This quarter, I am taking a class on queer robotics, a topic that I never expected to study at college, but that has fundamentally changed how I think about the world, for the better. As part of the course, we watched the original “Blade Runner” movie, and then went on a field trip to see the sequel, “Blade Runner 2049.” I don’t know what it was about that night – maybe the combination of sleep deprivation, reports of Harvey Weinstein’s sexual abuse allegations or previous class discussions on the exploitation of sexuality and race in films – but when I walked out of the three-hour long saga, I was more enraged than I had been in a long time about the “Blade Runner” portrayal of the future.
The premise of these two movies is a distant dystopia, where humans have bioengineered robots, called “replicants,” to act as slaves. But soon after their creation, these replicants become a danger to the human race. Therefore, glorified police officers, called blade runners, have the duty of “retiring” (aka killing) any replicants that attempt to threaten humanity.
If you’ve seen the original “Blade Runner,” you’re probably aware of the singular “sex” scene, which I would classify instead as a rape scene. Deckard (Harrison Ford), the heroic male lead who is questionably either a human or replicant, starts off the romantic encounter by spontaneously kissing replicant Rachael (Sean Young). She responds by pulling away and running off, obviously not interested in this interaction, either in the moment or at all. But Rachael doesn’t get far – Deckard grabs her, shoves her against the wall and forces her to admit that she wants to kiss him, that she wants him. Then they do kiss, and presumably have sex– the epitome of “romance.” This scene is revealing of much of the sexist themes apparent throughout the original film. Women are objects whose lives are dictated by males, whether it be Rachael’s male creator Tyrell who fabricated her memories, or Deckard who destroyed her sense of reality by revealing that she is a replicant, and not a human as she originally believed.
When I went to see “Blade Runner 2049,” I was hoping for something more, given it’s been over 30 years since the original came to theaters. Unfortunately, within 30 minutes after the credits began, I realized that the future that the two males writers and singular male director envisioned is more sexist than imaginable. You can’t walk down the street in the movie’s version of LA without confronting a holographic, sexualized woman, possibly dancing as a ballerina or simply completely naked. There is no diversity in body type; all women are thin yet just curvy enough. Never before have I seen so many bare breasts in a movie, solely for the purpose of objectification. There is no choice for the women who are nude in this universe; they are either holographic creations of the “ideal” woman, or replicants designed to “obey.”
The worst part, however, is that the sexism hides under the guise of potential female empowerment. In the sequel, K (Ryan Gosling) is a replicant blade runner, whose boss is (shockingly) a woman, Lt. Joshi (Robin Wright), a step in the direction of progress in comparison to the original. But Lt. Joshi’s character is underdeveloped at best, and killed before the movie is even over. The opportunity for any semblance of female strength is left behind for other, more “essential” plot lines. Luv (Sylvia Hoeks), on the other hand, might be the closest example to empowering – she is strong, bold and ruthless, far from passive, until you realize she is only acting out the demands of her male boss, Wallace (Jared Leto).
The most disturbing example of sexism would have to be K’s hologram of a girlfriend, Joi, (Ana de Armas), designed to be submissive, in love with and completely dependent on him. In this universe, it is not enough to have replicant women designed for pleasure; the male desire can only be satisfied with a completely programmable female image. Not to mention that Joi is the only woman of color with a speaking role, yet she is surely the most powerless. At one point, Joi instigates sex with K, hiring a prostitute, Mariette (Mackenzie Davis) to act as a physical surrogate. Even though in this sense, Mariette exists as a sexual puppet, her character had potential to grow into more, with themes of respecting sex workers or giving a singular woman some dynamic traits a possibility. But again, her plot line results in little more than just another tool to develop other concepts.
There are infinite problems with the “Blade Runner” series beyond misogyny; techno-orientalism runs rampant, people of color only exist as accessories and the entire society is hetero- and cis-normative. And while all of these issues are infuriating and simultaneously commonplace in so many movies, there is still the argument that the “Blade Runner” future is not our world’s destiny. Maybe the beauty of this film is that it shows the problematic future we can still avoid, even if not everyone notices it at first. But I disagree. The possibility of a silver lining doesn’t excuse perpetuating stereotypes and stigmas, and doesn’t at all diminish my anger.
My rage surrounding this franchise has continued days after leaving the theater, and even led me to write this article. I’m going to stay mad, and I hope after reading this piece, you became at least a little infuriated yourself.