According to a legendary tale, the initial victim of an ancient torture device that cooked its captives alive may have been its very creator.
In every aspect, the “brazen bull,” believed to have originated in ancient Greece, was intricately and needlessly cruel. This large, hollow bronze statue of a bull featured a lockable door. A victim would be confined inside, after which the apparatus would be placed over a fire. The unfortunate individual would gradually feel the walls becoming unbearably hot.
As the heat intensified, the screams of the victim would travel through a series of tubes, escaping from the bull’s mouth and nostrils, which would be releasing steam by that time. The anguished cries were said to resemble the sounds of a distressed cow.
In a similar vein, Chris Pratt’s film Mercy, which releases today, might leave you groaning in distress. However, the occasionally excruciating, more frequently dull experience of watching what some might call “Minority Report for toddlers” is not the core connection between this pseudo sci-fi narrative and an ancient execution tale. Rather, it lies in a layer of irony woven into the film’s early dialogue — followed by a meta-irony that sees it completely abandon or misinterpret the very risks it aims to discuss.
Mercy serves as a contemporary cautionary tale regarding our impending future. The film opens in August 2029, where Detective Chris Raven (Pratt) awakens to the soothing, informative tones of a commercial promoting the “Mercy Court” — the very court he helped create and populate with a continuous influx of criminals he regarded as little more than human refuse.
This court represents the highly efficient advancement of justice, a legal body that exclusively addresses capital punishment, overseen by an unbiased AI judge. Its establishment aimed to manage an overwhelming surge of crime, resulting in vast areas of major cities overtaken by tent-filled, crime-infested “red zones.”
As indicated, only through the courageous enforcement of the law by quadcopter-piloted, drone-monitoring officers has order been maintained. Additionally, the chilling deterrent imposed by the Mercy Court, whose ruthless efficiency exemplifies painfully obvious cultural commentary.
Regrettably for Chris, he is not merely receiving a work-related refresher. Instead, he is undergoing his own trial; just a day prior, his wife Nicole (Annabelle Wallis) was brutally murdered in their residence. With his daughter Britt (Kylie Rogers), police partner Jaq (Kali Reis), and AA sponsor Rob (Chris Sullivan) all providing evidence that directly implicates Chris, he finds himself as the prime suspect.
Consequently, like 18 other defendants before him, he is secured in a chair engineered to deliver a fatal sonic pulse in precisely 90 minutes. The only escape is to convince the AI-driven Judge Maddox (Rebecca Ferguson) that there exists less than a 92 percent chance of his guilt. Given that the last 18 accused have all faced execution, the odds are decidedly against him.
Rebecca Ferguson stars as Judge Maddox in Mercy, from Amazon MGM Studios. (Amazon MGM Studios)
A ‘making dinner’ kind of movie
As far as setups go, it’s not entirely terrible. Although somewhat contrived, it serves as a potential blunt narrative tool for satire, a technique sci-fi often employs to provide insightful or occasionally dubious commentary on the direction of society. If you can overlook the hasty and clumsy conclusion that has virtually no logical tie to what preceded it, Mercy becomes almost tolerable as a backdrop for dinner prep.
In fact, simplify the Black Mirror episode “Crocodile” from 2017 — where a mind-reading device makes determining criminal guilt as easy as pushing a button — and you’re halfway to understanding this film.
So what’s the issue? It’s all hidden beneath the surface. Take “Crocodile” as an example once more. As a near-future sci-fi piece, it serves as a clear allegory and a sharp critique of the surveillance state, as well as our misguided inclination to exchange liberty for safety.
To convey that message, Black Mirror creates tension between common assumptions about crime and the intricacies of applying those beliefs. The notion that technology-driven judgment is acceptable — as only criminals should be concerned — clashes with the harsh reality of applying cold, impersonal pressure on vulnerable individuals. Typically, this results in greater tragedy and suffering for all involved.
Mercy tentatively approaches a similar idea. By portraying Chris as a previously biased cop now ensnared by the very indifferent system he helped uphold, the film makes its intentions clear. On the surface, it closely mirrors the brazen bull narrative: a story of a callous creator who, through poetic justice, becomes the target of the very cruelty he intended for others.
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In fact, one reason many scholars dismiss this tale as false is that it feels all too real. The rampant malevolence and cosmic irony it reveals in both the ruling elite and those who transition from supporters to victims of the system is simply too fitting. This makes it even more surprising — and somewhat offensive — when Mercy abruptly discards this narrative thread.
Selfish self-interest
Rather than contemplating the notion of retributive justice, Chris evolves into a more relentless criminal tracker throughout his trial. In a frantic attempt to preserve himself and what remains of his family, he dispenses with the tenuously established self-reflection element.
This is a lapse that might typically be forgiven in what is essentially a polished streaming film. However, given that director Timur Bekmambetov (a tech enthusiast with a Dr. Evil-like ambition to populate Hollywood with AI actors and produce 50 films a year) deliberately frames it as a theme, discarding it seems equally intentional.
It’s even fitting that the title serves as a more straightforward synonym for the much superior Clemency. While the 2019 film explored the harrowing self-examination of a prison warden who becomes increasingly disenchanted with capital punishment, Mercy clumsily tosses around the argument, only to carelessly discard it.
From left, actor Chris Pratt and director Timur Bekmambetov appear on the set of their film Mercy. (Justin Lubin/Amazon MGM Studios)
Perhaps even more troubling is what takes the place of that concept. As Mercy approaches its midpoint — and its absurdly foolish conclusion — it transforms into an odd promotional campaign for AI. Instead of Chris rediscovering his humanity, the focus increasingly shifts to the judge with an unexpectedly kind disposition: a ChatGPT-like figure portrayed as unwaveringly committed to the facts and, perplexingly, sensitive to human emotions.
“Whether human or AI, we all make errors,” Chris sagely remarks near the film’s conclusion. “And we learn.”
Whereas initially Mercy was merely unengaging, it now crosses into the realm of offensiveness. Before the real-world advent of generative AI, filmmakers could lean on this type of dubious narrative to evoke emotions in I, Robot or AI: Artificial Intelligence.
Now, it comes across as nothing short of foolish; AI is neither reliably accurate, nor — clearly — an empathetic, self-aware advocate for human rights. A film that chooses to ally itself with it, and fantasizes about a future where it decides the fate of real people, is more than just naïve. Like the creator of the brazen bull, it appears to be intent on ensnaring us all in a hell of its own design.
Though, to be fair, Mercy is foolish as well.