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The Wild Robot Review
At first, I thought The Wild Robot would tell a story about loneliness. But after watching it in the theater, I realized it’s a tale about motherhood.
Is “motherhood” a somewhat outdated theme in today’s context? Shouldn’t we focus more on the responsibilities of fathers or advocate for mothers to pursue their own aspirations? Many films are already pushing in those directions. However, the “motherhood” explored in this movie isn’t a gendered concept. It’s broader, encompassing the ideas of nurturing and care. The robot protagonist, Roz, has a female voice, so we naturally associate her with a mother figure. Yet, if her voice were neutral, the emotions she evokes would transcend the distinction of fatherhood or motherhood. Instead, the story becomes about how a caregiver grows through the process of nurturing. The journey isn’t about how far the child can fly or where they go; it’s about what the caregiver gains during the experience of raising them. This is the most luminous aspect of the film.
In traditional stories about love and care, the narrative often concludes when the child grows up. The robot teaches her child, Brightbill, to eat, swim, and fly. The child learns survival skills, achieves a sense of security, and discovers self-worth. The nurturing process ends there. But The Wild Robot defies expectations. That point isn’t the end but merely the midpoint of the journey. Like what we often see in real life, when children leave for college or start their own families, parents fade into the background. People stop wondering about the parents—where they go or what they do next. Instead, attention shifts to the child’s achievements.
The scene where Roz encourages Brightbill to fly away, sitting alone on the cliff afterward, profoundly moved me. The child has grown up, but does that mean the caregiver’s journey ends there? Does that mean the caregiver loses their value? Many parents, I suspect, have grappled with this unsettling question.
Like myself, for instance. Over the past decade, I often viewed my child going to college as the endpoint of my parenting. “When she goes to college, when she starts working, when she moves away,” I’d tell myself, “I’ll finally do something for myself.” I seemed to spend our shared time with that anticipation as my anchor.
But The Wild Robot reminded me that our role as caregivers doesn’t cease when our children gain independence. There may be a period of loneliness or aimlessness after they leave. However, over the years of caregiving, we inevitably gain qualities we didn’t possess before. For instance, we may develop a habit of considering others’ needs or extending care to unrelated people or things, perpetuating the emotional patterns cultivated during our years as parents. For Roz, this is evident in her attempt to shelter shivering animals during the winter. She continues to extend the unique compassion that caregiving has nurtured in her.
Some might find Roz’s actions too idealistic or even irrational. But when I reflect on my growth as a parent, I can relate. When my child was born, I had no particular expectations for her—or for myself. Over time, however, I developed a deep sense of purpose. Yes, “purpose,” that lofty word. I often feel that the goal isn’t about where I send her or what milestone she reaches. As long as we share our lives together, I hope she gains noble qualities—honesty, kindness, integrity, and compassion. Interestingly, these are traits I hadn’t even expected of myself in the past. Yet now, I strongly hope for them in her.
This hope has led me to hold myself to higher standards. I strive to keep learning, maintain healthy habits, be considerate of others in public, and honor my commitments. These were things I never considered essential for myself, but now I demand them of myself first so I can model them for my child. Over time, these signals influence her. She learns to open her heart, remain focused on her passions, and pursue her dreams with effort and resilience, ultimately reaping unexpected rewards.
When she achieves her aspirations, it reflects back on me like a mirror. It feels as though I’ve re-parented myself. I’ve become a better person—I love reading and exercising more, I’m more attuned to societal issues, and I face setbacks with optimism. I persist because, in raising her, I’ve nurtured a new version of myself. These qualities have become second nature.
What moved me most about The Wild Robot is precisely this ineffable emotion. Time and again, I’ve shared with friends that raising a child is also a journey of re-raising oneself. We can’t expect children to fulfill our exact wishes. For instance, you might hope your child excels academically, but they won’t simply become a star student like a wind-up toy. Instead, you can hope they embrace the world passionately, pursue meaningful endeavors, and see life’s broader horizons. And in doing so, you learn these same qualities alongside them.
Cinematically, these moments are captured in Roz’s gaze at Brightbill. Her eyes focus on this tiny creature, observing his changes and growth. Through Roz’s perspective, a barren world gains purpose because it now has a focal point. Her once aimless existence is infused with meaning and anticipation. These expectations, in turn, enrich her emotionally, heightening her sensitivity to the joys and sorrows of life.
Several shots of Roz observing her child and the world brought me to tears. The film isn’t about how far the child flies but about how Roz’s perception of the world transforms. When she reunites with Brightbill, her mind flashes back to his growth—learning to eat, swim, and fly. These touching moments provide the real nourishment for their bond. Their shared time forms a tapestry of memories that becomes irreplaceably precious.
I once read in a book about time that physicists consider time a tangible substance. While abstract, this concept is visualized in Interstellar, where Matthew McConaughey reaches through a multidimensional space to touch moments tied to his child. In The Wild Robot, we viscerally feel that time is not an abstract concept. When Roz reunites with Brightbill, the scenes she sees in her mind are vividly tangible. The film anchors ephemeral emotions and qualities within concrete dimensions of time and space. Montage crosses the boundaries of abstraction, transporting us into a multidimensional realm—just like McConaughey’s journey. In contrast, our personal memories lack this vivid, cinematic clarity.
The caregiving emotions in The Wild Robot are so nuanced that they can only be fully conveyed through Roz’s eyes and the montage of moments she recalls. This emotional journey may ultimately lead to loneliness or death, but it undeniably exists. It accompanies us through the years, transforming us as we grow alongside our children.
If Roz had been voiced by a male actor, the story would have conveyed the subtle emotions of a father raising a child. But with a female voice, it awakened complex feelings tied to my own experience of raising a daughter. At its core, the film is about responsibility and the transmission of love. If we expect any reward, it is only that our children surpass us and embrace the world with greater love and broader perspectives.
Midway through the film, I realized that Roz’s death would likely mark the true endpoint of this journey. She might run out of power or become a pile of scrap metal, just as we inevitably age and face mortality as caregivers. Yet when that day comes, fear won’t dominate us entirely, because this relationship will have given us enough to feel fulfilled. Our children grow up, become better people, and pass on noble qualities. Rust and decay are merely surface phenomena; in another dimension, light and dreams endure forever.
