From the opening shot of Ridley Scott's 1982 sci-fi love story/neo-noir stew, the undertones of God, creation, destruction, judgment, and an omnipresence are left whisping around in our brains as we see the light from thousands industrious blazes dance in the reflection of The All-Seeing Eye. We're encouraged to drink it all in; to ladle a big spoonful of steamy, black broth (what's that floating in there?) from Scott's crock pot of grimy 2019 Los Angeles urbania. Adapted from Phillip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, this grisly slice of 80's cinema has ascended from its original cult status and has become a staple among sci-fi and film lovers alike.
But at the very center of all the stunning visuals and breath-taking vistas is an omniscience that pervades nearly every frame. A guiding hand, an all seeing eye. The characters on display are just that: displays. Puppets for our projections. Like the toys J.F Sebastian creates to distract him from his pre-mature death, so the characters are to what could be the fate of our future metropolitan cities. In Scott's 2007 "Final Cut" of the film, aside from the opening title cards, we're given very little detail as to the events leading up to when our story takes place. Each character is given very little backstory, apart from a name and their most recent actions. Instead of over-stuffing us with exposition, Scott decides to intoxicate us with the fumes off the chemicals that flood the streets and the acid rain that falls from the sky, spills over gutters and pools in the alleyways. He nauseates us with the vapors seeping out of piles of garbage and mire, and the sweat of the common passerby who never sulk.
Early on we meet Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford at his most tender, and human), a retired "Blade Runner", or replicant hunter. After he's pulled off the bench at a neon-drenched noodle stand, he's re-commissioned by his former police chief to hunt down a group of newly-escaped replicants after they've reportedly murdered their fellow crew members and crash landed somewhere off the coast of California. This artificial crew, Roy Batty, Leon, Priss, and Zhora are all shown intermittently as the film progresses. Interestingly, we know from the outset that they're all robotic, yet through their interactions and decisions we begin to recognize in them the most human characteristics. We first meet Leon ('a munitions loader capable of lifting 500 pound atomic loads day and night") in a sort of Rorschach (minus the inky pictures) test called "Voight Kampff" at the beginning of the film. It's designed to determine if the test subject is a replicant or a human through a series of questions aimed at evoking an emotional response.
These questions carry a certain weightiness to them that tend to make the subject feel patronized or give them pause to consider their answer. Leon answers quickly and matter-of-factly on most questions; picking out small details to expand on rather than answering the real question. Like a search engine that just won't give you the answer you're looking for. One question in particular attempts to probe the replicant's inherent inability to cope with physical pain or suffering: "The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs, trying to turn itself over but it can't, not without your help. But you're not helping." Rather than show sympathy for the tortoise in the scenario, Leon is more interested in why he's not helping. What's keeping him from helping the tortoise? Who's controlling his ability to help?
The theme of "who's in control" is played out time and time again in the film. We often see characters meandering through the streets looking like lost sheep without their shepherd. When they try to investigate their own predicaments or solve problems, they appear to do so irrationally or clumsily. In the scene where Roy and Leon intimidate a biomedical engineer (Chew) for information about their creator, we don't really know what's happening till halfway through the scene. Roy's dialogue seems clunky and unrelated (though still eerily beautiful) to the mission at hand. "Fiery the angels fell. Deep thunder rolled around their shoulders; burning with the fires of Orc." It's as if Roy is telling Chew of the replicants' decent from the heavens down to earth. He plays up their glorious inception into the world, only to be brought back to reality when Chew tells him he's the one that designed Roy's eyes, and that a man named Tyrell is responsible for his birth, not The Divine.
Shortly after Deckard is pressured into returning to the force, he runs a Voight Kampff test on the newest model of replicant at the Tyrell corporation. The replicant, Rachel (a vulnerable and pouty Sean Young), is led to believe by Tyrell that the test is to be done on a human first, to see it fail. As Deckard begins the test, an apparatus unfolds from his brief case; like a magnifying glass used by a watchmaker as he tinkers and repairs a complex instrument. Deckard knows what the result of the test will be, yet he dutifully goes through the standard procedure. Its not till the end of the test, after "more than a hundred" questions, (it usually takes "twenty or thirty, cross-referenced") that Deckard learns Rachel is unaware of her own being. "She doesn't know" he says to Tyrell, accusingly (a cunning, bitingly poindexterous, yet undeniably fatherly Joe Turkell); annoyed and dumbfounded that he would withhold such information. "She's beginning to suspect, I think" he replies.
He reveals that the new models have been "gift(ed) with a past... a cushion or a pillow for their emotions." Again we see the lack of control given to these miserable creatures. Unprivileged even of genuine memories, the replicants seem to be on a linear path in life, where they are not their own conductor. Later in Deckard's apartment, teary- eyed with runny mascara, Rachel plays the piano. "I didn't know if I could play... I remember, lessons. I don't know if its me, or Tyrell's niece." This notion of memories and their affect on us poses a perverse question: Are memories just as powerful and do they still offer sustenance even if they're not our own? Is someone else's memory of love, happiness, contentment, loneliness, or loss still potent even if it requires some unconscious level of projection on a past that is not our own? As Rachel plays, we see a calmness wash over her. The piano is still therapeutic, even if its therapy is of unknown origins.
But these creatures are not without condemnation, be it predestined or not. After Deckard tracks down Zhora in a smoke-filled, seedy bar (the whole city is an underworld it seems), she flees when she sees through his masquerade as some sort of civil servant for a made up "performers" union. He chases her through the streets filled with drenched and miserable bodies. As she sprints through a shopping strip lined with glass cases, Deckard fires his gun and the bullet rips through her transparent topcoat. She stumbles and half somersaults to the ground, before clumsily recomposing herself just in time to crash, head-first through a pane of glass. Another shot rings out, she looks up at the sky and cries out in pain. All we hear is Vangelis' celestial jazz score and the shattering of glass.
The panes shatter and refract the entire spectrum of light from the surrounding neon signs onto her broken body as it tumbles and crashes into a mound of artificial snow. Deckard comes running and stands over her, like a child who's just squashed a frog under his foot. He looks effeminate, his mouth agape and hair a mess. An overreaction perhaps? He's done this before, hasn't he? His shock as he talks to the policemen who arrive on the scene suggests the notion that he intended for his act of judgment to be stopped. His holy fire quenched by the pouring rain before his dutiful wrath could come to fruition.
But Deckard isn't the only one judging here. After his talk with Chew, Roy tracks down another replicant designer, J.F Sebastian. A small, dopey man with "Methuselah Syndrome", he's already been tricked by Priss (Daryl Hannah as "a basic pleasure model") into sheltering her. Methuselah, a Biblical character and descendant of Adam, lived to be some 900 years old; yet Sebastian is aging rapidly, appearing to be near 50 when he's in his 20's. The life he longs to savor yet cannot he pours in concentrated doses into the replicants he builds. Every scene between Roy and Sebastian drips with a demeaning hierarchical tone. Roy overpowers him in every way, from his speech to his piercing gaze. With this dominance, Roy convinces J.F to take him to Tyrell to see if he can extend their set life period. Wooed by Priss and terrified of Roy, J.F submits.
Roy and Sebastian enter Tryrell's luxurious chambers. Lit by a multitude of candles and adorned in gold fixtures and sculpted wood furniture, it looks more like a sacrificial chamber or Victorian altar room than the lair of a futuristic technology mogul. What are candles doing in a 1980's envisioning of 2019? As Roy and Sebastian approach Tyrell, swaddled in a plush white bath robe, he tells Roy he expected him sooner. "It's not an easy thing to meet your maker" says Roy, though his slow, deliberate gate shows no hint of fear or hesitance.
"And what can He do for you?" Tyrell answers. He refers to himself in the third person, afraid of his own creation, he tries to shirk responsibility. Like Pilate washing his hands before his own crucifixion. Roy motions to Sebastian and he heels like a pup. He waltzes towards Tyrell "I want more life, father" he says with a barking hiss. Tyrell cowers and takes a small step back, sensing he no longer has control over his own creation. As Sebastian shrinks behind a lamp stand, Tyrell tries to explain the futility of Roy's request; how no combination of proteins or synthesized bio-matters can give him the time he craves.
"The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long. And you have burned so very brightly Roy" warns Tyrell. Contradicting himself in the same sentence, Tyrell proclaims "Look at you, you're the prodigal son!" Roy looks downcast as Tyrell approaches and gently caresses his head, like a child petting an angry dog. "You're quite a prize!" he remarks. A shameful Roy, with a bowed head speaks into the marbled floor: "I've done...questionable things." "Also extraordinary things! Revel in your time!" encourages Tyrell. Roy looks up, hopeful "Nothing the God of bio-mechanics wouldn't let you in heaven for?" Sebastian watches behind his wax prison as Roy proceeds to take Tyrell's head in his hands. He kisses him passionately before prying his thumbs into his eye sockets and crushing his skull.
As the blood gushes from Tyrell's face onto Roy's hands, his expression is one of angry ecstasy. He drops Tyrell's limp body and makes his way towards Sebastian, but we're cut away before we can see his end. Now back in the elevator, Roy looks up at the glass paneled ceiling at the passing sky and city lights. His gaze and posture are of ascension; as if to another plane after killing his God and one of His angels.
