The conclusion drawn by the good doctor is that designers
of robots or prosthetics should not strive overly hard to duplicate human
appearance, lest some seemingly minor flaw drop the hapless android or cyborg
into the uncanny valley — a fate to be dreaded by all concerned. He maintains
instead that a prosthesis or a robot should be visibly artificial, but smart
and stylish in appearance, placing it somewhere near the top of the first
peak. This ethos, incidentally, can be seen clearly in a great many science
fiction and fantasy manga and anime stories.
The
same factors that inspired Doctor Mori to research and describe the uncanny
valley and the rest of the curve to which it belongs are of immediate concern
to any creator of fantasy or science fiction. Aside from the readily apparent
potential for careful tailoring of a character’s or species’ “look and feel”
to evoke a specific reaction from the audience, there are some perhaps surprising
possibilities and consequences.
In reality, it is likely that alien sophonts are so completely
unlike humans or other terrestrial life that communication or any kind of
empathy, possibly even recognition of the aliens as intelligent beings, would
be difficult at best. Such a case falls very low on the initial slope at
the left of each of the charts in the figure above. Bafflement might well
be the dominant human reaction: the sort of mental confusion that results
when one looks at something one knows is there but can’t quite make out,
like a camouflaged figure against a wooded background or an unexpected optical
illusion. Even becoming accustomed to the presence of such aliens might not
improve matters significantly, other than to inure humans to the idea that
they are outside the bounds of comprehension.
Of course, fiction
and art are created by humans for human audiences. While enigmatic alien
life or ineffable elder deities have their place in such works, for the most
part it is necessary, and easier, to create fictitious creatures with at
least some vague kinship to man — a concept familiar to readers of this magazine
as anthropomorphism.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the realm of the anthropomorphic character stretches
from near the height of the first peak, through the uncanny valley, to the
final peak at the right of the curve, as seen in the following figure. It
is here that the overwhelming majority of characters fit, whether from the
earliest campfire tales and cave drawings or the latest Web archives.
A closer examination of this section of the curve
reveals four distinct regions of interest. From right to left, they are the
steep slope falling off from the final peak, the uncanny valley itself, the
corresponding steep slope on the valley’s other side, and the rounded peak
linking that slope to the more gradual one at the left of the chart.
The
rightmost slope is where every member of the human species can be placed,
as well as those fictitious beings similar enough to humans to be mistaken
for them under less than ideal viewing conditions. At the top of the slope
would be any healthy, normal-looking person; at the bottom, perhaps even
in the uncanny valley itself, might be the profoundly disfigured or deformed,
such as John Merrick, the so-called “Elephant Man”. Between these extremes
one could place an ill but otherwise normal person (near the top), a Bunraku
puppet (as Dr. Mori does), a handicapped individual — roughly at the neutral
reaction line — and below that a typical prosthetic hand designed to mimic,
imperfectly, a natural one.
The uncanny valley itself is where dwell monsters, in the classic
sense of the word. Frankenstein’s creation, the undead, the ingeniously twisted
demons of anime and their inspirations from legend and myth, and indeed
all the walking terrors and horrors of man’s imagining belong here. In essence,
they tend to be warped funhouse-mirror images of humanity, and many if not
most share one or both of a pair of common traits.
The more
obvious of these is overt, intimidating superhuman power, whether physical
or paranormal, but the other is far subtler. Recent research suggests that
the human idea of beauty may rest on a surprisingly simple foundation: symmetry.
According to the study, symmetry of face and body suggests health and vigor
— and therefore genetic fitness — while asymmetry implies the opposite.
Besides explaining the instinctive repugnance people tend to feel
toward more mundane distortions of the human body, this can be extrapolated
to include all manner of more exotic malformations. Unpleasant surface textures,
exaggerated features or proportions, and incongruous, out-of-place additions
or inclusions, even body parts that are not directly connected to one another
yet move in concert, all reach deep into the primitive part of the human
mind to draw forth fear and disgust.
And so we answer the first part of the question with which this
article began. Hollywood and, before it, countless authors have unconsciously
exploited the uncanny valley to thrill audiences with creatures and villains
carefully designed to fall into a pit every bit as awful as that of Hell.
One might even make a case that they are in fact one and the same.
Sundered from humanity by the uncanny valley is a not-quite-mirror
image slope and peak. Here are fairylands and alien empires that never were,
beautiful and terrible, in all their myriad variety. Near the bottom are
those creations that, by virtue of some saving grace, are not so horrible
as their brethren. As one goes higher, one finds ever more attractive or
appealing or even simply impressive beings, until one reaches the point at
which the curve tops out in a sharp “knee”. For the writer or artist of speculative
fiction, this peak, along with the valley below, is probably one of the most
important parts of the entire chart, out of all proportion to its relatively
small size.
Aesop may well be the earliest storyteller we know
of to take full advantage of this peak. By casting his fables with talking
animals, he was able to accomplish two important things. Stereotyping the
animals — the sly fox being the best-known example — gave him and his listeners
a quick shorthand characterization. Perhaps even more importantly, by eschewing
humans, especially particular individuals recognizable to his audience, he
could create enough metaphorical distance both to provide perspective on
the lessons conveyed by the stories and to escape the retribution so many
rulers in history have visited on those who would spread unpleasant truths.
These literary tricks have become mainstays, for they work exceedingly
well. Public-service advertisements of the eighties and nineties featured
an animated anthropomorphic hound in a trench-coat, encouraging cooperation
with police agencies and the formation of neighborhood watch programs. With
this character, the creators avoided using a human of any recognizable ethnic
type, which might have impaired the effectiveness of the campaign in some
areas.
There are many other ways of reaching this peak of not-quite-human
appeal, but as the above examples show, one of the most popular is to combine
animal traits — usually fellow mammals — with human characteristics. A more
or less human body with therianthropic, or animal-like, head, tail, and perhaps
fur is an idea that dates back possibly as far as cave paintings and certainly
to the pantheon of ancient Egypt, and can be found in many cultures, including
medieval Europe. Today’s community of anthropomorphic artists and fans are
heir to a rich legacy.
And so we answer the second
half of the question at the beginning. Down through history, tale-spinners
and artists unconsciously have sought the peak above and just short of the
uncanny valley to win over audiences with appealing or sympathetic characters
for purposes as diverse as advertising mascots and children’s stuffed toys.
Humans might not be the only ones to exploit this fascinating
psychological peculiarity. What of those hypothetical aliens at the far end
of the chart? They may well find us as puzzling as we find them, and there
may be a vast technological gap as well. How, then, might the two species
find a way to communicate? The British SF author Christopher Boyce proposed
an intriguing solution to this impasse.
A carefully crafted
species of artificial life form, tailored specifically to hit the aforementioned
peak of appeal, could act as go-betweens, easing humans through the initial
contact process. He describes a creature slightly smaller than humans, with
a graceful bearing and attractive figure, large, appealing eyes, reddish
deerlike fur, feline or doe-like facial features, soft, musical voice and
laughter, and most importantly, a pretty smile.
Boyce intended this brief sketch as an example, noting that the
exact design might vary considerably from it. Still, it is worth noting the
strong resemblance his musings bear to the anthropomorphic characters discussed
above, reinforcing the supposition that animal-human combinations are deeply
entrenched in the human psyche.
Doctor Masahiro Mori’s uncanny valley and its environs are
fascinating terrain, offering an elegant and captivating explanation for
the foundations of human ideals of beauty and ugliness. Their implications
for the author, filmmaker, and artist reach far beyond the original focus
of industrial design, yet include it as well, and they provide all manner
of creators with signposts, aiding in the effort to achieve just the right
impression for a character and to avoid missteps that could put off an audience.
Last of all, others might find it just as useful, opening still more doors
on as yet unknowable possibilities.
Mori, Masahiro. The Buddha in the Robot. Charles E. Tuttle Co., 1982; ISBN 4333010020.
Reichardt, Jasia. Robots: Fact, Fiction, and Prediction.
Penguin Books, 1978; ISBN 0 14 00.4938 X. While badly dated and rife with
the faint sound of axes grinding, this book does contain an excellent summation
of Dr. Mori’s “uncanny valley”.
Boyce, Christopher. Extraterrestrial Encounter: a Personal Perspective. Publisher unknown, 1979. Nearly all the text of this book has been published on the Web by the author.
