"Can you at least look at me when I'm talking to you? Can you look at me, please?" No dice. And so he changes tack again: "U-87, look at me." So she does. Another clue: She'll take commands as the robot? (Maybe has to?) Or, you know, as Occam's Razor would suggest: The robot responds to commands the way it always has. Then he says the scariest thing you can say: "This might be hard on you, but it's going to be all for the best." Not a smile. A heaving chest, and his mouth a firm line, but no love at all. Just power.
I think it's easy to lose sight of the deal here, which is that as much as Daniel is capable of love, he's essentially a cold person who sees other people as tools. The robot, the daughter. You can love someone and use them at the same time: Just ask God. But while the tenor of his speech -- the very fact that he's the only one talking -- might lead you to sympathize, to see Zoë through his eyes, as a spoiled brat, she's only a brat insofar as she's not doing what he wants. And women are always the biggest bitches when they don't do what we want, aren't they?
Which is the reason, always, that we have to hide. It's easier and more powerful to be an object when the alternative is hatred. Zoë's only power, and she's said this more than once, is hiding inside her magnificent new body. Pretending there's nobody home. And I think probably it's hard for some people to understand how that works, because they never got the hang of it -- or never had to -- for themselves. If your body, or your sexuality, have never been commodified, then I think it's probably difficult to understand the alternatives, of which you've been lucky enough to remain ignorant.
I would say that her life and soul are endangered, but that word's not correct because the danger has already arrived: He did the worst thing he could possibly do. He stole her out of heaven and locked her in a tower. And if he ever finds out she's still in there, he'll do worse. So her whole plan is just as deceptively simple as always: Get the frak out of there without him ever knowing she was in his house. Granting Zoë her subjectivity -- I know it's hard -- shows you the truth.
The metaphor isn't the father/daughter pissing contest you think you're seeing, it's Night Of The Hunter. It's Joyce Carol Oates's "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" The killer clowns and night things and Michael Myers, bumping and shrieking outside the house, begging to come in. Getting angrier. Not smiling.