Blade Runner 2049 and Some Questions About Criticism 10/04/18
Watching Blade Runner 2049 in the cinema was, doubtless, one of the most visually satisfying experiences of the year. It’s hard to fault such haunting, beautiful imagery, regardless of what it was saying about the story. Of course, the well composed shots were often there to illustrate whatever point the film was trying to make. Upon reflection and a recent re-watching I’m not convinced the film had anything particularly unnoticeable or hidden to say: it wears its message on its sleeve. But there’s nothing wrong with that; lots of films do.
Perhaps my favourite piece of symbolism in the film is the rain, the endless sheets of heavy rain that seem unceasing in the grey and neon world. Then towards the end, the fight in the ocean, the rain now turned to something more concrete and forceful. And then further still towards the end, in the last scene, as it’s turned to snow peacefully falling onto K (Ryan Gosling). The message is clear and wonderful: throughout the film K is nothing but a cog in a machine, more a passenger for the film’s plot. As Roy Batty said in the original, he is nothing but a tear in rain - lost and with nothing unique about him. Upon first realising he might be special, might have a childhood, and could be the saviour of his kind, K stands outside a building as snow falls onto him. It turns to water on contact with his skin, and the ground. Is he a special snowflake? Unique among millions, contributing to a greater whole? Is he ‘The One’? The ‘greater whole’ he’s contributing to in his work is a roiling, destructive ocean. Do his actions matter when compared to the power of an ocean? Upon realising he’s been used, that he isn’t special among Replicants he must now fight against the weight of being nothing more than a raindrop. By the end, having done something humanistic, having given his life for a greater cause (namely, reuniting a father and daughter) the snow falls and he sees the truth: that saving the world isn’t human, but small victories are.
I was going to write a piece about how much I appreciated that small symbolism. In a film so dense with semiotic imagery, it was a clean and elegant way to talk about the complexity of the cinematography in the film, and make a point about how the smallest details can contribute to a greater whole of the film. But I couldn’t talk about that without ignoring everything else: silhouettes, eyes, colour, movement, space, sound, soundtrack, women, their lack of agency, the complications of his relationship with Joi (which I suspect, has been lost in the convolution of her role and the nature of their relationship - the film should have had something clear to say about it, it didn’t, but that doesn’t absolve it of responsibility), the sheer amount of violence that women in the film are subjected to, usually by another woman: Luv. Her death was grotesque, and I’m still not sure why we were subjected to such a protracted scene. It’s important to recognise that absolutely nothing, not a single moment of Blade Runner 2049 is there by accident. Everything served a purpose, everything is a conscious decision. Villeneuve has a history of creating rich, complex characters regardless of gender, and I think Blade Runner 2049 is no different, but did we, somewhere along the way, lose the clarity of his other films through posturing that didn’t particularly have anything beneath it?
This is all a bit abstract, a bit unformed. But isn’t that often the case? Isn’t that how new ideas are formed, new appreciations for movies come about? I started this piece with the fullest intention to only talk about rain and snow. Maybe I already have? What came after were questions and half-formed thoughts. One of the challenges…maybe that’s not the best term. One of the things I stay aware of when writing, is my position in relation to the piece I’m writing about. I like to think about different aspects of my position for different pieces: where did I watch the film, how often have I seen it, what else have I read about it, is it made for me? Is it made for someone else? Who do I identify with in the film, and why? What does that say? Embodiment, in a word, is what I keep in mind. The phenomenological experience of watching films. When watching I, Daniel Blake, for instance, I believe wholeheartedly what the film is saying, that the welfare system in the UK is appalling and cruel. But can I empathise with those characters? Do I have any idea what it is like to live like that because I’ve seen a movie? To quote Good Will Hunting, “Do you think I'd know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are because I read Oliver Twist?” Invariably, no. I watch from a privileged perspective. When thinking about my perspective when writing about Blade Runner here, I thought, do I have any idea what it would be like to be a woman and watch that film? Who do I identify with in that case? Of course, I’ve no idea. I can guess, of course, and I’m sure I’d be right for some people. But I really have no idea who anyone identifies with except for myself. Identification and embodiment is specific to the individual.
Sometimes to more individuals than others though.
What this all comes down to, as well as feeling confused and doubtful about the gender dynamics of the film, is that I can only ever present a subjective, partially-informed piece of writing about movies. I can never, for instance, say what a film is about for sure. Nor can I say what message it intended. I can’t say whether it was good or bad objectively. All I can do is say what I think, myself. Otherwise all I’d be doing is asking questions.
But is that so bad?
Isn’t it possible to make a statement by asking questions?
Isn’t the question almost as important as the answer?
The specific wording can imply thousands of different things, right?
Or is that just posturing too, is that just absolving myself of responsibility to come up with answers?
This has been a thousand words with lots of questions, but did it really answer any of them?
Is it just more tears in rain?
by Jack Buchanan
Perhaps my favourite piece of symbolism in the film is the rain, the endless sheets of heavy rain that seem unceasing in the grey and neon world. Then towards the end, the fight in the ocean, the rain now turned to something more concrete and forceful. And then further still towards the end, in the last scene, as it’s turned to snow peacefully falling onto K (Ryan Gosling). The message is clear and wonderful: throughout the film K is nothing but a cog in a machine, more a passenger for the film’s plot. As Roy Batty said in the original, he is nothing but a tear in rain - lost and with nothing unique about him. Upon first realising he might be special, might have a childhood, and could be the saviour of his kind, K stands outside a building as snow falls onto him. It turns to water on contact with his skin, and the ground. Is he a special snowflake? Unique among millions, contributing to a greater whole? Is he ‘The One’? The ‘greater whole’ he’s contributing to in his work is a roiling, destructive ocean. Do his actions matter when compared to the power of an ocean? Upon realising he’s been used, that he isn’t special among Replicants he must now fight against the weight of being nothing more than a raindrop. By the end, having done something humanistic, having given his life for a greater cause (namely, reuniting a father and daughter) the snow falls and he sees the truth: that saving the world isn’t human, but small victories are.
I was going to write a piece about how much I appreciated that small symbolism. In a film so dense with semiotic imagery, it was a clean and elegant way to talk about the complexity of the cinematography in the film, and make a point about how the smallest details can contribute to a greater whole of the film. But I couldn’t talk about that without ignoring everything else: silhouettes, eyes, colour, movement, space, sound, soundtrack, women, their lack of agency, the complications of his relationship with Joi (which I suspect, has been lost in the convolution of her role and the nature of their relationship - the film should have had something clear to say about it, it didn’t, but that doesn’t absolve it of responsibility), the sheer amount of violence that women in the film are subjected to, usually by another woman: Luv. Her death was grotesque, and I’m still not sure why we were subjected to such a protracted scene. It’s important to recognise that absolutely nothing, not a single moment of Blade Runner 2049 is there by accident. Everything served a purpose, everything is a conscious decision. Villeneuve has a history of creating rich, complex characters regardless of gender, and I think Blade Runner 2049 is no different, but did we, somewhere along the way, lose the clarity of his other films through posturing that didn’t particularly have anything beneath it?
This is all a bit abstract, a bit unformed. But isn’t that often the case? Isn’t that how new ideas are formed, new appreciations for movies come about? I started this piece with the fullest intention to only talk about rain and snow. Maybe I already have? What came after were questions and half-formed thoughts. One of the challenges…maybe that’s not the best term. One of the things I stay aware of when writing, is my position in relation to the piece I’m writing about. I like to think about different aspects of my position for different pieces: where did I watch the film, how often have I seen it, what else have I read about it, is it made for me? Is it made for someone else? Who do I identify with in the film, and why? What does that say? Embodiment, in a word, is what I keep in mind. The phenomenological experience of watching films. When watching I, Daniel Blake, for instance, I believe wholeheartedly what the film is saying, that the welfare system in the UK is appalling and cruel. But can I empathise with those characters? Do I have any idea what it is like to live like that because I’ve seen a movie? To quote Good Will Hunting, “Do you think I'd know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are because I read Oliver Twist?” Invariably, no. I watch from a privileged perspective. When thinking about my perspective when writing about Blade Runner here, I thought, do I have any idea what it would be like to be a woman and watch that film? Who do I identify with in that case? Of course, I’ve no idea. I can guess, of course, and I’m sure I’d be right for some people. But I really have no idea who anyone identifies with except for myself. Identification and embodiment is specific to the individual.
Sometimes to more individuals than others though.
What this all comes down to, as well as feeling confused and doubtful about the gender dynamics of the film, is that I can only ever present a subjective, partially-informed piece of writing about movies. I can never, for instance, say what a film is about for sure. Nor can I say what message it intended. I can’t say whether it was good or bad objectively. All I can do is say what I think, myself. Otherwise all I’d be doing is asking questions.
But is that so bad?
Isn’t it possible to make a statement by asking questions?
Isn’t the question almost as important as the answer?
The specific wording can imply thousands of different things, right?
Or is that just posturing too, is that just absolving myself of responsibility to come up with answers?
This has been a thousand words with lots of questions, but did it really answer any of them?
Is it just more tears in rain?
by Jack Buchanan
