Blade Runners


2019 (1982)


Gosh, they made some good films when I was young. I can measure out my teenage years in them: Star Wars, Close Encounters, Alien, Excalibur, Blade Runner, Brazil… It’s no wonder that I ended up writing sci-fi and fantasy, or that half those titles are still generating sequels, spin-offs and reboots forty years on.

Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner has been so influential, and ripped off so frequently by other films, that it’s probably hard for younger viewers to imagine how startlingly new and real it looked when it was released in 1982. Before that, the futuristic cities I’d seen on screen tended to look shiny and super-modernist: pale concrete, spotless pavements, plate glass walls. Blade Runner recognised that the architecture of the future won’t simply replace the architecture of the past, it will be built amongst and around and on top of it. It also understood something that SF writer William Gibson (whose own work was strongly influenced by Blade Runner) put neatly into words; the street will find its own uses for new technology. It’s an extraordinary urban vision, made up of layer upon layer of detail, and every time you watch it there are new things to notice.

Of course, the version of Blade Runner I first watched back in ’82 isn’t quite the same as the one that’s now available. The producers had insisted on adding a voice-over, and a happy ending where Harrison Ford drives Sean Young off into lovely mountains (hastily tacked-on out-takes from The Shining, supposedly). Both these elements were disowned by Ridley Scott and removed from his later director’s cuts, but I think the producers had a point. The escape from the city into big skies and mountains at the end may not have made much sense, but it worked on an emotional level, and Blade Runner is not a film that makes a lot of sense anyway. The voice-over wasn’t a very good voice-over, and most of the things it told you can be worked out just by watching the images, but it helped tie together scenes which, without it, feel more like a lot of loosely connected set-pieces. It was also a sonic reference to the 1940s thrillers which are such an important part of the film’s visual DNA. (I was just discovering Chandler and films noir when it came out, so that link was a big part of its appeal for me.) When I saw the director’s cut, I liked it less.

Another thing which bothered me a bit when I first saw it (and a lot more when I re-watched it in later years) is its quite extraordinary sadism. This is a violent movie, and a lot of its violence is openly misogynistic. When men are killed it’s done quickly or off-screen (it took me several viewings to work out what had even happened to J.F.Sebastian) but the deaths of the women are explicit and elaborately drawn-out. I suppose fans may argue that Scott was making some feminist point about women’s bodies as commodities, but it ends up looking as if he just got a kick out of semi-naked ladies being gunned down in slow motion. The love scene is staged like a rape. I don’t know if this aspect can be described as a flaw – it’s clearly deliberate and the seedy nastiness is an important part of Blade Runner’s unsettling mood – but it certainly makes me less able to love it.

So, as an admirer rather than a fan of the original, I went to see Blade Runner 2049 with a fairly open mind…

2049 (2017)

Blade Runner 2049 has had an interesting reception. The first wave of reviews was spectacular, praising it as an improvement on the original and one of the best SF movies ever made, but once the film actually opened, a backlash set in, with viewers complaining about its slow pace and the fact that it’s really, REALLY long.

Oddly enough, my own opinion went through a similar shift. On a first viewing, BR2049 was hugely impressive. Ryan Gosling is great as replicant Blade Runner K, and the world of the original is cleverly expanded, and it’s a proper sequel rather than a Force Awakens-style reboot. (I guess it’s a sequel to the director’s cut, since Deckard and Rachel seem never to have reached those snowy mountains, and once you get outside of LA you’re into a landscape of dreary protein farms, gigantic scrapyards, or the orange smog of abandoned Las Vegas.)

The big difference is that it’s not meant to be the future any more, or, at least, not our future. The 1982 Blade Runner was set in 2019, and I watched it feeling that the actual 2019 might well look something like this. The new one takes place in a parallel world where 2019 featured flying cars and replicants and no mobile phones. Perhaps that’s one reason why it feels slightly less real, slightly more dream-like.

Still, it’s a beautiful dream. The city is bigger and colder than before; the rain turns frequently to snow, and huge new structures tower above the Tyrrell Corporation ziggurat which previously dominated the skyline. The score emphasises the wintry mood, constantly starting to quote the original’s Vangelis theme but never quite doing so until one delicate piano piece near the very end. There are some glorious panning shots across vast, foggy skylines, and several memorable versions of that trademark Denis Villeneuve sequence from Sicario and Arrival where a formation of helicopters (or flying cars in this case) rushes over an endless landscape while the music goes BuuhhWHAAAAA, BuuhhWHAAAAAAAA… (In the Exeter Picturehouse the bass notes made the whole screen ripple like a vertical pond.) There’s a curiously sweet relationship between K and his holographic girlfriend Joi, an interesting ambivalence about whether their feelings are real or just the result of programming. There’s a scene where 2017 Harrison Ford encounters 1982 Sean Young which is genuinely unsettling. The sadism is back (there is a lot of needless pain and gratuitous killing; a newborn female replicant is stabbed to death for no reason that I could discern) but it’s less glamourised than before. The questions about What Makes Us Human which the first film raised almost in passing are brought to the centre of this one, the thriller elements used as a framework to hang them on.

But although in many ways it’s smarter than the original, it doesn’t stand up nearly so well to a second viewing. Almost every frame of the first film is stuffed with visual detail. The second is much cleaner, and while that’s often very beautiful – the huge, empty chambers of the Wallace HQ, filled with shifting, rippling golden light – there’s less to look at, less to build a world from. There is nothing here to match the bustling street scenes of the first film, packed with punks and traffic and Hare Krishnas and scurrying pedestrians with neon umbrellas, and annoying traffic lights shouting DON’T CROSS! and CROSS NOW! This city has the same Kowloon vibe, but it doesn’t feel nearly so lived in. Nor do the interiors, which tend to feature blank grey or white or amber walls rather than the gnarly future-deco of the first film (an exception is the old casino, whose decaying grandeur is a nice call-back to the building where the climax of Blade Runner takes place).

And without that visual clutter to keep my mind busy, I started asking awkward questions. If Tyrell/Wallace can make replicants which are effectively fully functioning human beings, why would they have any trouble making one which can reproduce? If this society has huge numbers of unwanted children, and so little humanity that it consigns them to slave labour in ghastly ‘orphanages’, why is there a market for artificial people at all? Does Dr Stelline have a receptionist? How was she set up in her hermetically sealed bubble, and by whom? And does the LAPD headquarters have a receptionist, or security cameras, or some other system which might make it difficult for the same person to walk in and murder its employees TWICE? Is Wallace lying when he suggests that Deckard was only given his mission in the first film so that he would meet Rachel, because that would be a really strange way to get them together – why not just set them up on a nice dinner date? What keeps all the hovering vehicles up? Is the dreary final punch-up in the surf ever going to end? WHAT ARE THE BEES LIVING ON?

Most films (and most novels) have gaps in their plots. It’s not a big deal. The trick is to make them interesting or exciting or pretty enough that the viewer doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. The original Blade Runner pulled off that trick quite a few times for me. Blade Runner 2049 managed it only once. But once is better than nothing.




Station Zero

I’m pleased to announce that Railhead 3 is on is way, and will be published in May 2018, and once again the cover illustration is by the great Ian McQue.

As with the first two books, Ian has chosen to focus on the characters rather than the technology: here are Zen and Nova, pictured during a quiet moment between heists and adventures. That’s fine by me, because Zen and Nova are my favourite characters, and I hope they’re the heart of the book. What with them and the chunky title lettering (designed by Holly Fulbrook & Jo Cameron) there isn’t room for a lot else on the front cover, but there are all sorts of details lurking on the back and on the inside flaps: a burning tower, some impressive futuristic cityscapes, a lilac sky full of enormous, complicated structures, a scary lady with an even scarier lizard bodyguard, and the old red train Damask Rose (who looks taller and squarer than I’d imagined her, but that’s OK – one of the pleasures of having your writing illustrated is seeing someone else’s take on it). WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? You’ll have to read Station Zero to find out.  But if you want a sneak peek and can’t wait till May, there’s a link to the opening pages here on the Booktrust website.




The Ministry of Biscuits

About twenty years ago, while I was still living in Brighton and struggling with my first novel, Mortal Engines, I took some time off to work with my friend Brian Mitchell on a musical called The Ministry of Biscuits. It was a 1984-ish affair, set in a parallel post-war Britain where biscuits are strictly controlled by the eponymous Ministry (sensible biscuits such as the digestive and the Scotch Abernathy are permitted, of course, but dubious exotic confections like the gypsy cream and the jaffa cake are suppressed with the full power of the state). But when Cedric Hobson, a meek junior biscuit designer working on the recipe for a thinner, drier Rich Tea Finger, falls hopelessly in love with his new secretary, he resolves to win her heart by creating the most delicious biscuit ever imagined…


Brian is a much better writer than I am (the plays he writes with Joseph Nixon are all little masterpieces) and I learned a lot from working him. He’s also a very good composer, and he filled the show with songs which draw on the British Light Classical tradition, emphasising the wonky 1940s/1950s quality. (I didn’t really have much to do with the songs: I just provided Brian with tea (and biscuits) and watched him pace about my living room inventing lyrics, occasionally chucking in a suggestion when he was stuck for a rhyme.)

I think The Ministry of Biscuits was the moment when I found my feet as a writer. I knew while we were working on it that it was better than anything I’d done before. I suppose I could say that I had finally ‘found my own voice’. In fact, what I’d found was Brian’s voice, and it was such a good voice that I had to up my game considerably to try and match it. He understood things I hadn’t yet grasped, like the importance of a consistent tone, and how a scene can sometimes be funnier if it isn’t stuffed full of  jokes. The lessons I learned from him helped to shape Mortal Engines, and I think there’s a hint of Mortal Engines in The Ministry… too; a kind of broad, retro sci-fi flavour which I brought to the proceedings. (Ideas flowed the other way, too: Chudleigh Pomeroy and the other senior guildsmen in Mortal Engines would feel right at home in MiniBic.) But, like any successful collaboration, now that it’s finished I find it impossible to say for sure which bits were mine and which were Brian’s. It’s simply The Ministry of Biscuits, and I’m very fond of it.

It was staged several times in Brighton in the late 90s/early 2000s, did a small regional tour, and played at the Edinburgh Fringe, but nothing much has been heard of it since. UNTIL NOW… because The Ministry of Biscuits is being revived this winter by the Foundry Group, at the Lantern Theatre in Brighton.

Much has changed since we wrote The Ministry… Back then, the idea of the government trying to control what biscuits people liked was an absurdist fantasy – now Public Health England is probably busy drafting stringent dunking regulations. How will this whimsical bit of lightweight political satire from the liberal late ’90s fare in the age of Brexiteers and Corbynoids?

There’s only one way to find out: The Ministry of Biscuits runs from the 23rd November to the 30th December at the Lantern Theatre, Rock Place, Brighton, and you can book tickets HERE.

UPDATE: If you come along on Friday 24th, I’ll be in the audience, and hanging around afterwards for tea, biscuits, mulled wine and chat.



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