I’ve actually had this review saved on my computer for over a month now. In fact, I intended to post this up a week after the Ralph McQuarrie piece. But, life has a tendency to get in the way of the things we enjoy, and as easy as it would have been to strut over to my computer and post this up really quick, it just didn’t happen. But hey, this film came out in 2007, so it’s not like a delay was going to change anything, right?
So here we go:
It was by chance that I came upon Los Cronocrímenes, (English translation: Timecrimes. But come on, Los Cronocrímenes sounds so much cooler)director Nacho Vigalondo’s first full-length film. Bored one night, I was browsing through just about every genre to see what I could watch instantly on Netflix. Going through my tried and true, the science fiction category, I saw that this was recommended for me. I read the plot summary and it seemed like something up my alley. I love time paradoxes. They’re a bit of an obsession of mine.
But alas, the time it took me to stumble upon a film that caught my interest ended up in me too sleepy to watch anything. I went to bed and saved Los Cronocrímenes for the morning.
I shouldn’t have waited.
Los Cronocrímenes tells the story of Hector, a simple, well-off man who lives with his wife in the Spanish countryside in a home they are renovating. Hector’s simple, relaxed life gets turned upside down, sideways, upside down again and then shot backwards late one afternoon as he sits in his backyard, browsing the neighboring woods with binoculars. Suddenly, he sees a woman stripping off her clothes. Intrigued and fueled more by his penis than his brain, Hector ventures into the woods to investigate.
Slowly, everything begins to unravel after Hector is attacked in the woods by a strange man masked by a bloody bandage and wielding a pair of scissors.
I don’t want to go into too much more detail with the story line because it’s all a little integral to the plot and could really end up ruining some things. I didn’t expect much from LosCronocrímenes when it started. Some of those early scenes seemed like they were ample for some overlapping commentary from the Mystery Science Theater 3000 crew. But it’s the type of film that constantly builds itself up into something much more wonderful than you could have ever expected.
It’s a bit like Primer, but without the…well…the primer. But that doesn’t mean it’s a bad film at all. Let’s face it, Primer is in an entire league of its own. And LosCronocrímenes provides a thrilling sense of entertainment that isn’t afraid to make the gears in your brain turn. You might ask yourself at the end if it made complete sense, unraveling like the antagonist’s bandages at the end a bit, but that’s all right. Because the sense of confusion and disorientation that the film conjures helps throw the viewer in the same place as Hector, trying to figure everything out as it all collapses around him.
But most of all, my favorite thing about this film was how it proved that to make great science fiction, you don’t need a multi-million dollar budget and an excess of special effects. You just need a great idea.
And Nacho Vigalondo’s twisting and turning story of temporal paradoxes translates into a delightful film that offers a little something to audiences of all different tastes.
It’s a riveting, fun film that is a definite buried treasure. If you have an hour and a half on your hands, don’t know what to watch on Netflix and don’t mind reading subtitles (that is if you don’t speak Spanish), I highly recommend this. It won’t disappoint.
Oh, and it has an absolutely beautiful ending in the darkest of ways.
Also, Mr. Vigalondo has a new film coming out (I’m not too sure if it’s received release yet or not) that looks just as fun as his first feature length venture.
I often make the statement “George Lucas shaped my childhood.” Just about every weekend from the ages of four to ten I could be found glued in front of a television screen, eagerly anticipating each lightsaber clash and blaster bolt from the original Star Wars trilogy, muttering the lines with the characters under my breath like I was bound under some droning spell.
And it’s all true. Without Lucas, without the adventures of Han, Luke, Leia and the gang, growing up would have undoubtedly been very different and probably very difficult for me. I don’t know if I would have even survived.
While I will always have George Lucas to thank endlessly for providing a helping hand in molding the person I am today, there is another that deserves just as much credit.
I speak, of course, of Ralph McQuarrie.
Simply put, Ralph McQuarrie is party responsible for making Star Wars look like Star Wars. He plucked that “used future” vision from George Lucas’ mind and with a stroke of a pen and the flourish of a brush, gave life to it.
McQuarrie was blessed with one of the most visionary minds this planet has and will ever see. Where Lucas crafted a story and dreamt up characters, McQuarrie was there to fill the empty spaces upon the canvas, populating the Star Wars universe with splashes of his own unique imagination, designing the characters, ships, and planets the entire world would come to know and love.
That ominous, chill-inducing image of Vader synonymous with the ideas of evil and moral darkness that we are all capable of conjuring in our minds? Thank Ralph McQuarrie for that.
Examining Ralph McQuarrie’s concept artwork for Star Wars is nearly as exhilarating as watching the films themselves. From looking at his early forays—Luke as a woman, C-3P0 practically ripped from the film reels of Metropolis—to advancing to those later pieces where that familiar universe takes perfect shape, you are able to witness something rare:
The mind of a visionary unfolding—building, crafting, laying the stones for what would become one of the most iconic worlds in story-telling history.
McQuarrie was a genius that should cherished for years and years to come. His contributions to the world of film and the world of pop culture are insurmountable. What I fear, and what may be most heartbreaking of all, is the number of people that will fail to recognize his significance.
If you grew up with Star Wars, and most of us did and so many still will, remind yourself how indebted you are to this man. And never forget all the background players and silent contributors.
I know I’m really late on this, but there’s seldom a time I actually go to the movie theater to see a film. Sure, there’s plenty of movies that come out that I’m dying to see, but then I tell myself that every time I venture into a movie theater I’m reminded of why I hate them so much. So more often than not, I wait until a movie comes out on DVD/Blu-Ray so I can watch it in the comfort of my own home, free from the distraction of idiots never taught how to behave.
But Rise of the Planet of the Apes wasn’t actually one of those movies. I was never really eagerly awaiting its release. The original Planet of the Apes is one of my favorite movies of all time, and definitely one of my favorite science fiction films.
But let’s face it, the films that followed the 1968 classic are hardly worth viewing. Sure, Beneath the Planet of the Apes might be decent, but that’s about it. It doesn’t offer the same genius crafting as its predecessor. And everything after is—well—let’s just put it bluntly, bad.
Then there’s the Tim Burton remake starring Mark Wahlberg. There are many nights when I lay awake in bed, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, dreaming of a better world where scientists figured out how to erase the memory of Burton’s defiling of a classic.
Simply put, the only worthy installment in the franchise is the one that started it all. So when I found out a prequel was in production, I didn’t bother holding my breath. I was a little confused as to why, in 2011, we would attempt to revise a franchise that had not been touched in so long. I shrugged my shoulders and ultimately forgot about Rise until it was released.
Then the reviews came flooding in. And to my surprise, they weren’t bad. In fact, the film was being praised by most critics. I honestly couldn’t believe it. Finally an installment to the Planet of the Apes franchise besides the original was actually decent? Come on, no way.
I was desperate to see it now. It felt like a duty, to assess it and compare it to one of my favorite films. But, like most instances, I never made it to the movie theater in time. I’d just have to wait until the Blue-Ray release.
Two days ago, the moment finally arrived. I opened up my mailbox to find the familiar red Netflix envelope. It was time to see what all the fuss was about, to see if all the positive reviews were just idiot critics that had forgotten the masterful work found in the original film.
I sat down with my girlfriend last night and apprehensively pressed PLAY on the menu screen.
After an hour and forty-five minutes, the credits rolled and I pressed STOP. My girlfriend turned to me and said, “That was really good.”
She was absolutely right. It felt wonderful to be able to say that about a new Planet of the Apes film. Rise had everything that the original offered to a 60s audience. It placed fate and evolution on the scales, assessing them and how they weave into our daily existence. It questioned our own morality and the way we so carelessly treat the world, parading ourselves as masters. It shows us that perhaps we really aren’t the brilliant conquerors we often bill ourselves as, and quite possibly, we are only moments away from being overthrown—to watch our kingdoms of concrete and steel crumble before us due to our loss of compassion and empathy.
And while it revisits all these familiar themes, it does something different from the film it was designed to lead into. In the original Planet of the Apes, you ultimately find yourself rooting for Charlton Heston’s character, Taylor, and his primitive love interest, Nova. Most of the apes (excluding Zira and Cornelius, of course) are despicable and vile characters, turned into the same evil creatures that man had become just before their downfall at the hands of the beasts they had so often taken for granted.
But with Rise of the Planet of the Apes, you are the villain. Humanity is the carcinogen—the great destroyer and oppressor. You detach yourself from the human characters and you find more recognition in the green eyes of Caesar, a chimpanzee that sparks the flames of revolution that will eventually burn away humanity’s reign upon Earth.
Often, one of the common rules in storytelling is there must be human characters for the audience to identify with. And while James Franco, John Lithgow, and Freida Pinto put on great performances, they are hardly the characters we really care about. But that’s all right. I say that with no negativity or criticism.
It’s hard to turn a mainstream audience away from the human characters and leave them slightly despising their own kind, desperately wishing for the downfall of their brethren and the succession of our distant relatives. The film removes the humanity from the humans and instead places it in the hands of creatures of misfortune. And it works perfectly and better than other films that have attempted the same.
I could not think of a better prequel to Planet of the Apes than Rise. Everything was wonderfully crafted and all the small connecting veins to Planet were nicely done and brought a wide smile to this fan’s face.
Honestly, even though I didn’t actually see it in 2011, Rise of the Planet of the Apes definitely makes it on to the list of my favorite films of 2011.
And you might be asking yourself, if your an Apes fan like me, “Hey, didn’t they already do this with Conquest of the Planet of the Apes?”
Sure, kind of. But this one is actually good.
I’ve already watched it a second time and I plan on a third before I send it back to Netflix.
It’s refreshing to know there is finally another Planet of the Apes film with fantastic storytelling for a new generation, to lead them to the film that started it all, the film that helped change the art of film-making and the art of science fiction.
Tightly—but neatly—aligned along practically every inch of my bedroom walls are rows and rows of Star Wars collectibles and memorabilia. It started by my closet and now stretches all the way towards my bed. It’s been growing since I was 14 and there’s no sign of it stopping anytime soon. Am I dedicated to George Lucas’ six episode saga? Most would say so. Am I passionate about it? Well, yes, I guess you could say that, too.
Nine out of ten times, when I describe my room to people or when they see it in person, there is one common question asked:
“Why?”
Why do I collect all this stuff? What started it?
Usually, I shrug and give the same three word answer, “I don’t know.” Followed by, “I just like it.”
Since their inception, there’s been something synonymous with science fiction and fantasy besides spaceships and sorcery; fandom. We all know this. Hell, one of the most popular sitcoms on TV right now circulates around the lives of a few passionate science fiction/fantasy fans.
More often than not, these fans are portrayed the same way. You know what I’m talking about. The anti-social, awkward young male in glasses that drops references to short-lived TV series that the majority of the general public has never heard of.
Is this stereotype far off from reality? A lot of the time, yes— especially in recent years. Is it completely misconceived? Well, no, not entirely.
What causes occupants of the science fiction/fantasy community to be viewed in such a way? The word “nerd” often breeds a carbon-copy image into the minds of most. A Flash or Star Trek shirt. Maybe a pocket protector and a stupid haircut, a mind racing back and forth with memorized rough drafts of Battlestar Galactica scripts and low-key locations in Mordor.
What causes the “nerd”, the passionate science fiction/fantasy fan, to be portrayed and viewed so negatively? Just because someone has the goal to collect every appearance of Superman or has watched Stargate in its entirety seven times, does that mean they are introverted social idiots sealed away in their mother’s basement, unemployed and gaining weight as the glow of a computer screen slowly melts away their retinas?
No.
Science fiction has often received a lot of backlash, especially in the past. It has been labeled as trash void of mental stimulation, intended for children and slowly rotting the brain. Time and time again, though, the medium itself has proved the public opinion wrong, often delivering some of the most thought-provoking and mentally enriching works that have been praised worldwide by some of the most prestigious critics.
The negativity towards the genre has subsided in recent years, yet the mostly unfounded assumptions towards its fans has not. With giant science fiction blockbuster breakthroughs like Avatar and Inception that were hailed by many— moms, frat boys, school teachers, bankers, you name it— why is the passionate science fiction fan still viewed so strangely?
Because we’re all nerds. We all seek passion in our lives, something to devote ourselves to, something to occupy our time and give us some meaning and reason. Something to get us through the days.
There are some people passionate about sports. They memorize baseball statistics and can rattle off the names of every member of their favorite team. They don team colors and sit on the edge of their sofas or seats and cheer and root like their lives depend on it.
And then there are some people that speak Klingon and dress up like Londo Mollari from Babylon 5. There’s no difference, really. A lot people have just been convinced there is.
There are the people that collect World War II memorabilia and relics and there are the people that collect Star Wars action figures and comic books.
Nothing different, except for the focus. The eccentric fandom found in the science fiction and fantasy communities are no different than those found in sports arenas or boat shows. We all have a passion for something outside of our daily lives. If we didn’t, we’d probably all drive ourselves up a wall.
You’re not a nerd, you’re not a geek, you just find solace in something unique to you. Enjoy it.
***The views expressed are my own. If you don’t agree with them, I don’t care.***
Two weeks ago I finished reading Ender’s Game for the first time. It had always felt a little criminal floating through life, acceding myself as a science fiction fan without reading one of the “classics.”
My neglect of reading it is due largely in part of the sociopolitical views of the book’s author, Orson Scott Card. I’m not ignorant to the fact that the world of science fiction authors is full of, well, to put it lightly, nut jobs. I’m not saying one should sheath their views of the world, but at least the crazy ones mainly keep their whacked out views to themselves.
Unfortunately, Orson Scott Card has been highly vocal about his distaste towards homosexuality. He views homosexuality as a disease and has penned works attempting to link it towards pedophilia. He stands with the opposition against same sex marriage. And just to put some light icing on the cake, he doesn’t believe global warming is real.
I don’t want to come off as one slinging around opinions as facts. Believe what you want to believe, even if it supports an ignorant lifestyle. But it is so incredibly disheartening to find a man heralded as a legend in a genre that has more often than not expressed equality, coexistence and acceptance.
For the longest time, these views kept me away from Ender’s Game. I had no desire to read it. To me, reading one sentence of the book would be like surrendering to the enemy, and that was hardly something I was prepared to do.
Obviously, this changed. I came about an undamaged copy of Ender’s Game amongst a pile of cluttered and tattered books in the stuffy air of a thrift store late last summer. It was priced at 99 cents.
I held it in my hand and stared at it for a while, easily tempted to throw it back on the shelf for someone much more unaware of the views expressed by the name emblazoned on the cover. But something just kept telling me to buy it. I don’t know what it was. I attempted to rationalize with myself:
I was familiarizing myself with the enemy.
Perhaps I would read it and it would be terrible and I could laugh about how bad it was, how foolish all the fans of the book had been to praise it for so long, to question over and over again how it been awarded with so many honors.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t open the cover to that first page ready to hate the book. Even 100 pages in, I continued to convince myself that I was reading garbage. But I found myself picking the book up with every chance I had. It was just remarkably entertaining.
I scoured the internet for negative reviews to give me grounds to criticize the book. But with each nit-picky article, I couldn’t convince myself the book was terrible. It may sound ridiculous, but I tried so hard to hate it. And as I progressed farther and farther through the book, I forgot about Orson Scott Card. I forgot about his vile views of people different than he. All I saw was Ender. Battle School. Bonzo Madrid. Mazer Rackham, Colonel Graff, Bean, Peter and Valentine Wiggin. I was engrossed in this world.
And through its pages, I did not find the message I thought I would. I expected 330 pages of Republican, war-mongering, anti-gay propaganda. But there’s nothing of the sort in Ender’s Game. Instead, I found the story of a boy disconnected from society because of his difference, dreaming of a equal and peaceful world, but too afraid of the suppression of his elders and superiors to attempt to make a change.
The ending of the book only expands on this more. As I finished that last page of Ender’s Game, I had read one of the most beautiful endings to a science fiction novel. I put the book down next to me and looked at the cover hanging slightly open. I read the name of the author through my mind over and over, Orson Scott Card, Orson Scott Card, Orson Scott Card.
I was puzzled at how a man behind one of the most thoughtful and beautiful science fiction tales adheres to such hideous beliefs. And I thought to myself:
Is it okay to separate the artist from their work?
It seemed that this was the only way I could justify my new-found love for Ender’s Game. Can I simply sever Orson Scott Card and his ideals from the story?
But you can’t. You can’t do that. Doing something like that just creates a new breed of ignorance. If an artist, no matter what medium they stand in, holds disgraceful views, you cannot combat it with even thicker layers of ignorance. One could easily say that Bad Brains made some of the greatest punk albums of all time. Does that mean their blatant homophobia is excusable?
No.
You can never detach the artist and their beliefs from their work. But can you acknowledge that sometimes degenerative people are responsible for beautiful things?
“Put down those dreams of leaping forward in time to see how your children turn out and, of course, enjoy riding around on hoverboards: physicists say they’ve put the nail in time travel’s coffin. A team of researchers from the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology claims to have measured the speed of a single photon and found that it, just like light in its electromagnetic wave form, obeys the universal “speed limit” postulated by Einstein in the early 20th century.
Led by scientist Du Shengwang, the group explored a still unanswered question about whether or not a single photon — the smallest unit of light — could ever travel faster than the physical constant c, representing the speed of light in a vacuum. Published in the U.S. journal Physical Review Letters, the study concluded that single photons cannot travel faster than c, effectively confirming Einstein’s views that “nothing can travel faster than light” and consequently, “an effect cannot occur before its cause.”
The good news is that we can all still hold out for the discovery of wormholes that might allow for rapid travel to distant parts of the universe, which is perhaps the next best thing to true time travel. The bad news is, now everyone will know Back to the Future II wasn’t a documentary.”
Earlier today I was scouring the netflix database for a way to drown out the incessant club music my upstairs neighbor had bellowing through speakers, likely similar in size to Marty McFly’s guitar amp. After I disabled my hearing with an x-acto knife, I came across ‘Lunopolis.’ A documentary style sci-fi thriller that follows two filmmakers who discover evidence of extraterrestrial life and a government conspiracy after following coordinates to a mysterious shack in the Louisiana bayou.
I can honestly say that this is one of the best movies I have seen in a while. The story line is very intricate and detailed, and leaves no holes for your wandering mind to fall into. The acting, at times, lacks sincerity, but overall the inexperienced cast does a wonderful job at keeping you on edge. Keep in mind that this is as independent as it gets without being recorded on your mothers VHS camcorder in her basement. If you are a fan of government conspiracies and time travel I guarantee you will enjoy this movie. -Tommy
Assembling this list was harder than I expected. Originally, I wanted this to be my first post on here, but other things kind of got in the way and forced me to do them first. Nevertheless, here are my personal favorite science fiction films. And just remember, this is my opinion, it’s okay if you don’t find the list suitable by your standards. Also, it should be of some note that this is excluding the original Star Wars trilogy. I wouldn’t want to cloud a top five list with three films of the same franchise. And don’t start any arguments on whether Star Wars is or isn’t science fiction. Anyways:
5. Children of Men (2006)
There is something that this film does remarkably well. And that is making you fearful for the future. Loosely adapted from P.D. James’ 1992 novel of the same name, the world portrayed in this film is a grim one where most of the world has collapsed, England being the only country to narrowly hang on by the crest of its fingernails. Women have become infertile without much explanation and everyone is, more or less, just waiting to die.
It sounds terrible and it is. But you can’t look away, all the while thinking, “Could all this really happen to us?” It’s a beautifully put together film that I feel slipped through the cracks just a little. And with a strong science fiction underbelly, it succeeds wonderfully at crafting a story of human survival, strength, and hope. And even with all it’s dark tones, that’s what the film ultimately gives you, hope.
4. Alien (1979)
The classic, ultimate display of science fiction horror. Ridley Scott succeeded on all levels of blending both genres perfectly. There’s not much I can say about this film that hasn’t already been said, but if this isn’t in your top five, you’re missing out big time.
3. Planet of the Apes (1968)
I find that this is a lot of times considered to just be a fun science fiction film for the whole family, which it can be, but I’ve always found so much more beneath that make up. Planet of the Apes did something profound for the time it was made. It questioned the human race as a whole, our integrity and our own means of self-destruction. It explored the vicissitudes of fate and evolution and gave warning to the life we often take for granted.
Sure, it may have spawned quite the string of lackluster sequels (and a putrid re-make, Tim Burton), but the 1968 classic will always stand the test of time as being one of the greatest films ever made. Not to mention having one of the greatest film twists of all time. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, and if you’ve never seen it, you should drop everything and get on that.
2. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Man, 1968 was really a great year for science fiction films. And, sure, Stanley Kubrick’s quiet classic probably makes its way on practically every top whatever list for science fiction films, but that’s all for good reason. Simply put, 2001: A Space Odyssey is one of the greatest films of all time. Created co-currently with Arthur C. Clarke’s novel of the same name, the film exudes levels of omniscience and ambiguity that I feel have never been achieved in a film since.
A near silent allegory for human birth, life, and death, as well as exploring the process of evolution and the final destiny of the human race, 2001 has a remarkable ability to ingrain itself in your subconscious like no other film, leaving you to question the philosophical implications of the film over and over, warranting multiple viewings.
Like finely woven fabric, each and every thread of 2001 stitches together perfectly, assembling a much larger design of impeccable beauty and achievement. 2001 revolutionized the world of science fiction and showed mainstream audiences that a genre widely regarded as dealing with nothing more than lasers and spaceships can accomplish much more than ever believed possible, proving science fiction to be one of the most profound genres of film and literature, stating the things we’re often afraid to state, and asking the questions hidden in the backs of our minds.
1. Blade Runner [Director’s Cut] (1982)
I know some may see it as slightly criminal to place another Ridley Scott masterpiece above 2001, but I find Blade Runner to achieve the same amount of significance as 2001. And if anyone has been remotely following this blog, they should have seen this coming after my long-winded comparison between this film and the book responsible for its existence, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
Lightly masked in what many might deem an action film and engulfed in ominous, dystopian future all the while swirling with the classic elements of film noir, the director’s cut of Blade Runner submerges itself in an aura of paranoia that exposes the viewer to the best and worst of humanity, and of a future that could be waiting for us if we allow ourselves to be swallowed in apathy.
Blade Runner has the ability to pull the audience from their bodies and let them examine humanity from the outside; showing us what we could become and exposing us to the traits we must fight against if we are to better ourselves.
Overview:
The five films I’ve listed hardly scratch the surface of the genius that can be found in science fiction. They also have the magnificence to show that science fiction is one of the most groundbreaking genres in literature and film. Not only are the films listed above outstanding science fiction films, but they are also simply outstanding films, free from the constraints of genre and labeling, these films weave compelling stories that have the audience assess themselves and those around them, exposing the beauties and horrors of the world we inhabit.
***This contains MAJOR spoilers pertaining to both the book and the film. Read at your own discretion. If you haven’t seen Blade Runner, you should get off the computer and do that.***
NOTE: When referencing the film, I am speaking of the director’s cut. Because, let’s face it, it’s the theatrical cut is nowhere near as great.
The recent stir of rumors and reports of a Blade Runner sequel—or prequel—that started popping up late last month left me with more than just a sour taste in my mouth and a nervous churn in my stomach, but also a desire to revisit my favorite film (excluding the original Star Wars trilogy) of all time and its source material, Phillip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
Instead of popping my brother’s Canadian DVD copy—adorned in both English and French—of the director’s cut in and immersing myself in a dystopian Los Angeles, I decided to opt out and go with the much similar San Francisco featured in Dick’s original story.
This foray into Androids was only my second. I was thirteen the first time I read it. Therein lies the problem. I was thirteen. I had always considered it to be one of my favorite books, even with only one read-through under my belt. I mean, how could I not when it gave birth to one of my all time favorite films? But traversing the pages of the relatively short novel six years later, I was left with a much different feeling. I’ve always felt the film to be superior, but reading Androids this time around, I could see why a thirteen-year-old version of myself enjoyed it much more.
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? does not present Dick at his strongest. My biggest problem with the book is the dialogue. Simply put, the people do not talk like people talk. It makes it even more difficult to tell who’s really an android and who’s not when everyone is speaking like they’re reading from a high school student’s hand written script. I understand the book was published in ‘68. But are the members of a darkened future going to address one another like it’s the early thirties?
That’s not to say the book doesn’t have its strong points. I still particularly enjoy the in depth look at the artificial animal market. This is lightly touched upon in the film with Zhora’s (Joanna Cassidy) snake and Deckard (Harrison Ford) and Rachel’s (Sean Young) classic exchange upon first meeting:
“Do you like our owl?”
“It’s artificial?”
“Of course it is.”
“Must be expensive.”
“Very…”
The extinction and endangerment of the majority of the animal kingdom casts a darker shadow over Earth’s future in PKD’s work. This also gives Deckard quite a different motive to track down and “retire” the rogue group of “andys” seeking to extend their limited lifespan. He simply wants a real animal, the ultimate way to signify his social and financial wealth.
He finally gets the opportunity after San Francisco’s finest bounty hunter takes a near-fatal shot from one of the rogue androids, Max Polokov. (Leon [Brion James] is the film counterpart if you are unaware.)
Much of the rundown, largely abandoned city Deckard traverses through in the book is identical to that of the film’s. Ridley Scott and the rest of the film’s crew truly excelled at translating this from the page. Though in the novel we learn the majority of Earth is left decimated from World War Terminus and most of its previous occupants have fled to off-world colonies in hopes of more prosperous lives, I find the film to portray this hopeless world in a richer light, if that sounds at all possible.
Stripped of much of a back story, the film rips upon a seemingly industrialized L.A., dominated by darkness and corporate buildings. The rain-soaked city in the film is nearly a character itself—an ominous, mechanical behemoth of concrete and steel drenched in shadows and lingering with sadness of dead dreams. Airships call out from above to the downtrodden souls below in near haunting voices, offering better lives away from the planet the entirety of the human race once called home. But these synthesized messages go unheard, perhaps ignored, as if most of Earth’s remaining residents are shrugging their shoulder and saying “Who cares?”
But with the surrounding world constructed, there then comes the characters. Sadly, Deckard seems to just stumble across the pages of the book, falling rather clumsily into the laps of the androids he’s trying to ruthlessly hunt. This proceeds into a clunky encounter that always ends up being anticlimactic to say the least. Especially with Roy Baty (Rutger Hauer in the film), the main antagonist, voiding us of a great moment that was constructed for the film—perhaps one of the most beautiful scenes in cinema:
“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tanhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.”
At one point in the novel Deckard even finds himself captured and hostage in an android police station. I want that to sink in for a moment. An android. Police station. And once Deckard escapes, it’s hardly ever touched upon again and simply forgotten. You sure you don’t want to inform your superior about that, Deckard? It is practically what you guys do for a living, you know. Just when we all though you could be an android, programmed to destroy your own kind, it’s just a giant building of androids dressed as cops. All right.
One aspect of the book I’ve always found rather intriguing is that of the character Pris (portrayed by Daryl Hannah in the film) matching the same model of android as Rachel Rosen, Deckard’s rather rickety love interest in both adaptations.
I always wonder how this would have translated into the film—Deckard having to face an identical copy of the replicant he can’t resist, having to watch the eyes of Rachel go cold with death as he retires her, fighting mental panic as his mind tries to rationalize that she’s not really the same.
The book touches lightly upon this with Deckard ultimately telling himself it’s not Rachel and retiring Pris comes with ease, revealing the same apathetic tone conveyed by much of the film’s cast.
The book ends with an exhausted and nearly beaten Deckard exploring the ruins of a world that used to be just outside what remains of San Francisco. He finds a toad, an animal believed to be long extinct. Catapulted into frenzied excitement, he captures the tiny, little creature and brings it home to his wife. As he lies down to take a nap, finally satisfied with life without technological aid, she discovers it to be artificial.
And Blade Runner ends with one the greatest film endings of all time. Remember, I’m speaking of the director’s cut here, the only version that really matters.
We are faced with the startling possibility that Deckard could be the very thing he has hunted and killed with such little compassion, a large strand of events forming to support the twisted side of the ambiguous climax, leaving us with a racing mind with what it truly means to be human, and what apathy and a lack of empathy can do to a species. We are begged to question our very reality and what it means to accurately perceive it.
All in all, I don’t find the novel to be terrible, but just simple, mild entertainment. It is not Phillip K. Dick’s strongest work, but it is far from being horrendous. I’ve always seen it as sort of a rough draft, a precursor—an unrefined sketch that eventually evolved into a painting of indescribable beauty coated in a looming aura of darkness.
* * *This contains mild spoilers about the book. Read at your own discretion.* * *
I originally intended this to be a very belated review of Rendezvous with Rama. Recently, I completed Arthur C. Clarke’s classic for the first time after having it sit on my bookshelf for too long of a time. In short, I enjoyed the majority of the book, but felt it lacking in certain areas. Or perhaps I was just desiring more. But my opinions on the book’s strengths and weaknesses are not the point of this passage, but rather the mysticism of Rama itself.
Despite what I may feel about certain characters, aspects, and passages in the novel, there is one thing I cannot deny: the creation of Rama is one of the most brilliant things ever applied to the page.
As I gradually read through the novel, my hands flipping the pages and my eyes absorbing the words that gave life to Commander Norton and his 20+ crew’s adventure into the unknown, I was met with a slight obstacle. I’ve always been told I have a vivid imagination, and within the realm of science fiction a refined imagination is integral to fully grasp the fantastical complexities of the genre, but even with such mental strength I found it to be a challenge to fully picture Rama in my head.
For those of you who have never read Clarke’s classic, Rama is an alien spacecraft that is initially mistaken for an asteroid in the year 2130. After the launch of a space probe, it is discovered the anomaly from deep space is hardly an asteroid. Instead, it is a perfectly shaped cylinder slowly rotating through space. It is, as the book describes, 20 kilometers (12 miles) in diameter and 54 kilometers (34 miles) long. The exterior of the vessel holds no distinct features whatsoever. It is constructed of dull material narrowly blending it into the darkness of space, bringing a haunting omniscience to the craft.
I had no trouble envisioning this aspect of Rama. Perhaps I had a bit of help from the cover of the edition I was reading.
It was when Commander Norton and the crew of the Endeavor deter themselves from a solar survey mission to investigate Rama and finally enter the alien craft. Norton is the first to go and after floating through the darkness for a brief moment, Norton finally obtains the full view of Rama, the startling and omnipotent truth contained within its lifeless shell.
Rama is not a simple starship. There are no ramps and fancy computers flashing with a multitude of lights, no sliding doors accompanied by keypads that make amusing noises. No, Rama is its own world. A living world contained inside a rotating cylinder. Seas hang from the sky. Six long panels provide sunlight. Clouds move by on the sides of you rather than hanging above. Forests rest on a tilted edge and vacant towns look down upon the surrounding world.
I was able to gather all this. Yet, at the same time, I found my mind congealed in confusion and inquisition when attempting to visualize such a foreign construct.
This is where I found the empirical genius of Arthur C. Clarke truly shining through the black words on the page. Sure, it might be quite simple to look upon the cover of the book’s first edition and grasp the imagery of Rama’s colossal staircases, or to Google the ship’s name and find an artist’s rendition of its oddly sustained geographic features.
That is all too easy. But when you try to fully grasp Rama’s magnificent size, the long span of existence and creation stretching out far beyond human vision, rotating in the seemingly lifeless vessel that slowly drifts through space, it becomes difficult to place yourself next to the equally confused characters.
I honestly believe that no one will ever be able to completely grasp the complexity of Rama’s construction but Clarke himself. And the secrets of the enigmatic vessel have died with him.
Close your eyes and you can imagine a sea hanging upside down. It’s not too hard. But close your eyes and attempt to imagine people traversing across this sea, moving along it towards a giant island of machinery. Imagine this sea placed amongst rolling plains of green intertwined with clouds and glorious cities that run along the sides of narrow suns embedded in the surface.
Walk outside and glance up at the stars. Look at the world spanning out before you. Then erase that from your mind and imagine the world encapsulating you, swirling around you like a giant tunnel; a tunnel constructed with a sky and buildings and trees, all hanging around you from every direction. Imagine all of this on a colossal scale. An entire planet contained in the shape of a soup can.
Rama is such a glorious achievement. Through the sheer challenge of imaging such a beautiful testament to construction, you feel the same confusion of the explorers inside. You feel their tension and their wonder, their anxiety and their amusement, all of these emotions converging on one another when facing something that has never been witnessed before.
Arthur C. Clarke gave an entirely new meaning to the world “alien” with Rendezvous with Rama. With its 250 pages, he presented us with something most of us could have never of fathomed. He is the true father of Rama, the sole creator, and to know that a man could have given life to such a remarkable construct is fascinating.
Completing Rendezvous with Rama feels like a great accomplishment. This is not because it is long-winded or difficult to understand, but it is because you feel like you have discovered something your fellow human counterparts could never understand. You feel part of the crew of the Endeavor; lost but marveled, exposed to something so wonderfully daunting that the definition of “other-worldly” will be forever altered.
And as Rama departs from the solar system, you no longer watch from your mind’s eye as it absorbs the words within the book, but you watch from the stars, you hover like a ghost in the darkness in space, watching something so magnificent and so mysterious depart, knowing full well you’ll never truly be able to comprehend its existence.
I believe Rama to be something no one will truly be able to fully imagine. It is more than just a spacecraft; it is godly being, floating through the universe with an unknown ultimate mission, pushing the boundaries and comprehensions of existence. And to know that such a grand thing is contained within the tightly bound pages of a paperback book is one of the most divinely fascinating things I have ever come to know.
