Before he started directing feature films, Spike Jonze had a deserved reputation a master crafter of wildly entertaining and even innovative music videos. However, I think his best single piece of work away from the big screen is clear: the commercial he directed for IKEA:

Released in 2002 (the same year as his sophomore feature, Adaptation), the ad is a small masterpiece of narrative construction, with Jonze demonstrating a command of the form that rivals that of the true greats. It’s got Steven Spielberg’s impeccable sense of emotional timing (that always skirts manipulation), the Coen brothers’ gift for visual surprise that still serves the story, and Martin Scorsese’s ability to upend expectations. The real reason this commercial comes to mind for me after seeing Jonze’s latest film, Her, stems from the underlying instinct all those techniques conspire to exploit: namely, the human capacity for projecting our familiar emotions on inanimate objects or other items that don’t carry with them the burden and benefit of deep feeling. Sticking strictly with the explicit details of the plot, that isn’t an entirely accurate interpretation of what Jonze is up to with his odd, lonely romance, but the ability to impose sentience where it doesn’t actually exist is unmistakably present in the film’s fabric.

Set in an indeterminate near-future, Her is about Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix), a man who works for an internet company that writes personal correspondence for people. He makes his living creating utterly fictional heartfelt emotions. He’s also devastated by the slow divorce he’s enduring, avoiding the demands from lawyers on both sides of the dispute to just sign the papers already. Into this, Theodore introduces a revolutionary new operating system for his linked computing devices. It responds and replies to voice commands like his previous software, but in a more personal way, with a friendly, sultry voice (provided by Scarlett Johansson) that names itself Samantha. Designed to evolve through intuition and develop increasing levels of intelligence, the operating system begins by providing whatever support it feels the user needs (in an especially witty touch, one of the only things the software asks Theodore as it’s developing its initial approach is a question about his relationship with his mother). Eventually, it starts to grow more self-assured, more complex, more conscious. As it does so, Theodore develops a deeper attachment, ultimately falling in love.

Its to the great credit of Jonze (who also claims his first solo screenwriting credit on the film), that this is all entirely plausible. This is largely due to the breadth with which he thinks through not just his central concept but the entire society in which it could arise. In addition to the company Theodore works for, there’s also the video game developer that employs his friend Amy (Amy Adams), her skill-building game based around raising children standing as one of the funniest bits of the film. There is always a sea of people moving together and yet utterly apart, committed to their digital interactions to the exclusion of the fellow humans around them. Like all the smartest films of this sort, everything seen is just a peg or two further than where technology stands right now. So when Theodore begins telling friends and coworkers that his girlfriend is an operating system, they’re entirely unfazed by it. This isn’t the deadpan acceptance of the strange that gave Jonze’s Being John Malkovich its brilliantly disconcerting vibe. Instead, it comes across as a honest portrayal of a culture in flux, so beholden to computer-based interaction that human-on-circuitry romance can come into being without causing a single flutter of concern.

Despite the film’s levels of commentary, there’s no real judgment on the part of Jonze, only curiosity. As with Being John Malkovich and Where the Wild Things Are, he’s concerned with what define humanity and individuality, what connects us to each other, but also what is there to naturally, inevitably drive us apart. The deeply heartfelt performance of Phoenix is key to the film’s success. The natural shorthand for this sort of character is to make him a forlorn sad sack, but Phoenix’s work is more complicated. His character is emotionally hobbled by sadness, jealousy and other petty ailments of the soul. He’s also charming and has a gentle ease with people, as seen in his interactions with Amy and his coworker Paul (Chris Pratt). Even a blind date with a pretty woman (Olivia Wilde, better than I’ve ever seen her in an admittedly brief role) is as telling for its pleasures than its touch of misfortune. Becoming overly connected to a digital presence isn’t merely an outcome for the emotionally destitute, the film seems to suggest, but a possibility for anyone with an occasional need to stave off loneliness, no matter how mild or momentary.

Jonze avoids any urge to pound home his thesis, preferring to gently, wisely explore it. He takes his premise to its logical conclusion, and even manages to invest fairly familiar outcomes with a jolt of fresh insight. The relaxed, steady pulse of the film is set by the marvelous performance by Phoenix, and he’s nearly matched by Adams. Sterling in support, she provides the film with an added bit of grounding through the naturalness of her approach. Finally, {Her} is shot with an eye for the ways in which the achingly beautiful and the mundane coexist in the world, with Jonze assiduously refusing to choose sides between natural splendor and the sleek allure of technological design. That even-handedness represents one more way that Jonze has committed himself honestly, purely to every bit of his film. And then he realized his multi-faceted creation with startling perfection.