Dare to dream of electric sheep

 

© Warner Bros / Sony Entertainment / Scott Free Productions

 

I’m afraid that over the years I’ve learned to distrust optimism and embrace pessimism.  I’ve gradually reached the conclusion that it’s better to fear the worst at all times and experience the occasional pleasant surprise when things don’t turn out as badly as expected; rather than to assume the best will happen and then be crushingly disappointed when it doesn’t.  (This may be the result of spending decades following the national Scottish football team, a masochistic pursuit that rarely, if ever, rewards hopefulness and optimism.  As was evidenced the other evening…)

 

Thus, when it was announced that, after 35 years, a sequel to Ridley Scott’s mighty 1982 science-fiction epic Blade Runner was in the works, I didn’t bother at all to exercise the part of my brain that deals in hope and optimism.  No, I just assumed the sequel was going to be crass, brainless, 21st-century-Hollywood-style bollocks and I resolved to ignore its existence.

 

Blade Runner, based on Philip K. Dick’s 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, means a lot to me.  I rate it alongside Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) as joint-best science-fiction movie ever made.  It’s also one of my favourite films of all time.  I remember when I first saw it at the age of 17.  Late in the summer of the film’s release, I travelled to Glasgow for a job interview.  I had a few hours to kill after the interview and I happened to wander past a Glaswegian cinema where Blade Runner was still playing.  On the spur of the moment, I decided to go in and watch it.  I had the auditorium almost to myself – the only other people there were two middle-aged Glaswegian ‘wifies’ who, half-an-hour into the film, with much head-shaking and muttering of incomprehension, left their seats and never came back.  I’m surprised I recall those two women leaving because by that point I was absolutely mesmerised by what I was seeing on the screen above me.  Bombarded by spectacle, special effects and emotional and  intellectual intensity, I found the Blade Runner experience awesome.

 

© Warner Bros / The Ladd Company / Shaw Brothers

 

Blade Runner is a movie that’s difficult to talk about objectively these days.  When it first appeared, many critics disliked it – in Britain, the only newspaper critic I remember taking it seriously was the Observer’s Philip French.  It didn’t do much at the box office either, probably because 1982 cinema audiences, like those two ladies in Glasgow, wanted comfortable, feel-good science-fiction movies such as the same year’s ET and the second Star Trek movie.  Yet it’s proved massively influential.  Its depiction of a future Los Angeles as a dystopian, rain-drenched monster-metropolis, flavoured with the aesthetics of 1940s film-noir and of modern Tokyo, seems to have turned up again and again in a thousand science-fiction movies and rock videos made in the years since.

 

However, for all the impact of Blade Runner’s set design and visuals, its excellent cast ensures that the human (and artificial human) characters remain in the mind too.  This includes Harrison Ford as Deckard, the weary bounty hunter and titular ‘blade runner’ tasked with tracking down and executing runaway replicants, who are the artificially-created, super-strong humanoid slave labourers of the future.  Despite Ford’s presence, though, it’s really the Dutch actor Rutger Hauer as Roy Batty, leader of a gang of on-the-run replicants, who in modern parlance ‘totally owns’ the film.

 

Played by Hauer, Roy Batty is fascinatingly multi-faceted.  By turns he’s brutal, ruthless, terrifyingly physical, animalistic, child-like, icily intellectual, tender, melancholic and – when he finally shows mercy to Deckard and saves him from falling off the top of a vertiginous skyscraper – noble.  Indeed, he becomes more sympathetic than Deckard, whom we’ve seen in the course of his work blasting down two female replicants, played by Darryl Hannah and Joanna Cassidy.  (The role of Deckard has never sat comfortably beside the other, straightforward-heroic roles Ford has played, like those of Han Solo and Indiana Jones.)

 

In Philip K. Dick’s original novel, the replicants have no capacity for human emotions and are presented purely as a threat.  In Hampton Fancher and David Peoples’ script for Blade Runner, however, they’re given a pre-programmed four-year lifespan that means their situation has a tragic, almost Milton-esque aspect.  They’re not simply running amok, but are searching for the corporation head who created them in the hope that he can extend their lifespans beyond four years.  And near the film’s end, we get one of cinema’s great lump-in-throat moments when Batty, after he’s rescued Deckard and before he dies, gives his famous tears-in-rain speech:  “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I’ve watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.”

 

© Warner Bros / The Ladd Company / Shaw Brothers

 

Everyone associated with Blade Runner – Ridley Scott, Hauer, Ford, Hannah, Cassidy and even Sean Young, who played the movie’s heroine Rachael but never fulfilled her potential in an erratic career afterwards – seems in my mind to possess an immense, if elegiac and dystopian, coolness.  This coolness extends to Greek prog-rock / ambient composer and musician Vangelis, whose haunting soundtrack for the movie is a career best.  It’s certainly miles better than the pompous theme he supplied for pompous British film Chariots of Fire the previous year.  For one Blade Runner track, Tales of the Future, Vangelis recruits the portly, kaftan-clad Greek warbler Demis Roussos, who’d always been a bit of a joke in Britain thanks to his being referenced in Mike Leigh’s stage and TV play Abigail’s Party (1977).  But hey, even Demis Roussos sounds spooky and unsettling and, yes, cool here.  That’s the transformative magic of Blade Runner for you.

 

So I was blown away by Blade Runner in 1982, even though the version of it I saw was the weakest one that’s been released.  This was the studio cut, where the film was tampered with at the last minute by frightened executives after they realised Ridley Scott hadn’t delivered the easy-on-the-brain Hollywood blockbuster they’d expected.  Their tampering included adding a redundant voiceover that explains what’s happening in the film for any morons who might be present in the audience; and the least-convincing happy ending in the history of the cinema.  Ten years later, Ridley Scott was allowed to release the version of the film that he’d wanted to put out originally, Blade Runner: The Director’s Cut.  In it, both the voiceover and the happy ending are gone, thankfully, and a new dream sequence suggests that Deckard isn’t the simple cut-and-dried character he was in the original version.  Guess what he might really be?

 

© Warner Bros / The Ladd Company / Shaw Brothers

 

As Blade Runner is set in 2019, which we’re only two years short of now, it’s fun to see how wide of the mark some of the film’s predictions have been.  We haven’t had replicants in the real world nor, alas, have we had flying cars.  And Western cities haven’t become heavily ‘East-Asian-fied’ in the manner of Blade Runner’s Los Angeles, aside from acquiring a few hipster ramen and sushi joints.  Maybe this is because Japan’s bubble economy burst dramatically in the early 1990s and the country never quite became the world power that many in the 1980s had expected.  (William Gibson’s celebrated ‘cyberpunk’ trilogy of science-fiction novels, 1984’s Neuromancer, 1986’s Count Zero and 1988’s Mona Lisa Overdrive, rather overplay the Japanese influence in their future scenarios too.  Incidentally, Gibson is said to have walked out of Blade Runner after 15 minutes, because many of the ideas he’d been toying with for his then-nascent novels were already on the screen.  He didn’t want to get any more depressed.)

 

In addition, certain companies whose logos appear in the famous dazzling advertising displays of Blade Runner’s cityscape no longer exist, like Pan Am and Atari.  Well, Atari still does, barely, but not in the world-bestriding way that the filmmakers assumed it would.

 

The sequel, Blade Runner 2049, was released in the UK four days ago.  Taking place 30 years on from the events of Blade Runner and starring Ryan Gosling as a new ‘runner’ called ‘K’, it brings back the now-craggy but still-personable Harrison Ford as Deckard.  To my utter surprise, the reviews have been excellent, with both critics I like (the BBC’s Mark Kermode) and ones I don’t like (the Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw) calling it a five-star masterpiece.  Compare that with the original film, which had to wait years before the critics reappraised it and declared it a classic.  2049 has flopped at the US box office, admittedly, but then so did its predecessor; and the fact that Donald Trump-land doesn’t seem to like it might be a further indication of its quality.  It’s surely a good omen too that it’s directed by Canadian filmmaker Denis Villeneuve, who last year gave us the moving and thought-provoking science-fiction picture Arrival.

 

In fact, the part of my brain that deals in hope and optimism is beginning to stir.  Rather than ignoring the existence of this sequel, I now find myself tempted to go and see it.  Yes, I’m daring to dream that Blade Runner 2049 might actually be good.  Let’s hope I’m not disappointed.

 

But at least it can’t be any worse than that bloody football match the other night.  Come on, world.  Hurry up and invent some real replicants – and then get eleven of them playing football for Scotland.

 

© Warner Bros / The Ladd Company / Shaw Brothers

 

Pump up the volumes

 

(c) George Allen & Unwin Ltd

(c) New Line Cinema / MGM / Wingnut Films

 

Although I’m someone who loves both books and films, I’m wary when these two art-forms overlap.  If a film appears that’s based on a book I’ve read and liked, I feel reluctant to go and see it.  Or if there’s a new film that’s based on a book that I haven’t read but I hear is good, I usually try to read the book before I watch the film.  And if I enjoy that book, I may not even bother with the film.  This is because I find that the majority of films based on books are – regardless of their quality as self-contained entities – disappointing compared to their source material.

 

Obviously, a film, even a very long film, will never have enough time to represent all the incidents, details, characters and ideas that give a book its richness.  You either end up with a film whose scriptwriter has hacked away chunks of the book – like the 1983 film adaptation of Graham Greene’s novel The Honorary Consul, which deletes one of the book’s main (and unfortunately for the film, most memorable) characters, the machismo-obsessed Argentinian writer Julio Saavedra – or with a film that becomes cluttered in its efforts to stay faithful to the book.  For film adaptations that try to recreate every twist and turn in the books’ plots, to the point where they become incomprehensible, you need look no further than the Harry Potter movies.

 

Television adaptations of books suffer from this problem too – although in theory TV programme-makers have more time at their disposal to cover everything.  I remember back in 1977 being narked by the BBC’s nearly-three-hour-long Count Dracula, which starred the late Louis Jourdan as Bram Stoker’s vampire count and which supposedly was the most faithful version ever of Stoker’s novel.  However, my twelve-year-old self, already a Bram Stoker purist, was not impressed that two of the characters, Arthur Holmwood and Quincey Morris, were for the sake of narrative simplicity compressed into one character called ‘Quincey Holmwood’.

 

A similar thing happened 23 years later, when the BBC unveiled its four-hour adaptation of Titus Groan and Gormenghast, the first two books in Mervyn Peake’s Titus trilogy.  Here, the fearsome father-and-son team of Sourdust and Barquentine, the officials who enforce the observation of endless, numbing ritual at Gormenghast Castle, were combined into one character played by Warren Mitchell.

 

Even when a film or TV production manages to reproduce a book’s plot and characters and doesn’t tie itself in knots doing so, it’s still liable to miss something that’s crucial to one’s enjoyment of the book – the author’s voice.  John Schlesinger’s Far from the Madding Crowd (1967) and Roman Polanski’s Tess (1979) both stick closely to the Thomas Hardy novels on which they’re based, and both are undeniably good films; but inevitably they lack that flavour that’s uniquely and enjoyably Hardy-esque.  For instance, I like Alan Bates’ portrayal of Farmer Gabriel Oak in Madding Crowd; but his performance didn’t, alas, give me the impression that Oak was capable of smiling so that “the corners of his mouth spread till they were an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared around them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the sun.”

 

Unsurprising, one book that translated smoothly into a film, losing little of its substance in the process, was Bernard MacLaverty’s Cal.  An account of a doomed romance during the Northern Irish Troubles, it was filmed in 1984.  The novel is short and straightforward in plot, so it isn’t diminished when its story is retold in a 100-minute film.  Also, MacLaverty is an author who firmly believes in showing rather than telling – he writes both simply and visually.  Thus, there isn’t a marked literary style that the film misses out on, either.

 

(c) Collins

(c) Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer

 

That’s not to say that I haven’t encountered the odd film, based on a book, which does a better job of telling the story than the book does.  This is usually because writers, typing out hundreds of pages without having anyone to tell them when to stop, can fall into the trap of waffling; whereas filmmakers are usually under pressure to tell a story with a beginning, middle and an end within a time limit.  For that reason, I thought that John Sturges’ 1968 adaptation of Alistair MacLean’s Arctic / submarine thriller Ice Station Zebra was better paced and structured than its literary predecessor.  MacLean’s novel is basically an espionage whodunit where the characters potter about in a submarine, surface at the North Pole, and then potter about in the submarine again.  The filmmakers wisely confine the submarine stuff to the film’s build-up and use the North Pole for the climax, which they also beef up by bringing in some Soviet paratroopers.

 

Another film-adaptation that I preferred because it cut the flab from its source novel was Steven Spielberg’s shark-epic, Jaws (1976).  Happily, that film abandoned the sub-plots in Peter Benchley’s original book about the Mafia exerting pressure on the local town mayor to keep the beaches open in spite of the shark attacks; and about the affair that develops between the ichthyologist Matt Hooper and Police Chief Brody’s wife, Ellen.  This left more time in the film for proper shark action which, needless to say, my eleven-year-old self was delighted about.

 

More often, though, a film adaptation of a book is successful not because it manages to be better than the book – but because it uses the book as a starting point and then goes off and does something different.  The cinematic result isn’t necessarily better than the book, but it works in its own right.  A classic example of this is Ridley Scott’s transformation of Philip K. Dick’s eccentric, mind-screwing novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep into the 1982 movie Blade Runner, which uses Dick’s basic story to create a new cinematic aesthetic with the use of astonishing set-design, cinematography and special effects.

 

However, perhaps the most exuberant instance of a book being incarnated in a new, different-but-equally-valid cinematic form is Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting (1996).  It takes Irvine Welsh’s ultra-dark and very-Scottish source novel and reinvents it a way that captured the mid-1990s zeitgeist in Britain (as opposed to just Scotland).  The film retains enough of the book’s darkness to make it feel edgy, daring and anti-establishment, though Boyle and screenwriter John Hodge leave out incidents that would have been near-unwatchable on screen, such as when a revenge-seeking character mocks up the buggering of a child with a Black-and-Decker power drill; or when psycho-villain Begbie kicks his pregnant girlfriend in the belly to make her miscarry.  At the same time, the film is awash with then-fashionable young British actors (Ewan McGregor, Robert Carlyle, Kelly Macdonald) and then-fashionable Brit-pop music (Blur, Sleeper, Pulp).  It becomes a mission statement, telling the world that British cinema is back (temporarily at least) with a punky new attitude and shed-loads of young directing, writing, acting and musical talent.

 

(c) Minerva

(c) Channel 4 Films / Poly Gram Filmed Entertainment

 

It’s fascinating how Boyle’s version of Trainspotting has to a large extent supplanted Welsh’s version of it – so that by the time Welsh got around to writing a sequel, Porno, in 2002, he seemed to be writing for two audiences, those who’d read the original book and those who’d seen the film.  There are references to things that’d happened in the book, which didn’t happen in the film, but they’re confined to vignettes – for example, there’s a couple of pages where the hero, Renton, tracks down Second Prize, a member of his old gang in the book who was deleted from the movie.  It’s almost as if those vignettes are there so that book-followers can read them and movie-followers can skip them, leaving everyone happy with the continuity.

 

Finally, over the last few years, we’ve seen a new phenomenon, that of the lavish movie series and the lavish TV series, which invariably end up as DVD box-sets that are as thick as sets of encyclopaedias.  This has led to certain book-to-screen adaptations being criticised not for what they leave out, but for what they put in.  The most famous, or notorious, example of this is Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit film trilogy, which took J.R.R. Tolkien’s moderate-sized source novel, a prequel to his Lord of the Rings books that’s about 300 pages long, and expanded it into three movies that had a total running time of 474 minutes.  Jackson got flak from Tolkien fans for, basically, taking their beloved and scholarly old author and pumping him full of movie-steroids; for turning what’s essentially a mild-mannered children’s book into a long, loud, testosterone-fuelled, CGI-laden series of blockbusters.

 

Jackson, who’d filmed the three Lord of the Rings novels in the early noughties, argued that he’d merely padded out The Hobbit’s storyline with material from the appendices that Tolkien placed at the back of the third and final Lord of the Rings novel, The Return of the King.  These appendices gave extra information about the history, mythology and culture of the books’ setting, Middle Earth.  Sneakily, though, Jackson also added some characters who’d appeared in his earlier Rings movies who, to be honest, didn’t have any business being in The Hobbit movies – unless it was to please fans of the Rings movies who wanted to see some fond old faces again.  I suppose I didn’t mind the unnecessary presence in The Hobbit trilogy of the likes of Lady Galadriel or Saruman the White, but I could certainly have done without Legolas-the-elf.  Played by the doleful Orlando Bloom, Legolas is surely the most boring elf in Middle Earth.

 

And it’s not just The Hobbit that’s been pumped up during the transition from page to screen.  Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon, the first of Harris’s books about suave, cannibalistic serial killer Dr Hannibal Lecter, had already been filmed twice; excellently by Michael Mann in 1986 and less excellently by Brett Ratner in 2003.  Now, however, it’s also become the basis for seasons 1, 2 and 3 of the NBC television series Hannibal, whose show-runner is the screenwriter and producer Bryan Fuller.

 

Although Fuller introduced the book’s main characters – serial-killer profiler Will Graham (Hugh D’Arcy), senior FBI agent Jack Crawford (Laurence Fishburne) and the charming, intellectual and suspiciously-culinary Dr Lecter himself (Mads Mikkelsen) – in the first episode, it’s only now, some 30 episodes later, that the show is getting around to the actual meat of Harris’s novel, which is the hunt for the family-murdering, William Blake-inspired serial killer Francis Dolarhyde.  Coincidentally, the actor playing Dolarhyde is none other than Richard Armitage, who in the Hobbit movies essayed the role of the royal dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield, “son of Thrór, King under the Mountain” – or as my girlfriend likes to call him, ‘The Hot Dwarf’.

 

One way in which Fuller has extended the story of Red Dragon to almost unimaginable lengths has been to throw in chunks of the third of Harris’s Lecter novels, which is also called Hannibal.  These chunks include the character of Mason Verger, the repulsive meat-packing mogul who plans to feed Lecter to his collection of prize pigs; and Lecter’s escape to the city of Florence at the end of season 2.  Actually, Fuller has described Hannibal as a ‘mash-up’ of Harris’s novels rather than a linear series of adaptations of them, which makes sense.  And I have to say that of Harris’s novels, Hannibal-the-book is the one that most suits the grotesque, baroque and gothic aesthetic of Hannibal-the-show.  (It’s a pity that NBC has just announced the cancellation of Hannibal, as it would have been interesting to see, after another season or two, what Fuller would do when he finally got around to filming the second and most famous of Harris’s Lecter novels, The Silence of the Lambs.)

 

Anyway, I wonder which literary work will be next to be subjected to the pumping-up, as opposed to the trimming-down, treatment.  Perhaps Peter Jackson or Bryan Fuller will treat us to a nine-hour film trilogy or TV adaptation of Ernest Hemmingway’s hundred-page novella The Old Man and the Sea.  With, hopefully, the big fish played by Richard Armitage.

 

(c) Berkley

(c) NBC

 

Cinematic heroes 6: Rutger Hauer

 

From hdwpapers.com

 

Dutch actor Rutger Hauer celebrated his 70th birthday two weeks ago, on January 23rd, which makes me feel very old indeed.  When a figure who seemed only yesterday to be the embodiment of swaggering, superhuman indestructibility – thanks to turns in movies like Blade Runner and The Hitcher – becomes a septuagenarian, you realise you must be advancing significantly in years yourself.

 

Born in Breukelen in the Netherlands, Hauer started adult life doing a variety of jobs – as a deck-cleaner on board a freighter, a joiner, an electrician – before he found his way into an experimental drama troupe.  He was in his mid-twenties when he came to the attention of Dutch director Paul Verhoeven, who would later find infamy in Hollywood as the maker of bludgeoning, blood-soaked science fiction satires like Robocop, Total Recall and Starship Troopers and trashy, salacious bonk-busters like Basic Instinct and Showgirls.  Verhoeven first cast Hauer in Floris, a popular Dutch TV adventure show set in the Middle Ages and then had him star in a quartet of Dutch movies that he directed.

 

The first of these, 1973’s Turkish Delight (in Dutch Turks Fruit) features Hauer as a Bohemian sculptor and chronicles the rise, fall and tragic end of his relationship with a well-to-do young woman (Monique van de Ven) whose family disapproves of his lifestyle.  At the time of its release, more than three million people went to see it in Dutch cinemas, which constituted more than a quarter of the Dutch population.  Indeed, such has been the enduring popularity of Turkish Delight that in 1999 it was named Best Dutch Film of the Century at the Netherlands Film Festival.

 

Hauer and Verhoeven’s next movie was 1975’s Katie Tippel (Keetje Tippel), which is about a 19th-century woman – van de Ven again – and her struggle with poverty and prostitution.  Hauer plays the duplicitous banker who begins a relationship with Katie but then abandons her.

 

(c) Samuel Goldwyn Company

 

In 1977’s Soldier of Orange (Soldaat van Oranje), Verhoeven casts Hauer alongside another Dutch actor who’d later make a name for himself in Hollywood, Jeroen Krabbé.  It tells the story of a group of student friends who react in different ways to World War II – collaborating with, fighting against or imprisoned by the German occupiers of their country.  Soldier of Orange is considered another classic of Dutch cinema.  In 2010, it was even turned into a musical that employed a cool-sounding ‘Scene-Around’ system whereby the audiences’ seats revolved to face different stages as the show progressed.  The set-up was so elaborate that the musical had to be staged inside a former Dutch airbase hangar.

 

Hauer and Verhoeven’s final collaboration on their native soil was Spetters in 1980.  This gave Verhoeven his first major taste of something he’d receive again in Hollywood – controversy.  Spetters’ portrayal of homosexuals, Christians, the police and the media upset a lot of people, although one mightn’t have expected such controversy from a film that is ostensibly a coming-of-age story involving, of all things, motor-cross racing.

 

Inevitably, Hollywood – always on the lookout for European actors to play psychotic scumbag terrorists who speak sinister non-American-accented English – recruited Hauer in 1981 to play the baddie in the Sylvester Stallone action-thriller Nighthawks.  I’m no fan of Stallone and his monosyllabic, humour-free acting style, but I quite like this movie thanks to its excellent supporting cast, which in addition to Hauer has Billy Dee Williams, Lindsay Wagner, Indian actress Persis Khambatta and distinguished English actor Nigel Davenport, who unfortunately passed away late last year.  But Hauer’s performance in Nighthawks would be overshadowed by the work he did in his next Hollywood film  That was Ridley Scott’s science fiction epic Blade Runner, based on the novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep by Philip K. Dick, in which Hauer played Roy Batty, leader of the replicants – artificially-engineered and super-strong humanoids to you and me.

 

Blade Runner is a movie that’s difficult to talk about objectively these days.  It’s proved massively influential and its dystopian, rain-drenched metropolis (“Hell after the property developers have moved in,” as one critic described it), flavoured with aesthetics of 1940s film-noir and of modern Tokyo, seems to have turned up again in a thousand science-fiction movies and rock videos made in the decades since.  Indeed, it’s said that writer William Gibson, soon to become the leading light in the cyberpunk genre, watched Blade Runner for about 15 minutes and then walked out of the cinema – many of the ideas Gibson had been toying with, which he’d shortly incorporate into his novels like Neuromancer, Count Zero and Mona Lisa Overdrive, were already up on the screen and he didn’t want to demoralise himself any further.  However, for all Blade Runner’s visual impact, Hauer and his fellow cast-members make sure that the human characters (and the artificial human characters) aren’t swamped by the film’s production design.

 

Played by Hauer, Roy Batty is fascinatingly multi-faceted.  By turns he’s brutal, ruthless, terrifyingly physical, animalistic, child-like, icily intellectual, tender, tragic and – when he finally shows mercy to Harrison Ford’s Deckard character and saves him from falling to his doom from the top of a vertiginous skyscraper – noble.  In fact, he becomes more sympathetic than Deckard himself, whom we’ve seen blasting down two female replicants, played by Darryl Hannah and Joanna Cassidy, during his work as the blade runner of the title, i.e. a bounty hunter who ‘retires’ rogue replicants.  (When Scott finally got to release his Blade Runner: the Director’s Cut in the early 1990s, he gave us clues to suggest that Deckard is not the simple cut-and-dried character he was in the film’s original version.)  In Philip K. Dick’s original novel, the replicants have no capacity for human emotions and are presented purely as a threat.  In Hampton Fancher and David Peoples’ script for Blade Runner, however, they’re given a pre-programmed four-year lifespan that means their situation has a tragic, almost Milton-esque aspect – they’re not simply running amok but are searching for the corporation head who created them, in the hope that he can extend their lifespans beyond four years.

 

The film concludes with one of cinema’s great lump-in-throat moments when Hauer, after rescuing Ford, and just before he dies, gives his famous tears-in-the-rain speech – “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I’ve watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. Time to die.”  Hauer improvised the soliloquy himself and no doubt it’s the film clip that’ll be shown on TV news reports on the day that the great Dutchman goes to meet his own maker.  But hopefully that won’t happen for a while yet.

 

(c) Recorded Picture Company

 

With Blade Runner, unfortunately, Hauer had already hit his peak.  Whatever he did afterwards, no matter how good it was, couldn’t help but be slightly anti-climactic.  But he certainly got some decent roles over the next few years.  In 1983 he appeared with Gene Hackman, Theresa Russell, Mickey Rourke and Joe Pesci in Eureka, directed by the legendary Nicholas Roeg.  Dismissed at the time as the weakest of Roeg’s movies, Eureka has more lately been reappraised, positively – Danny Boyle, for instance, has championed it.

 

The same year, Hauer starred in another underrated film by another legendary director, Sam Peckinpah’s The Osterman Weekend.  Based on the novel by Robert Ludlum, it’s a complicated and sometimes uneasy mixture.  It combines a conspiracy thriller with a satire of the growing CCTV / surveillance culture that was turning countries into real-life equivalents of George Orwell’s 1984, and Peckinpah also throws in those bloody, slow-motion action sequences that he could have directed in his sleep by then – indeed, this was his final film.  Nonetheless, The Osterman Weekend is entertaining and its cast (Hauer, John Hurt, Dennis Hopper, Craig T. Nelson, Meg Foster and Burt Lancaster) is a pleasure.  It certainly wasn’t the worst way that Peckinpah could have ended his career.

 

In 1985, Hauer teamed up with his old colleague Paul Verhoeven for the violent medieval adventure Flesh + Blood, which was supposedly based on unused material from the Dutch TV series Hauer had starred in, Floris.  I’ve never seen Floris, but if it resembled the fest of blood, breasts, buttocks and bubonic plague that is Flesh + Blood, it must have been pretty racy for the standards of TV at the time.  (Verhoeven also considered Hauer for the lead role in his next, and best, Hollywood film, Robocop, but eventually he opted for Peter Weller.)

 

(c) Warner Brothers

 

And in 1985, Hauer appeared with Michelle Pfeiffer in Ladyhawke, which was one of a glut of fantasy movies made during the 1980s – see also Dark Crystal, Dragonslayer, Krull, Legend, Labyrinth and Willow.  I’ve always considered Ladyhawke an elegant and charming film, thanks largely to its leads.  However, it’s another Hauer movie that’s been unfairly underrated and neglected – perhaps it needed to have David Bowie playing the King of the Goblins to lodge in people’s memories.

 

The following year, Hauer got his second-most memorable role, as the title character in the horror movie The Hitcher.  Wearing a long dark coat and with a Nietzschean gleam in his eye, he plays a mysterious hitchhiking psychopath who stalks the near-empty highways of the American desert and butchers anyone hapless enough to stop and offer him a ride.  C. Thomas Howell picks him up early on the film and isn’t too happy when Hauer starts reminiscing about the previous driver to have given him a lift: “…I cut off his legs… and his arms… and his head.  And I’m going to do the same to you.”  Howell manages to outwit him, but then finds himself embroiled in a desperate cat-and-mouse game with the dark-clad monster.

 

As a relatively modern country, the USA doesn’t really have any ancient myths for filmmakers to exploit – unless they dig around in the folklore of the Native Americans – but The Hitcher, with its bleak desert vistas and lonely, nocturnal road-scapes, and with a main character who seems almost supernatural in his malevolence and omnipotence, manages to tap into something primordially American.  It evokes, for example, the Doors song Riders on the Storm (“There’s a killer on the road…”)  I’ve also seen a painting by the artist Peter Booth in a gallery in Australia – another young country of wide open spaces and long, straight highways – that somehow captures the vibe of this particular movie.  Here’s the painting.  If that central figure doesn’t look like Rutger Hauer, I don’t know what does.

 

 

After The Hitcher, alas, the quality of Hauer’s movies nosedived.  Many of them went straight to video (or later, straight to DVD), and the best that can be said of them is that some fall into the ‘enjoyably stupid’ category.  Definitely in that category is Philip Noyce’s Blind Fury in 1989, in which Hauer plays a former soldier, blinded in battle, who’s learned to use his remaining four senses to become an expert in the martial arts – meaning he’s deadly at wielding a samurai sword but useless at driving a van when trying to escape from the baddies.  (Needless to say, Noyce inserts a sequence where the sightless Hauer has indeed to drive a van to escape from the baddies.)

 

I’m also quite partial to the cheap science fiction actioner Wedlock (1991), in which Hauer plays a convict who escapes from a futuristic prison and sets off to find the villains who’ve double-crossed him.  The catch is that the prison inmates are paired off and forced to wear deadly explosive collars that blow up if they pass beyond a certain distance from each other – meaning that Hauer has to escape with his collar-wearing partner (played by Mimi Rogers) and keep her close while they’re subsequently chased by the authorities.  (It would make more sense if the convicts’ deadly partner-collars weren’t worn by other convicts but were kept locked up in a vault in the middle of the prison – nobody, surely, would try to escape then.)  The film is helped by deliciously villainous performances by Joan Chen, as Hauer’s treacherous ex-wife, and by the great character actor Stephen Tobolowsky, as the slimy prison governor.

 

While Hauer’s film output stayed mostly below the radar during the 1990s and early 2000s, he was also busy in television, appearing in series and one-off dramas such as Alias, Escape from Sobibor, Fatherland, Hostile Waters, Inside the Third Reich, Merlin and Smallville.  He was also, for a while, the face of the advertising campaign for Ireland’s national drink, Guinness stout.  He presumably got the job because with his shock of blonde hair and his trademark black clothes he rather resembled a pint of Guinness himself.  When I saw Blade Runner: the Director’s Cut in a London cinema in the early 1990s, there was a roar of laughter when one of Hauer’s Guinness adverts popped up on the screen just before the main feature.

 

But after a decade-and-a-half in the straight-to-DVD wilderness, Hauer’s movie fortunes seemed to improve again.  In 2005 he was given villainous roles (though admittedly minor ones) in Robert Rodriguez’s Sin City and Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins.  Perhaps the fact that both films owe an obvious visual debt to Blade Runner influenced Hauer’s casting.  More recently, he appeared in Cyrus Frisch’s experimental movie Dazzle, acclaimed as one of the best Dutch films of 2009.  He was also the star of 2011’s Hobo with a Shotgun, the full-length spin-off from one of the fictitious movie trailers in Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez’s Grindhouse project.  I haven’t seen Hobo with a Shotgun, but my brother has – he says it’s the worst film he’s ever seen, so it might actually be worth watching.

 

Recently, Hauer has appeared as Van Helsing in Dracula 3D, an adaptation of Bram Stoker’s classic vampire novel by the once-great Italian director Dario Argento.  Reviews of Dracula 3D have not been good, to say the least, and it sounds like it’s another nail in the coffin of Argento’s reputation.  Come to think of it, Hauer has a poor track record with vampires – he played a rather camp Vampire King in 1992’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a crude and disappointing movie prototype for the much, much better TV series that would appear in the late 1990s.  Hopefully he’ll have better luck with the currently-running vampire TV show True Blood, for whose sixth season he has recently signed up.

 

Away from the film and television cameras, Hauer is a keen environmentalist and he’s been involved in the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society.  (There’s also a Rutger Hauer Starfish Association, which is not, as you might expect, a group dedicated to conserving starfish, but is in fact an AIDS awareness organisation.)  Hauer’s environmental concerns may explain why, the last time I visited his website (http://www.rutgerhauer.org/), there was film footage of penguins on it, cavorting about on the ice.

 

Then again, they might have been replicant penguins…

 

(c) Tristar Pictures