The Blade Runner’s Daughter
See previous post:
The Blade Runner’s Dilemma
If we trace the shape of Blade Runner 2049 in reverse, the story it tells becomes quite clear. It is, in fact, the moral arc of the blade runner himself: the overwhelming Realm of Feeling is brought to the surface only after the Realm of Fantasy is allowed to come to an end.
After all, like most other human endeavors, although perhaps to a greater degree, fantasy is fueled by emotion — from ē– (“out”) and moveō (“move”) — a driving force that connects oneself to an other, whether it be a person, place or thing. As long as the fantasy endures, that force is bound to its preferred object and may remain so for an eternity. Only when the object of fantasy is released — only when the emotional connection severed — only then is that energy liberated. And when that happens, that energy is returned like a boomerang, but this time as feeling: in other words, while emotion is a motive force that seeks an object, feeling returns as something unleashed.
This represents the dilemma of “letting go” since there’s always this threat of a violent return: what was once invested elsewhere finds its way back in ways that can be overwhelming. And it’s precisely because of this difficulty that the original blade runner will require an assistant — the protagonist of this film — as this is something the old man cannot complete on his own.
The Pale Fire
In contrast to the water-logged metropolis of the original Blade Runner, the sequel provides us glimpses of a landscape where nature has completely collapsed. The lights of the city may mask this reality, but beyond its edges lies a desert where life itself seems to have come to an end.
Whatever else this may signify, it tells us that the blade runner has completed what alchemists call the process of calcination (“the fire-breathing dragon that drinks the water”). This is the first — but also most arduous — stage of the alchemical procedure, since the “water” here refers to an emotional grasping that is forcibly burned-off and brought to an end.
When undertaken unconsciously, which is more common than one might think, it results in burnout (where the life force is exhausted) or maniacal behavior (where the fire of ego becomes unhinged). But when undertaken consciously, calcination represents the (lower) ego relinquishing its false identifications and sense of entitlement: by surrendering emotional attachments and willfulness, one makes way for a life of spirit, becoming less reactive and querulous (“drier”).
The product of this procedure is an ash from which all impurities (“dross”) have been removed. Alchemists believe this contains an essence of one’s true Self, that behind the emotional force of desire is the truth of divinity separate from the world of attachments to which we normally cling. So, when this “burning” phase is completed, a second phase begins, where the ash is once again submitted to the power of water — in a phase called Dissolution — to complete the process of overcoming one’s emotional imprisonment.
The Baseline Test appears to assess whether the “burning” has been successful and is reliably sustained. For each time the blade runner (“K”) returns from one of his missions — particularly ones that require him to kill — he is retested to ensure that he remains unmoved. So effectively does he maintain this stance, he’s come to be known as “Constant K”: not even the bleakest expressions of melancholy or alienation is able to elicit an emotional response from him.
And blood-black nothingness began to spin.
A system of cells interlinked within cells
interlinked within cells interlinked within one stem.
And dreadfully distinct against the dark,
a tall white fountain played.
But beyond this recitation, the blade runner must also respond to prompts designed to elicit feelings of isolation and the yearning for connection. More specifically, he’s asked to repeat keywords that point directly at the bleakness of his existential situation:
When you’re not performing your duties,
do they keep you in a little box? “Cells”
— Cells.
What’s it like to hold the hand of someone you love? “Interlinked”
— Interlinked.
Do you like being separated from other people? “Distinct”
— Distinct.
Do you long for having your heart interlinked? “Interlinked”
— Interlinked.
The words so central for the baseline test are extracted from the novel Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov (author of the better known Lolita), a copy of which sits next to an empty bottle of whiskey in the blade runner’s apartment. It too is centered on the “blackness” of grief, but also the emergence of an inexplicable — and frightening — vision the protagonist had after a heart attack (“a tall white fountain played”).
That this novel seems to have become a part of his daily routine signals — at some level, at least — that the blade runner is aware of this process of mourning and the bleakness that comes with the imperative of letting go.
For the blade runner is indeed kept in a cell, with both the testing room and his one-room apartment capturing his isolation. Alchemical texts used similar imagery, whereby the “king” — representative of the (false) ego — is also confined to a box-like structure for the process of calcination, where all water is slowly expelled and the prime matter is reduced to ash.
The blade runner’s boss — Lt. Joshi — plays a central role in this process, as her very first speech underscores the importance of barricades and fortification:
The world is built on a wall: it separates kind.
[If you] tell either side there’s no wall,
you[‘ve] bought a war or a slaughter. …
It is my job to keep order.
That’s what we do here. We keep order.
The “wall” she speaks of is presented as a metaphor, but could just as well refer to the massive seawall protecting the city from the rising tides of the Pacific Ocean. For it is precisely along this wall that Deckard will later be submerged, finally subjected to the water which — for the duration of this story — has been kept away from him.
While these images and metaphors might present an oppressive picture of confinement, another less claustrophobic image is that of “a room of one’s own.” For this isolation is not merely about imprisonment. It’s also about creating a space for a different sort of activity. In fact, the “pale fire” of Nabokov’s novel refers to the Moon, taken from Shakespeare:
The moon’s an arrant thief,
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.
While it doesn’t say so explicitly, what is referenced here (in part) is the principle of reflection, distinct from the burning power of the Sun.
The blade runner’s posture in two early scenes provides a visual representation of this kind of reflectiveness, as he struggles to contain what comes to him from within and without. On the surface, this is his reaction to the harassment he receives from others: as a “skinner,” his presence is unwelcome. Because of this, he’s learned how to brace himself against such expressions of animosity, like what he meets when he returns to his apartment building:
What’s up you beautiful tinplate soldier?
So you come home now, you prick?
Who the hell is waiting for you here?
I’ll kick your leg out, you bastard!
While this might hint at some sort of domestic discord, his self-conscious posture also signals the return of water — uncomfortable feelings — conveyed through the voice of others or the voices that exist in his head. This is one of the effects of the intermediate world, expressed as an inversion, where one’s inner world is experienced as something external to oneself. (This is where visions and hallucinations come from, and explains their disruptive power.) At the same time, there’s a certain reversal, where prior actions return, but from the opposite direction. Hence, any abuse previously visited upon others now comes back at him, instead. There’s something karmic about this, since it corrects whatever was previously unbalanced, and necessarily involves a degree of discomfort while conflicting forces are brought under control and properly contained.
In other words, the blade runner’s stance is the uniform of those who’ve find themselves in the impossible position of living according to the rules of one world while bearing the forces returning from another, barely able to hold oneself together because it marks the beginning of a truly inner life: not the mumblings of ego expressing its joys or frustrations, but signaling an emergent reality that’s coming from somewhere else.
The Cosmology of 2049
When the blade runner meets his predecessor in an abandoned Casino Hotel, we are witness to a environment bathed in yellow and filled with dome-like constructions, as if to suggest that the grizzled old man now resided in the sky surrounded by the darkened glow of a dying Sun.
The towering statues outside — in the desert — suggests his proximity to the world of archetypes, denoting the themes with which he’s been struggling: the symmetry of mirror images and expressions of delight that fall short of consummation. The cracked and fallen head indicates the darker side of this sterile yearning, pointing to Deckard’s mental state, as if he’s been confronted by something his mind hasn’t yet been able to grasp.
This deep ambivalence — yearning but broken — is reflected in the songs that float through his forlorn residence (all performed by holograms). Some, like Frank Sinatra’s “One for My Baby,” are more subdued, recalling a “brief episode” that’s mournfully recalled while nursing a drink. (“I’ve got millions of bottles of whiskey.”) Others, like Elvis Presley’s “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You,” are blasted over a sound system that can’t seem to stay on track, as if the excess of extravagant stage productions can no longer be sustained.
These two competing sets of feeling — yearning and resignation — help explain how Deckard has come to express his paternal affection:
Sometimes, to love someone [means]
you’ve gotta be a stranger.
It’s said to be for protection that he has chosen to stay away. And yet, this self-isolation is not sterile. His absence continues to have a profound impact on the world, most obviously in the daughter he left behind but also evident in his carvings (like the wooden horse) that point to the hole he’s left behind. But there are other — less material — ways his influence continues unabated, signaled by the shape of different environments and the way light flows through them (“interlinked”).
The colors associated with Wallace — the new demiurge — belong to the same palette as the abandoned Casino, although one more muted. Absent is the intensity of fire’s burning or its dehydrating effects. In fact, rather than fire, the element associated with his chamber is water, it’s function alluded to by an off-hand remark about the odd fish that can be found there:
Always jumping, that one.
Never a thought of what to do
if it made land.
The dome-like shape of its construction makes clear that it’s an intermediary place: light streaming down is reflected by a pool of water, with a sharp line marking the boundary between above and below. As demiurge — the craftsman of world rather than its grand architect — his role is to interpret the messages he receives from above, although he usually does so imperfectly.
With his predecessor, the sign of this imperfection were the impossibly thick trifocals he relied upon to see the world. Now, thirty years later, the “new” demiurge’s sight is completely occluded (as if a carryover from Tyrell’s death at Roy Batty hand). Symbolically, blindness is usually associated with seers. But like his predecessor, the demiurge has found a way to augment his (lost) physical vision with what the film’s shooting script calls barracudas, elevating (physical) sight to a form of predation.
As demiurge, however, his purpose is to “interpret” the light that streams from above. But because his attention is focused elsewhere, his ability to interpret has been perverted, drawing upon the language of religion to justify his worldly ambitions. This represents the worst kind of “inwardness” since his desire to colonize the universe is couched in a barely understood language of the spirit.
We make angels in the service of civilization.
Yes, there were bad angels once
[but] I make good angels now.
That is how I took us to the nine worlds. …
[Yet, now] we should own the stars!
Ever since word of the miracle birth spread, he was no longer satisfied with the “good angels” he’s built (meaning obedient replicants). Instead, a new obsession formed around the idea of fertility in service of his expansionist agenda, a dream that nevertheless remained unfulfilled. So, he slaughters each new model, unaware that the actual fault may lie, not in the problem of replicant barrenness, but in his own obscured (spiritual) sight.
One layer down is the replicant Luv, located below the waters of the demiurge’s pool, which is where the bulk of her activities are carried out. (Only rarely is she summoned up to his “heaven” above: “An angel should never enter the kingdom of heaven without a gift. Can you at least pronounce, “A child is born“?) The Sun’s reflected light — and its shadows — are constantly shifting, replacing the “noir” trope of the rotating fan with something more elemental: the “ripples” that connect one realm of existence with another (“interlinked”).
Luv’s surroundings also present a very different architectural style than Wallace’s sterile womb, much more contained (rather than open) and much more angular (rather than rounded). Conventionally, this angularity — specifically, the square formed of verticals and horizontals — is associated with earth, representing the completion of spirit’s descent into matter, its stability and resistance to change.
These elements — the down-streaming sunlight into a darkened square — indicate that she and the replicants slaughtered for their perceived deficiency belong to the same lineage. And yet, she revels in her capacity to bathe in this light and the power it brings. In one sense, this is her version of the blade runner’s cell since, like him, she’s boxed in by her obedience to another’s authority.
For Luv, as her name would suggest, this has to do with a certain kind of affection that requires her unquestioned allegiance, even if it also requires tolerating his inflated sense of spiritual self-importance. It also means withstanding his brutality, rationalizing his obsession and his willingness to kill. For despite her infertility, she’s been exempt from his ruthlessness. His highest praise is reserved for her alone, the foundation of her sense of worth: “The best angel of all.”
Water and light finally reach “bottom” where we find the rebel army in the dark underground, as if this were the terminal point of the downward journey, with nowhere else to go. The vertical shafts of light have seemingly consolidated into pillars of rock, and the omnipresent waters are reduced to a slow trickle where only dim ripples can be seen.
Architecturally, a new element is introduced — the diagonal — beyond the rigidity of the square. We see it most prominently in the pyramidal structures descending from the ceiling, as if this too was a consolidation of an earlier convergence of light (like what was found on stage at the abandoned Casino with Elvis declaring his helplessness in the face of love).
Despite these consolidations — something akin to mineralization — there also seems to be evidence of a different transformation taking place. For the frozen beams have sprouted angles at their feet, as if they were in the process of being animated to become massive tree trunks reaching back up into the sky. Beyond this, another light — now a softer white — enters this darkened space at a similar angle. As opposed to that which Luv luxuriated in (since it provided her with a certain power), this light seems to provides a different sort of illumination, one more internal perhaps, which might lead to the development of insight.
These transformations — or their possibility — are associated with the replicant woman found in this place: Mariette. If we pay attention to the way she’s presented, it soon becomes clear that she’s an extension of the replicant Pris (“the acrobat”) of the original film. But now, rather than being surrounded by JF Sebastian’s toys, she belongs to a full-fledged rebel army. Her attire — including her oversized “fur” jacket — similarly harkens back to her predecessor, but here we learn that her profession is merely a cover for the replicant underground.
Her name alludes to the (Virgin) Mary (or Maryam), since “Marie” is merely the French version of the name. Tracing its etymology to its Hebrew sources, the name is widely seen as reflecting themes of the “beloved” but also “bitterness” (mr) and “rebellion” (mry), but can also be taken as a drop (mar) of the sea (yam). Like other such symbols, this name carries two opposing meanings: one of outright rebellion and another more elevated, even metaphysical, meaning: a drop of water (a bitter tear) returning to its source.
* * *
In this way, we can trace the line of forces associated with water and light that stream down through different layers — each taking on a different form — until they reach what’s sometimes called rock bottom. At that point, something begins to change, as the mineralized forces are polarized and begin sprouting in the opposite direction, reaching (back) up to the heavens. If this process is to achieve any degree of success, a different source of light — and different form of sight — will be required, one that enables the reverse journey back to the originating Source.
The Space of Transformation
When we first meet the Memory Maker — the miracle child — she is surrounded by a lush forest, as if she represented the completion of the process begun in the underground prison. Whether “real” or not, it provides a stark contrast to the lifelessness of the outside world. Her capacity is, in other words, the antidote to the calcinated landscape, including the grizzled blade runner’s desert of archetypes within which he seems to be lost.
It soon becomes clear that her “space” is a dome-like construction much like the demiurge’s sterile womb. But hers is fertile in ways that exceeds his imagination, following lines of development different from his (biological) obsession. She can create entire worlds in this place, along with memories on a much smaller scale, which is why he’s relied on her services — as a subcontractor — precisely because he was unable make them on his own. (If he were interested in becoming a more complete craftsman, this would be something he’d want learn.)
Inside this forest of green, the first “object” we see the Memory Maker working on is a beetle. The film doesn’t make much of this, but the original shooting script does:
Cʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴏɴ: ᴀ ʙᴇᴇᴛʟᴇ. ᴄʀᴀᴡʟɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀꜰ. ꜱᴜɴʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ɪᴛꜱ ʀᴏᴜɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱʜᴇʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛꜱ ᴘʀɪꜱᴍᴀᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ. ᴜɴᴛɪʟ —
Tʜᴇ ʙᴇᴇᴛʟᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱᴜᴅᴅᴇɴ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ɪɴꜱᴇᴄᴛ. ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴇʟᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ᴍᴇɴᴜ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴘᴛɪᴏɴꜱ. ꜱᴇᴛᴛʟɪɴɢ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴏɴ —
A ꜱᴄᴀʀᴀʙ. ɪᴛꜱ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴘᴇ. ꜰᴏʀᴍɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇꜰᴏʀᴍɪɴɢ. ᴇᴠᴏʟᴜᴛɪᴏɴ ᴄʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ɪᴛꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ.
The scarab (the sacred dung beetle) is meaningful here since it represents the difficult process of the soul being born into a higher reality. It is the inverse of the demiurge’s “downward” process, signifying the ability to take what life has to offer and moving it through various cycles of transformation. Thus, unlike the futility associated with Sisyphus, this form of movement represents the power of change. Quite notably, this humble insect — associated with dung — also represents the alchemical process that begins with dissolution.
Unlike the demiurge who remains “blind” to the incoming light, in the film’s closing scene the Memory Maker is shown looking up with awe to a snow-filled sky. This is what accounts for her creative ability, finding grace in what comes to her from the stars, for this is the meaning of her name: Ana Stelline.
While the Memory Maker is locked away in her very own bell jar (for her “protection”), the blade runner’s boss is Guardian of the Wall. When introduced, she’s shown by a window on a rainy night drinking a glass of whiskey. But as the camera pulls back, we see that she (and the blade runner) are contained in a massive structure with portals weirdly similar to those of a naval vessel or submarine. The point would seem to be: to keep the water out.
That this “water” also refers to the Wallace Corporation is made clear by the antagonism that develops between their two organizations, epitomized by the “final battle” between the blade runner and Luv. But with the discovery of evidence indicating replicant childbirth, the Wall gains a new purpose: to protect all clues that might disclose the miracle they discovered, since the demiurge would exploit that knowledge for unseemly ends (and cause a war).
With her slicked back hair, Lieutenant Joshi is an “evolute” of the dancer formerly known as Zhora. But now, rather than donning a transparent slicker, she wears an equally formless garment that’s colored black: a relationship once based on titillation has shifted to one of obedience (which is why he calls her “Madam”). While her predecessor might have worn the armored breastplate of a warrior, she’s now a commanding officer whose authority has little to do with the pleasures of illicit sex. Instead, it’s about the virtue of submitting one’s will to another (a particularly difficult task for a blade runner’s cockiness).
The cell she uses to test him — and the cell to which he goes after their work — is a function of her guardianship. In other words, it’s through his subservience to her that he gains a sequestered space that creates the possibility of change. For just like the Memory Maker’s confinement, it’s only when all distractions have been removed that true transformation can occur.
And yet, traces of the demiurge continue to find their way into these isolated places because, in the end, they all belong to the same world (“interlinked”). We see it in the their shared love of whiskey — from Deckard to the demiurge, and from the lieutenant to the blade runner himself — as well as the shape of the lights that fill their rooms, in the same colors that we’ve already seen before.
Within his “cell” — free from the interference of the outside world — the blade runner is able to develop his fantasy life with the hologram Joi, courtesy of the Wallace Corporation. At first, their relationship seems to have developed along rather conventional lines, with Joi first appearing as a 1950s housewife cooking dinner for her man. But what follows depicts a line of development beyond such stereotypes in a way that’s peculiar to him since Joi acts as a mirror for his inner life, reflecting things in him he might not recognize on his own. And while her name might carry connotations of teenaged infatuation (like “luv”), it can also be read as a mashup between “joy” and “moi.” His fantasy, in other words, is a way of learning about himself.
This part of his education, however, is more than a self-centered exercise. At a more fundamental level, it’s about learning how to be with another. So, just like flesh-and-blood couples, the blade runner’s relation with Joy-Me consists in learning how to intersect with another, of creating a “space” that both are able to share. This is partly why providing Joi with an “upgrade” is so important (paid for by killing the replicant guarding Rachael’s bones). For that means she can travel with him — no longer sequestered from the rest of the world — thereby gaining access to aspects of his life that were not available to her before.
When their love undergoes this expansion, the color of their surroundings reflects this shift, transforming from the dull gray of the LAPD and his apartment to a deeper and warmer green.
The theme that threads through all their conversations is the desire to become “real,” a desire that applies to each of them, albeit in different ways. Joi wants to overcome the limitations of her projection and the hardware to which she’s permanently attached, but she also wants to become real for him. (This, of course, requires creating a space for herself in his heart and his ability to house her there.) The blade runner, on the other hand, wants to become “real” in ways that exceed the terms of his replicant existence, seeking a sense of significance and weight beyond the “identity” conveyed by his serial number. He wishes to become a singularity. And it’s for this reason that Joy-Me names him “Joe.”
The significance of this step transcends the mere act of naming, of course. For it also triggers a shift in the way he thinks about himself and his place in the world. When he dares to draw linkages between himself and other people and events, his imagination is let loose and the limits of his previous existence begin to fall away. Which is also how he comes to fail his Baseline Test, precisely because he begins wondering whether he might, in fact, be the miraculous child: the One.
The process of chasing down the mystery of Rachael’s death — and allowing himself to imagine that he may be her son — is a sign of his transformation. It’s also a measure of how his relationship with Joy-Me has changed him. For only by allowing himself to see through eyes that are not his own can this kind of shift occur. After all, this journey began under the shadow of a stinging accusation, that he was happy “scraping the shit” only because he’d never beheld a miracle and allowed himself to be changed.
When the rebel Mariette is invited to help Joy-Me become more “real” for the blade runner, we’re witness to a similar exercise in perception. Except in this case, it’s about how well “Joi” matches up against another reality. But as all participants eventually discover, it wasn’t the best of fits: Mariette didn’t appreciate being shushed (to allow the “syncing” to take place), and Joi resented having to depend on another for a physical body. So, when the camera pans away from their lovemaking to the oversized advertisements for a holographic companion, it’s not merely a film convention in the interest of modesty, but a reminder of the archetypes at play in trying to make Joi real.
This will be but a foreboding of what was yet to come — the end of his fantasy-cycle — when he’s forced to come to terms with the magnitude of his loss. Mariette (the rebel) is the reminder that “real girls” don’t always conform to a man’s archetype of joy. So, it’s only when he’s able to confront the larger-than-life image that rules over him — and his oversized feelings — it’s only then that he’s able to overcome his sense of injury, which is when he makes the decision to tear his bandage off.
When he’s able to do that, he’ll already have accomplished more than the grizzled blade runner still stuck with his unresolved feelings. Only then will the words of Mariette’s rebels begin to make sense, of what it means to make death meaningful — bringing a cycle to its natural conclusion — and how this makes them “more human than human.” For that’s when he chooses to rescue Deckard from Luv, and bring him face-to-face with his daughter, instead.
The sign of this transformation is the “tall white fountain” that plays “dreadfully distinct against the dark.” It’s precisely what the Baseline Test has been deployed to prevent, requiring mandatory “retirement” for all those who fail to pass. It’s also what the lieutenant witnesses when the blade runner begins to falter, when he’s no longer able to recite his lines without melancholic echoes trembling within himself.
This, in fact, marks the return of water, when the process of Dissolution finally begins to take hold, reanimating the ash of calcination by returning feelings previously disguised by emotional attachments. For in allowing himself to believe in the miraculous, the blade runner brings certain hopes and aspirations back to the surface. This represents a kind of “attachment” that exceeds the emotional clinging that came before. Instead, it centers on one’s place in the universe and the ultimate meaning of one’s life.
The fact that he allowed himself to believe that he was not a replicant is evidence of this, wanting be something other than what he was born to be. So, in trying to solve the puzzle before him, he put the pieces together to create another fantasy, desperate to find “evidence” of his humanity, unaware that replicants were destined to become “more human than human.” So, each discovery of his tale’s falsity will feel like an assault, since this is what Dissolution brings — deep disappointment, humiliation and a pervading sense of worthlessness — forced to confront the extremes to which ego will go to inflate itself.
But when these feelings (waters) can be properly contained — rather than dispersed — they create a fountain that gushes wildly, reaching upwards rather than out. It’s the force necessary for building a bridge from one realm of existence to another. Different traditions give it different names, embedded as they are within their own set of symbols and ways of expressing the truth. The one most relevant here, however, is the Tree of Life — and not merely as the antidote to the Tree of Death with which the film begins — because (according to tradition) it’s guarded by an angel bearing a sword. Only a very few are allowed to pass, and the process by which one gains such access is called initiation (“beginning”).
For the ancients, this was achieved through a (simulated) death experience which initiates were expected to withstand in the full light of consciousness.
The Cycle of Birth and Death
When the blade runner tracked down the man he thought might be his father, we are provided a line of sight that laid bare the logic of their shared existence. But because he didn’t recognize him, the elder blade runner greeted the newcomer like any intrusion: as a potential threat to be eliminated using the barrel of a gun.
The sequence from Deckard to “K” to Dog may seem inconsequential, but it explains a number of riddles that crop up during the blade runner’s journey. For example, why does he feel “unreal” and why is he always referred as a “boy”? That’s the dynamic we witness in Joi’s attempt at humanization by giving him a name (“for a real boy”); we see the same when his boss commends him for recognizing her obscure command, unsure if he was willing to comply (“attaboy”). But it’s Luv — the demiurge’s assistant — who best captures what’s at play here, when confronting his boss (the Lieutenant) and asks [in the original shooting script]:
Your pet. I liked him.
He’s a good boy. Where is he?
The “dog,” in other words, is a symbol of the blade runner’s allegiance that confines him to the “cell” that enables the transformation of his attachment into a new form of understanding. This also explains Joi’s unusual “ring tone” taken from Prokofiev’s “Peter and the Wolf.” His experience with Joy-Me — enabled by a sustained period of confinement — was but part of a cycle of obedience that, when completed, would return him from a dog’s obedience to the wolf’s voraciousness. (Which is why Deckard’s canine companion transforms into something more ominous.)
This is what happens after Joi’s emanator is squashed by a vengeful Luv, erasing the blade runner’s fantasy forever. For with that termination, the forces animating that fantasy-cycle reemerge with a new ferocity that fuels his (new) mission of eliminating the replicant Luv. In alchemy, the wolf is associated with the metal antimony — also known as the “monk killer” or the “destroyer of loneliness” — which indicates how the blade runner is able to rescue Deckard from his captivity so that he can (finally) be reunited with his daughter, instead.
A similar principle is evident in the case of Luv, the reflection of the original blade runner’s love. She can be described as an “internal image” but could just as well be described as his anima, the (unconscious) feminine side of a man that’s usually deeply repressed. That’s why meeting anima’s projection in the real world can be so exhilarating but also so destabilizing, precisely because “she” is not real.
Philip K. Dick recognized this dynamic well, having dedicated a significant portion of his writing to this lifelong obsession, later gathered under the title The Dark-Haired Girl. He understood how his anima-figure repeatedly drew him to certain women, encounters that invariably ended in disaster. But rather than learning to recognize the role his anima played in all of this, he called these women replicants: “without emotional warmth, domineering, castrating, intellectual, original and brilliant.” (p. 169) As the (posthumous) editor of that collection of his work states:
Dick was not particularly conscious of the extent of his own self-absorption and consequent cruelty to those closest to him. I believe that Dick was often unaware that when he wrote (as he does so eloquently in the present volume) about the split between the human and the inhuman, between the empathetic person and the schizoid, he was in fact writing about the struggle inside himself. (The Dark-Haired Girl, p. xii)
While this may be shocking for fans of Dick, this is the hidden story behind Blade Runner which can only be charitably reinterpreted as the blade runner’s inner struggle, an interpretation made more explicit in the film’s sequel. This is why we find the “final battle” between the blade runner “K” (the obedient pet) and Luv (the “best angel”), since both had been caught in a stalled revolution that never came to fruition.
The only way to release the original blade runner from the stranglehold of his anima is to drown her. But “she” is nothing other than a disavowed aspect of himself. And this can be seen quite clearly in the film’s climactic scene: with Luv’s submersion into the water, it’s him we see gasping for breath, as if he were the one who was drowning.
Deckard: You should have let me die [out there].
— K: You did. You drowned in the ocean.
— K: [Now] you’re free. Free to meet your daughter.
The shape of the (younger) blade runner’s journey was telegraphed to us from the beginning, when he discovered a dead tree propped up long after its life had ended. For it marked the tomb of an old love and the secret she brought into the world. But because conditions weren’t right, that miraculous birth also marked the end of her earthly life.
The shape traced by the wire, tree trunk and earth is the same as what school children learn under the name Pythagoras. But beyond the secret of the hypotenuse they were taught, this figure has historically carried another hidden truth. In that tradition, each side is equated with a different aspect of prime matter: descending Spirit, the Elements of earth, and the ascending life of the Soul, sometimes recast symbolically as Father, Mother and Child.
If we revisit the shape of this story, allusions to each of these will be found. For the secret of the blade runner’s destiny was already inscribed at the beginning. All it required of him was the ability to see himself — and the world within which he was embedded — differently.
So, when he finally accomplishes his mission of “killing” the old man and returning him to his daughter, this too would be the completion of a story foretold. All he had to do was align himself with a higher purpose — once the “wolf” was unleashed — for this story to find its proper end. And like his Joi (at the beginning) and the woman he thought might be his sister (in the end), he’ll raise his hand and look upwards, marveling at the wonders the heavens can bring.
The father-daughter reunion will be the outcome of this journey, a meeting impossibly deferred because the elder had sworn to be a stranger for her protection.
The transformation of the younger blade runner is what would enable this. That’s the proper function of replicants — previously despised and killed — since what they offer is their capacity for insight (previously signaled by their glowing eyes). Each of them are uniquely placed to serve as messengers, carrying the (potential) fruits of their journey through the cycles they have traversed. They can properly be called angels — whether they’re designated “good” or “bad” — because of the wisdom they can bring.
In the original Blade Runner, they rebelled against what was lost due to their mandatory retirement (i.e., murder), when the wisdom of their experience was forever lost. But in the sequel, we witness what’s made possible when the circle is allowed to be completed. As the link between these two stories, the replicant blade runner is allowed the dignity of a death without regret or anger, since his mission is fulfilled. And as he draws his final breath, the theme of Roy Batty — the “crazy king” — begins to play, both plaintive and triumphant, an homage to the singularity of his accomplishment. [Tears in the Rain]
As the gift’s recipient, Deckard will now be placed in the position that the younger once occupied, learning how his perception can be transformed through the eyes of another. But this relationship will remain chaste, and not merely because she’s his daughter, but because she occupies a glassy prison inherited from him. For she is now his anima made conscious, replacing the previously unconscious Luv, no longer subject to the entanglements and deceits of projection.
If he looks closely, he’ll also notice how she’s replaced the function of the demiurge — fully aware of the inspiration that comes from above — dedicated to a different kind of creation free from the ambitions of conquest or the logic of the gun. Learning to distinguish these and embrace the difference will form the basis of his new curriculum.
divinations: reflections on the (big) screen 