The noble robot—an unsung hero in cinema since the dawn of filmmaking. Among the ranks of noble mechanical friends, you’ll find few that tower at a staggering 7 feet, resemble a stone-faced grandfather who overindulged in laundry, speak at the intellectual level of a toddler navigating a Speak & Spell, and have an insatiable appetite for cabbages. Let me introduce you to the latest cinematic marvel: Charles Petrescu.
This industrial spectacle is the star of the Brit comedy Brian and Charles, delighting film enthusiasts at Sundance. Spoiler alert: Charles is probably the most comically absurd—and thoroughly budget-challenged—automaton to ever grace the silver screen. Be prepared for a low-fi extravaganza that is both surreal and intensely silly, providing exactly the kind of brain candy we need to distract us from our increasingly bizarre reality.
Our protagonist, comedian David Earl, known for his roles in Ricky Gervais’s celebrated projects like Derek and After Life, stars as Brian Gittins. A tragic recluse, Brian spends his time on a remote Welsh farm turning forgotten scrap into bizarre, often completely useless contraptions—think: fishing nets as footwear. In a brilliant stroke of anti-social genius, he crafts his finest work yet: a delightfully awkward robot with the charisma of an overly eager child and a special affinity for devouring cabbages. The pair forms an odd yet strangely heartwarming father-son relationship, albeit with all the typical teenage angst directing their tragi-comedy.
However, fear not! We’re not dealing with some advanced humanoid creation here. Brian’s gangly robot, christened Charles Petrescu (naming conventions clearly aren’t this film’s strong suit), is crafted from a washing machine (obviously). His head—a bemused mannequin missing an eye—speaks in a robotic voice so crude it would make the worst early-2000s technology look sophisticated. Spoiler alert: the character embodies the physicality of Chris Hayward, who is practically inside a cardboard box, mouth deftly operating a mannequin’s lips. Yes, it’s as glamorous as it sounds. As Hayward himself put it, he had to be guided around set like a toddler in a supermarket.
The saga of Brian and Charles didn’t spontaneously combust on set; it has its roots in live performance. Earl conjured up Brian Gittins as part of his stand-up routine a decade ago, then escalated to an internet radio show where he’d morph into an even “madder version” of himself. One of his callers, the now-head honcho at Steve Coogan’s Baby Cow production, had to communicate using a robotic voice synthesizer, which prompted Hayward’s brilliant visual conception of Charles Petrescu. And the name? A delightful combination of a text-to-speech voice and a nod to a Chelsea soccer player. Who says comedy knows no boundaries?
After trotting the globe with their hilarious act, the duo leaped into the world of short films, leading to Brian and Charles as a feature film, courtesy of Film4 and the BFI, who apparently have no qualms about funding cardboard artistry. Just to give Charles a slight upgrade, his costume was elevated from a flimsy cardboard box to a “specially reinforced corrugated cardboard box”—oh, the glitz! Even the film’s aesthetic benefitted from COVID delays, giving us bleak, moody visuals that scream “isolation chic.”
As we await the grand unveiling on January 21, Charles’ first red carpet appearance has been postponed due to virtual events—though reports indicate he may make a “special appearance” in a live Q&A, ready to execute his best awkward robotic shimmy. Future plans could be thrilling, with potential sequels, prequels, or even children’s cartoons. Charles could have a robot girlfriend! The cinematic possibilities are endless, hinging entirely on how the world reacts to this marvel of low-budget filmmaking. Honestly, if the audience loves it, who’s to say they shouldn’t spawn a full-fledged robot romance?
In closing, we should all keep an eye on the future of Charles Petrescu—the mechanical icon of our dreams. Just make sure he doesn’t rip his mouth wide open before the sequel arrives; apparently, that’s the downside of budget-friendly puppetry.
