Vintage, Part One

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This will be unlike any post you’ve read here before.  A brief digression by way of preamble – this is a concept that has been kicking around my brain for a while.  My fiction muscles are a bit rusty and they need flexing, so I thought it might be worthwhile to try them out on you, my cherished and loyal readers.  Mostly, I need to prove to myself I’ve still got the chops.  This piece is tangentially related to my novel in that it is a side story, set in the same world (i.e. same rules), though a thousand miles removed, in a different country, maybe not even at the same time.  And the tone is significantly different, as is the protagonist, the style and so on.  My thought is posting this as an ongoing saga, with new chapters released periodically (shamelessly cribbing the strategy from Amira Makansi with her wonderful “Porous” tale); a story unfolding in real time, witnessed by you, evolving as it goes.  I’m eager to hear what you think.  So, without further ado, here is VINTAGE.

Allons-y encore.

A sour tincture of desperation and manure reeked from the village, the same aroma that permeated every meager settlement from here to the abandoned ports on the Delprician coast.  It was the pungent signature of squandered potential and wasted life – of poverty, if he was being frank – and it spewed from the cracks baked into the earth by a misanthropic sun.  Etienne began to smell it a mere five miles out; a parasite borne by afternoon zephyrs, slithering up and into his nostrils, daring him to retch at its familiarity.  He had trudged through too many of these villes, bourgs and communes in the course of his work, and each one had the distinct gift of making him miss the perfumed pale flowers lining the stone-paved streets of Calerre with pangs ever more acute.

Sweat trickling over his brow for the first time today, Etienne tilted his head down and grasped at a whiff of the starch and fresh cotton of his cravat and lapels.  The rank of Commissionaire granted him the privilege of riding in the more palatably scented carriage at the rear of the procession, but he’d always spurned that nicety in favor of riding ahead, of watching the road unveil itself before him and the locals ducking out of his way.  They were a small detachment, as always, just him and a dozen armed escorts, but it was all they’d ever needed.  Everyone knew what a Commissionaire was, what he represented, what they risked in defying him.

“Damned heat,” spat Corporal Valnier in his customary manner, which could charitably be called minimalist restatement of the obvious.  A roughened palm found the corporal’s brow and came away coated in wet, salty sheen.  He rubbed it against his horse’s neck and the horse tossed its mane in protest.  Etienne permitted himself a silent smirk.  It was rare to elicit more than a few words from Valnier at any given time, but Etienne had not hired him for his skill at badinage.  None of the men in his company were talkers; he preferred to think of them not as men but as extensions of his will.  To secure the coveted position with the entourage of a Commissionaire, one needed only to be adept at taking orders, and when required, breaking bones.  Valnier was particularly skilled in the latter discipline, and Etienne was glad for the heat; it would render the corporal especially irritable and eager to demonstrate his facility with the shattering of limbs should this approaching venture go sideways, as it occasionally did.

Plus de joueurs?

The briefing had been short, as usual.  The Directeur had summoned him from his habitual seat at the green baize-draped tables of the Splendide on Calerre’s Rue de la Reine and given him the name of the village and a rundown on the smattering of oddities that had led the Bureau Centrale to focus its suspicions on it.  In the last months, since the executive decree increasing the penalties for collaboration, a rush of informers had sprung up everywhere, like weeds defying the ongoing drought.  Not here, however.  All Etienne had to go on was a list of circumstances that did not add together.  He preferred these cases, as they were opportunities to flex his deduction.  If it was a straightforward arrest to be made, there was no need for the deft, literate touch of a Commissionaire.

The village was called, apparently without sense of irony, Montagnes-les-grands; a pretentious moniker for a collection of huts carved into the dry slope of the Araquogne Escarpement.  Until today, Montagnes-les-grands had been one of the innumerable communities through the country that had largely escaped notice of the government and of the Bureau, remaining consistent with their tax payments and demanding nothing back.  It was the former that had raised eyebrows at the Bureau; seven months into the drought now and where every tiny hamlet the kingdom over had struggled in arrears, with desperate letters swamping the capital requesting extensions and compassionate exemptions, Montagnes-les-grands stayed on schedule and nary a sou short.  In the present climate, uninterrupted prosperity was something to distrust.  It would be incorrect to suggest that Etienne had been assigned to find out why – he knew why, and the Bureau knew why, but the Commissionaire’s task was to expose the evidence and parade the guilty as a cautionary tale.  The appearance of adherence to the law needed to be maintained, even if it would ultimately have been simpler to kill everyone in Montagnes-les-grands and be done with it.  But then, as Etienne reasoned, he’d be out of a job.

The first of the village homes emerged into view now from behind an outcropping of parched brush.  With a jab to its ribs, Etienne quickened his horse to a trot, followed by Valnier and the rest.  Clouds of dust billowed from beneath the pounding of hurried hooves, and a sound akin to fist-sized drops of rain pelting against glass echoed ahead into the main road dividing Montagnes-les-grands in two.  As they crossed into the village proper, heads poked out of doors and ducked back inside just as quickly at the recognition of the gold-and-black trim of a Commissionaire’s uniform jacket, of the ensign stitched to the banner trailing from the empty carriage in the rear of the company.  There could be no doubt in any of their minds why he was here, and while they may have thought themselves immune, much too far from Calerre, much too rural to be noticed, that naivete ended the instant Etienne reined his horse to a stop and planted his polished black boots on the dry earth.

The ambient noise in the centre of the village fell away as those who had not managed to flee in time froze in place and directed their eyes toward the Commissionaire and his convoy.  The level of deference amused Etienne, but his face was a practiced monolith.  He took a step forward, separating himself from Corporal Valnier and the other soldiers.  “Mesdames et monsieurs of Montagnes-les-grands, I am Commissionaire de Navarre of the Bureau Centrale.  Authority is granted me by His Majesty the King to conduct a… survey of your village.  Your cooperation is expected, and appreciated.  Please have your maire present himself to me.”  Behind him, Valnier snorted and spat.  Etienne heard the crack of a new brushed leather glove as the corporal adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword.  Valnier’s cohorts likewise straightened themselves and returned any errant glances in their direction with soulless glares.

A squat, disheveled, somewhat porcine man shuffled forward from scattered ranks of the two score-or-so villagers still lingering nearby.  He was hairless, but for a few tufts of gray still clinging behind his ears like old soldiers who never received the message that the war had ended, and sad-eyed, with the weight of the cares of hundreds pressing down upon him every day.  “Monsieur le Commissionaire,” he stammered from a splintering voicebox.  “Welcome to our loyal community.  I am Joyal, Bernaud Joyal, Maire of Montagnes-les-grands.”

Deux joueurs.

Etienne waited, extending the drama, and watched sweat beads run unhindered over the freckle-dappled eggshell that was the top of the man’s head.  Then he broke into a warm, oily smile and reached out to clasp Joyal’s shoulder.  “Monsieur le maire,” he said.  Etienne began to walk ahead, his arm draped around the confused local official’s shoulder.  “Such a delight to be here, finally, in Montagnes.  You have no idea the wonderful tales I’ve heard of your hospitality.”

“Y-yes, of course,” replied the maire, clearly vacillating between his justified fear of the Commissionaire’s plans and a leader’s duty to welcome new business.  Etienne had seen it so often; they always held onto a small sliver of hope that they might escape unscathed.

“Indeed,” he went on, gushing with the banality of a sycophantic opera critic, “the gourmands in Calerre speak ever so fondly your tapenades, and pieds paquets.  A dear friend advised me that I should not dare leave until I have sampled the gibassier, that it left him in absolute fits of ecstasy.”

“Naturally, we would be happy to serve you whatever you–”

Etienne firmed his grip on Joyal’s shoulder, drawing him in a little tighter.  “Magnificent!  My men, too, are quite famished from the road.  I expect nothing less than your best, my dear Bernaud.”

“I shall have the kitchens prepare immediately–”

“Poetry, my friend, poetry to a soul parched of fine verse.  And you will of course supplement this feast with a bottle or two from your prize reserve, yes?”

“If it would please Monsieur le Commissionaire–”

“I can think of nothing greater.”  Etienne stopped walking and let his arm fall from Joyal’s side.  “My men and I will speak to your fellow citizens while you make the preparations.  Let us say, seven o’clock this evening?”

“S-seven o’clock,” said the maire.  He effected a clumsy bow with hints of a curtsy and hurried off on little piggy feet.  Etienne held his practiced smile not a second longer than he needed.  The Commissionaire had no interest in talking to the rest of the people of Montagnes-les-grands.  He would learn nothing from them.  Despite themselves, despite their fear of his office, they would protect their own.  He needed to let the knife linger in the side of this village a little longer, and then twist it at just the right moment.

Les jeux sont faits.

Etienne reached into his breast pocket and extracted the golden timepiece etched with the insignia of the Bureau on the reverse of its face.  He read the position of the hands, and squinted at the sinking sun for confirmation.  Ten past five.  A little less than two hours to sample the limited, questionable charms of the village that dared call itself Montagnes-les-grands before he executed his ultimate play and left the place gutted, terrified, and ever more reverent toward the implacable Crown it was the Commissionaire’s duty to serve with unwavering zeal.

Commissionaires, of course, had but one duty.  And Etienne had two hours left to perform it here in Montagnes-les-grands.

Two hours, to find and catch a witch.

*  *  *

Part Two can be found by poising your cursor ever so delicately upon the following words and applying the gentlest pressure of a click.

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Why I Write

Tag!  I’m it!  So there is something called a “blog hop” going on amidst my little community of fellow Internet scribes in which each of us is tasked in turn to devote a few paragraphs to what drives us to arrange letters into words and sentences and fling them out for the world’s amusement.  I was nominated by the awesome Siofra Alexander, whose online collection of her poetry, dream journals and other assorted thoughts is one of the most imaginative and unpredictable places I’ve encountered, and boasts the most unique titles you’re likely to see.  Check it out for yourself, and see if you don’t agree that if Christopher Nolan had tapped her to design the dreamscapes in Inception, it would have been a much wilder ride.

On to the meat of the question, then.  Why do I write?  It seems tantamount to asking someone why he breathes.  But everyone’s answer is going to be different, as there is no perfect mold in which we can all be squeezed.  I have wondered, though, over the last couple of years as I’ve really entrenched myself in the blogging world and been exposed to the craft of so many others who seem so much better at it, and far more dedicated.  I don’t really seem to fit the model – can really call myself a writer in that vein.  I was ruing yesterday, as I hit publish on my Blade Runner entry, that I have only posted three entries in the last two months (and after Siofra lauded me for accomplishing the 30-day blog challenge back in April, too!)  Some writers can scarcely contain the bajillions of ideas for novels, short stories, poetry and so on percolating in their minds at any given time, and their sites are accordingly bursting with fresh content published daily, while they work on their eighth novel and read a dozen new books a week.  I can only wish that was me, though I’m at an utter loss as to how they fit it all in with (presumably) jobs, relationships and families to consider as well.

There is a purpose and clear path I see in others that feels muddied in myself.  When I started this blog back in 2011 I didn’t know what I wanted to do with it, and I kind of flailed around for a few months (am I a political blogger?  Am I a movie reviewer?  Music critic?  Comedian?  Feminist?  Travel expert?  Dispenser of dubious advice on how to write?  What are these blasted widget things anyway, and why haven’t I been Freshly Pressed yet?)  Eventually I established something of a template, and a style, and contented myself with writing just whatever the hell I felt like writing about that day, without worrying overmuch about the generally accepted notion that you should confine yourself to one subject if you want to build your audience to Bloggess-esque levels.  It’s the same reason why I don’t aspire to become more like the folks I noted in the paragraph above – the journey has been about realizing that it’s okay to just be who I am without struggling to ape somebody else.  And that particular me cannot be pigeonholed as one distinct archetype; rather there are many facets and shades and contradictions to explore.  From an external point of view, this blog may read like an attempt to make sense of the world, but from this side of the keyboard, it’s about figuring meself out, and establishing something of a record of who I was and what I believed.

It’s perhaps the height of ego and arrogance to assume that anyone else gives a tinker’s cuss, but at the same time, it’s obvious that I want you to, otherwise these 299 essays would remain locked away, for my eyes only.  Self-effacement to the contrary, nobody writes to be ignored, and the endorphins that fire upon the receipt of the alert that someone has liked, commented or shared something we penned cannot be replicated by any chemical substance out there.  The validation we feel when someone tells us they enjoyed something we wrote is magical, as much as it may be bad form to admit that.  The reverse, when a post goes ignored, or a rejection email arrives with the dreaded “not quite right for me,” is gutting.  Though it is farcical to tie one’s self-esteem to the appreciation of, or indifference to, the creative work we produce, we do it anyway, against our better judgment.  We write to be loved.  We write to make ourselves worthy of love.  When my wife tells me something I wrote brought tears to her eyes, I feel lifted.  And I feel like I earned it, and no matter what else happens, that moment can’t be taken away.

I’m not sure when I started writing.  It’s amusing to note how many successful writers will relate stories of how they got terrible marks in English.  Mine were always pretty good (except first year university, which was something of an eye-opener), and on creative assignments, it wasn’t rare to score 100%.  I will never forget a Grade 12 assignment to do an updated version of Catcher in the Rye, essentially speculating on what Holden Caulfield would think of the modern (eg. early 90’s) world.  I asked whether profanity was permitted, and was told yes, no problem.  So at one point in the narrative I had Holden encounter a couple of roughs listening to the most vile, misogynist, pornographic song lyrics I could come up with (to provide some context, this was back when 2 Live Crew was in the business of offending Tipper Gore, so it was topical material.)  My friends were all convinced I was going to get suspended for submitting it, but, hands shaking and stomach churning, I did anyway, and got back a perfect grade with about a page’s worth of handwritten, single-spaced comments as my teacher went back and forth on whether or not I should have included those lyrics – calling them disgusting, dirty and inappropriate, but ultimately recognizing what I was trying to do (that it was fiction, not an endorsement or reflection of my actual attitude) and that ultimately I was writing at a level far beyond that of my peers.  I know that’s not how the story is supposed to end – it’s supposed to end with me failing the course, being told I’m an embarrassment to the written word and only much later blossoming into a revered, bestselling genius, right?  But that’s not my story.

My story isn’t Hollywood or even novel-esque, but it could not have gone any other way.  I’m not going to be the bespectacled book blogger who crashes Goodreads with tomes of reviews and lands a six-figure deal for a debut novel.  I won’t be the literary thought leader with thousands of Twitter disciples hanging on the next 140 characters of brilliance to come tumbling from my thumbs.  I won’t be the guy who was always annoying his friends by yammering on about the stories he wanted to write and one day wound up executive producing a hit television show.  I’m just going to be me, whoever and whatever that is and turns out to be.  So one has to set that aside and get back to the bare essence of what it’s all about – arranging letters into words and sentences in a manner that will hopefully find its way to someone else’s eyes, mind and heart.  Taking the victories where they come and shrugging off the slights.  Keep on keeping on, because I honestly don’t know what else I’d do with myself.

And that, ladies and germs, is why I write.

In the spirit of the blog hop, I hereby nominate Raishimi and Nillu Stelter, both stellar smiths of words whose passion and raw talent has managed to dislocate my jaw for the sheer number of times it’s dropped when reading their stuff.  Looking forward to your take on what drives you to pursue this crazy craft.

Deckard’s Not a Replicant: Blade Runner revisited

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I haven’t watched or even thought about Blade Runner in a good while.  The other day on the tweet-o-machine, my old friend Tadd reminded me of it by pointing me in the direction of an essay on the timeless, Ridley Scott-directed 1982 sci-fi classic, which dared to tackle the question of whether or not its lead character, grizzled replicant-hunter Deckard (Harrison Ford) was in fact one of the very same androids dreaming of electric unicorns it was his duty to gun down on sight – a debate that has raged among fandom for thirty-two years, with contradictions as to the answer offered depending on which of the movie’s creative partners you ask.  (The director says yes, absolutely, that was always the intention; the star says no, that’s not what I agreed to.)  Anyway, if you haven’t the time to peruse the linked entry, the thesis presented therein is that not only is Deckard a replicant, but he carries the memories of the enigmatic Gaff (Edward James Olmos), his flashily-dressed, patois-riffing colleague who has a penchant for creating origami out of random bits of trash that display a preternatural insight into the mindset of our hero.  Brian, another good pal from the old hood, ruminated over this for a few days and offered his own persuasive rebuttal, arguing that Deckard might indeed be a replicant but that he’s merely an artificial reincarnation of the original human Deckard, Gaff’s dead partner.  Admittedly, I’ve always leaned toward the notion that Deckard is as constructed as the beings he’s chasing, but in the course of a single series of tweets, I’ve had something of a revelation on the subject.  And it’s not just born of my fascination with contradictions, or a hipster-esque need to go against the grain.  But I’m satisfied now that Deckard is as human as Gaff, Bryant, Holden, Tyrell, J.F. Sebastian and the old sushi master from the beginning of the movie – and that to insist otherwise is to rob Blade Runner of much of what it is trying to say about humanity, and about the nature of the soul.

A lot of the evidence for the Deckard-as-replicant theory is drawn from the Paul is Dead school, where coincidence and editing errors on the part of the filmmakers are selectively interpreted by the audience towards a predetermined conclusion – notes such as the number of replicants mentioned by Captain Bryant not adding up, the peculiar glow in Harrison Ford’s eyes in one shot matching that of the replicants and so forth.  The idea that Gaff’s memories are informing Deckard’s actions fits very neatly into this conceit.  However, Gaff is not the first character to exist within the world of a narrative and possess an omniscient awareness of what is going on within the mind of the protagonist.  For a more recent example, look at Sam Elliott’s Stranger in The Big Lebowski:  a character within the film who is impossibly aware of events in which he does not take part.  Gaff, it can be argued, fills the Stranger’s role in Blade Runner.  (The owner of the all-seeing eye glimpsed in the opening sequence is never revealed, but interestingly, it is the same ice blue as Gaff’s – ponder that for a moment.)  Granted, his “insights,” at least at first, are not terribly revealing – the chicken origami reflecting Deckard’s reluctance to take on the job, the erect matchstick man keying in on Deckard’s growing feelings for Rachael.  But then, Deckard is not exactly living a life that is immune to prediction and analysis, either.

In examining the nature of the soul, Blade Runner questions whether the humans, who are born with souls, are truly deserving of them, while presenting us with artificial beings who want nothing more than to possess this most uniquely human trait.  The humans of Los Angeles, November 2019, are living essentially soulless lives, having carpeted their planet in concrete and steel and even driven the sun from the sky, shuffling about as both rain and advertising pelt down on them in a constant, depressing drizzle.  Compassion and empathy are as extinct as animals here (otherwise the penalty for finding a replicant on earth wouldn’t be death without due process).  Until summoned by Gaff, Deckard meanders through the world, eating in public yet shunning company, getting drunk alone each night in an apartment full of relics of a past, more fulfilling life.  His actions, then, those supposedly illuminated by Gaff’s origami, aren’t programmed memories – they’re merely predictable responses from a man irrevocably plugged into the system, a system that Gaff, like any good omniscient narrator, can recognize even if the rest of the characters in the movie can’t.  Although, Captain Bryant seems to at least understand his role as well, with his line about Deckard’s option to go back to work for that same system or be crushed under it (“if you’re not cop, you’re little people.”)  In this context, Deckard is indeed subject to a kind of programming, yet the ASCII of his soul is written in the slouching language of age, circumstance and apathy, instead of ones and zeroes (or the GCAT of genetic design, as befits the Nexus 6).  Ironic that the test the humans have devised to detect replicants, the infamous Voight-Kampff, works by stimulating emotions, when those administering it seem to have none themselves.

Though lost in the decayed urban hellscape, Deckard still finds idle moments to dream of something better, something elusive, something magical to break him from the drudgery.  His unicorn, literally.  In Blade Runner‘s Los Angeles, that something seems utterly unobtainable, hence the use of a unicorn to symbolize what Deckard craves is apt.  We are led to understand then that Deckard’s unicorn manifests itself in the shape of Rachael.  She is introduced in film noir tones, in the shape of a femme fatale:  dark hair, long red nails, wreathed in cigarette smoke; enticing, untouchable.  Her manner, however, is as far from Double Indemnity Barbara Stanwyck as Rick Deckard is from Han Solo.  Rachael is innocent, scared, trying to cope with the revelation that everything she thought about herself was a lie, that the soul she thought she possessed was the invention of her boss, her memories those of his niece, implanted to provide a cushion for her emotions.  Yet she does feel, moreso than any other character in the movie.  Her challenge to Deckard, when she asks him if he’s ever taken the Voight-Kampff test himself, is less an insinuation that he’s a replicant than it is a plain statement that for someone lucky enough to be born human, he certainly doesn’t choose to act like one.  Contrasted with Deckard, Rachael is, indeed, as per the Tyrell Corporation’s motto, “more human than human.”  The uncomfortable scene where she and Deckard kiss for the first time is less Deckard trying to evoke emotions in an artificial being than it is him trying to stimulate the dormant soul within himself – making himself feel something, the way he’s supposed to, latching on to the tiny flame she’s managed to stir inside him and blow gas on it.  The evolution of the relationship between Deckard and Rachael, his learning to develop compassion for someone considered “lesser” by the system that controls his life, is meaningless if he is also a replicant, if fundamentally it’s just two robots trying to figure out how to mash circuits together.

Of course, theirs is not the only human/replicant relationship in the movie:  Blade Runner‘s ultimate expression of the emotional capacity of the creator versus the created comes in the often less than subtle Christ allegory present in the character of replicant leader Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer), the ostensible villain of the piece.  With his time about to expire, Batty risks the return to earth to find his designer/deity, Dr. Eldon Tyrell (Joe Turkel, poised at the top of the world’s tallest building and dressed all in flowing white robes, naturally) and ask for an extension to his four-year lifespan.  There’s a line spoken by Spock in Star Trek: The Motion Picture (released three years earlier) that well encapsulates the Batty-Tyrell dynamic:  “Each of us, at some point in his life, turns to someone – a father, a brother, a god, and asks, ‘is this all that I am, is there nothing more?'”  Batty isn’t really looking for more time in terms of minutes and hours, he’s searching for a vindication of his existence.  In the words that ultimately doom the “god of cybernetics,” all Tyrell can offer his prodigal son is the bromide that the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long, “and you have burned so very brightly, Roy.”  Roy then betrays himself with a kiss and crushes his father’s head in his hands.  As he descends from the top floor of the Tyrell Corporation, back to the decayed cityscape (a literal descent into Hell, one might say), the psychotic look on Batty’s face suggests that without the resolution he wanted, he has accepted the system’s role for him as the villain.  You made me to be a soulless monster, I will now become that nightmare.  I will show you all.

Which leads to his first and final encounter with Deckard – if one will permit drawing from Apocalypse Now, yet another film released three years prior (and one featuring Harrison Ford, no less) – an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill.  To Batty, Deckard is dirt beneath his shoe, a nuisance to be disposed of, not to mention the man responsible for the death of two of his replicant friends.  Batty owes him nothing but an unpleasant death.  But on that rainy rooftop, as his life-clock dwindles to its final ticks, Batty makes a choice to become more than the limits of his design, of his programming.  He sees, ultimately, in Deckard, something to which he can relate – the feeling of being trapped, being a slave to a system he had no hand in creating.  From that seed springs compassion, and, with nail through palm, Batty saves Deckard’s life, finally achieving what he most desired – a soul – by creating it himself.  Becoming more than the sum of his programming, exceeding the flaws of the designers who assembled him in a lab, demonstrating to the man in front of him that he is, finally, more human than human.  And then, in one of the most beautiful, heart-rending scenes in all of cinema, delivering his own eulogy.  Speaking about the incredible things he has seen, showing Deckard what is possible given the wondrous gift of life, and giving Deckard a chance to make the most of his own, with the life Batty has returned to him by pulling him off that ledge.  “Time to die” – for the sins of humanity.  And as the dove in his palm flies free, so does Roy Batty’s new soul, at peace now.  Deckard, the Roman centurion, can merely marvel at what is transpiring before him.  If he’s just another replicant, as so many want to believe, then the impact of Batty’s sacrifice is blunted.  It becomes in effect merely a rah-rah moment for robots, rather than the transcendent, evolutionary note it needs to be.

Gaff’s return and the film’s final five minutes are where one has to make the decision on whether to accept the idea of Deckard as replicant.  Gaff says “You’ve done a man’s job, sir.  I guess you’re through, huh?”  He answers Deckard’s response with his lingering parting thought, echoed just before the credits roll, as Deckard contemplates the tinfoil origami unicorn:  “It’s too bad she won’t live; then again who does?”  At this point, Deckard’s sins have been cleansed, and he has been given the opportunity to break free of the system and begin a new life with Rachael, one that will be rich and fulfilling, and in the film’s most potent irony, it is the artificial beings that have shown the human being how.  When the preternaturally aware Gaff says “I guess you’re through,” what he means is, I know I’m stuck here, and I’m okay with that, but you’ve found your way out – good on you, pal.  The origami unicorn is the reminder – you’ve found something rare and precious, now don’t cock it up.  Don’t waste your second chance.  Burn brightly.  Live.  Follow Batty’s example and create your own soul, grow beyond the limits of who you think you are and what you think it is your fate to be.  That’s much more powerful and impactful a message than a literal indication that we know what you’re dreaming about because you were assembled in a lab and you have someone else’s memories.  Deckard in this moment is Everyman – us – and we need a human being with which to identify, so we too may take up that torch.

I hardly expect, in meandering about here today, that this will be the final word on the Deckard-as-replicant debate.  In struggling to bring this piece to a conclusion I realize I could probably go on until the word count stretched into the 100K range, so deep are Blade Runner‘s facets, how it too overcame its genesis as a sci-fi action movie about Harrison Ford hunting robots to become an endlessly rich, meditative statement on the nature of what it means to be human.  And in order for that to work as intended, Deckard has to have been human all along, merely enslaved by a different form of self-imposed programming.  That contrast, human versus artificial programming, and the capacity to grow beyond it, is the heart of Blade Runner‘s moral debate.  A debate needs both sides.  Make Deckard a replicant and you’ve lost the distinction, you’ve diminished the meaning, you’ve made the extraordinary a bit more ordinary for the sake of feeling clever for having discovered something that wasn’t necessarily there to begin with.

So, in summation:  Deckard’s human, Batty is Christ, Tyrell is God, Rachael is more Disney’s Ariel than Rita Hayworth’s Gilda, Gaff is the Stranger from Lebowski with a different hat, the unicorn dream is a longing for magic in a world cleansed of any semblance of it, and the comments are open as always awaiting your polite dissent.  I’ll be over here in my spinner, ruminating on what to do with my next four years.