"blade runner 2049"

WARNER BROS. 

Denis Villeneuve's exceptional body of work ("Arrival," "Sicario," "Prisoners") exposes the most broiling, cardinal truths about humankind which very few directors are able to effectively unpack. He is consistent in his deeply mesmeric world-building, challenging our realities as he attacks our beliefs and disbeliefs, always spinning his narratives into a web of unconscientious purpose and dread. "Blade Runner: 2049" is no exception; the impeccable director's bewitching, unearthly cavalcade of heart-stopping visuals, mind-bending camerawork and undulating soundtrack makes for one of the greatest cinematic exercises in modern American filmmaking. But the crux of Villeneuve's sci-fi adventure is also stifled by its world-class ambitions — this is not a project guided by fleshly desire, but by pre-programmed automation. It serves only to return to Ridley Scott's 1982 classic as a barely improved-upon model, an imitation bereft of the internal rigging and upgrades needed to warrant such a long overdue and extravagant homecoming.  

While the original "Blade Runner," released nearly 35 years ago (based on the Philip K. Dick novel "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep") was a picturesquely bleak sight to behold, countless directors, actors, editors, producers, designers, cinematographers and composers knew that a state-of-the-art bar had been set by Scott's vision of the future, and they all intended to follow in his existentialist footsteps. The under-appreciated prescience of "Blade Runner" may even have aged like fine wine in certain spheres, but one chauvinist hiccup remained bizarrely unchecked throughout the years; the predatory love scene between Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford) and Replicant suspect Rachael (Sean Young), in which an android is coerced into sex against her will by a human who refuses to take "no" for an answer. He is seen as a man in control, a Gestapo police figure literally declaiming "Kiss Me" as he drags his frayed lips closer to hers. Rachael's nearly-sentient existence clearly hanging in the balance, she finally submits and seemingly and falls for his red-blooded courtship. The sequence remains deeply problematic to this day, and no shortage of Vangelis' dystopian lullabies can ever fully erase its dubious, sexually abrasive and hyper-masculine undertones. 

Which is perhaps why Villeneuve's rendition appears to be so ineptly off its mark. These flagging gender tropes extend well into "2049," and play a not-so-subtle role in what was expected to be the most heartfelt moment of the film: a threesome between Ryan Gosling's "K," his A.I. companion "Joi," and street urchin "Mariette." Ana de Armas and Mackenzie Davis look so good together, one might even forgive the writers for lifting the sequence straight out of "Her," but even with seasoned pros like Villeneuve, Deakins, Scott and Zimmer at the helm, the scene evokes a greater deal of shuddering than sensual excitement, dashing the work's profound and cerebral surrogacy to its own predecessor. Both "Sicario" and "Arrival" worked to a strong degree for their use of empowered, female protagonists — women who relished waging war against their internal and external antagonists simultaneously (the aliens and drug lords proved to be a secondary impediment to a larger system of unrepentant male patriarchy). The latter battles of course, which they must first endure to solve the film's final climactic puzzles, are often the most entertaining to watch because they're handled so keenly via dialogue and character development. "Blade Runner: 2049" may appear to be in need of a heart (and a story editor), but its true limitations lie in its refusal to employ a well-founded female perspective, which not only would have made up for the previous film's blunders, but could have easily ushered in a radical turning point for the French Canadian director. Here's hoping he doesn't go overboard and volunteer to direct the next Cleopatra... Oh wait, too late.

"BLADE RUNNER: 2049" Rated R. Running time: 2 hours 44 minutes.