Ridley Scott’s original Blade Runner first came out in cinemas 35 years ago, which I was going to say probably makes it older than some readers, although this being The Spectator, perhaps not. It wasn’t successful in its day, but has since become a beloved classic (rightly), whereas this sequel, Blade Runner 2049, will likely do great box office today, but no one will give a fig tomorrow, once all the silly hype has died away.
This is Blade Runner as a dull mainstream blockbuster populated by men who are the epitome of masculine cool and women who are needlessly sexualised fembots. And Harrison Ford doesn’t even appear until the third act, which, given the film is two hours and 45 minutes long (oh, for heaven’s sake), awards you plenty of time to wish you were… I don’t know… dead?
Most popular
James Delingpole
Most-read 2024: How did Wolf Hall escape the attentions of the BBC’s diversity commissars?
The 1982 original was a neo-noir which, essentially, explored the horror of not knowing if you’re real or not.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in