Where am I? It is so gray and misty outside that I can barely see about a quarter of a mile before the mist begins to dematerialize the horizon. Please get me the volume down format the shelf and tell me in the numerology section what the significance of 2049 is? Thirteen? Change? Where am I? Chicago? Or Los Angeles, the cardboard two dimensional cutout of Indonesian shadow puppet play? Well the current rule is the bigger the movie franchise the more exotic and unique the effect’s treatment for the distributor’s logo must be! Someone just dropped an ancient big leather book volume down the middle of a stairwell and its echo is booming across the room! Oh, that’s the film! Slow over modulated sliding trumpets? Coronets? Horns! It must be the Blade Runner sequel I went into this movie auditorium to view!
OK, I am not going to try to not make too many snotty overly clever snarky comments from this point on. I saw the original in the theater on June 25th 1982 downtown when I was in a suburb of Chicago. The first theatrical version. I didn’t like it then! Too bizarre for the tastes of my time. Crowded, claustrophobic, morally dystopic? Lacking the level of adventure or positive forward thinking of a future that I personally wanted to participate in. And the heavy emphasis on what would eventually thirty years become state sponsored Politically Correct race guilt transposed in such a cumbersome speech plagued manner to what essentially would be called surrogates for what is now commonly derogatorily referred to as ‘whitey’ left me flat. Does it mean anything that Ridley Scott had to reedit some seven different versions until he got it right? The last one blissfully absent of the PC preachy narrative.
But! Here we are! Hundreds of space opera’s and post-apocalyptic scenarios later the viewing audience is in the same place. The ‘white’ viewing audience, of my people, I should say! For given the current crash in the fortunes of big budget overruns in Hollywood productions over the last five years plus, their stilted PC morality tainted big screen products all seem to die a still birth. Thank God the studios say for the Asian market! But in fact with the exception of two persons of the classic negro persuasion, who play their race at its worst, the world as re-imagined by its Canadian director and typical Jewish hegemony approved production team, is all ‘white’. It seems that the script writers must have jumped all over the less savory portions of “The Man In The High Castle” also penned by the same original author [that ‘Dick’!]. Phillip had this thing in big time for bashing Nazi’s. That obviously impressed the bigwigs in Hollywood since day one. Since, of course, Hollywood has a hard-on to disparage anything ‘white’ these days, he furnished plenty of anti Aryan seed material at that nice price that Jews always love [posthumously]. Gone are those star studded clever fast talking stage talent ridden musicals from the genius of their great-grandfathers who were ever ‘hat in hand‘ waiting for entrance to the all ‘white’ country club gate just before the mid-century! Now they seem to want revenge on all those of European descent bashing the progeny of their all ‘white’ audiences. “No blacks or Hispanics in the auditorium . . . “my God! I can’t recall a time not hearing a single cellphone conversations throughout an entire film!”
Without threatening to disclose what is a very, very, very, slow motion ‘onion‘ style unraveling plot that routinely drops plot points like more massive 18th century library volumes solidly hitting the echo chamber floor, it is enough to say that one is expected to sit back and test the mettle of one’s eyelids. Not for the Voight Kampff test to determine not if you are in fact a replicant. But rather if you have almost fallen asleep several times in the course of the Turkish taffee-like flow. I think that I just saw a caterpillar crawl by at top speed. The overly ear crashing Blade Runner sounds are unfortunately a very poor ersatz imitation of the original score composed by Vangelis. One of the few big flops in my opinion for composer Hans Zimmer. Who must by now still be in therapy from becoming hooked on over-driven “Bwaaaah” sounds. The endless super loud echo chamber choking out long horn slurs and reverbrant canceling shoe drop echoes cannot compare with the original genius of the man who tempered the mix of his arrangements much better. I have to say that what was drawn out over long in overall running time could have been neatly approached in literally half the time. Unless one wishes to participate in some mass downer. I haven’t been so down since wading through the interminable “Intersteller!” The character highlights include an unstoppable super maniacal robotic Wallace Corporation version of the current chairman of the National Organization for Women. Her son or brother or something sporting ‘uber-sized’ eye cataracts having an unshakeable serial killer fetish. A cluster of very street tough and mean tiny Borstal lads that seem to be on loan from the last gritty version of ‘Oliver’, And, of course! A very very old duopoly of two of the originals stars. One who now passes for ‘white’ yet retains his prowess in Origami. And the other that ever irascible Jewish adventure hero wet-dream being one of the tribe himself, “Introducing for another victory lap, Mr. ‘Indiana Jones‘”. “Hey! It’s Harrison Ford folks!” “Cheer up!” “You know how great he always is playing himself!”
But as is the case with everything Hollywood these days, it is the special effects salted liberally with a little ‘tits and ass’ that shines above all. The current penchant for that failing fleet of “Titanic” overblown ledger book expense big budgets is to cram every audience memorable scene of old reconfigured, effect, chapter and verse. All into one overloaded carriage that is savagely whipped till the ‘horse meat’ posing as plot along until it drops a load in the last reel. [Hey pal! No reels anymore! This is the digital age!] Quite frankly I got tired of Ryan Gosling ‘larping‘ about before the first half. Robin Wright still remained the studios ‘poorboy ‘ answer to Sigourney Weaver. The other two dames might best consider a career as secretaries in the front office. The meaner one on the fast track to becoming a studio executive head. The fact that the setting of Las Vegas shown ‘grittily‘ destroyed in the past tense make a good case that the entertainment industry is connected somehow to the banking industrial military complex’s false flag ops given the immediate timing of national events. Was it bad? Wast it Good? I can’t judge! It is no longer my era. And what I desire in the escape of several hours within a darkened auditorium is I am sure completely dated by current standards. There are no such things as real heroes these days in popular fiction. Just losers and malcontents that shake their fists and cause further destruction. Just endless uneasy relationships with indifferent sometimes brutal parenting. Why else would such a dysfunctional world exist? May be that is the key to it all! Bad parenting creates monsters. And it sure seems that we are in no short supply of those these days!