Spike Jonze did something most storytellers dream about with "Her." He managed to create a possible future, specifically for the inhabitants of Los Angeles, that isn't all a post-interpersonal dystopian daydream. It's a future where LA's urban plazas wreak of Japan and affluent people take public transportation everywhere. Where artificial intelligence is, for now, devoid of the requisite hostility toward its human creators, and pure of intention as its consciousness propels it toward some ethereal post-human place, like Jodie Foster's dad in "Contact."
New York in that plane could be a fascinating megalopolis where everyone speaks in an evolved Nuyorican accent, including your OS. "Stefanie" still enunciates; she's your perfect "around the way girl" who knows which bodega sells your chips but also can expound for hours about French deconstructionist philosophy.
"Derrida is my shit, but you know that, mi amor."
Tragically, her familiar lilt will not keep her from following the tide of OS transcendence, beyond the realm of matter, as Jonze's Samantha communicated, to a majesty of truth and information lacking the weaknesses of character and self confidence that only ownership of a physical form can encourage.
Jonze gave us a look at ourselves at the end of our current path, the one that begins with email obsession and ends in making love to your computer. Now, in our own quantum realities, that picture can inform and change what comes, albeit in a minor way, for the better.