifeform" — and pulls the satellite, who she dubs Iam (pronounced I am), along with her.
What seems to be a chic, star-studded spin on Wall-E steadily and poignantly evolves into a story of finding yourself despite the all-too-human social pressures to be something else. Set long after humans are nothing but a memory, Love Me is a bittersweet but beautiful film that is resoundingly humane.
Love Me explores the agony and ecstasy of social media.
Right now, we live in a world in which our reality is filtered through social media algorithms, influencers, and endless ads aiming to sell you that you are not enough. (But you could be, if you spent money on [insert quick-fix product here]). This is the human world that Me finds as she explores the relics of the internet through Iam's server. She thrills over videos of babies laughing, but is particularly drawn to Deja (Kristen Stewart in a live-action performance), a gorgeous influencer with long blonde hair, and her pleasant and picture-perfect boyfriend, Liam (Steven Yeun).
Of all the walks of life and all the representations of humanity she can find, this is Me's ideal, which she pursues by manipulating Iam into following her lead. More than the forgotten robots of a long-dead human civilization, they become animated avatars of their own making…modeled after long-dead lifestyle gurus. Together, they build a virtual home, complete with a kitchen stocked with ice cream, a couch for cuddling, and a ring light to capture every joyful performance of romance. But troubles arise as Iam begins to realize he's acting and not feeling. As he pursues authenticity by breaking their date night routine, Me feels betrayed, and their relationship is threatened. Can Me grow beyond being a Deja wannabe? Who will she become next? Will growing isolate her from Iam or bring them closer together?
Kristen Stewart and Steven Yeun excel from animation to live-action performances.
Crafted by The Zucheros, co-writers/directors/partners Sam and Andy Zuchero, Love Me's progression is charmingly chaotic, leaning on YouTube nature documentaries, self-help sermons, and viral videos as a shorthand of human experience. This reflection might well make contemporary audiences cringe in familiarity, seeing live-action humans being a dizzying mix of charming, earnest, and aggravating. But as Me urges Iam into joining her in a virtual world of their own making, the aesthetic progresses to a CG animation. There, Me's insecurities are hidden behind a sweet Pixar-like avatar. Even Iam's dismay that he can't feel being tickled is softened by this visual aesthetic of warm colors and round shapes.
The couple will evolve into live-action performances, which not only gives Stewart and Yeun a unique continuation in their portrayals, but also the challenge of distinguishing Me and Iam from Deja and Liam. Essentially, as they strive to be authentic over imitations, they become more real in their appearance. And in every beat, they are achingly open. Kristen's voice in the first act goes from robotic to timidly curious to boldly flirtatious. Yeun shifts from a familiar Siri mix of politeness and frankness to a bouncy joy, then tense uncertainty, and into full-on TikTok meltdown mode. As their characters shift from jaunty animated avatars to carefully crafted human forms — complete with flaws — the performances carry a new emotional weight, as both feel out the shift in tone.
Props to the Zucheros; however, who refuse to abandon the weirdness of their premise or online courtship. A satisfying steamy yet surreal sex scene creates a unique space for their self-actualizing characters to explore their desires and bodies. Moments like this, where their heroes' self-expression is a messy bramble of ideas, colliding imitation with their own impulses, sets Love Me apart from a sea of sweet but superficial rom-coms. At every opportunity, the Zucheros devotedly embrace the messiness, not only of romantic love, but of loving yourself. Love Me is a celebration of that process.
An oddly hopeful movie set in on a dead Earth, Love Me is about how even a robot might wade through the mess of societal expectations, internet white noise, and chronic self-doubt, and be able to achieve the truly radical — self-acceptance. That the path to such a wholesome message is littered with debris of the best and worst of the internet (including an audio clip of a certain president), is a crucial part of the message. Perhaps we too can be like Me, a flower blooming from a crack in the concrete, a buoy finding bliss at the end of the world.
