One of the most remarkable cinematic experiences in my life was watching Blade Runner: The Final Cut on the silver screen. When Blade Runner 2049 ("2049") was announced, much like everyone else, I was hesitant; when Denis Villeneuve and Roger Deakins were announced to be director and director of photography, my hesitance was immediately replaced with hype. For almost two years, I was anticipating a sensory return to the Blade Runner universe.
That was my grave mistake in approaching 2049. 2049 is not Blade Runner.
To explain this, I must first offer a description of what the Blade Runner universe is, even though it cannot be encapsulated in mere words. The defining characteristics of the Blade Runner universe are otherworldliness and ethereality. The architecture, geography, and physics of that cityscape do not make sense. It exists in a dreamlike state. Watching it must be what it's like to take drugs. Combined with Vangelis' synthesizers, each image wows the audience with its visual splendor, yet simultaneously makes you question reality. The audience is totally immersed in 2019 Los Angeles. The cinematic experience of watching Blade Runner is not replicable.
But I had foolishly thought it was, so I went in to 2049 looking forward to revisiting the world of Blade Runner. For the first half of the film, I was disappointed. Deakins' cinematography is unquestionably sublime, but it is not Blade Runner. Too clean, too sleek, too Apple-like, I thought. Too little synthesizers. Aerial shots of the city are a tad too high. The LAPD headquarters looks nothing like its former chiaroscuro-lit church-like version. There are occasional glimpses of that world, but I could not fully thrust myself into the 2049 universe.
Until I reached the mid-point of the film, when the film transports itself to the orange landscape featured in all of the trailers and posters. It was a moment of revelation. The revelation that 2049 is not trying to be Blade Runner, and has no interest in revisiting that unique, once-in-a-lifetime, unrepeatable world, unleashed me and allowed me to appreciate the sequel as a different and its own beast.
That is what the best sequels do. The metropolitan Chicago of The Dark Knight is nothing like Kowloon Walled City-inspired slums of Batman Begins. The clock tower in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban doesn't exist in the first two; it magically appears out of nowhere and just assumes the audience's acceptance of its existence. The best sequel-makers know better than to replicate the world of their predecessors. They continue the saga not in semblance but in spirit. 2049, from its opening sequence to its final moments, shows its clear intention to steer clear of making a replica of Blade Runner. It shows an even clearer intention in continuing the spirit of Blade Runner by asking its core question – what does it mean to be human? – in even more provocative and reflective ways.
We all know Blade Runner, as much as it is about AI, technology, society, dystopia, and its other sub-themes, is essentially about what it means to be human. Thankfully, writers Hampton Fancher and Michael Green and director Villeneuve understand this, and take this to a better and more advanced level. As good as Blade Runner is, it is merely a classic hard-boiled detective film noir story, wrapped in a dystopian sci-fi setting, that happens to touch on this theme. 2049, regrettably loses its film noir elements, but asks the core question demonstrably and unwaveringly. Protagonist K's character arc is a beautiful story of humanity and free will. It is an expanded and enhanced yet still refreshingly surprising and subversive version of Roy Batty's arc. Although plot conveniences do exist, they matter the least in the grand scheme of things. Another flaw is the somewhat clichéd suggestion of an even grander scheme of things, in stark contrast to the distinct modesty of Blade Runner's narrative. Regardless, this is a story worthy of Shakespearean theatricality, thematically sound and satisfying, and succeeds Blade Runner in spirit. In comparison, the story of 2049 is more fully-fledged and multi-dimensional, truly "deeper" and more profound, yet still about the same set of ideas, and told in a way that is on par with Ridley Scott's way.
This beautiful character arc is played by Ryan Gosling, who delivers an Amy-Adams-in-Arrival level of performance. He effortlessly carries the whole film on his shoulders, and each little tic and gesture expresses his struggle of his nature. Harrison Ford returns to the role of Rick Deckard and delivers a performance similarly competent to his in Star Wars: The Force Awakens. The supporting cast performs exceptionally well in roles that are designed to be ambiguous in nature. This kind of characterization would not work well in any film except this. Almost every character represents a different shade of the human-replicant spectrum. The characterization is dangerous and risky, and succeeds largely due to the excellent performances that bring it to life.
However, the music, which is one of Blade Runner's strongest fortes (if not the strongest), is a severe disappointment. I was aware of the risks of emulating Vangelis' saxophones and synthesizers. Hans Zimmer and Benjamin Wallfisch had a very fine line to walk, and they sadly took a misstep. Gone are the serene melodies of the main theme, the love theme, and the end titles. They are replaced by the oh-so-familiar Zimmer industrial howls and growls. Whenever synths come in, I get a little sense of joy. It was a wise decision to reference Vangelis' material sparingly, but took away the effect of all the new material. Vangelis is referenced in a crucial, cathartic moment of cogitation. Yet it will remain the only memorable music moment. (On a side note, I lament the firing of Jóhann Jóhannsson. His incredibly atmospheric Arrival score was a good sign of what was to come and what has since been lost.)
My philosophy of cinematic art is that perfection and abstraction oppose each other on different ends of a spectrum. A film poses far-reaching, open-ended, suggestive questions at the expense of structural completeness. The verdict is 2049 is close to perfection. Even though the failure and/or absent attempt to revisit the original's universe, aesthetically or musically, continues to feel like a sore missed opportunity – an itch I can't scratch – the rest of the film is done in a spectacularly well-executed fashion. Yet, Blade Runner has never been a perfect film, and it is the very imperfections – the suggestiveness of its far-reaching, open-ended ideas – that I embrace. This once again confirms that 2049 is not Blade Runner, and I should let it stand on its own perfect might.