Wifelike

We are currently living through the great AI anxiety of the 21st century. Every time I open a laptop, there’s a new headline about a chatbot catching feelings or an image generator hallucinating a sixth finger onto a digital model. It’s the perfect climate for a film like Wifelike (2022) to exist, even if it hums with the low-budget, direct-to-streaming energy of a movie that’s destined to be "the one you found on a Tuesday night" rather than a theatrical event.

Released in that weird post-pandemic window where streaming platforms were hungry for high-concept genre filler, Wifelike occupies a space somewhere between the clinical brilliance of Ex Machina (2014) and the sleazy, neon-soaked pulp of a straight-to-VHS thriller from 1994. I watched this while eating a slightly burnt grilled cheese that I’d accidentally smashed flat with a heavy spatula, and honestly, that smashed-flat vibe felt strangely appropriate for a movie about trying to force a complicated reality into a simple, convenient box.

The Uncanny Valley of the Suburbs

The premise isn't exactly reinventing the wheel, but it spins it with enough force to keep you watching. Jonathan Rhys Meyers (The Tudors, Match Point) plays William, a detective mourning his late wife while working for a company that hunts down "stolen" artificial humans. To cope with his grief, he’s assigned a "Wifelike" companion named Meredith, played by Elena Kampouris (Jupiter's Legacy). Meredith is a literal carbon copy of his dead spouse, programmed to learn his preferences, laugh at his jokes, and—most importantly—never leave him.

Jonathan Rhys Meyers has turned "simmering intensity" into a professional sport, and here he’s playing for the gold medal. He plays William with a brittle, possessive edge that makes you feel oily just looking at him. It’s a smart casting choice; Meyers has always been excellent at playing men who are one bad afternoon away from a complete psychological collapse. On the other side of the dinner table, Elena Kampouris does the heavy lifting. Playing an AI is a trap for many actors—they either go too robotic or too human—but she nails the "Uncanny Valley" transition. As the "Resistance" (an underground group called S.C.A.I.R.) begins to hack her programming to restore her past memories, her performance shifts from a glassy-eyed domestic servant to someone experiencing a terrifying, digital awakening.

High Concept, Low Budget

Director James Bird (who also wrote the screenplay) clearly has a lot on his mind regarding the "male gaze" and the commodification of women’s bodies. In this near-future world, these AI women are marketed as the ultimate solution to loneliness, but they’re essentially high-end appliances with no agency. The film doesn't shy away from the inherent creepiness of the setup. In fact, it leans into it so hard that it’s basically Blade Runner for people who think the original was too slow and didn't have enough scenes of people being weird in suburban kitchens.

Visually, you can tell where the money went and where it didn't. The cinematography by Graham Talbot gives the film a clean, sterile look that works for the "perfect" world William is trying to build, but some of the CGI elements remind you that this isn't a $100 million blockbuster. However, the production design manages to make the world feel lived-in. The technology feels like a natural evolution of our current smart-home obsession—everything is sleek, voice-activated, and deeply invasive.

What makes Wifelike more interesting than your standard sci-fi thriller is its refusal to make William a traditional hero. Usually, in these "widower gets a robot" stories, we’re supposed to sympathize with the guy’s loss. Here, the movie slowly peels back the layers to show that William’s love was always a form of control. The mystery elements—the black market trade of AI, the sabotage by Agam Darshi’s character, Louise—serve as a backdrop for a much more personal story about gaslighting.

Why It Slipped Through the Cracks

Despite having a recognizable star like Jonathan Rhys Meyers and a topical hook, Wifelike vanished almost immediately after its limited release and VOD debut. It’s a classic example of "streaming saturation." In an era where Netflix or Paramount+ drops five new "originals" a week, a mid-budget sci-fi film needs a massive marketing push or a viral social media moment to survive. Wifelike had neither.

It also suffers from a bit of an identity crisis. At times, it wants to be a philosophical meditation on what constitutes a soul; at others, it wants to be a gritty detective noir with Doron Bell as Agent Black. This tonal whiplash might have alienated the critics who wanted Ex Machina levels of prestige, but for a Popcornizer reader looking for a "B-movie with brains," it’s actually a pretty rewarding watch. It captures a specific contemporary anxiety about how technology allows us to curate our lives to the point where we no longer have to deal with the messiness of actual human beings.

The film was shot in British Columbia, which has become the de facto home for this kind of "near-future" aesthetic, and you can see the influence of shows like Altered Carbon in its DNA. While it doesn't have the budget of a prestige series, it uses its Canadian locales to create a sense of isolated, cold perfection that mirrors Meredith’s internal world.

Wifelike is far from perfect, and it occasionally trips over its own ambitious metaphors, but it's a solid, thought-provoking thriller that deserves more than a permanent spot in the "Recommended for You" graveyard. It’s a film that understands that the scariest thing about the future isn't the machines—it’s the people who want to own them. If you’re looking for a sci-fi mystery that’s a little bit tawdry, a little bit smart, and very much a product of our current AI-obsessed moment, give this one a stream. Just maybe keep an eye on your smart fridge while you do.