Nothing the God of Biomechanics Wouldn't Let You into Heaven For

Last night we went out to the neighborhood movie theater, the Landmark, to see BLADE RUNNER: THE FINAL CUT -- the third or something edition of this 1982 movie, likely issued to celebrate the flick's 25th anniversary. Perhaps I'm unperceptive, but I found only slight differences from the "director's cut" already out on video -- although both versions vary drastically (and are much improved from) the theatrical original. The reissues excise the annoying narration by Harrison Ford; reorder shots; change dialogue; and include a far less optimistic (though more existential than downbeat) ending.

The question for me was whether I'd perceive the movie differently now than the first time I saw it in a theater -- which was in the Liberty Theater in Walla Walla, Washington back when I was 17. What would I bring to the story, after 25 years (including seven years of higher education and ten years of marriage) of living life?

Frankly, I'm not sure. I was hyper-conscious of how the Blade Runner look influenced movie and TV for years, much as 2001 had 14 years earlier. I wondered what exactly it was that made Deckard such hot stuff in hunting down androids that his former boss essentially forced him back onto the job. (And yes, I know it's because of what he is.) After all, he doesn't do much in the movie beyond basic detective work, whenever he's not mooning after Sean Young. I did feel much more sympathy for Rutger Hauer's replicant character, Roy Batty, who is by far the most expressive character in the movie (over the top, in fact, like someone who has just discovered emotions and is so drunk on them he can't help gushing them like a geyser).

I also found that the special effects were still fantastic-looking, even after 25 years of increasing sophistication. Without a whisper of CGI, the effects draw us into this futuristic Los Angeles completely.

Incidently, the movie is set in 2019. Somehow I don't think we're going to develop Darryl Hannahdroids in the next 12 years, let alone attack ships burning off the shoulder of Orion. But as someone once said, it's not science fiction's job to predict the future; its job is to imagine the future.