Blade Runner is one of my favourite films of all time – even though I didn’t know what to make of the original Blade Runner when I first saw it, as a 21-year-old, at a crowded little movie theatre in the Tenleytown area of Washington, D.C. While I found the film puzzling at first, it took a hold on me over time, and now Blade Runner is considered a classic. And Scott Bukatman, a cultural theorist who is also a Film and Media Studies professor at Stanford University, provides a well-crafted explanation for why that same thing seems to have happened for many people, in his 1997 book Blade Runner, an entry in the British Film Institute’s “Film Classics” series.
The back-cover blurb for the BFI’s Blade Runner informs me that Bukatman’s scholarly work “explores how movies and other popular media “mediate between new technologies and human perceptual and bodily experience” – a line of research that seems strongly compatible with the thematic ideas of Blade Runner. After all, Ridley Scott’s 1982 film – the story of a bounty hunter who tracks human-like androids through an overcrowded, rain-drenched, neon-lit Los Angeles of the future – does much to blur the lines between the human and the technological.
BFI Film Classics books typically start with a production history of the film – sensibly enough, as a film must be produced and released before it can generate a critical response. As Bukatman chronicles the making of Blade Runner, he focuses, appropriately, on the exceptionally rich production design for the film’s futuristic urban setting, and on innovative special effects created by Douglas Trumbull.
Yet another feature of Blade Runner – one that arguably did just as much as special effects or production design to give the film its unique degree of verisimilitude – had to do with the screenwriters’ coining of unique terminology that was not found in the film’s source novel, Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968).
Screenwriter Hampton Fancher, “rummaging through his library, found William Burroughs’s Blade Runner: A Movie, which was a reworking of an Alan E. Nourse novel about smugglers of medical supplies”. In this connection, Bukatman helpfully points out that “ [the term] ‘blade runner’ also sounds a lot like ‘bounty hunter,’ Deckard’s profession in the novel” (p. 27).
Initially, the use of the phrase “blade runner” as a term to refer to the bounty hunters of the film was widely criticized: why are they called blade runners when they only use guns? Yet over the years, that criticism has since given way to a gradual, sometimes grudging, realization that that terminology was one of many ways in which Blade Runner was ahead of its time. After all, a society’s key terms and insider language often evolve in ways that are surprising and sometimes counterintuitive.
Consider: back in the 1990’s, we all used 3.5-inch floppy disks to store our data, and we called them “floppy disks” even though they were made of hard plastic and didn’t flop. The term, we all know, went back to the 1980’s, when 5.25-inch floppy disks were made of flexible plastic that actually flopped. Now imagine a person in 1957 being able to look ahead at life in 1994, and seeing people talking about “floppy disks,” and asking, “Why do they call them floppy disks when they don’t look like disks and they don’t actually flop?” Blade Runner captures well the way language evolves over time.
The term “replicants,” meanwhile, “was the contribution of [screenwriter David Webb] Peoples, whose microbiologist daughter suggested some variation on ‘replication’” (p. 27). Peoples’s contribution seems to have gone beyond giving this fictive world its own argot that enhanced its verisimilitude: Bukatman has stated that “Peoples has been credited with tightening the mystery aspects of the screenplay and deepening the humanity of the android adversaries”, once they were “known as replicants” (p. 27).
These changes that Peoples made from PKD’s source novel may have contributed to why “Blade Runner was seen as exemplary of postmodernism” – to wit, its “ambiguous attitude toward the replicants….Replicants melded technology and ‘us’: with their physical and mental, and perhaps emotional and erotic, superiority…the copy had superseded and even surpassed the original” (pp. 76-77). One might add that “replicants” sounds a lot like “replacements.” Recall the tagline for the original movie poster, a copy of which I had in my apartment in College Park back when I was a University of Maryland graduate student: “Man has made his match – now it’s his problem.”
Blade Runner was, famously (or notoriously), a critical and commercial failure upon initial release; only over time, with its release on cable and videocassette, did it gradually gain acceptance, popularity, and finally critical respect. Bukatman places Blade Runner in the context of the development, within science fiction, of the cyberpunk subgenre that often involved dystopian stories taking place in a nightmarish urban setting.
“Blade Runner,” Bukatman writes, “may have lacked a context when it was first released, which might explain why so few critics recognized its power, but the film’s heavy metal vision strongly influenced the emerging form of cyberpunk” (p. 57). He adds that “Blade Runner’s cyberpunk urbanism exaggerates the presence of the mass media, evoking sensations of unreality and pervasive spectacle: advertising ‘blimps’ cruise above the buildings, touting the virtues of the off-world colonies, and gigantic vid-screens dominate the landscape with images of pill-popping geishas” (pp. 58-59) Indeed, Bukatman suggests that “The aesthetic of cyberpunk was almost defined by Blade Runner” (p. 50).
Even when I first saw Blade Runner, at that crowded little theatre in Washington, D.C., and was not at all sure how I felt about the film, that cyberpunk element of the film – especially when combined with Vangelis’ ethereal and evocative musical score – spoke to me and stayed in my mind. Bukatman puts it well: “Despite the darkness that pervades it, it is worth considering the utopian face of this city; for although this is a hell where we would never want to live, it is also, as repeat viewers of the film can attest, a hell of a nice place to visit” (p. 62).
Bukatman concludes his analysis by writing that “The ultimate relevance of Blade Runner lies in its doubled, complex understanding of what it means to be human – not only at the end of the twentieth century, but throughout it” (p. 100). I agree with Bukatman’s assessment, and indeed I would move it forward in time beyond the original 1997 publication date of Bukatman’s book.
Three decades later, we all think about how Artificial Intelligence (A.I.) has changed the social, cultural, and digital landscape. Type a question into a search box (e.g., “How many science-fiction film awards did Blade Runner win?”) and I see various A.I. programs respond with “Thinking…” or “Reading sources and understanding…” before giving me their answer (13, out of 22 nominations).
Does the A.I. of today pass the Turing Test? Answers may vary. But I do find myself thinking of the moment early in Blade Runner when the film’s protagonist, once-retired blade runner Rick Deckard (played by Harrison Ford), is being briefed by police supervisor Bryant (played by M. Emmet Walsh) about his upcoming assignment. Bryant describes how replicants “were designed to copy human beings in every way except their emotions. But the designers reckoned that, after a few years, they might develop their own emotional responses – you know, hate, love, fear, anger, envy.”
A.I. programs tell us that they are “thinking…” or “reading sources and understanding…”, but tomorrow, will they tell us that they are “feeling”? Do androids dream of electric sheep? The fact that I find myself asking these questions speaks to the ongoing power and relevance of Blade Runner, 44 years after its original release. Blade Runner aficionados and film scholars alike should find Bukatman’s Blade Runner a helpful and informative study.