45 Years Ago, A Campy Michael Crichton Thriller Predicted The Deepfake

A curious blend of tech noir, unintentional camp, and advertising-industry satire, Michael Crichton’s 1981 directorial effort Looker was, in many ways, a product of its time. Its interchangeable female characters all had Farrah Fawcett hair, its aesthetic sits somewhere between Malibu Beach House Barbie and Tron, and its oft-repeated theme music could easily have been taken from Olivia Newton-John’s spandex-friendly opus Physical. But in other ways, it’s remarkably prescient.

Released 45 years ago today, Looker foreshadows everything from the job-threatening impact of artificial intelligence and the dangers of subliminal advertising to the rise of the deepfake and even the dark art of looksmaxxing: see the model who insists on cosmetic surgery for having a nose “.2 millimeters too narrow” and cheekbones “.4 millimeters too high.” It also boasts Hollywood’s first-ever use of three-dimensional computer shading, beating Tron to the punch by nine months.

Unfortunately, Crichton — pulling double duty as screenwriter in one of his few movies not adapted from a book — appears to have spent more time gazing into his crystal ball than creating a cohesive story, as all the impressive soothsaying is wrapped up in a conspiracy that even baffled its stars. “They really pissed that film away,” said James Coburn, who played nefarious billionaire John Reston. “It didn’t make any sense.”

Things start promisingly enough with a series of stylish yet brutal kills that position Looker as a neon-hued slasher. The assailant credited simply as Mustache Man (former Philadelphia Eagles linebacker Tim Rossovich, looking very much like Ron Burgundy) certainly has a distinct approach, exposing each victim to a blinding light via a LOOKER (Light Ocular-Oriented Kinetic Emotive Responses) gun which leaves them so disoriented they end up throwing themselves off their balcony.

Having just performed microscopic procedures on each ill-fated model, Albert Finney’s Larry Roberts, a Los Angeles plastic surgeon who enjoys carrying out tummy tucks to Vivaldi, is initially considered the prime suspect. Determined to clear his name and save next-in-line Cindy (Law and Order favorite Susan Dey), he turns amateur detective and discovers a potentially incriminating document that puts him in the orbit of a mysterious company called Digital Matrix Inc.

Roberts meets its head honcho, Jennifer Long (Leigh Taylor-Young), who helpfully explains its financially lucrative but morally bankrupt goal. Instead of having to pay the beautiful for their dazzling looks, they plan to make them redundant by digitally recreating their likeness pore by pore, allowing them to grace ads for everything from breakfast food to luxury shampoo without ever having to fork out another cent. So far, so Sam Altman and every other megalomaniacal tech bro determined to wipe out any semblance of human creativity.

DMI also plans to send subliminal messages to viewers with light pulses and eye-tracking data. Oh, and they’re also hellbent on killing every model whose facial configurations they meticulously replicated. Why exactly they made things more difficult for themselves by resorting to multiple homicides is never explained. To avoid pushback from the models? To stop competitors from adopting similar methods, despite the fact that Hollywood isn't exactly short on photogenic 20-somethings?

It’s also unclear what DMI and the umbrella company owned by Reston hope to achieve in the long run. The latter delivers a great speech at a demonstration gala about the power he now wields (“Television can control public opinion more effectively than armies of secret police, because television is entirely voluntary... Americans of all ages submit to television. Television is the American ideal. Persuasion without coercion”). But does he want to influence elections, or simply sell more breakfast cereal?

Crichton had plenty of time to delve into the issues he raised, like our overreliance on screens and the unattainable standards promoted by the beauty industry. But as with Roberts’ day job, his work only gravitates towards the superficial. Looker also does little to dispel the notion that he can’t write for the opposite sex: Cindy, clearly an intelligent and resourceful woman, is ultimately reduced to the role of damsel-in-distress.

Looker does, however, boast an entertainingly meta and darkly comic climax where Mustache Man chases Reston through the soundstages where the commercials being beamed to high society are produced. Cue the pair engaging in a shoot-em-up surrounded by digital models advertising a new car, and eventually, a fatally wounded Reston stumbles into a toothpaste promo featuring the slogan “makes your mouth come alive.”

Unfortunately, Crichton can’t resist giving the last word to the male gaze. Having previously rebuffed her advances on the grounds that he never dates patients, Roberts decides Cindy is now worthy of breaking his self-imposed code of conduct and the pair, despite previously displaying zero chemistry, walk off into the sunset. Looker’s peek into the near future would, of course, later be surpassed by everything from The Terminator and Videodrome to Her and The Substance. But while its narrative doesn’t stand up to much scrutiny, its predictive abilities are undeniably worth a glance.

Looker is available on Prime Video.