Future Imperfect: Philip K. Dick at the Movies
Date: 2007-06-30 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Performing Arts; Film; General; Social Science; Popular Culture
Description: Philip K. Dick was one of the most incisive, subversive, and entertaining authors of the last half of the twentieth century, and the increasing levels of respect and interest that his fiction and films have generated since the 1982 release of Blade Runner have made a comprehensive assessment of these films a virtual necessity. Future Imperfect is the only work to examine the cinematic adaptations of Dick's work in their entirety. Not all cinematic adaptations of Dick's work have been equally successful, but they have all at least made a similar effort to capture his evocative, paranoid, and co
Publisher: Praeger

Future Imperfect

Philip K. Dick at the Movies

Jason P. Vest

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Vest, Jason P., 1972–

Future imperfect : Philip K. Dick at the movies / Jason P. Vest.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.

ISBN-13: 978–0–275–99171–5 (alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0–275–99171–7 (alk. paper)

1. Dick, Philip K.—Film and video adaptations. 2. Science fiction films—History and criticism.

I. Title.

PS3554.I3Z915 2007

791.43’6—dc22

2007016355

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available.

Copyright © 2007 by Jason P. Vest.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, by any process or technique, without the express written consent of the publisher.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2007016355

ISBN-13: 978–0–275–99171–5

ISBN-10: 0–275–99171–7

First published in 2007

Praeger Publishers, 88 Post Road West, Westport, CT 06881

An imprint of Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc.

www.praeger.com

Printed in the United States of America The paper used in this book complies with the Permanent Paper Standard issued by the National Information Standards Organization (Z39.48-1984).

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my mother, Delores Vest, for keeping me honest To my sisters, Katherine Driesen and Cynthia Tennison, for keeping me humble
and

To the love of my life, Patricia Thomas, for keeping me happy

Contents

Acknowledgments
ix

Introduction

The Man in the High Castle: Philip K. Dick xi
and the Movies

Chapter 1

More Human than Human: Blade Runner

1

Chapter 2

Memory Prime: Total Recall

29

Chapter 3

Unburdening the Soul: Confessions d’un Barjo 57

Chapter 4

Future War: Screamers

75

Chapter 5

Identity Theft: Impostor

97

Chapter 6

Future Crime: Minority Report

115

Chapter 7

Money in the Bank: Paycheck

143

Chapter 8

Schizophrenia on Demand: A Scanner Darkly 155

Conclusion

Roll Credits: The Films of Philip K. Dick 175

Notes

181

Bibliography

195

Films Cited

203

Index

209

Acknowledgments

This book could not have been written without the enthusiasm, encourage-ment, and expertise of my editor, Daniel Harmon. His insight has enriched this project in more ways than I can count. Dan has been the book’s greatest champion and its greatest critic, providing invaluable assistance at every junc-ture. His advice and friendship are greatly appreciated.

This study compares the film adaptations of Philip K. Dick’s fiction to their literary sources. Dick was one of twentieth-century America’s best novelists, and his writing is a valuable contribution to American literature. Quoting his words is crucial to this project’s success. All citations of Dick’s fiction are reprinted by permission of the Philip K. Dick Trust and its agents, Scovil Chichak Galen Literary Agency, Inc.

My colleagues have offered valuable guidance during this book’s long gestation. I am especially grateful to Gerald Early, of Washington University’s Center for the Humanities, for mentoring my professional development; to Guinn Batten, of Washington University’s Department of English and American Literature, for encouraging my interest in Dick’s fiction; and to Christopher Schreiner, of the University of Guam’s Division of English and Applied Linguistics, for supporting my research during an exceptionally hec-tic academic year.

My family and friends have exhibited more patience than one person has a right to expect. This project would not have been possible without their for-bearance or their humor.

Thank you all.

Introduction

The Man in the High Castle:

Philip K. Dick and the Movies

I.

Lawrence Sutin makes a surprising statement in the preface to the 2005 reis-sue of Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick, his excellent biography of Philip K. Dick’s authorial career. Sutin attributes Dick’s growing popularity within American culture to two major factors: Dick’s authorial talent, the appreciation of which has steadily increased since his death in 1982, and

‘‘the ongoing adaptation of Dick’s works into movies at an astonishing rate exceeded only by Stephen King.’’1 The second explanation, no matter how breathlessly Sutin phrases it, is hardly surprising when we consider the millions of people who have seen at least one of the eight films based on Dick’s novels and short stories: Blade Runner (1982), Total Recall (1990), Confessions d’un Barjo (1992), Screamers (1995), Impostor (2002), Minority Report (2002), Paycheck (2003), and A Scanner Darkly (2006). Sutin also wryly notes that film adaptations of Dick’s work continue to be produced despite the fact that the author (unlike the prolific King) has been dead for more than twenty years. This fact offers even less reason for astonishment. Cinematic versions of Shakespeare’s plays, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita have been filmed long after their authors’ deaths, while the list of Hollywood adaptations of deceased writers’ fiction is so extensive that it could fill an encyclopedia.

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INTRODUCTION

Sutin’s unforgiving judgment of the cinematic adaptations of Dick’s fiction, however, is surprising. He states, in uncommonly harsh language, that

‘‘the movies made from Dick’s works, with the exception of the first of them, Blade Runner (1982), have been dreadful.’’2 This comment brooks no debate. The film adaptations of Dick’s fiction, in Sutin’s opinion, are (with one exception) terrible.

Sutin is an excellent writer. His book, originally published in 1989, has become the standard biography of Dick because it productively examines how Dick’s complicated, fascinating, and difficult existence led him to write some of the most visionary literature produced by a twentieth-century American author. Sutin’s exhaustive research exposes previously unknown aspects of Dick’s childhood, debunks myths about Dick’s reputation, and offers lucid critical assessments of Dick’s fiction. Divine Invasions, in fact, is a model of scholarly literary biography that scrutinizes the connections between its subject’s life, work, and art with the skeptical sympathy necessary to revealing another human being’s intellectual and emotional complexities.

Sutin’s assessment of the Dick film adaptations, by contrast, is wrong-headed on two fronts. These movies, contrary to Sutin’s contention, have not been produced at an astonishing pace. In the twenty-five years since Blade Runner first appeared in movie theatres, only seven other films based on Dick’s fiction have been released (with an eighth, Next, based on Dick’s 1954 short story ‘‘The Golden Man,’’ scheduled for release in 2007). The film and television projects adapted from Stephen King’s work occasionally equal, and sometimes exceed, this number in a single year, while, to take another well-known example, the quarter century following the first cinematic adaptation of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels (1962’s Dr. No) saw fourteen additional Bond movies arrive in theatres.

The lengthy development period of nearly all the Dick adaptations has accustomed Dick’s readers to expect a healthy (sometimes decades-long) delay between the announcement of a new film based on Dick’s fiction and its arrival at the local multiplex. The term ‘‘development hell’’ is perfectly tailored for movies based on Dick’s writing because his fiction is so ambiguous and evocative that translating it into coherent cinematic narrative is an unenviable challenge for film professionals. Dick’s visions of a heavily industrialized (and often postapocalyptic) future require tremendous skill to visualize, while assembling the talent necessary to mounting complex movies like Blade Runner, Total Recall, and Minority Report in an industry as mercurial as filmmaking can take far more time than actual production.

Sutin’s error in evaluating the movies based on Dick’s work is not limited to misstatements about the speed at which they have been produced. His blanket generalization about their quality betrays serious inattention to each film’s visual, narrative, and symbolic complexity. Even John Woo’s Paycheck, the weakest of the eight films profiled in this book, includes enough worthwhile moments to qualify as an intriguing effort at transforming Dick’s

INTRODUCTION
xiii

1953 short story ‘‘Paycheck’’ into cinematic narrative. Paycheck ultimately disappoints the viewer by not fulfilling the greatness of its own premise, thereby failing to become an insightful adaptation of Dick’s writing. Woo’s movie is not, however, as dreadful as Sutin implies. Neither are the two Dick adaptations that were most unsympathetically reviewed at the time of their release: Screamers and Impostor. These films, while far from perfect, are better than their critics suggest. Neither is an outright failure.

Minority Report and A Scanner Darkly, by contrast, are excellent films that improve with each viewing. Sutin did not have the opportunity to see Scanner before writing his preface (in June 2005), but his dismissal of Minority Report raises serious doubts about his understanding of the cinematic adaptations of Dick’s work. Minority Report, like Blade Runner, is a movie that takes Dick’s original material seriously; that uses the author’s fiction as a launching pad for searching social, political, and economic commentary about American culture; and that offers its audience a story line and characters with intellectual and emotional depth. Pronouncing it dreadful ignores the achievement of Minority Report’s director (Steven Spielberg), screenwriters (Jon Cohen and Scott Frank), and production team.

Sutin, by refusing to examine the Dick adaptations in detail, is far too cavalier in his evaluation of these films. His task, of course, is to write a short preface for a new edition of Dick’s biography, not rigorous film criticism. As such, it is even more unfortunate that Sutin does not resist the tendency of bibliophiles to perpetuate an easy, cheap, and unreflective view of film adaptation that has become so ingrained in American culture that it now qualifies as a mindless cliche´: the book is always better than the movie. The notion that words are superior to images not only is rampant in some quarters of the American literary academy, but has also worked its way into the popular mind so effectively that, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, this idea has the patina of unassailable truth.

This book assesses the quality of the first eight film adaptations of Dick’s fiction in light of their literary sources. It does not, however, assume that words (meaning short stories and novels) are superior to images (meaning films). Neither does it reverse this formulation to contend that movies are better than books. Arguments about the superiority of one medium over another, like arguments about the superiority of one literary genre over another, have become (despite vigorous scholarly debate) tiresome, tenuous, and tendentious. They generally resemble schoolyard brawls in which the proponents of one form (such as literature) deride enthusiasts of the other form (such as movies) with little understanding of the aesthetic possibilities, parameters, and prospects of either form. Such disputes, beyond their occasionally childish character, are generally too tedious to be interesting.

This book attempts to avoid such errors. It considers the cinematic adaptations of Dick’s work in relation to their literary sources by offering critical readings that supplement the current understanding of how Dick has
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INTRODUCTION
profoundly influenced American popular culture. Sutin is correct to note that the movies made from Dick’s fiction have played a large role in promoting the author’s popularity. With the exception of Confessions d’un Barjo, these films have also carved out a specific niche within American SF (science fiction) cinema that has exerted an acute, even overwhelming power over how we imagine the future will look, feel, and operate—in short, how the future will be.

This influence is a welcome one for films adapted from the fiction of a writer unjustly labeled as a hack during much of his lifetime, although it also obscures the debt that these movies owe to their literary sources, even when the films depart wildly from Dick’s original material.

The eight films profiled here include a few masterpieces, a few noble efforts, and one clunker. Each movie is an intriguing attempt to translate into cinematic language Dick’s unique, unmistakable, and undeniable paranoia about the stability of human identity and the value of human relationships in a world that is careening out of control. These films do not always succeed, but each one includes moments that are recognizably Dickian in their ambiguity, transience, and haunting complexity. For this reason, among many others, they merit respectful consideration.

II.

Philip K. Dick, as his letters, interviews, and essays make clear, enjoyed film and television. He frequently refers to movies and television during the extended conversations with Gregg Rickman that are transcribed in the book In His Own Words, as well as during his long interview sessions with Gwen Lee that are available in What If Our World Is Their Heaven?: The Final Conversations of Philip K. Dick. Dick even tried his hand at scriptwriting during the 1960s and 1970s, completing story treatments for an episode of Larry Cohen’s weekly television series The Invaders3 and for Bruce Geller’s Mission: Impossible4 in 1967, only to have them rejected. Dick also drafted a 1967 proposal for an untitled television series, set in ‘‘the gray, foggy landscape of Heaven,’’5 that describes the adventures of employees of We Are Watching You, Inc., ‘‘a small outfit among several giants,’’ whose ‘‘record of bailing Earthlings out of jams is virtually 100 percent.. . .’’6 This premise, as fleshed out by Dick, would have made a delightful weekly series, with intriguing characters, witty concepts, and satirical stories. As Brian J. Robb points out in Counterfeit Worlds: Philip K. Dick on Film, Dick’s proposal about heavenly personages correcting earthly misfortunes bears a striking resemblance to some aspects of Donald P. Bellisario’s time-travel series Quantum Leap (1989–1993), although it has even greater similarities (in premise rather than tone) to Michael Landon’s Highway to Heaven (1984–1989) and John Masius’s Touched by an Angel (1994–2003).

In 1974, French filmmaker Jean-Pierre Gorin contracted Dick to write a screenplay based on the author’s 1969 novel Ubik. Dick, excited by the

INTRODUCTION
xv
opportunity, completed a draft in only three weeks. Gorin, who was unable to secure financing for the project, was overwhelmed by the quality of what he describes as Dick’s unfilmable script:

This is something that cannot be a film, although it is great on its own terms. It was a very Philip K. Dick adaptation of Philip K. Dick! [It was] very talkative, and [did] not have very much to do with how a movie could be done. I found myself both delighted at having that piece of work, and totally terrified about what I was going to do with it.. . .7

The film never materialized, although Dick’s faithful adaptation of Ubik exists in a limited edition (and now rare) book published by Corroboree Press.

Dick also admired movies that he believed achieved the status of art. The first film he probably saw was Lewis Milestone’s 1930 adaptation of Erich Maria Remarque’s German novel All Quiet on the Western Front.8 During the 1950s, Dick and his second wife, Kleo Apostolides, attended movies whenever they could afford them. Dick was also impressed by Nicholas Roeg’s 1976 film The Man Who Fell to Earth and Robert Altman’s 1977 film 3 Women, telling interviewer Rickman, about 3 Women, ‘‘I liked that a lot.

Unbelievable.’’9

Dick’s most famous brush with filmmaking is his complicated reaction to the production of Blade Runner. The author, who in 1968 compiled a fascinating document titled ‘‘Notes on Do Android Dream of Electric Sheep?’’ for filmmaker Bertram Berman, who had purchased an option on the just-released novel, was initially pessimistic about the project (directed by Ridley Scott), going so far as to publish an article titled ‘‘Universe Makers. . .and Breakers’’ in the February 15–March 28, 1981, edition of SelecTV Guide, his cable television company’s newsletter, that sarcastically dismisses an early version of Blade Runner’s screenplay: ‘‘It was terrific. It bore no relation to the book. . . .What my story will become is one titanic lurid collision of androids being blown up, androids killing humans, general confusion and murder, all very exciting to watch. Makes my book seem dull by comparison.’’10 Dick’s attitude changed, however, when, in December 1981, he had the opportunity to view twenty minutes of special effects footage and to talk with director Ridley Scott. Dick was also pleased by a later screenplay draft that he read, leading him to embrace Blade Runner as an excellent cinematic adaptation of his original novel. Dick, in fact, told interviewer Gwen Lee less than two months before his death on March 2, 1982, that ‘‘the opening [sequence of Blade Runner] is simply the most stupendous thing I have ever seen in the way of a film. It’s simply unbelievable.’’11 Dick’s death, which occurred less than four months before Blade Runner’s June 25, 1982, premiere, is therefore one of the saddest ironies of the film’s production saga.

Dick never lived to see the movie that is now considered a towering achievement in American SF cinema.

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INTRODUCTION

This tragedy naturally prompts readers of Dick’s fiction to wonder how the author would have judged the movies that came after Blade Runner. This curiosity can never be answered, for the simple reason that all attempts to extrapolate Dick’s opinions of Total Recall, Screamers, or Minority Report based on his reaction to an incomplete viewing of Blade Runner are pure guesswork. Dick’s enthusiasm for film and television, however, assures us that he would have been as avid a viewer of these adaptations as any other member of the moviegoing public. It seems likely that Dick would have demanded more involvement in the later films’ production than he was permitted for Blade Runner, although we cannot be certain of this prediction since Dick, who commented in 1980 that ‘‘You would have to kill me and prop me up in the seat of my car with a smile painted on my face to get me to go near Hollywood,’’12 might have been content to watch each film go forward from the comfortable remove of his Fullerton, California, home. If so, Dick would have resembled Hawthorne Abendsen, the title character of the author’s 1962 novel The Man in the High Castle, who absents himself from the goings-on of the world around him. Dick, however, was one of the least pretentious American novelists of the twentieth century, so it is equally probable that he would have welcomed the opportunity to advise filmmakers on how to visualize his richly imaginative fiction. The misfortune for lovers of Dick’s writing is that he did not live to see, and enjoy, how strongly his work has influenced American SF cinema.

III.

This book evaluates the quality of Blade Runner, Total Recall, Confessions d’un Barjo, Screamers, Impostor, Minority Report, Paycheck, and A Scanner Darkly in relation to the short stories or novels that inspired them. As such, the book is a hybrid text that combines literary analysis and film criticism to examine how the differences between written fiction and cinematic narrative allow each adaptation’s production team to transfer Dick’s story into a visual medium.

This argument does not presume that Dick’s written fiction is superior, better, or higher than the motion pictures adapted from that fiction merely because Dick employs words to tell his stories, while the films employ moving images. The presumption that words are better than images and books are superior to films participates in a tradition of intellectual arrogance that dismisses the value of cinema as a commercialized form of mass entertainment that cannot achieve the artistic heights of novels and short stories. As James Naremore notes in his thoughtful introduction to one of the best academic anthologies about this subject (simply titled Film Adaptation), a counter-vailing scholarly attitude toward adaptation acknowledges the intellectual legitimacy of film adaptation as an artistic process that tries to ‘‘‘metamor-phose’ novels into another medium that has its own formal or narratological

INTRODUCTION
xvii
possibilities.’’13 This jejune perspective, Naremore implies, is a backhanded compliment that privileges the written word over the moving image by suggesting that cinema may be a separate medium into which written fiction can be translated, but that movies remain secondary to the printed word’s pri-macy. Naremore goes on to identify why conceptualizing film adaptation as the translation of a literary work is an impoverished metaphor: ‘‘The problem with most writing about adaptation as translation is that it tends to valorize the literary canon and essentialize the nature of cinema.’’14

Naremore’s argument is far more complex than this brief synopsis allows, but his fundamental point is an intelligent response to the all-too-common supposition that cinematic adaptations must closely reproduce their literary sources in order to be successful, as well as this idea’s converse: film adaptations that do not closely reproduce their sources are unsuccessful or, at the very least, artistically deficient.

This book does not share this assumption. It also does not rigorously ponder the issues of film or literary theory, but rather considers the eight film adaptations of Philip K. Dick’s fiction to be intriguing cinematic narratives whose value is not dependent upon their fidelity to their literary sources. Each chapter discusses the differences and similarities between the profiled movie and the short story or novel that inspired it, not as an exercise in demonstrating the film’s insufficiency, but as a method of exposing how the transition from page to screen requires inevitable changes that make each adaptation a unique (although not always successful) work of art. The best adaptations of Dick’s work—Blade Runner, Confessions d’un Barjo, Minority Report, and A Scanner Darkly—demonstrate not only that his authorial inventiveness transfers to the screen but also that creative filmmakers can extrapolate his fiction into cinematic stories that respond to the pressing social, political, and economic issues of their day. These movies are also entertaining films that inventively dramatize intellectual concepts, future societies, advanced technology, and human relationships. Finally, they offer unconventional story lines, images, and personalities that frequently depart from the standard expectations of conventional Hollywood movies.

The eight films discussed here all include worthwhile insights into human behavior. Blade Runner and Minority Report are masterpieces that demonstrate how technological advancement and political oppression result in unwelcome social developments, while A Scanner Darkly nearly achieves the quality, complexity, and emotional maturity of these two films by focusing on the private lives of drug addicts. Confessions d’un Barjo offers a satirical portrait of marital tension that becomes a charming evocation of family dysfunction. Impostor, despite its poor reviews, is a nightmarish dramatization of how tenuous human identity becomes when institutional bureaucracy causes people to doubt the basis of their own personality. Total Recall confronts the ambiguity of human identity in a world where memories have become commodities that can be erased, altered, and fabricated. Screamers
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INTRODUCTION
presents an unpleasant political parable about the dangers of unchecked militarism and the hazards of advanced weaponry. Only Paycheck is an uninteresting, unaccomplished, and finally uninspiring film, although it offers enough interesting moments to qualify as movie that might have achieved greatness had its makers taken more time and care with its story.

These cinematic adaptations of Philip K. Dick’s fiction, even those that do not achieve the mastery of Blade Runner, Confessions d’un Barjo, Minority Report, and A Scanner Darkly, are far from schlock SF cinema. They are intriguing, sometimes potent, and frequently fearful extrapolations of how American society might develop in future decades. These movies, because of their unconventional settings and unusual stories, cannot appeal to all audience members. They can, however, allow the critical reader of Dick’s fiction to think about his ideas, imagery, and themes in fresh new ways. The film adaptations of Dick’s work, at their best, are vivid reminders of how cinematic narrative can powerfully affect its viewer. They stand apart from Dick’s fiction even as they descend from it. This complicated lineage, as well as its visual, narrative, and thematic intricacies, is the subject of this book.

CHAPTER 1

More Human than Human:

Blade Runner

I.

After editor Terry Rawlings completed his first assembly of Blade Runner’s footage, in July 1981, he sat down with the film’s director, Ridley Scott, to screen the result. Scott and Rawlings were so absorbed by the images unfolding before them that they forgot to speak. ‘‘Then, when the film finished and the lights came up,’’ Rawlings later recalled, ‘‘Ridley turned to me and said, ‘God, it’s marvelous. What the fuck does it all mean?’’’1

Scott’s reaction anticipated the response of audiences, reviewers, and scholars to his complicated, mystifying, and strangely beautiful 1982 film. As the first Hollywood movie based on Philip K. Dick’s fiction, Scott’s adaptation of Dick’s equally complicated 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? has achieved mythic status among film critics, cineastes, and SF aficio-nados. As one of the premier American films of the 1980s, Blade Runner’s influence on later movies, particularly SF movies, is unquestionable, while its densely layered visual style has been celebrated by sources as diverse as the academic journal Critical Inquiry and the news magazine Time.

Few observers would have predicted so momentous an impact when Blade Runner opened on June 25, 1982. It was merely one of several SF and fantasy films released that summer. Nicholas Meyer’s Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, Steven Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, and John Carpenter’s remake of The Thing had opened, respectively, on June 4, June 11, and June 25.

2

FUTURE IMPERFECT

Each movie offered its audience an alternative vision of the human future, advanced technology, and/or alien life. Blade Runner was also a financial disappointment, as Paul M. Sammon makes clear in Future Noir: The Making of Blade Runner, his definitive account of the film’s production, by noting that Blade Runner grossed just $14 million during its initial theatrical run.

This amount was considerably less than its $28 million budget. Although figures compiled by the Internet Movie Database place the final gross (calculated on August 22, 1982) as $26,168,988, the message is clear. Blade Runner was a commercial flop.

The most common explanation for this poor box-office performance blames the film’s terrible reviews for sabotaging its success. Pat Berman’s now-infamous declaration, first published in the July 2, 1982, edition of the State and Columbia Record, that Blade Runner is ‘‘like science fiction pornography—all sensation and no heart’’2 has been condemned so frequently by the film’s aggrieved admirers that it symbolizes the unfair critical reception they feel Blade Runner endured in its own day. This legendary insult exemplifies a typical reaction by film critics to Blade Runner’s morally ambiguous and elliptically structured narrative: the movie sacrifices human feeling for visual spectacle. Roger Ebert’s comments in his June 2, 1982, advance review of Blade Runner spoke for many of his colleagues: ‘‘[Scott]

seems more concerned with creating his film worlds than populating them with plausible characters, and that’s the trouble this time. Blade Runner is a stunningly interesting visual achievement, but a failure as a story. . . .The movie’s weakness . . .is that it allows the special effects technology to overwhelm its story.’’3

The story, however, received much less attention than the visuals, leading Ebert and other reviewers to false conclusions or outright misreadings. Even Blade Runner’s positive reviews manifest a perceptual gap between the film’s imagery and its story. The movie’s deceptively simple plot is more complicated than a single viewing can reveal, meaning that Blade Runner demands multiple exposures to understand how evocatively it questions the nature of humanity, the social utility of technology, the relationship between organic and mechanical life, and the value of spirituality in a heavily industrialized (and apparently soulless) world.

Some reviewers wrote even more stinging assessments of the film’s story than Ebert. Stanley Kauffmann, for instance, proclaimed Blade Runner

‘‘splendid, a strong argument for the Style Is All thesis’’4 in his 1982 New Republic review, saying that the movie, though all its achievements are utilized for a dull and silly film, is crammed with wonderful, if wasted, achievement.. . .To enjoy Blade Runner, you need only disregard, as far as possible, the actors and the dialogue. The script is another reworking of a threat to humans by humanoids—one more variation on the Invasion of the Body Snatchers theme.5

MORE HUMAN THAN HUMAN

3

Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford) clings to life near the climax of Blade Runner, Ridley Scott’s 1982 adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (Courtesy of Photofest) Kauffmann’s invocation of Invasion of the Body Snatchers avoids all reference to Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? even as it acknowledges Blade Runner’s debt to older SF narratives. Many reviews mention the film’s source novel in passing (if at all), but most fail to consider how, in adapting Dick’s story, Scott and his production team faced the task of presenting, in two hours, one of American SF’s most intricate, oblique, and richly suggestive books.

This oversight not only explains why Blade Runner was underpraised in its time but also speaks to the difficulties of transferring a book as intellectually challenging as Electric Sheep into cinematic form. Scott’s film cannot overtly reproduce every detail of Dick’s novel, but this fundamental truth of cinematic adaptation should not reduce our appreciation of Blade Runner’s achievement. Blade Runner is no less a narrative than a visual triumph, particularly in its suggestion that spirituality is essential to preserving authentic human identity in a world where technological proliferation, environmental degradation, and economic repression have become the norm. The film’s mature treatment of this theme qualifies it as a masterpiece whose dark, dirty, and grungy atmosphere masks its intellectual and emotional sophistication. Blade Runner is not a perfect film, but, as we shall see, it is a significant contribution to SF cinema and, more generally, to the American film tradition.

II.

Blade Runner, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, enjoys a much different reputation than its initial reviews suggested. The movie has attained the status of film classic in the quarter century since first appearing in theatres.

Blade Runner’s admirers have so relished this reversal of fortune that a myth

4

FUTURE IMPERFECT
about the film’s critical response has developed over the years. Blade Runner, contrary to this conventional wisdom, was not so critically unpopular in its day that it was considered a total failure. Some reviewers, including Pat Berman and Stanley Kauffmann, excoriated what they considered the film’s many flaws, while other observers were merely unkind. Pauline Kael’s long New Yorker essay about Blade Runner, titled ‘‘Baby, the Rain Must Fall,’’ takes the movie’s underlying themes seriously but finds the film itself an inadequate vehicle for expressing those themes. Her review features typically acerbic (and condescending) judgments, most notably ‘‘the moviemakers seem to have decided that [Deckard’s] characterization was complete when they signed Harrison Ford for the role’’6 and ‘‘If anybody comes around with a test to detect humanoids, maybe Ridley Scott and his associates should hide.’’7

Other critics treat Blade Runner with more respect. Jack Kroll, in Newsweek, says that Blade Runner, ‘‘for all its gloom and somnolence, is a compelling addition to this genre [of stories about mechanical people].’’8 Richard Corliss, in Time, identifies Blade Runner as a film ‘‘likely to disappoint moviegoers hoping for sleek thrills and derring-do. But as a display terminal for the wizardry of Designers Lawrence G. Paull, Douglas Trumbull and Syd Mead, the movie delivers. The pleasures of texture have rarely been so savory.’’9

Hiawatha Bray, in Christianity Today, criticizes Blade Runner’s ending but praises the special effects and set design as having ‘‘created the most stunning image of a future city since Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.’’10 Bray concludes his review with words that anticipate Blade Runner’s later standing as an important contribution to American SF cinema: ‘‘But of all the summer’s releases, only Blade Runner is truly adult in its thoughtfulness and complexity. If you enjoy science fiction, by all means see this.’’11

This mixed critical reaction demonstrates Blade Runner’s fundamental ambiguity. Audiences did not know how to respond to the film’s ambivalent story line, odd characters, and overwhelming visuals. The high regard in which SF enthusiasts, scholars, and even casual viewers now hold Blade Runner attests to the accuracy of literary scholar Northrop Frye’s belief, expounded in his 1957 book Anatomy of Criticism, that ‘‘it is clearly the simple truth that there is no real correlation either way between the merits of art and its public reception.’’12 The film’s current esteem accrued over many years, resulting from the increased exposure that home video and cable broadcasts of Blade Runner made possible. Seeing the film again enticed old and new viewers to decipher its puzzling narrative, visual complexity, and intriguing characters.

The number of academic articles devoted to Blade Runner, to take one potent example of the film’s newfound influence, mushroomed during the late 1980s and early 1990s, culminating in Judith Kerman’s excellent 1991 anthology Retrofitting ‘‘Blade Runner’’: Issues in Ridley Scott’s ‘‘Blade Runner’’ and Philip K. Dick’s ‘‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?’’

Kerman’s text was so popular that a second edition appeared in 1997,

MORE HUMAN THAN HUMAN

5
one year after Paul Sammon’s Future Noir offered an authoritative account of Blade Runner’s difficult production.

This interest has only increased. Blade Runner is now more popular than its source novel, having become an object of almost obsessive popular and scholarly attention. Although the film’s respectable reputation is a welcome change from its original reception, this high regard should not obscure the ambitious novel that both preceded Blade Runner and made the film possible.

Divorcing the film from its literary source has been necessary to establishing Blade Runner as an independent work of art, but this tendency has unfortunately concealed the movie’s debt to Electric Sheep. Such an oversight not only diminishes the ability of Blade Runner’s audience to understand the intelligent manner by which Ridley Scott, screenwriters Hampton Fancher and David Peoples, and the film’s crew transformed Dick’s fascinating novel into cinematic art but also reduces Electric Sheep to little more than the inspiration of a famous film (a reduction that Blade Runner itself indulges by delaying the novel’s on-screen acknowledgment until the end credits).

Less important to my analysis are Blade Runner’s separate versions. The differences between the original theatrical release and the 1992 Director’s Cut—
most notably, the absence of Deckard’s voice-over narration from (and the restoration of Ridley Scott’s preferred ending to) the Director’s Cut—have been exhaustively covered by other writers. Sammon’s book offers the most comprehensive account of these differences, as well as the many versions of Blade Runner that served as test screenings before the film’s theatrical release.

Several articles in Judith Kerman’s anthology also provide excellent discussions of this topic. Audiences more familiar with the theatrical release may have starkly different perceptions of the film’s character development, narrative pacing, and thematic unity than viewers who have only seen the Director’s Cut. This book, however, only examines the Director’s Cut, which, at the time of this writing, is Blade Runner’s definitive edition (the theatrical version, still available on videocassette, has never been released in digital video disc—DVD—format). The Director’s Cut also complicates the viewer’s perception of Rick Deckard’s spiritual awakening, making it a worthy adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s provocative novel. Blade Runner may not be an explicitly religious film, but its story of a bounty hunter who comes to question the morality of exterminating supposedly inhuman androids not only resonates with Electric Sheep’s most important concerns but also demonstrates how successful an adaptation Blade Runner is.

III.

The most obvious difference between Blade Runner and Electric Sheep is that the movie compresses Dick’s 240-page novel into two hours of film narrative. This necessity required Ridley Scott and his screenwriters, Fancher and Peoples, to exclude many of the novel’s events and characters to trim

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Blade Runner to manageable cinematic length. Dick himself understood this obligation. In an interview with writer Gwen Lee conducted less than two months before his death on March 2, 1982, Dick (who had viewed twenty minutes of the film’s special effects footage in December 1981 and who had read at least two versions of the screenplay) explains the differences between literary and cinematic narrative:

The book had about sixteen plots going through it and they would have had to make a movie lasting sixteen hours. And it would have been impossible. And this is not how you make a movie out of a book. You don’t go scene by scene.

I mean, this was the trouble with Death in Venice, for example. And you just cannot do it. It just won’t work out. Because a lot of the book consists of just long conversations. A movie moves and a book talks, and that’s the difference, you see.13

Dick’s comments indicate the difficult task that confronted Scott, Fancher, and Peoples in transforming Electric Sheep into cinematic form. They cannot include every detail of Dick’s novel, nor should they try to do so. The resulting film would be too ungainly and bloated. Dick’s understanding of how novels and films diverge in their possibilities and parameters is an important recognition of how cinematic adaptations cannot be judged based on how faithfully they reproduce their literary sources. Such judgments misperceive a movie’s uniquely visual method of storytelling.

Blade Runner, consequently, excises many of Electric Sheep’s salient events.

The most significant change is that Dick’s novel posits a religion called Mercerism that does not appear in Scott’s film. Mercerism allows Earth’s inhabitants to extract some hope from their constricted and unhappy lives in the wake of a nuclear holocaust. World War Terminus (the novel’s term for this catastrophe) has created an environment so toxic that the American experience has fundamentally changed. Many animal species have become extinct, human survivors must wear lead shielding (including codpieces) to protect future generations from genetic damage, and a vigorous colonization program has relocated much of the populace to other planets. The remaining survivors have developed a caste system in which people mentally or physically deformed by radiation (known as ‘‘specials’’) are treated as near pariahs. Electric Sheep reveals their outcast status in stark terms: ‘‘Loitering on Earth potentially meant finding oneself abruptly classed as biologically unacceptable, a menace to the pristine heredity of the race. Once pegged as special, a citizen, even if accepting sterilization, dropped out of history. He ceased, in effect, to be part of mankind.’’14

This passage occurs just prior to the first appearance of John Isidore, a man who ‘‘had been a special now for over a year, and not merely in regard to the distorted genes which he carried. Worse still, he had failed to pass the minimum mental faculties test, which made him in popular parlance a

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chickenhead.’’15 Isidore, despite his mental limitations, is one of the novel’s most memorable characters, a man who feels compassion not only for other people but also for mechanical animals. The mass extinctions produced by nuclear war have resulted in a thriving false-animal trade, in which extraordinarily lifelike mechanical reproductions of extinct (or dying) species have become a highly profitable market. These electric animals, like any mechanism, require periodic maintenance and repair that Isidore helps provide:

‘‘He had his job, driving a pickup and delivery truck for a false-animal repair firm; the Van Ness Pet Hospital and his gloomy, gothic boss Hannibal Sloat accepted him as human and this he appreciated.’’16

Dick, in this short passage, conveys the fundamental unfairness of Isidore’s life. The precise, evocative language reflects the new social order that has arisen after the war, one in which animal simulations receive more sympathy than human beings who, through no fault of their own, suffer genetic mal-adies from the radioactive dust that lingers long after the war has ended. The fact that Sloat treats Isidore as human while referring to Isidore by an animal name (‘‘chickenhead’’) points to one of Electric Sheep’s central ironies: the hypocrisy of elevating mechanical animals to symbols of their owners’ financial security (in much the same way that automobiles were status symbols before the war), but failing to recognize the humanity of survivors such as Isidore.

The cultural fetish that false animals represent is a cruel reminder of the economic, social, and political disparities between specials like Isidore and normal citizens like the novel’s protagonist, Rick Deckard, a bounty hunter who uses the funds from executing androids to buy the electric sheep of the novel’s title.

That Isidore counts for less than Deckard’s mechanical pet perfectly expresses the moral bankruptcy of Dick’s imagined, postatomic society.

Isidore, however, is among the novel’s most vivid characters because he seeks spiritual release from his troubles. The vehicle for this release is the empathy box, a device that allows its user, after grasping the box’s two handles, to experience a difficult episode in the life of Wilbur Mercer. This elderly man ascends a barren hill, although an attack by unseen assailants makes reaching the summit an arduous, physically demanding process. Injured and frightened after being pummeled by rocks, Mercer remembers that, as a child, he could resurrect dead animals. Since this talent had been declared illegal by political leaders who feared the threat that it represented to their authority, unnamed killers destroy ‘‘the unique nodule which had formed in his [Mercer’s] brain, had attacked it with radioactive cobalt, and this had plunged him into a different world.’’17 Mercer calls this nightmarish locale, full of animal bones, the tomb world. He can only escape its confines when those bones grow into living creatures. Once they do, through a process that Mercer does not understand, he begins climbing out of the tomb world, toward the hill’s summit.

The same story replays itself each time Isidore uses the empathy box, in a repetitive resurrection tale whose parallels to the punishment of the

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Greek mythological figure Sisyphus—condemned by the gods to ceaselessly roll a boulder uphill, only to have it roll back down, as payment for his sins—
are clear. Mercer’s repeated ascents, however, have other religious resonances.

He enacts a resurrection that depends upon his Christlike ability to endure suffering. Mercer’s childhood, moreover, recalls the Biblical story of Moses, beginning when ‘‘his foster parents. . .had found him floating on an inflated rubber air-rescue raft. . . .’’18 These similarities are not mere set dressing, either, but an integral aspect of Electric Sheep’s carefully imagined future society. Isidore finds an austere hope in Mercer’s struggle, demonstrating how Electric Sheep incorporates religion into its pessimistic landscape to reveal the spiritual capacity of even supposedly deformed and deficient people.

Mercerism is not a utopian faith, either, but rather an honest acknowledgment of the novel’s depressing postatomic world. Dick portrays Isidore’s spiritual hunger with great sensitivity, never dismissing the man as unworthy of enlightenment. Mercerism is, therefore, more tolerant of difference and deformity than the novel’s socially stratified San Francisco setting. The religion becomes popular not only because of its message that the war’s earth-bound and marginalized survivors can attain nobility through suffering but also because the empathy box allows its user to fuse with Mercer’s image, thereby experiencing Mercer’s struggle as the user’s own. Rather than simply projecting an image for Isidore to view, the empathy box merges him into a collective consciousness formed by the minds of the people using the box at the same moment. Dick’s description of this melding is notable:

[Isidore] had crossed over in the usual perplexing fashion; physical merging—
accompanied by mental and spiritual identification—with Wilbur Mercer had reoccurred. As it did for everyone who at this moment clutched the handles, either here on Earth or on one of the colony planets. He experienced them, the others, incorporated the babble of their thoughts, heard in his own brain the noise of their many individual existences. They—and he—cared about one thing; this fusion of their mentalities oriented their attention on the hill, the climb, the need to ascend.. . .Isidore stood holding the two handles, experiencing himself as encompassing every other living thing.. . .19

Isidore’s communion with the empathy box’s other users highlights Dick’s prescience, for this passage predicts the development of virtual reality with startling precision. The box’s spiritual ramifications are even more significant, allowing Isidore to attain the closeness with other people that his status as a special denies him in daily life. The capacity to ‘‘encompass every other living thing’’ reflects Isidore’s spiritual maturity by underscoring his ability to empathize with Mercer’s difficult quest, as well as to identify with the dreams and desires of Mercer’s global congregation. The empathy box, therefore, provides a technological route to personal intimacy that Isidore can find nowhere in the real world.

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This poignant evocation of Isidore’s spiritual life does not directly translate to Blade Runner. Dick, however, connects Mercerism to Blade Runner’s larger themes during his interview with Gwen Lee: They cut out the part about Mercer, the savior, they cut that out. But they concentrated on the main theme, and the main theme is the hunting down of the replicants. And the effect that having to kill these replicants has on Rick Deckard, the detective, the attrition on him of killing creatures which although technically are not human, are genetic replicants.20

Despite the absence of explicit religious content, Blade Runner subtly constructs a double parallel to Mercer’s quest through Deckard’s moral awakening and through the replicants’ maturing subjectivity. Although the film never mentions Mercer or the empathy box, it incorporates Electric Sheep’s spiritual themes into many of its story lines. Deckard’s shifting perspective about the replicants’ humanity, the replicant leader Roy Batty’s (Rutger Hauer) passionate commitment to living an authentic life, the replicant Rachael Tyrell’s (Sean Young) confusion about her true identity, and the genetic designer J.F. Sebastian’s (William Sanderson) decency in the face of abject loneliness are all connected to the novel’s invocation of Mercerism, even though this belief system does not appear in the film. J.F. Sebastian is also Blade Runner’s version of John Isidore who, although a minor character in the film, becomes important to its narrative by befriending Roy Batty and his replicant lover, Pris Stratton (Daryl Hannah).

Deckard’s, Rachael’s, and Batty’s stories, however, provide the best windows into Blade Runner’s spiritual subtext and bear intriguing implications for Blade Runner’s status as a classic American SF film. Spirituality is a quality not commonly associated with American SF cinema, but its presence in Blade Runner reveals the film’s intelligent adaptation of Electric Sheep’s religious themes and its contribution to cinematic representations of faith. The film’s spiritual concerns, however, are ambiguous. They demonstrate why Blade Runner retains, after twenty-five years, the power to confound its viewers’

moral assumptions about the authenticity of human life in an industrialized, bureaucratized, and politically repressive state that rejects all spiritual striving.

IV.

Blade Runner evokes spirituality by contrast, for the world it portrays is one of soul-crushing hypercapitalism. The opening image is a startling shot of smokestacks that belch flames over the industrial wasteland of Los Angeles, circa 2019. This locale is only one of many details that Blade Runner alters from Electric Sheep’s story. Since the film’s claustrophobic set design makes it impossible to identify recognizable Los Angeles landmarks, its setting could be any large American city of the future. This geographical ambivalence

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immediately locates Blade Runner as an heir to the film noir and hardboiled detective movies of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s. Even exterior shots of the city’s streets reveal a thoroughly sordid environment that is full of trash, pollution, and outcast people. No character ever refers to radiation, so the environmental cataclysm that has plunged the city into a perpetual, rain-soaked night is not a nuclear holocaust. The effects of unchecked urbanization, however, have fundamentally worsened the city’s smog-filled atmosphere to levels of misery rarely seen in an American film. Blade Runner’s depiction of futuristic Los Angeles is, as Richard Corliss notes, remarkable in its pessimistic texture.

It is not a place to expect spiritual succor, much less redemption.

This cityscape, however, faithfully adapts Electric Sheep’s blasted, dirty, and depressing portrait of San Francisco. One of Dick’s primary metaphors is that of kipple, the detritus of daily life that threatens to overwhelm the novel’s characters. Isidore notices kipple upon returning to his large, empty apartment building:

He lived alone in this deteriorating, blind building of a thousand uninhabited apartments, which like all its counterparts, fell, day by day, into greater entropic ruin. Eventually everything within the building would merge, would be faceless and identical, mere pudding-like kipple piled to the ceiling of each apartment.

And, after that, the uncared-for building itself would settle into shapelessness, buried under the ubiquity of the dust.21

Lawrence G. Paull’s production design precisely conveys this unpleasant environment. Blade Runner, in this regard, is a relentlessly unattractive film that depicts twenty-first-century urban America as the victim of pitiless commercialism. It is a place where the wealthy live in enormously tall high-rises that separate them from the polyglot humanity of Los Angeles’s streets.

Garbage, debris, and clutter threaten to overtake every scene, attesting to how well Ridley Scott and his production team capture the remorseless environment of Philip K. Dick’s novel.

Spiritual concerns, therefore, are not immediate priorities for Rick Deckard, for Rachael Tyrell, or for the replicants whom Deckard executes. Blade Runner ignores Mercerism and the empathy box but, as Dick himself notes, focuses on the moral awakening that Deckard’s hunt provokes. Deckard, in Blade Runner, does not initially want to exterminate the replicants (the film’s term for the novel’s ‘‘androids’’), but his former boss, Police Captain Bryant (M. Emmet Walsh), pressures him to accept the assignment. Although Electric Sheep establishes Deckard as a freelance bounty hunter who contracts with the police department to track and ‘‘retire’’ (execute) escaped androids, Blade Runner casts Deckard as a retired detective who wishes to escape law-enforcement bureaucracy. This development not only further cements the film’s debt to the hardboiled detective genre but also transforms Deckard into a burned-out functionary who rejects the bureaucratic corruption

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that has drained him of all passion. Harrison Ford’s performance in the film’s early scenes is laconic almost to the point of somnolence, nicely illustrating Deckard’s emotional enervation and spiritual malaise. Dick’s protagonist is similarly depressed, but for different reasons: Electric Sheep’s Deckard worries about money, wishes to improve his social status by purchasing a live animal (rather than paying to maintain his mechanical sheep), and is married to a woman named Iran who no longer seems to love him. Ford’s acting, particularly his shambling gait and stooped shoulders, captures Deckard’s emotional despair with graceful economy. By underplaying the role, Ford dramatizes the existential trap that Bryant casually, yet brutally sketches when Deckard refuses to hunt down Roy Batty and the other escaped replicants: ‘‘If you’re not a cop, you’re little people.’’

As M. Keith Booker observes in Alternate Americas: Science Fiction Film and American Culture, this comment ‘‘[suggests] that this future world might be a dystopian police state.’’22 Blade Runner draws out this possibility by creating a character named Gaff (Edward James Olmos), an underling of Bryant, who follows Deckard throughout the film. Deckard may live in a ninety-seventh-floor apartment, far above the people who crowd the city’s streets, but Gaff’s surveillance suggests that Deckard’s social position is both precarious and subject to immediate change. Blade Runner alters the lifestyle of Electric Sheep’s protagonist to illustrate Deckard’s personal insecurity, thereby echoing the novel’s obsession with social mobility.

Ridley Scott, in fact, deliberately changed Deckard’s character. In an interview conducted by Harlan Kennedy for the July/August 1982 issue of Film Comment magazine, Scott discusses Deckard’s transformation: We changed the character a bit from Dick’s novel. In the book he’s a bit of a renegade, a freelance, with a bonus for each job. But in the film he’s part of a bureaucracy. We thought it would be nice to see this character gradually emerge as a very efficient exterminator who is almost Kafkaesque. A lot of elements in the plot are, in a funny kind of way, Kafkaesque.23

The depressing atmosphere, emotionally stunted people, and spiritual weariness of Kafka’s best fiction—The Metamorphosis, ‘‘A Hunger Artist,’’ ‘‘The Judgment,’’ and The Trial—closely match Blade Runner’s upsetting tone, isolated characters, and spiritual ennui. The film’s depiction of its characters as individuals compromised by scientific, political, and economic forces beyond their control are also Kafkaesque flourishes. Electric Sheep, moreover, is a novel heavily indebted to Kafka, as evidenced by Isidore’s demeaning occupation and Deckard’s pointless concern about social mobility in a world that cares nothing for him. Scott’s comment identifies one of the most important connections between his film and Dick’s novel. It is also particularly telling in light of Deckard’s slow, yet undeniable moral regeneration as Blade Runner progresses.

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Kafka’s characters often die bereft of all hope. Gregor Samsa, the pitiable protagonist of The Metamorphosis, who awakens one morning transformed into a giant insect, only to slowly die as his family abandons him, is the best example. Blade Runner, by contrast, allows Deckard a kinder (although hardly optimistic) end: he and Rachael, having fallen in love, flee Deckard’s apartment after he has executed all the escaped replicants (save Roy Batty, whom he watches die on a lonely rooftop). The Director’s Cut concludes ambivalently. Deckard and Rachael want to escape police control because Bryant has ordered Rachael’s execution after learning that she, too, is a replicant. The final shot sees Deckard and Rachael enter an elevator, whose door wipes across Rachael’s confused and uncertain face as it closes. This image’s composition marginalizes Deckard, pushing him to the side of the frame in the same way that his decision to embrace Rachael pushes aside the social authority that, as a blade runner, he has enjoyed. Deckard, in this moment, becomes a member of the little people that Bryant earlier condemned, demonstrating how heartlessly the bureaucracy that controls Deckard’s life treats employees who question its power and principles.

This conclusion, as ambiguous as any that Kafka (or Dick) wrote, also emphasizes Deckard’s spiritual growth. He is able to love Rachael by ignoring the constraints of a society that objectifies and dehumanizes the replicants.

One of the film’s supreme ironies comes when Dr. Eldon Tyrell (Joe Turkel), the replicants’ wealthy creator, outlines his corporate vision for Deckard:

‘‘Commerce is our goal here at Tyrell. ‘More human than human’ is our motto.’’ Tyrell makes this declaration after Deckard subjects Rachael to the Voight-Kampff test, an electronic empathy examination that determines that she is, indeed, a replicant. Tyrell uses the most advanced genetic engineering techniques to create synthetic people who mimic human behavior so precisely that they nearly pass the test, which would qualify them as authentically human. Tyrell, however, casually dismisses Rachael as ‘‘an experiment. Nothing more’’ after Deckard realizes that she is not human. Tyrell’s callousness reveals the fundamental contradiction of Blade Runner’s cinematic future: blade runners like Deckard protect the human population from replicants who more passionately value their lives than the people whose existence they supposedly threaten.

This paradox has a profound effect on Deckard. His moral awakening begins in this scene, in which Tyrell admits that his corporation has recognized in the replicants ‘‘a strange obsession.’’ Tyrell tells Deckard that the replicants’ four-year life span makes them ‘‘emotionally inexperienced, with only a few years in which to store up the experiences that you and I take for granted.’’ Tyrell’s solution to this problem is one of Dick’s favorite SF devices: implanted false memories. Tyrell’s rationale for this solution is significant:

‘‘If we gift them with a past, we create a cushion or a pillow for their emotions, and consequently we can control them better.’’ When Deckard realizes that Tyrell refers to synthetic memories, the pained disgust on his face matches

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his astonishment, expressed only a few moments earlier, when Tyrell acknowledges that Rachael has begun to suspect that she is a replicant: ‘‘Suspect! How can it not know what it is?’’ Deckard asks. Ford’s performance in this scene is masterful, moving from the bored indifference of his initial conversation with Rachael through neutral efficiency while administering the Voight-Kampff test to quietly contained shock at Tyrell’s methods.

Tyrell refers to implanted memories as a gift, but Deckard’s reaction recognizes the unfairness of allowing the replicants to believe that their memories are real. One of the film’s most emotionally vicious scenes finds Rachael waiting for Deckard as he arrives home. Tyrell has rejected Rachael, who seeks out Deckard to learn the truth of her identity. Rachael surprises Deckard by hiding in the shadows of his apartment building’s elevator, causing Deckard to draw his weapon when he first notices her. His anxiety, however, goes deeper than this initial shock, for, as the scene develops, Deckard warily keeps his distance from Rachael. When she presents Deckard with a photograph of the young Rachael with her mother, Deckard recounts some of Rachael’s secret childhood memories to prove that they belong to Tyrell’s niece. Rachael nearly cries as she realizes that Deckard could only know these memories if they are implants. Her face, in fact, expresses shock, remorse, and uncertainty.

Sean Young plays this reaction so tenderly that the viewer cannot help but sympathize with Rachael, leading Deckard to regret his actions. ‘‘I made a bad joke,’’ he tells Rachael. ‘‘You’re not a replicant.’’ Deckard then offers her a drink, but Rachael leaves his apartment, dropping the photo of her mother as she goes.

The disappointment on Deckard’s face as he watches Rachael walk out the door speaks to his own uncertainty. Rachael may be a Nexus 6 replicant (the most advanced model, and Tyrell’s proudest achievement), but her reaction to learning this fact seems fully human. Her genuinely moving emotional response is a result of Young’s performance, to be sure, but also a sign that the replicants are far more complicated than Tyrell has admitted. Deckard, now alone, scrutinizes Rachael’s photograph, which briefly animates (the shadows within the photo move, as if the wind is blowing) to suggest that this supposedly false memory is, in fact, authentic. Deckard then begins examining photos belonging to Leon (Brion James), an escaped replicant who, in the film’s second scene, mortally wounds Holden (Morgan Paull), the blade runner sent by Bryant to test the Tyrell Corporation’s newest employees.

Deckard has discovered the photos while searching Leon’s hotel room in an attempt to discover the escaped replicants’ location. These photos represent important anchors to Rachael’s and Leon’s personal histories, allowing the replicants to believe that their memories—and their past lives—are real.

Blade Runner extends the resulting ambivalence about human identity to Deckard by filling his apartment with family photos. If photography does not represent an objective account of past experience, then Deckard’s own humanity becomes uncertain. Blade Runner questions the nature of the

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human-replicant division that Bryant endorses by juxtaposing Rachael’s and Leon’s photos with Deckard’s. Deckard does not verbalize this philosophical quandary, but Harrison Ford’s contemplative expression as he rummages through Leon’s photos before drinking whiskey and silently watching the city from his apartment’s high balcony suggests that Deckard has begun doubting the human-replicant divide that Blade Runner consistently blurs.

This doubt not only grows as the film continues but also parallels the questions that Electric Sheep’s protagonist asks himself. Although driven by a desire to earn money that the film’s protagonist does not share, Dick’s character, despite differences from his cinematic counterpart (‘‘I’m not a peace officer,’’24 Electric Sheep’s protagonist declares), becomes progressively uncertain of the androids’ inhumanity. This skepticism becomes explicit after Deckard, in a sequence deleted from Blade Runner that occupies two full chapters of Electric Sheep, is taken to San Francisco’s Mission Street Hall of Justice after making contact with Luba Luft, an android opera singer whom he has agreed to retire. This building is a police station that Deckard has never seen, that is staffed by androids, and that is presided over by Inspector Garland. During a long conversation with Deckard, Garland reveals that both he (Garland) and Phil Resch, the bounty hunter to whom he introduces Deckard, are androids.

This odd interlude prompts Deckard to question the differences between humans and androids more directly than he ever has. When Deckard asks how Resch will react when told that he (Resch) is not human, Garland is frank: ‘‘ ‘I don’t have the foggiest idea. . . .He may kill everyone he can, human and android alike. I understand that such things happen, when there’s been a synthetic memory system laid down. When one thinks it’s human.’’’25 These memories, just as in Blade Runner, provide a false sense of authentic humanity that disturbs Deckard. He carefully hides this reaction when Resch later asks Deckard if he thinks of androids as objects: ‘‘ ‘I did at one time,’ Rick said. ‘When my conscience occasionally bothered me about the work I had to do; I protected myself by thinking of them that way but now I no longer find it necessary.’ ’’26 Deckard’s hardened response corresponds to the tough, irritated, and closed exterior that Blade Runner’s Deckard projects during his confrontation with Rachael. The novel’s protagonist, however, soon retreats from this attitude. After Deckard retires Luba Luft, Electric Sheep recounts an unprecedented shift in his thinking.

He had never thought of it before, had never felt any empathy on his own part toward the androids he killed. Always he had assumed that throughout his psyche he experienced the android as a clever machine—as in his conscious view.

And yet, in contrast to Phil Resch, a difference had manifested itself. And he felt instinctively that he was right. Empathy toward an artificial construct? he asked himself. Something that only pretends to be alive? But Luba Luft had seemed genuinely alive; it had not worn the aspect of a simulation.27

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This reflection leads Deckard to reconsider his reaction to Luba’s execution.

Resch agrees to use the Voight-Kampff machine to monitor Deckard’s emotional responses to questions about Luba’s death. Deckard, to his surprise, is emotionally affected by the notion of retiring a female android: Rick said, ‘‘I’m capable of feeling empathy for at least specific, certain androids. Not for all of them but—one or two.’’ For Luba Luft, as an example, he said to himself. So I was wrong. There’s nothing unnatural or unhuman about Phil Resch’s reactions; it’s me.. . .

So much for the distinction between authentic living humans and humanoid constructs. In that elevator at the museum, he said to himself, I rode down with two creatures, one human, the other android . . .and my feelings were the reverse of those intended. Of those I’m accustomed to feel—am required to feel.. . .

You’re [Resch] a good bounty hunter, Rick realized. Your attitude proves it.

But am I?

Suddenly, for the first time in his life, he had begun to wonder.28

The events of this chapter, so crucial to Deckard’s moral awakening, also resonate with Mercerism’s fundamental principles, especially the idea that compassion and suffering are intertwined. By questioning his occupation’s precepts, Deckard begins to reclaim the conscience that he has suppressed for so long. Dick’s evocation of his protagonist’s internal struggle presents two competing possibilities—the humanity of the androids and the inhumanity of their executioners—as a problematic dichotomy that cannot persist once Deckard begins considering it. Deckard’s spiritual growth is an intellectual and ethical slippage that obscures the rigid boundaries between human and android. Deckard is no longer a simple mercenary, but rather a man capable of transcending the limitations of the stark postatomic society in which he lives. This possibility emphasizes the novel’s fractious humanism, for Electric Sheep does not deny Deckard the opportunity to grow into a more ethical, more principled, and more moral man.

Neither does Blade Runner. The film omits the sequence in the android police station, the characters of Luba Luft and Phil Resch, and Deckard’s philosophical conversation with Resch. It portrays Deckard’s moral regeneration far more economically than Dick’s novel. Deckard’s interaction with Tyrell and the quarrel with Rachael prompt him to doubt the replicants’ inhumanity, allowing Blade Runner to depict Deckard and Rachael’s developing sexual attraction differently than the novel. The movie also condenses the other replicants’ story to illustrate how significant Deckard’s change of heart is in the morally tarnished setting of 2019 Los Angeles. These elements underscore the film’s spiritual maturity, signaling how well Blade Runner adapts Electric Sheep’s most significant theme even as the film diverges from the novel’s plot.

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V.

In 1968, Philip K. Dick wrote ‘‘Notes on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?’’ for Bertram Berman, a filmmaker who had purchased the just-released novel’s first option. This document is a fascinating analysis of Dick’s fertile ideas for translating Electric Sheep into cinematic form. Dick, for instance, concludes that Deckard, rather than Isidore, should be the film’s viewpoint character, while suggesting Gregory Peck, Richard Widmark, Martin Balsam, and Ben Gazzara as candidates to play the role. One of Dick’s most incisive comments is also one of his most straightforward: ‘‘There could be room for more sex.’’29 The author then insightfully examines the meanings and possibilities of human–android relationships, at one point asking, Isn’t this, this sexual union between Rick Deckard and Rachael Rosen—isn’t it the summa of falsity and mechanical motions carried out minus any real feeling, as we understand the word? Feeling on each of their parts. Does in fact her mental—and physical—coldness numb the male, the human man, into an echo of it?30

These questions not only underscore the differences between Electric Sheep’s and Blade Runner’s approach to sexuality but also highlight the differences in their attitude toward authentic humanity. Dick’s novel views the androids as soulless creatures, devoid of empathy and compassion. Isidore realizes this fact after allowing three androids—Pris Stratton (who, in Electric Sheep, is an exact replica of Rachael Rosen), Roy Baty, and Irmgard Baty (Roy’s wife)—to live in his apartment. The androids have little regard for Isidore’s feelings, but his loneliness and desire for companionship forgives their brusque treatment, as seen when they refuse to help Isidore move their possessions from Pris’s downstairs apartment into his quarters:

‘‘One more trip,’’ [Isidore] said, ‘‘will do it.’’ He lingered, warming himself at the hearth of their presence.

‘‘Fine,’’ Pris said remotely.

Isidore started off once more. I think, he thought, they’re exploiting me sort of. But he did not care. They’re still good friends to have, he said to himself.31

This disregard for Isidore’s generosity becomes horrifying when Pris maims a live spider that Isidore finds while returning from her apartment. Isidore watches, in ‘‘a weird terror,’’32 as Pris cuts off four of the spider’s legs. Roy Baty then lights a match, holding the flame near the spider until the insect creeps away. Isidore finds this behavior cruelly repellant: ‘‘Pris, with the scis-sors, cut yet another leg from the spider. All at once John Isidore pushed her away and lifted up the mutilated creature. He carried it to the sink and there he drowned it. In him, his mind, his hopes, drowned, too. As swiftly as the spider.’’33 Isidore’s disappointment confirms for Electric Sheep’s reader that

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the androids do not possess the emotional capacity to care about the spider’s suffering. Their cold, almost clinical interest in maiming the creature certifies the conviction, propounded at various points by Bryant, Deckard, Luba Luft, and Rachael Rosen, that the androids lack genuine human feeling. The closeness that Pris, Roy, and Irmgard share, moreover, does not extend to animals or to human beings. Not even the intimacy between the android husband and wife, or their matrimony, validates their humanity. Their sympathies, as Isidore belatedly realizes, include only themselves. The androids are emotionally immature creatures whose lack of empathy restricts their humanity.

Electric Sheep, therefore, considers them to be objects, and never people.

The novel similarly forecloses the possibility of Rachael’s emotional maturation when she sleeps with Deckard to forestall her execution. This passage exemplifies her intelligent, cold, and mechanical nature. Although Rachael confesses that ‘‘we androids can’t control our physical, sensual passions’’34
and ‘‘that I’m not alive,’’35 Deckard no longer cares, revealing that he would marry Rachael if she were not an android. He, however, is no longer certain that Rachael is a mechanism—an object rather than a person—because their lovemaking has further obscured the boundary between human and android that he has come to doubt. After Rachael and Deckard finish, two surprising discoveries upend his thinking:

This is my end, he said to himself. As a bounty hunter. After the Batys there won’t be any more. Not after this, tonight.

‘‘You look so sad,’’ Rachael said.

Putting his hand out, he touched her cheek.

‘‘You’re not going to be able to hunt androids any longer,’’ she said calmly.

‘‘So don’t look so sad. Please.’’

He stared at her.

‘‘No bounty hunter has ever gone on,’’ Rachael said. ‘‘After being with me.

Except one. A very cynical man. Phil Resch. And he’s nutty; he works out in left field on his own.’’

‘‘I see,’’ Rick said. He felt numb. Completely. Throughout his entire body.36

Their sexual union has been a means to an end for Rachael, but, for Deckard, it confounds his ability to see androids as automatons. Emotional sophistication—particularly the capacity to feel empathy, compassion, and tenderness

—becomes the criterion by which the human differs from the inhuman.

Deckard’s numbness, for instance, follows the emotional shock of learning that Rachael has used him, whereas her coldness in manipulating Deckard’s sexual desire precedes her sexual performance. Rachael’s dispassion becomes even starker—and, to Deckard, sickening—when she claims to have destroyed the professional careers of seven or eight other bounty hunters by sleeping with them. Rachael does not simply fail to exhibit empathy toward Deckard, but, by evincing the unemotional logic of a machine, corroborates

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the insensitivity that Dick, in his comments about how to adapt Electric Sheep into cinematic form, calls ‘‘the core of unlife within her.’’37

The final proof of Rachael’s inhumanity comes when she kills the biological (in other words, real) sheep that Deckard purchases as a replacement for his electric model with the money he earns from executing Luba Luft. The androids’ willingness to maim and murder animals emphasizes their foreign-ness in a culture that reveres living creatures as symbols of economic and emotional security. Rachael’s callousness in pushing Deckard’s sheep off the roof of his apartment building, moreover, conclusively proves that his sympathy for her is misguided (Deckard, after their lovemaking, refuses to execute Rachael). Their sexual encounter is an empty, an unfulfilling, and a bleak example of false intimacy that allows him to return home to embrace his wife Iran at the novel’s conclusion. Sexual intercourse with Rachael destroys Deckard’s faith that the androids qualify as genuine human beings, reaffirm-ing the prejudice against them that he has held all along.

Deckard, after Rachael’s sexual betrayal, goes to Isidore’s apartment.

He executes Pris, Irmgard, and Roy, but cannot muster any pride in this accomplishment:

What a job to have to do, Rick thought. I’m a scourge, like famine or plague.

Where I go the ancient curse follows. As Mercer said, I am required to do wrong. Everything I’ve done has been wrong from the start. Anyhow, now it’s time to go home. Maybe, after I’ve been there awhile with Iran, I’ll forget.38

Deckard’s spiritual exhaustion—expressed through Biblical references to famines, plagues, and curses—suggests that faith is an insufficient commodity in Electric Sheep’s immoral dystopia. Deckard cannot invest his belief in any specific ideology or institution. He has become, as Dick observes in ‘‘Notes on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?,’’ a mechanical echo of Rachael’s emotional numbness.

Blade Runner revises this depressing conclusion to further confuse, rather than confirm, the distinction between human and mechanical life. The replicants are not pitiless automatons, but rather passionate people who wish to extend their genetically limited four-year life spans. Their shortened existence, although a relatively minor detail in Electric Sheep, propels the replicants’

rebellion against the human creators (specifically Tyrell) who utilize them as slave labor in the hazardous exploration and colonization of space. The androids’ goal in Electric Sheep is to discredit Mercerism. They eventually prove that the empathy box’s image of Mercer is, in fact, a fake: years before the novel begins, an actor named Al Jarry performs Mercer’s ascent on a soundstage for an unidentified employer who uses that footage as the basis of a new theology. Blade Runner’s replicants, by contrast, wish to live longer so that they can explore human sensations, emotions, and experiences unfet-tered by prejudice or bondage. Blade Runner expands the replicants’

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emotional range, their intellectual sophistication, and their tragic circumstances to force Deckard (and, by implication, the viewer) to recognize the spiritual significance of living an authentic life. Whereas Electric Sheep’s androids demolish the theological system that supports the weary inhabitants of the novel’s postatomic culture, Blade Runner’s replicants embody the fervent curiosity necessary to redeem the residents of the film’s hyperindustrialized society. Their quest, like Deckard’s, becomes a search for spiritual fulfillment in a world that makes such a pursuit seem impossible.

This development also includes carnality as an important element of spiritual growth. Blade Runner’s depiction of sexuality does not reduce sex to a fleshly spectacle, although the film’s most lurid images involve Deckard’s executions of the two escaped female replicants, Zhora (Joanna Cassidy) and Pris. Zhora, in fact, works as an exotic dancer whose nightclub act allows a snake to wrap suggestively around her body. She even allows Deckard to watch her disrobe and shower when he visits her dressing room after the performance. Zhora nearly kills Deckard when she realizes that he is a blade runner but cannot escape his relentless pursuit. Deckard shoots Zhora through the back in a disturbing, visually arresting scene in which her bloody corpse tumbles through several glass panes. This scene’s slow-motion footage and saxophone-filled score emphasize the sexual violence of Zhora’s execution. Her shattered, exposed body provides a starkly silent contrast to the comically suggestive tone of her dressing-room banter with Deckard (‘‘Are you for real,’’ Zhora asks Deckard at one point, not quite believing that he is an investigator for the Confidential Committee on Moral Abuses). Harrison Ford’s sickened expression when viewing Zhora’s corpse reflects Deckard’s conflicted emotions about killing a female replicant. His mood only worsens when Bryant and Gaff arrive to supervise the collection of Zhora’s body.

‘‘You look almost as bad as that skin job you left on the sidewalk,’’ Bryant tells Deckard, using a racist epithet that he employs throughout the film. Bryant also disparages Deckard’s disillusionment with the job of hunting down replicants: ‘‘You could learn from this guy, Gaff,’’ Bryant says. ‘‘He’s a goddamned one-man slaughterhouse, that’s what he is.’’ Deckard’s embarrassed and exasperated reaction to this backhanded compliment cannot hide his shock when Bryant orders him to execute Rachael, who has fled the Tyrell Corporation.

Blade Runner’s sexual theme now becomes prominent. Deckard’s inability to kill Rachael, although parallel to the novel’s events, unfolds much differently. Replicant Leon, who has witnessed Zhora’s execution, corners Deckard in a deserted alleyway, intending to kill the blade runner in retaliation for Zhora’s death. Rachael, however, kills Leon with Deckard’s gun, which she somehow manages to locate in the confusion of their struggle. Her appearance so surprises Deckard that he does not question how she has located him or why she has saved his life. They instead return to his apartment for one of the strangest seduction scenes ever filmed.

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When Deckard notices that Rachael trembles, physically expressing her fear and guilt over killing Leon, he tells her, ‘‘Shakes? I get ’em bad. It’s part of the business’’ while sipping a shot of vodka. Rachael’s response is not only one of the film’s best lines of dialogue but also one of Sean Young’s most effective moments: ‘‘I’m not in the business. I am the business.’’ During the healthy pause between these two lines, Rachael nearly loses control of her emotions. She now realizes that she is not a human being, but rather an experimental commodity that helps fulfill Tyrell’s goal of dominating the commercial marketplace.

Rachael then asks Deckard whether or not he will hunt her if she escapes to the north. Deckard replies that he will not execute Rachael because he owes her a debt of gratitude for saving his life, but that another blade runner will pursue her. This upsetting revelation prompts Rachael to ask Deckard if he knows what her ‘‘incept date’’ is—the date of her creation, which will also tell Rachael when she is due to expire. Deckard, not looking at Rachael, evasively says that this information is classified. He haltingly claims not to have looked at the incept dates of any of the escaped replicants. Deckard’s discomfort with this topic, however, acknowledges how disturbing the possibility of Rachael’s death is to him. When Rachael asks Deckard if he has ever subjected himself to the Voight-Kampff empathy test, his refusal to answer raises the even more disturbing possibility that he, too, is a replicant. Rachael’s unhappy and uncertain countenance throughout this conversation gives the scene a yearning, yet pessimistic mood that does not dissipate when Deckard, exhausted and inebriated, briefly falls asleep.

Rachael then examines some of Deckard’s photographs. The prominent images of women connect Deckard’s need for authentic memories to Rachael’s picture of her mother, establishing a subtle connection between the two characters without dialogue or interaction. Ridley Scott’s sensitive direction, Jordan Cronenweth’s textured cinematography (the shadowy, contrast-laden lighting of Deckard’s apartment makes Rachael look alternately soft and menacing), and Vangelis’s erotic saxophone music all underscore the tenuous relationship between Deckard and Rachael. She eventually sits at Deckard’s piano, playing a melancholy song that awakens Deckard from his stupor. He joins Rachael at the piano, telling her ‘‘I dreamt music.’’

Rachael says that she remembers taking lessons, but that she cannot be certain whether these memories belong to her or to Tyrell’s niece.

Deckard tells Rachael, ‘‘You play beautifully’’ in a simple, direct expression of his growing belief that her personality is not only genuine but also unique.

As he begins kissing Rachael, she runs from him. Sean Young’s performance in this scene is accomplished, for she communicates how Rachael’s fear of Deckard’s sexual advances arises from uncertainty about her own legitimacy as a human being. Deckard, however, bars Rachael from exiting his apartment, throws her against a window, and encloses her in a small space bounded by his body. The seduction becomes more distressing, for Deckard

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seems to threaten a beating or a rape. He kisses Rachael again, commanding her to kiss him. Rachael says, ‘‘I can’t rely on my memories,’’ not knowing if her previous sexual experience is authentic or the erotic imaginings of another woman. Deckard does not care. ‘‘Say ‘kiss me,’ ’’ he demands.

Rachael complies, allowing him to kiss her. The expression on her face, initially fearful, becomes more ardent as Rachael starts to enjoy the act’s intimacy. Young is excellent, playing the scene as a young girl tentatively receiving her first kiss and as a mature woman who desires connection with her lover. When Deckard instructs Rachael to say, ‘‘I want you,’’ she repeats these words in a querulous voice. ‘‘Again,’’ Deckard says. Rachael responds with more confidence, then, as the camera cuts to a side view, looks directly into Deckard’s eyes before issuing a command of her own: ‘‘Put your hands on me.’’ Rachael then straightens, firmly taking Deckard into her arms and passionately kissing him.

This scene is no simple sexual conquest of Rachael by Deckard, but rather an intricate evocation of Blade Runner’s major themes. Each moment is charged with hesitation and indecision. The fears and uncertainties provoked by the supposed differences between humans and replicants reinforce Deckard and Rachael’s need for connection, closeness, and warmth. Blade Runner presents their sexual coupling in a much different tenor from Electric Sheep: rather than ending their relationship, Deckard and Rachael’s sexual encounter in Blade Runner deepens each person’s appreciation for the other. Rachael also does not manipulate Deckard’s desire or destroy his ability to distinguish between humans and replicants. She instead responds to his advances as a method of confirming her own sexuality. Rachael’s memories, even if they belong to Tyrell’s niece, provide far more than a cushion for her ambivalent identity. They allow her to explore possibilities of joy, passion, and tenderness that she has never known.

Deckard is equally affected by these events. Harrison Ford’s performance during the seduction scene conveys the character’s confusion, anger, doubt, and affection. The expression on his face immediately after throwing Rachael against the window conveys all these emotions. Deckard is a lonely man who behaves like an emotionless automaton in the film’s early scenes, but his sexual interest in Rachael forces him to uncover long-buried passions.

The viewer, after witnessing Deckard’s seduction of Rachael, can no longer be certain that the replicants are distinguishable from human beings. Their desire for life, love, and human experience makes the replicants appear more alive than their human oppressors. They become more human than human.

Deckard and Rachael’s relationship also confirms Philip K. Dick’s suggestion, in ‘‘Notes on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?,’’ that ‘‘What is shown is just how far both the android woman and the human male can manage to force back the artificial and mechanical and smother it in their mutual yearnings.’’39 Dick, however, sees this sexual union as an inevitable failure that ‘‘could, in the end, amount to a complete collapse of understanding

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between them.’’40 His pessimistic appraisal of Deckard and Rachael’s intercourse is a fascinating literary analysis of Electric Sheep’s sexuality that underscores significant differences between the novel and Blade Runner: And if this deep and final estrangement aids Rick in his search-and-destroy mission against Pris Stratton—makes it possible, in fact, for him to kill her—
then the sex theme will have served a vital purpose in terms of the book’s plot (which up to now it really hasn’t done; it was, in the printed form, sort of an interlude only). Yes, it could well be that Rick’s recoiling from being close to Rachael—or trying his damn best to be close—may be vital in his determination—and success—in destroying the last three andys.41

Blade Runner alters Deckard and Rachael’s relationship so that they tentatively explore the possibilities of love and commitment. Deckard, in Blade Runner, does not recoil from Rachael, and she does not betray him. Their mutual love transforms the film’s moral dynamic, even though it does not prevent Deckard from executing Roy Batty and Pris Stratton to fulfill his professional obligations to Bryant. Whereas Dick suggests that the failure of the Deckard–Rachael relationship provides a logical motivation for Deckard’s execution of the remaining androids in Electric Sheep, the tenuous success of this relationship allows Blade Runner to demonstrate how cruel and spiritually empty Deckard’s profession is.

Deckard’s execution of Pris and Batty emphasizes how moral and ethical decisions are matters of personal choice. Blade Runner’s final thirty minutes eloquently demonstrate how spiritual growth is possible even in the unlikeliest of circumstances. The film is not merely the cynical portrait of future America that it appears, but rather an emotionally satisfying exploration of human spirituality. This factor, as much as any other, explains why Blade Runner remains relevant for twenty-first-century audiences.

VI.

Blade Runner’s replicants pursue a quest that has explicit spiritual resonances. They return to Earth to escape servitude in the offworld colonies and to seek their creator. They wish to extend their lives by appealing directly to this creator’s goodwill, hoping that he will end their bondage by giving them more life. Tyrell, indeed, functions as a patriarch whose wealth, power, and influence allow him to lord over Rachael, Sebastian, and (presumably) the police department. Batty, during a late-night encounter with Tyrell in the man’s bedroom, says ‘‘It’s a difficult thing to meet one’s maker.’’ This scene cements the religious iconography of Tyrell’s position by dressing his bedroom as a papal retreat, full of candles and shimmering fabrics, while costum-ing Tyrell in a large white robe that brings significance to his pontifical musings about the limitations of genetic engineering. Batty wishes to find a scientific way to prolong the replicants’ life spans, but Tyrell offers no solace.

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‘‘You’re as good as we could make you,’’ Tyrell says. ‘‘The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long.’’

The Biblical allusions do not end here. ‘‘You’re the prodigal son,’’ Tyrell tells Batty, who then confesses that he (Batty) has ‘‘done questionable things.’’ Tyrell instantly forgives his son, telling Batty that the replicant has also accomplished ‘‘extraordinary things. Revel in your time.’’ Batty’s response confirms Tyrell’s status as the primary father/creator figure of Blade Runner’s fictional world: ‘‘Nothing the god of biomechanics wouldn’t let you into heaven for?’’ Batty, whose soft voice only enhances his menacing appearance, then kisses Tyrell before crushing the man’s skull and gouging out his eyes. These visual and literary references to Judas, to the Prince of Darkness, and to Milton’s Lucifer demonstrate, as Sharon L. Gravett comments in her fine essay ‘‘The Sacred and the Profane: Examining the Religious Subtext of Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner,’’ how ‘‘exploring these Biblical stories contributes greatly to a fuller understanding of Blade Runner. The film is deeply rooted in the myths and legends of Western culture; its unique resonance stems from the interplay of these various tales.’’42

Even so, Batty appears soulless in this scene. Rutger Hauer’s quiet elocution, leonine movements, and lethal stare project danger, while Batty’s dark clothing codes him as evil. He slaughters Tyrell in an extraordinarily painful way (Tyrell’s muffled screams and bleeding eyes are horrible to behold), while Batty’s vicious expression during the murder manifests pleasure at finally killing the man who has refused Batty’s request. Batty also murders Sebastian, albeit offscreen. These actions are morally reprehensible, but Batty, by killing Tyrell and Sebastian, fulfills his function as a Nexus 6 combat model, doing what Tyrell designed him to accomplish. Batty, however, also questions the truth of his own existence to transcend his designer’s intentions.

Batty is, in fact, Blade Runner’s most human character, even if he seems the least humane. Batty so desires emotion, experience, sensation, and passion that he refuses to accept the replicants as mere machines. ‘‘We’re not computers,’’ he tells Sebastian after Sebastian asks Pris to perform a superhuman feat. ‘‘We’re physical.’’ These words emphasize the importance of bodily integrity in Blade Runner even as they underscore the replicants’ sexuality.

Batty and Pris often touch one another to suggest a sensual relationship that Sebastian, who has taken the replicants into his home, immediately notices.

Batty also mourns Deckard’s graphic execution of Pris—Deckard shoots her in the stomach, causing her to writhe and scream in pain—by kissing her lips before dipping his fingers in her blood.

Batty’s passion is not lost on Deckard. During their final confrontation, Batty plays with Deckard by chasing the blade runner through Sebastian’s apartment building, mocking Deckard’s fear, and breaking two of his fingers.

Deckard makes his way to the roof, attempting to jump onto the roof of a nearby building before Batty can catch him. Deckard’s jump falls short; he dangles high above the street, grasping an outstretched beam with only one

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hand. ‘‘Quite an experience to live in fear, isn’t it?’’ Batty asks just before Deckard’s grip gives way. ‘‘That’s what it is to be a slave.’’ Deckard, however, spits in Batty’s face just as he (Deckard) begins to fall, provoking an unexpected reaction. Batty’s hand shoots out, grabbing Deckard’s arm and lifting the man to safety. Deckard is so shocked by Batty’s behavior that he can only watch, incredulous, as Batty, whose four-year life span has elapsed, dies.

Before doing so, Batty utters the film’s most famous lines: ‘‘I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.

I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhau

¨ser Gate. All those
moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.’’ Hauer’s deft performance is heartbreaking in its gentle evocation of the memories, experiences, and passions that have driven Batty’s short life. Saving Deckard is the final expression of Batty’s spiritual fullness. The replicant is more compassionate and forgiving than his human pursuer, demonstrating that Batty is, in the end, a better man than Deckard.

This denouement is a radical departure from Electric Sheep’s final pages, in which Deckard kills Pris, Batty, and Irmgard before returning home so disconsolate that Iran cannot console him. The film’s final exchange between Deckard and Batty is not, however, an inappropriately happy ending. It dramatizes Ridley Scott’s view that the replicants are ‘‘supermen who couldn’t fly.’’43 Philip K. Dick reported that the director offered this opinion at the December 1981 screening of special effects footage that became the author’s only glimpse of the film. This perspective is evident in the first words that Batty speaks in the film. Batty greets Chew (James Hong), the genetic designer who produces replicant eyes for the Tyrell Corporation, by saying,

‘‘Fiery the angels fell / Deep thunder roared around their shores / Burning with the fires of Orc.’’ These mystifying words are a near-quotation of William Blake’s America: A Prophecy, a poem that tells an allegorical story about the struggle for liberty. This allusion also expresses Batty’s desire for freedom, his familiarity with metaphysical ideas, and his metaphorical status as a fallen angel who threatens to upset the spiritual economy of Blade Runner’s future dystopia.

Batty, therefore, becomes the savior of Blade Runner’s immoral world.

This role, reserved for Mercer in Electric Sheep, falls to an artificial man who, through his sacrifice, helps to redeem Deckard. As a result, the symbolism of the dove that Batty takes in his left hand before saving Deckard has at least two meanings. As Batty dies, he releases the dove, which flies up and away from him. The obvious (and critically derided) metaphor—that Batty’s soul ascends heavenward—obscures a more subtle possibility: that the dove also refers to Deckard’s spirit, which, through Batty’s action, reclaims its full humanity. Rutger Hauer, in an interview for Paul Sammon’s book Future Noir, claims that the dove was his idea: ‘‘Batty’s dying, so he wants to grab onto something, hold something that’s still alive. . . .The dove could represent Batty’s soul, freedom, wings, a liberation from a certain lifestyle, all

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that. There’s a lot of interesting connections to birds in mythologies and religions other than Christianity.’’44 Hauer also mentions that saving Deckard’s life may have a far more prosaic reason: ‘‘Ridley insisted that one thing Batty had to have was absolutely no sense of hesitation. He doesn’t reflect, he reacts. . . .It has nothing to do with how he feels about Deckard; it’s just a reactive moment.. . .Roy doesn’t know why he saves Deckard or grabs a dove.

He just does it.’’45 This possibility is not only plausible given the Nexus 6
model’s superior strength and agility but also adds to the ambiguity of Batty’s action. Blade Runner, even in this late scene, does not endorse simplistic notions of human behavior or faith.

This sequence, despite its differences from the novel, also pleased Philip K. Dick. Although the author considered the androids of his novel to be

‘‘deplorable,’’ ‘‘cruel,’’ ‘‘cold,’’ ‘‘heartless,’’ and ‘‘essentially less-than-human entities,’’46 he also thought, after reading a late version of Blade Runner’s screenplay, that ‘‘the final Batty/Deckard confrontation [is] a moving, wonderful sequence.’’47 Dick died on March 2, 1982, more than three months before Blade Runner’s theatrical release, and so never saw how well Ridley Scott, Harrison Ford, and Rutger Hauer realized this sequence’s potential. The scene’s implications, moreover, not only amplify the film’s fundamental themes of spiritual redemption and transformation but also ramify into Blade Runner’s conclusion.

Gaff arrives and, upon seeing Batty’s dead form, tells Deckard, ‘‘You’ve done a man’s job, sir.’’ He throws Deckard a gun, but, before exiting, says,

‘‘It’s too bad she won’t live. But then again, who does?’’ This reference to Rachael reminds Deckard (and the viewer) that she is still in danger. Deckard returns to his apartment to find her asleep in his bed. Awakening her with a kiss, Deckard asks Rachael, ‘‘Do you love me? Do you trust me?’’ Her affirma-tive responses are neither tentative nor hesitant. In the thirty-five minutes that she has been offscreen, her feelings for Deckard have solidified enough for her to admit to loving him. Deckard’s tender regard for Rachael, as well as his clear relief at finding her alive, demonstrates that his love is genuine. The scene cuts to Rachael entering the elevator across from Deckard’s apartment after he determines that no one, particularly Gaff, is waiting for them. Her foot disturbs a tinfoil unicorn. Deckard picks it up, realizing that it is another of the origami figures that Gaff has made throughout the film (in earlier scenes, Gaff has folded figures resembling a chicken and a human being). The Director’s Cut concludes as Deckard joins Rachael in the elevator, whose door wipes across her uncertain face as it closes.

This ambiguous conclusion suggests that Deckard is also a replicant. The tinfoil unicorn refers to an earlier scene in which an exhausted and intoxicated Deckard daydreams about a unicorn running through a verdant field. This brief, dreamlike vision implies that Gaff (and his boss, Bryant) has access to Deckard’s implanted memories. Ridley Scott has confirmed his belief in Deckard’s replicant status during more than one interview,48 while Future

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Noir author Paul Sammon, film scholars such as Sharon L. Gravett, and many European reviewers agree with Scott’s assessment.

Other evidence supports their viewpoint. During the scene that immediately follows Leon’s death, when Deckard refuses to hunt or execute Rachael, he stands in his kitchen. Although his face is out of focus, Deckard’s eyes clearly glow. These glowing eyes signify a replicant’s presence throughout Blade Runner. Batty’s eyes glow as he enters Chew’s shop and after he murders Tyrell, Leon’s eyes glow when he first accosts Deckard, Pris’s eyes glow soon after entering J.F. Sebastian’s apartment, and Zhora’s eyes glow as she runs from Deckard through a crowded alleyway. Rachael’s eyes, moreover, glow when we first see her and again during her confrontation in Deckard’s apartment. More general proof of Deckard’s potential artificiality is his profi-ciency at assassinating replicants. He succeeds where other blade runners, including Holden, fail. As Bryant says during his first interview with Deckard,

‘‘I need your magic.’’

Deckard’s replicant status, however, remains ambiguous. He experiences immediate pain when Batty breaks his fingers, unlike Batty’s relative stoicism when struck with a steel pipe and Pris’s calm smile after sinking her hand into boiling water. Deckard’s physical limitations almost kill him during the final rooftop chase. Unable to jump from Sebastian’s apartment building to a neighboring structure, Deckard nearly falls to his death. Only Batty, who easily makes the leap, can preserve the blade runner’s life.

A third possibility exists. Deckard and Rachael may be Nexus 7 replicants.

They might be Tyrell’s most advanced prototypes: artificial life-forms that live up to his corporate motto, ‘‘More Human than Human.’’ They even share human vices: Rachael smokes while Deckard drinks too much.

These contradictory prospects intimate that Deckard, whether he is a man drained of conscience by his thankless executioner’s job or a replicant designed to soullessly kill his own kind, cannot be confined by a strict man/
machine dichotomy. The barrier between human and replicant becomes porous, allowing Deckard’s character to change and to grow. This revelation is subtle, quiet, and unobtrusive. Deckard neither speaks about his changing values nor experiences a visible conversion. Blade Runner instead relies upon Harrison Ford’s expressive face, Ridley Scott’s restrained direction, Jordan Cronenweth’s careful lighting, and Vangelis’s muted music to indicate Deckard’s change of attitude.

This finale demonstrates not only the maturity of Blade Runner’s treatment of human spirituality but also the success of its adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s challenging novel. Dick himself predicted this outcome based on the twenty minutes of special effects footage that he saw in December 1981: If you see the movie first, and then you read the book, you will get more material when you read the book.. . .Or, if you start with the book. Then you can go to the movie, and then you get more material. So they don’t fight each

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other. The book and the movie do not fight each other. They reinforce each other.. . .49

Dick’s perspective, refreshing as it is, could not have predicted how significant Blade Runner has become. Scott’s movie has influenced many other SF films because Blade Runner rejects cheap answers to the complicated questions raised by its story. Faith in Blade Runner is not a matter of public pronouncement, but of private struggle. The film’s immoral industrialized society is also not fully redeemed by Deckard and Rachael’s newfound devotion to one another. Such wholesale change is impossible. Blade Runner’s beauty lies not only in its stupendous visual style but also in its willingness to embrace the ambiguities of identity, love, and morality that inflect the film’s ugly landscape with the tenuous possibility of spiritual fulfillment. Blade Runner’s inability to offer definitive answers to these questions does not evade the narrative’s provocative subject matter, but instead exposes the indeterminate complexities of early-twenty-first-century life. Deckard and Rachael’s mutual commitment is their, and our, salvation, despite the uncertainty of even this conclusion. Blade Runner refuses the simple answers for which its viewers yearn. Salvation becomes, appropriately, a dream: the dream of becoming more human than human.

CHAPTER 2

Memory Prime: Total Recall

I.

When, in April 1966, Philip K. Dick published ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale,’’ a cleverly titled short story about a man who discovers that his memories cannot be trusted, the author could not have imagined that his story would, twenty-four years later, be one of the most expensive, violent, and puzzling SF films in American history. Total Recall nonetheless became one of 1990’s largest box-office hits. The film’s relentless pace, enormous action set pieces, curious political subtext, and multiple narrative strands ensured that Total Recall was a far greater commercial success than Blade Runner. Grossing more than $260 million in worldwide ticket sales, Total Recall quadrupled its $60–$65 million budget1 to demonstrate that Dick’s fiction could inspire commercially profitable cinematic adaptations.

Total Recall’s financial success, however, did not guarantee the film’s artistic achievement. Some reviewers recommended Total Recall, especially those critics who enjoyed the mind-bending story of protagonist Douglas Quaid (Arnold Schwarzenegger) learning that his memories have been manipulated to ensnare him in a complex plot to destroy a rebel movement on Mars. The film’s success in blurring the boundaries between fiction and fact, reality and fantasy, and memory and history gave Total Recall intellectual significance beyond its action film plot, although critical opinion was mixed when considering the movie’s violent themes and female characters. Janet Maslin, in the New York Times, embodies this critical schizophrenia. Total Recall, Maslin states, ‘‘is a thunderous tribute to its star’s determination to create, out of the unlikeliest raw materials, a patiently sympathetic yet surprisingly affable

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leading man.’’2 Director Paul Verhoeven receives praise for using Schwarzenegger to good effect: ‘‘Melding the ever-more-workable Schwarzenegger mystique with a better-than-average science-fiction premise, the director Paul Verhoeven has come up with a vigorous, superviolent interplanetary thriller that packs in wallops with metronomic regularity.’’3 This violence, however, is also problematic for Maslin, who observes that Verhoeven is not only

‘‘much better at drumming up this sort of artificial excitement than he is at knowing when to stop’’ but also that ‘‘among the film’s less than admirable aspects is its conception of the two principal women in the story.’’4 Maslin dismisses Quaid’s wife, Lori (Sharon Stone), and his Martian helpmate (and eventual lover) Melina (Rachel Ticotin) as ‘‘hybrid hooker-commandos who eventually engage in a savage slug-out.’’5

Jack Kroll, in Newsweek, is far kinder on both fronts, saying that, You can see Total Recall as decadent fun, set off by the charm, both guileless and knowing, of Schwarzenegger, the screen’s most playful destroyer of human flesh. A lot of fun is provided by the two female leads. . . .[Sharon] Stone, a beauty of Basinger-Pfeiffer caliber, seduces Arnold with sizzling efficiency and battles him like a futuristic Amazon.. . .6

Richard Corliss’s Time review goes even further, expressing admiration for the film’s visual style and a story line that is ‘‘part prophecy, part satire.’’7

Corliss regards the film as a near-triumph, proclaiming that, for its first two-thirds, Total Recall has it all: the sleek confidence of big-budget picture making at its most inventive. It zaps out beguiling images so quickly that viewers may want to see the film over again right away, just to catch what they missed.. . .When Total Recall is cooking, it induces visual vertigo.8

Despite a weaker third act, Corliss finds that Schwarzenegger’s ‘‘stolid charm’’ carries the movie before concluding with celebratory zeal. The movie’s large budget, Corliss says, allows ‘‘canny artists and artisans to put a mammoth, teeming fantasy vision on film. ‘Open your mind!’ says the mutant guru [Kuato, the Martian resistance leader], and Total Recall does just that for moviegoers at the start of a blockbuster summer.’’9

Terrence Rafferty’s terse New Yorker review, by contrast, summarizes the feelings of film critics who thoroughly dislike Verhoeven’s futuristic movie. ‘‘In Total Recall,’’ Rafferty writes, ‘‘the sleek, prankish filmmaker of The 4th Man is only a dim memory; it’s as if someone in Hollywood had erased Verhoeven’s former identity and rewired his mental circuits.’’10 Unable to resist strained analogies to Total Recall’s plot, Rafferty concludes with one of the film’s most bruising assessments: Total Recall is so terrible that it wipes out our last, stubbornest images of the brief pleasure Schwarzenegger gave us when he played an automaton. We may

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Douglas Quaid (Arnold Schwarzenegger) in dress and distress after arriving on Mars in Total Recall, Paul Verhoeven’s 1990 adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s 1966 short story ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale.’’ (Courtesy of Photofest)

even begin to believe that The Terminator never really happened—that it was just some kind of brain implant, a trick designed to lure us, again and again, into a dark room where a giant will knock us senseless and take our money.11

Rafferty believes that the premise of Philip K. Dick’s short story is ‘‘too clever for the kind of movie that [Schwarzenegger and Verhoeven] obviously wanted to make.. . .It’s just a frame for meaty action sequences—a skeleton nestled deep inside ballooning muscles.’’12 Total Recall, in other words, has no pleasures to offer Rafferty, who recapitulates the common perception that movies adapted from written texts cannot reproduce the integrity or the imaginative potential of their literary sources.

Rafferty is correct to note that the premise of ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ is merely the launching point for Total Recall’s complicated story but incorrect to dismiss the film as a comprehensive failure. Total Recall’s fractious narrative confronts its viewer with multiple interpretive possibilities, while the movie’s unsettling representations of women, minorities, and Third World colonialism make it the type of politically engaged fiction not often associated with blockbuster Hollywood filmmaking. The assumption that big-budget action movies (especially those starring Arnold Schwarzenegger) are either politically disengaged or, if politically minded,

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right wing in their politics has so taken hold in the American academy that alternative readings scarcely seem possible. Such presumptions not only stereotype a film genre that is more imaginative than its fiercest detractors admit but also reaffirm the cliche´d conservative/liberal political dichotomy that has been a prominent aspect of American culture at least since Ronald Reagan’s election as president in 1980.

Total Recall, despite the conflicted reaction of film reviewers, has inspired a growing body of excellent scholarship. Fred Glass’s essay ‘‘Totally Recalling Arnold: Sex and Violence in the New Bad Future,’’ published in Film Quarterly’s Fall 1990 issue, has become a touchstone in what can legitimately be called the field of Total Recall studies. Glass argues that Total Recall exemplifies the ‘‘New Bad Future’’ film: an SF movie that melds standard action-adventure narrative with political, social, economic, and/or moral seriousness. The New Bad Future film presents a dystopian world that requires its protagonists to repair, if not to redeem, the multiple oppressions—economic, political, and technological—that diminish the lives of its characters.

Total Recall, like Blade Runner, is a film that depicts a visually, politically, and morally unattractive future. The unnamed Earth city that Quaid calls home boasts a functional, concrete-laden architecture that director Paul Verhoeven chose because it suggested the cruelty of a society in which the plight of oppressed Martian colonists means nothing to the Earth inhabitants who depend upon Mars’s ‘‘terbinium ore’’ to fuel their advanced technology.

Verhoeven’s commentary track and on-screen interviews for Total Recall’s Special Edition DVD repeatedly mention how fortunate the film was to shoot at Mexico City’s Estudios Churubusco so that the production could take advantage of the city’s unique design, which is appropriately known as ‘‘New Brutalism.’’ Quaid is dwarfed by massive concrete forms that contain him within an unsightly industrial landscape that squashes all beauty. Little visual pleasure is possible in an environment whose unremitting grayness forces its inhabitants to live in the residential equivalent of a factory, where all elements conspire to remind Quaid, Lori, and their neighbors of how unnatural their daily environment is.

The harshness of this world is matched, if not exceeded, by the brutality of the Mars colony that Quaid visits while searching for his true identity. The gaudy red light that permeates Total Recall’s Martian landscape, although not as scientifically accurate as commentators like Bill Florence would prefer,13 suggests that the domed world in which the colonists live is also a doomed and self-destructive society. The dominant red hues also ensure that the film’s visual stylization makes it is as memorable as Blade Runner’s darkly depressing interiors and coldly effective exteriors. Verhoeven, as his biographer Rob van Scheers reports, understood from studying astronomy that Mars ‘‘was in the human imagination traditionally associated with blood, danger and violence—even with hell.’’14 Total Recall fulfills this tradition so well that the viewer knows, from the moment that Quaid’s spacecraft lands

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on Mars in an impressive (but startlingly ugly) panoramic shot, that the Red Planet is a place of corruption, decay, and moral desiccation.

Quaid’s trip to Mars decisively marks Total Recall’s break with the plot of

‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale.’’ Philip K. Dick’s short story remains on Earth, depicting protagonist Douglas Quail’s puzzling attempt to uncover his true identity after visiting Rekal, Incorporated, a firm that spe-cializes in an ‘‘extra-factual memory implant’’ that McClane, the Rekal employee who sells Quail on the idea of altering his memory, promises will ‘‘be a real trip in your mind; we guarantee that. A full two weeks of recall; every last piddling detail.’’15 Quail’s ersatz trip to Mars allows him to ‘‘visit’’

a planet that has repeatedly appeared in his dreams. Quail does not understand the desire that these dreams provoke, which Dick conveys with typical economy in the story’s first paragraph: He awoke—and wanted Mars. The valleys, he thought. What would it be like to trudge among them? Great and greater yet: the dream grew as he became fully conscious, the dream and the yearning. He could almost feel the enveloping presence of the other world, which only Government agents and high officials had seen. A clerk like himself? Not likely.16

These dreams pique Quail’s curiosity, leading him on a quest to discover his identity, his place in the world, and the meaning of his existence.

Although Total Recall begins in similar fashion to and shares similar goals with Dick’s story, the film arrives at a much different conclusion. Total Recall dispenses with Dick’s ending, while enhancing the story’s violence.

Verhoeven’s movie becomes a fascinating, if problematic, adaptation of ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ that defies the charges of gratuitous violence and outright misogyny that have dogged the film since its release.

Total Recall, as the opening credits explicitly state, is only inspired by Dick’s short story. This inspiration, however, allows the film’s creators to complicate the story’s nebulous boundary between fiction and reality even as they transform ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ into a cinematic narrative that is more reflexive than its literary source.

II.

Total Recall, like its source story, focuses on one of Philip K. Dick’s favorite SF devices: implanted false memories. Dick, as his biographer Lawrence Sutin notes, adopted this theme from early SF author A.E. Van Vogt,17 transforming implanted memory into a fictional strategy that questions the veracity, the authenticity, and the unity of human identity. The possibility that human personality can be rewritten to equip an individual with new memories connects Total Recall to Blade Runner without replicating the earlier film’s approach to memory implantation. Whereas Blade Runner suggests that memory is a prime component of human personality by emphasizing the replicants’

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desire to transform their programmed recollections into authentic new experiences, Total Recall implies that human beings can embrace false memories that obscure or revise their true character. When Total Recall’s protagonist discovers that the personality of Douglas Quaid is a revision of his previous identity as the venal Martian intelligence agent Hauser, he declares ‘‘I am Quaid’’ to anchor his identity in Quaid’s more compassionate personality.

Total Recall also diverges from ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’

by changing the protagonist’s profession and his attitude toward marriage.

Douglas Quaid, in Verhoeven’s film, clings to memories of marriage and friendship to authenticate his past. He visits Rekall, Inc., to purchase the memories of spending two weeks on Mars in the guise of a secret agent. This fabricated vacation is not only an effort to escape Quaid’s dull life as a construction worker but also an attempt to process a strange recurring dream that finds Quaid and an unnamed woman walking along a Martian ridge. Quaid, in the dream, slips and tumbles down the ridge until the faceplate of his spacesuit shatters, causing him to suffocate in the thin Martian atmosphere. Quaid hopes that Rekall’s false memories will alleviate the stress that this dream provokes, but the implant procedure goes awry, revealing that Quaid has already been to Mars and that he may be an actual secret agent whose memory has been erased at least once before. Rekall’s staff anesthetizes Quaid, erases his memory of visiting Rekall, and sends him home to avoid the legal problems that nearly lobotomizing him will entail.

Quaid, however, is accosted by his fellow construction employee Harry (Robert Costanzo) and three other men when he arrives at his apartment building. Quaid easily kills them all. Amazed and frightened by his fighting ability, Quaid frantically enters his apartment, telling his wife, Lori, that he has been attacked by spies. She dismisses his claims as ‘‘paranoid delusions’’

and tells Quaid, ‘‘Those assholes at Rekall have fucked up your mind,’’ but he shows her his blood-soaked hands. While Quaid washes his hands in the bathroom, Lori calls a man whom the viewer eventually learns is Richter (Michael Ironside)—an enforcer for the Martian colony’s dictatorial administrator (and head of the planet’s intelligence service), Vilos Cohaagen (Ronny Cox). Richter becomes Quaid’s primary antagonist throughout much of the film, relentlessly chasing Quaid and trying to kill him at every turn. When Quaid exits the bathroom, gunshots from the now-darkened apartment nearly kill him. Quaid grabs hold of his assailant, only to discover that it is Lori. A spectacularly choreographed fight ensues, in which Lori nearly bests Quaid. He, however, grabs her gun and demands answers. Their conversation, which includes all of Total Recall’s significant themes, centers on Quaid’s memories of their relationship: LORI:

I swear to God I never saw you before six weeks ago. Our marriage is just a memory implant.

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QUAID (holding the gun to Lori’s head): You think I’m stupid?

Remember our wedding?

LORI:

It was implanted by the Agency [the Martian intelligence service].

QUAID:

Falling in love?

LORI:

Implanted.

QUAID:

Our friends? My job? Eight years together? I suppose all of this was implanted, too?

LORI:

The job’s real. The Agency set it up.

QUAID:

Bullshit.

Quaid releases Lori, moving to sit in a nearby chair.

LORI:

They erased your identity and implanted a new one. I was written in as your wife so that I could watch you and make sure the erasure took. Sorry, Quaid, your whole life is just a dream.

QUAID:

Okay then. If I’m not me, who the hell am I?

Lori, by identifying Quaid’s life as a dream, blurs the boundary between reality and fantasy. The viewer, like Quaid, can no longer be certain whether the on-screen events are real or one of several alternatives. Total Recall’s events may be: (1) the product of Rekall’s memory implant; (2) a delusion created by the ‘‘schizoid embolism’’ that Rekall employee Dr. Lull (Rosemary Dunsmore) diagnoses after Quaid’s memory implantation procedure goes wrong; (3) a defective rewiring of Quaid’s memory by the Martian intelligence service; or (4) a nightmare from which Quaid struggles to awaken. These competing alternatives complicate the film’s narrative unity, suggesting that Quaid’s personality is merely a soothing ruse that provides the man with a beautiful wife and an average life to prevent him from doubting the reality of his own existence. This ruse’s failure fragments Quaid’s identity into so many possible variations that neither he nor the film’s audience can keep track of them.

Quaid, moreover, does not wish to consider his marriage a sham. He welcomes the conventionally suburban fiction that Lori claims has been written for him: family, friendship, and work. One of the movie’s most telling details is that Lori, while attempting to gun down Quaid, shoots to pieces a photograph of the smiling couple. No artifact of their relationship—photographs, memories, or the sexual intimacy of the film’s second scene (in which Lori offers her body to Quaid after he awakens from the nightmare of suffocating to death on Mars)—can be trusted to certify the genuineness of the Quaid marriage.

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‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ does not offer so positive an image of matrimony. Unlike his cinematic counterpart, the story’s Douglas Quail is a ‘‘minor clerk’’18 in an unnamed bureaucratic agency. Quail, like Quaid, dreams of Mars, undergoes a disastrous procedure to implant new memories in his mind that unintentionally reveals a prior trip to the Red Planet, and comes to believe that he is a lethally effective assassin. Quail’s wife, Kirsten, also refuses to tolerate what, to her, are Quail’s exasperating and nonsensical questions after he returns from Rekal, Incorporated. Instead of trying to murder Quail, however, Kirsten abandons him: Kirsten said in a level, controlled voice, ‘‘Doug, if you don’t pull yourself together, we’re through. I’m going to leave you.’’

‘‘I’m in trouble.’’ His voice came out husky and coarse. And shaking. ‘‘Probably I’m heading into a psychotic episode; I hope not, but—maybe that’s it.

It would explain everything, anyhow.’’

Setting down the bag of groceries, Kirsten stalked to the closet. ‘‘I was not kidding,’’ she said to him quietly. She brought out a coat, got it on, walked back to the door of the conapt. ‘‘I’ll phone you one of these days soon,’’ she said tonelessly. ‘‘This is goodbye, Doug. I hope you pull out of this eventually; I really pray you do. For your sake.’’

‘‘Wait,’’ he said desperately. ‘‘Just tell me and make it absolute; I did go

[to Mars] or I didn’t—tell me which one.’’ But they may have altered your memory-track also, he realized.

The door closed. His wife had left. Finally!19

Quail’s recognition that Kirsten’s memory may have been altered (by agents of the shadowy Interplan Police Agency) is as close as ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ comes to intimating that the protagonist’s wife is part of his delusion. The story effectively suggests that Quail’s identity is unstable, but Total Recall expands this idea to make Quaid’s wife, Lori, into a more fully realized—even if counterfeit—character. In Dick’s story, Kirsten is little more than a nagging wife whose exit produces relief in her husband. The above passage’s concluding comment (‘‘Finally!’’) economically expresses Quail’s liberation from a marriage that has been more of a burden than a balm to him. Kirsten is such a minor (and stereotypical) character in Dick’s story that her departure allows Quail to pursue his true identity without her nagging interference. Quail fails to express love, commitment, or even affection for Kirsten in Dick’s story. Their marriage is an unhappy one, while Quail’s job as a colorless bureaucratic clerk makes his life seem so insignificant that the possibility of being (or becoming) another person intrigues him.

Total Recall, by contrast, offers its protagonist a happy marriage to make him forget the more exciting life that he leads as the Martian secret agent, Hauser. Cohaagen, near the film’s climax, tells Quaid that Hauser ‘‘is one of my best friends. . . .He’s got a big house and a Mercedes’’ just before having Quaid’s personality erased. Hauser’s material comfort and political influence

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ironically fulfill Quaid’s desire to improve his social standing. ‘‘I feel like I was meant for something more than this,’’ Quaid tells Lori early in the movie.

‘‘I want to do something with my life. I want to be somebody.’’ Lori’s response—an appeal to family—does not satisfy him. ‘‘You are somebody,’’

she tells Quaid. ‘‘You’re the man I love.’’ Lori’s concern for her husband’s sense of diminished achievement is more empathetic than Kirsten’s needling of Quail in ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale,’’ pointing to a subtle difference between the short story and its film adaptation. Lori attempts to improve her husband’s low spirits, and even if her words are a performance designed to reinforce Quaid’s false identity, they represent a brief respite from the confusion, terror, and violence that characterize Quaid’s life for most of the film.

Quaid’s fundamental question about his identity—‘‘Who the hell am I?’’—
also recalls the replicants’ plight in Blade Runner. Quaid wonders what kind of person he truly is (the compassionate Douglas Quaid or the repressive Hauser?) rather than suspecting that he is an automaton, but the contradictions and paradoxes of Quaid’s false memories cause him to question the most fundamental aspects of his identity. Quaid, like Roy Batty, refuses inaction in the face of this existential crisis. He travels to Mars to discover who he truly is. The vigorous and violent events that follow culminate in Quaid defeating Cohaagen and bringing a breathable atmosphere to Mars. Even so, Quaid finishes Total Recall unsure that his experience has been real. ‘‘I just had a terrible thought,’’ Quaid tells his lover, Melina, as they gaze at the newly resplendent Martian landscape, whose blue sky is far more inviting than the tawdry red environment that preceded it: ‘‘What if this is a dream?’’

Melina’s response is telling: ‘‘Well then, kiss me quick before you wake up.’’

Melina does not include herself in Quaid’s delusion, even though, moments before, she exclaims, ‘‘I can’t believe it. It’s like a dream’’ while staring at the renewed Martian atmosphere. Melina both suggests and denies that she is a figment of Quaid’s imagination, underscoring the film’s narrative ambivalence. Quaid’s adventure, as previously mentioned, might be real, an illusion, a delusion, or a dream. These unsettling prospects—and the fact that the viewer cannot determine for certain which is primary—push Total Recall beyond the dramatic conventions implied by its traditional, hero-wins-all denouement.

When Quaid kisses Melina to conclude the film, the audience may believe that it has witnessed a typical Hollywood ending. The hero, after all, defeats the corporate capitalism, political oppression, and state-sanctioned genocide that Cohaagen represents. Jerry Goldsmith’s score also rises to an exultant crescendo, reinforcing the viewer’s perception of a happy resolution. Several details, however, suggest that this conclusion is more ambiguous than it seems. Blinding white light soon overwhelms the screen as an evocative (and familiar) electronic musical motif—one that has previously accompanied

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scenes in which Quaid questions the reality of his own memories—is heard.

These final frames imply that Quaid has, in fact, dreamed or hallucinated most of Total Recall’s events. Paul Verhoeven, for one, believes that the final whiteout suggests that Quaid has never left Rekall’s laboratory. In other words, Quaid fails to recover from the schizoid embolism that occurs during Rekall’s memory implantation procedure, and this failure lobotomizes him.20 Such a depressing possibility makes Total Recall a more sophisticated film than the simple action-adventure story that Terrence Rafferty believes it to be. This ending also raises troubling implications about Total Recall’s attitude toward identity, violence, women, and colonialism. In its unexpected complexity, Total Recall exceeds the existential and ideological boundaries of ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ without repudiating the narrative basis of Philip K. Dick’s short story. Verhoeven’s movie is a strange political satire that consistently confuses the viewer’s understanding of its major themes.

Total Recall’s breathless pace also moves so quickly that its exciting, melodramatic, and unremitting violence nearly overwhelms the intriguing ideas that the film takes from its literary source.

III.

Total Recall is not a film for the squeamish. The blood, broken bones, and dead bodies that Quaid leaves behind him make Total Recall an exceptionally violent motion picture. Paul Verhoeven, at the time of the film’s release, defended the movie’s on-screen mayhem in three principal ways: (1) Schwarzenegger’s casting demanded that the movie be reconfigured to match its star’s rugged persona; (2) Excessive violence is, in Verhoeven’s reading of the European mind, an acknowledgment of the dark and shadowy impulses of human nature; and (3) Total Recall is a hyperrealistic fantasy that cannot be taken seriously anyway.21 Verhoeven’s political analysis of American cinema’s love–hate relationship with violence, as told to Rob van Scheers, is especially instructive in light of Total Recall’s story line about the oppression of Martian colonists. Verhoeven believes that Europeans are far more comfortable with aesthetic expressions of violence as a result of the many wars that their continent has endured, but that, in the United States, it is un-American to point that out. Americans believe in their own goodness, their chosen status as God’s Own People. Hence the gigantic hang-up about Vietnam. They cannot accept that they made a mistake: that’s the Utopian thinking this country was built on. Right is right—that’s us—and wrong is wrong—that’s the others.22

The lengths to which Cohaagen goes to stop Quaid, to destroy the Martian rebellion, and to maintain political dominance over the Martian colonists are prime examples of excessive violence. Cohaagen employs hit squads to assassinate rivals, orders his military commandos to slaughter rebels in front of

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television cameras (even as nightly news anchors declare that rebel attacks are quelled with ‘‘minimal use of force’’), and cuts off the rebel stronghold of Venusville’s oxygen supply. This last decision is Cohaagen’s cavalier attempt at genocide (when told that Venusville’s residents will die without air, Cohaagen’s response is, simply, ‘‘Fuck ’em. Be a good lesson to the others’’). These tactics are futuristic analogues of historical events such as the wholesale slaughter of Indian villages during the British Raj, the fire-bombings of Dresden and Tokyo during World War II, and the atrocities committed against Mau Mau insurgents in Kenya. Total Recall’s violence, in other words, while distressing and disturbing for some viewers, has clear resonance with the real-world political violence that Verhoeven’s film mercilessly satirizes. The specter of Vietnam does not explicitly haunt Total Recall, but Verhoeven’s desire to upend the hackneyed action film plot of an American hero who defeats the vile machinations of a European or an Asian villain plays upon prevalent fears that the United States, as a result of the Vietnam War, had become an imperial power.

The increasing perception, in both the American intelligentsia and the popular mind, that the United States was not the purely beneficent, peaceful, and democratic society that it claimed to be is particularly evident in Total Recall. This anxiety produced a series of films during the 1980s that salvaged American goodness, liberty, and autonomy by glamorizing violent white men who reaffirm America’s uncomplicated sense of utopian optimism through their willingness to confront bureaucratic ineptitude, to oppose

‘‘liberation’’ movements that front Communist or fascistic ideologies, and to do ‘‘what must be done’’ to preserve national security against foreign and domestic threats. Rambo: First Blood Part II (1985) is an exemplar of this tradition; the Schwarzenegger movies Commando (1985), Raw Deal (1986), and Predator (1987) participate in it; and Ronald Reagan’s 1984 campaign bromide ‘‘It’s Morning Again in America’’ could have served as each film’s tagline. Schwarzenegger, an avowed political conservative who supported Reagan’s policies, may therefore seem like an odd choice to play Quaid, the man who liberates Mars from Cohaagen’s vicious control, but Total Recall’s political discourse is more complicated than it seems. The film’s violence is crucial to understanding how its story of repression, liberation, and personal autonomy both validates and subverts what Frank Grady, in his masterful analysis of Total Recall, identifies as the movie’s ‘‘more conservative message—heroism turns out, as usual, to be the province of the archetypally masculine, white, professionally rugged individual, Quaid, played by the film’s biggest star.’’23

Grady’s article, ‘‘Arnoldian Humanism, or Amnesia and Autobiography in the Schwarzenegger Action Film,’’ rightly observes that Total Recall’s ‘‘leftist, anticorporate, and revolutionary’’ surface politics24 conflict with the story’s deeper conservative message, in which the white hero saves an entire society (or, in the film’s SF context, an entire planet) from an antagonist

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whose cartoonish excesses are nonetheless grounded by Ronny Cox’s effective performance. Cox, who had appeared in a similarly corrupt role in Verhoeven’s first American film, RoboCop (1987), expresses Cohaagen’s racism, sexism, and sadism with an understated arrogance that occasionally explodes into righteous indignation. Cohaagen’s casual brutality, however, is rarely melodramatic (the scene in which he admonishes Richter to follow orders because ‘‘I don’t give you enough information to think’’ is an exception).

His intelligence, both in elocution and in conceiving a complex plot to destroy the Martian rebellion by rewriting Hauser’s identity to produce a personality—Quaid—that the telepathic mutant leader Kuato will not recognize as a mole, also demonstrates that Cohaagen’s crudity is tempered by intellectual nimbleness.

Cohaagen’s repressive impulses also demonstrate Total Recall’s ambivalent representation of colonialism, which, despite Quaid’s heroic (and ultimately) successful resistance, cannot fully demystify the romantic white-man-as-savior-of-oppressed-minorities narrative that the film satirizes. Linda Mizejewski’s provocative essay ‘‘Total Recoil: The Schwarzenegger Body on Postmodern Mars’’ correctly notes that many of the Martian colonists, who have been disfigured by mutations resulting from the solar radiation that has penetrated the domes that supposedly protect them from the planet’s thin atmosphere, ‘‘are represented as street beggars in saris and Indian/

African robes; both the Africaaner [sic] name of the industrialist villain—

Cohaagen—and his mining industry specifically suggest South Africa,’’ while

‘‘the scenario of the villainy reifies and exploits notions of a Third World that is absolute and absolutely separate—on another planet’’ in which Quaid becomes ‘‘the white god and superman for the intergalactic Third World, the Martian race that has been prone to a variety of physical deformities because of colonial industralization.’’25 This analysis is a fascinating account of Total Recall’s political subtext, particularly in light of its director’s Dutch citizenship. Mizejewski implies that Verhoeven, perhaps unconsciously, fictionally comes to terms with Dutch complicity in the brutal seventeenth-century colonization of South Africa, in which Afrikaaner settlers helped the Dutch East India Company subdue the native African population. This assistance, of course, eventually resulted in the legalized system of racial segregation known as apartheid.

The film’s parallels to America’s divisive history of segregation, racial paranoia, and civil rights struggle also cannot be ignored. For Grady and Mizejewski, however, Total Recall fails as a parable of racial politics because it advocates resistance to Third World imperialism and to the colonization of nonwhite peoples by transforming the white European—Schwarzenegger’s Quaid, who, unlike all the film’s other major characters, speaks with a pronounced Austrian accent—into the only person capable of liberating the Martian colonists. Grady and Mizejewski’s suspicions are not without merit.

Total Recall does attempt to have its racial discourse both ways by correlating

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Mars with the Third World to tell a story of emancipation that, finally, resorts to a white hero creating the most fundamental type of equality imaginable: access to fresh air, which frees the Martian residents from paying Cohaagen to enjoy this most basic necessity of survival.

Total Recall, moreover, engages the political implications of ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ even if, for Philip K. Dick, the story’s political themes are merely suggested by a few subtle details. Within Dick’s tale, only intelligence agents and politicians may visit Mars, while Douglas Quail’s forgotten mission to the Red Planet involves assassinating an unidentified official whose death, according to the Interplan Police Agency officer who confronts Quail midway through the story, ‘‘is not in accord with our great white all-protecting father image.’’26 This clean image conflicts with the dirty work that Quail has performed on Mars, demonstrating Dick’s understanding of the hypocrisy that results from prosecuting wars and colonial ventures (such as the Vietnam War, which was raging at the time that the author wrote and published ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’) to defend freedom, liberty, and democracy. This small moment is the extent of the story’s explicit political commentary. Verhoeven’s film adaptation goes a good deal further in its political discourse, which helps account for the film’s unusually graphic violence. Imperial ventures, especially colonial projects that annex the natural resources and native peoples of foreign places to an imperial power’s control, are often bloody affairs. By refusing to sanitize the violence of interplanetary colonialism and rebellion, Total Recall is not simply the hyperrealistic fantasy that Verhoeven claims, but rather a dismally realistic extrapolation of political conflict and colonial warfare into a future setting.

Total Recall is also not the ultimate failure of political, economic, and racial justice that Grady and Mizejewski believe. Their commentaries are powerful analyses that overlook important details in the film that do not support the conventionally leftist assessments that characterize much of the scholarship about Total Recall. This observation does not claim that Grady’s and Mizejewski’s conclusions are false, but merely notes that each writer persistently focuses on how the film’s action narrative advocates a politically conservative viewpoint—or, if the term ‘‘conservative’’ is too general, that Total Recall endorses a right-wing perspective. This conclusion ignores the moments in which Total Recall defies the ideological containment indicated by its triumphant resolution. We have already seen how the film’s final frames are more ambivalent than the casual viewer may notice, but the conflicted manner by which Total Recall represents women, minorities, and the Martian rebellion tells us a great deal about how the movie is finally unable to decide exactly what political position it wishes to endorse. This indecision, far from being a dissatisfying resolution, connects Total Recall more closely to its literary source, even as it wildly exceeds Philip K. Dick’s original narrative.

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IV.

Total Recall’s women, particularly its two principal female characters, are not obvious candidates for feminist celebration. Lori and Melina’s association with Quaid marginalizes their narrative importance, while the film’s most extensive representation of women comes when Quaid reaches Venusville, the Martian red-light district. Most of Venusville’s women are prostitutes or mutants, suggesting that the condition of womanhood is one of moral and physical deformity. This possibility accounts for the charges of masculine hubris, sexism, and outright misogyny that have characterized Total Recall since its initial theatrical release. The movie, for instance, endorses several action film clicheś by not only making its women satellites to the men in their lives but also limiting its two leading female characters to the virgin/whore dichotomy that scholars Laura Mulvey and Susan Jeffords have long noted as part of American cinema: Melina, Quaid’s lover, is the ‘‘good girl’’ who fights alongside him as a member of the Martian resistance while Lori, Quaid’s ersatz wife, is the ‘‘bad girl’’ who betrays him to Richter and Cohaagen. Total Recall also includes several scenes in which women are violently dispatched. Richter’s assault on The Last Resort, the bar/brothel where Melina works as a prostitute and that serves as a meeting place for the Martian resistance, sees several female employees and patrons massacred. Melina is also helpless when attacked by a giant digging machine piloted by Benny, the mutant cab driver played by Mel Johnson Jr. who befriends Quaid after the latter arrives on Mars (only to later betray Quaid by assassinating Kuato). Melina must rely upon Quaid to save her life, becoming a stereotypical damsel-in-distress. In another prime example of what Frank Grady calls ‘‘the film’s regressive gender politics,’’27 Quaid kills Lori after she defeats Melina (in the savage slug-out mentioned in Janet Maslin’s New York Times review) by shooting Lori in the head, then telling her corpse, ‘‘Consider that a divorce.’’ Schwarzenegger’s poor delivery of this quip undercuts its intended humor, although this dialogue is convincing proof that Total Recall is unkind to its female characters.

The film, however, is not quite as regressive as Grady and Maslin assert. Lori and Melina may be overtly sexualized (Lori attempts to seduce Quaid throughout the film, while Melina’s occupation as a prostitute speaks for itself), but they are also fierce fighters. Lori effectively battles Quaid in their Earth apartment and on Mars, losing her final contest with him only when Melina intervenes. Melina, for her part, handles weapons and advanced technology as well as Quaid, especially during their final confrontation with Cohaagen’s security forces inside Mars’s Pyramid Mine. Melina, in fact, is nearly as lethal as Quaid, cutting down Cohaagen’s soldiers with precise gunfire while using Quaid’s holographic projector to dupe Cohaagen’s men into killing one another.

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Melina is also not passive in the face of Cohaagen’s explicit sexism.

Captured by Richter after Benny murders Kuato, Melina reacts angrily when Cohaagen, stroking her face, refers to her as ‘‘angel.’’ Melina is even more defiant when Cohaagen locks her and Quaid into memory-implant chairs, intending to erase their identities. Cohaagen’s dialogue is unabashedly, coarsely sexist:

COHAAGEN (speaking to Quaid):

You like Melina, right? Well,
you’ll get to fuck her every night. That’s right. She’s going to be Hauser’s babe.

MELINA:

I’ll bust his balls.

COHAAGEN:

Uh-uh, princess. We’re having you fixed. You’re going to be respectful, compliant, and appreciative. . .the way a woman should be.

Melina then spits in Cohaagen’s face, signaling her hatred of the man who regards her as little more than a house pet that must obey its master’s preferences. Rachel Ticotin nicely mixes anger with disgust in this scene, successfully contrasting Ronny Cox’s oily self-confidence. As Cohaagen struts around the room, Melina regards him with undisguised contempt.

Melina also saves Quaid’s life when, after surviving Richter’s final attack in the Pyramid Mine and the assault of Cohaagen’s soldiers, Quaid ascends in an elevator to a control station that will activate a giant nuclear reactor capable of transforming Mars’s icy core into a breathable atmosphere.

Cohaagen interrupts Quaid, waving a gun at the protagonist while bran-dishing the detonator of a bomb that will destroy the alien technology.

Cohaagen laments the fact that Quaid does not recognize Hauser as his true identity, telling Quaid, ‘‘You’re nothing! You’re nobody! You’re a stupid dream!’’ This line reminds the viewer that the hero’s entire Mars adventure may be unreal, or the result of the schizoid embolism that Quaid suffers at Rekall much earlier in the film. Just as Cohaagen is about to kill Quaid, Melina arrives on the elevator, shoots the dictator, and allows Quaid to activate the reactor. Total Recall here modifies the conventional action film resolution, in which the hero conveniently saves himself from mortal danger at the last possible moment, by allowing Melina to become Quaid’s savior. Without her intervention, Quaid would be unable to activate the reactor or to end Cohaagen’s oppressive control of Mars, meaning that Melina can legitimately be seen as a partner in the planet’s salvation.

These examples, in which Melina and Lori transcend the boundaries of stereotypical feminine passivity, lead scholar Johanna Schmertz, in her fine essay ‘‘On Reading the Politics of Total Recall,’’ to assert that the film’s gender politics are far more subversive than they seem:

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Melina and Lori could be read as embodying a madonna/whore split conception of woman, as in films like Fatal Attraction, but this too is problematized, as it is the whore, Melina, who would represent the positive half of that split.

A very strong case could be made that the film is not only not sexist, but feminist: Melina. . .to some extent embodies a female superhero.28

Schmertz does not elaborate this intriguing interpretation of the film’s gender dynamics, but her observation underscores the fact that Total Recall’s female characters are not the simple, silly, and weak-willed women that characterize many other American action films. Lori and Melina, instead, participate in the cinematic tradition of ‘‘ass-kicking women’’ that includes Ellen Ripley, Sigourney Weaver’s character in Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979) and James Cameron’s Aliens (1986), and Sarah Connor, Linda Hamilton’s character in Cameron’s The Terminator (1984) and Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991). Although neither Lori nor Melina is Total Recall’s central focus, neither woman is quite what she seems.

They are also much more vibrant characters than Kirsten, Quail’s wife in

‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale.’’ Kirsten, for instance, personifies the stereotype of the nagging housewife. Her abandonment of Quail may be understandable in light of the frustration and exasperation that his dreams about Mars provoke, but Quail’s relief when she leaves situates the story within Dick’s frequently sexist depiction of women. The author revealed his awareness of this tendency in a 1960 letter to Eleanor Dimoff, an editor at Harcourt Brace & Company:

I do have the suspicion that I’m writing the same woman into one book after another.. . .I tend to take it for granted in a novel that a man’s wife is not going to help him; she’s going to give him a bad time, working against him. And the smarter she is, the more likely she’s up to something. A woman schemes.. . .It may be that one of the genuinely weak elements in my books is the female co-lead. I either romanticize them or paint them as harpies.29

The most fascinating link between Dick’s analysis of his female characters and Verhoeven’s cinematic adaptation of ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ is how well Dick’s evaluation accords with Total Recall’s surface representation of women. Lori, in particular, exemplifies Dick’s romantic/harpy split. She functions first as a seductive wife who, by dismissing Quaid’s request to move to Mars, not only refuses to help her husband, but also gives him a bad time by mocking his desire to relocate to a planet as ‘‘ugly’’ and ‘‘boring’’

as Mars. Lori, after Quaid’s memory implant goes awry, then becomes a harpy who fights him with guns, knives, and several kicks to the groin.

Lori, of course, is an agent of Cohaagen’s repressive policies, as well as Richter’s wife. Her effectiveness at playing the role of Quaid’s loving and supportive partner also illustrates the limits of Schmertz’s assertion that

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Total Recall is a feminist film by forcing Lori to make love to Quaid to maintain her cover as his wife. This requirement of Lori’s job can be seen as a form of prostitution. If Lori’s presence in the film is feminist, it reflects an attenuated brand of feminism that forces Lori to adopt the roles of submissive wife and ball-busting bad girl in rapid succession. Sharon Stone plays both

‘‘characters’’ with ferocious guile, making Lori more interesting than she might otherwise have been. In the end, however, Lori is simply one more body for Quaid to slay.

Melina, likewise, is a compromised feminist heroine. Her fighting skills not-withstanding, she functions as Quaid’s sidekick rather than as the plot’s prime mover. Her first scene with Quaid also betrays the type of casual sexism that gives Total Recall a patina of regrettable misogyny. Melina grabs Quaid’s crotch in full view of The Last Resort’s patrons after he first enters the bar.

‘‘What have you been feeding this thing?’’ Melina asks. ‘‘Blondes,’’ Quaid replies. This characterization of Quaid’s female conquests—including Lori—
as objects to be consumed by the protagonist’s sexual appetite is neither progressive nor respectful. As the scene develops, Melina reproaches Quaid for lying to her and for abandoning her during his earlier incarnation as Hauser. She becomes stereotypically jealous when she misunderstands Quaid’s reference to Lori as meaning that he is, in fact, married. Later, after Lori renders Quaid unconscious while taking him into custody, Melina engages her in a massive catfight. Exciting and well-choreographed as their battle may be, this fight, in which the women punch, kick, and scream at one another while standing near Quaid’s motionless body, is a heterosexual male fantasy in which two beautiful women fight over a man. Verhoeven’s staging of the scene literalizes this metaphor by having Lori and Melina exchange blows while standing directly above Quaid, returning them to the traditionally feminine role of women who fight for a man’s attention. Lori and Melina’s violence may be active, but it expresses itself as little more than bitter rivalry for Quaid’s affection.

Total Recall, therefore, is not a feminist film so much as a movie that ambiguously oscillates between conventionally sexist and more progressive depictions of female intelligence, sexuality, and agency. This ambivalence is an improvement over Kirsten’s constrained role in ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale,’’ although such ambiguity indicates the film’s mixed messages about the value and the nature of women’s lives. Total Recall, on one level, happily avoids the stereotype of woman as pure, innocent, and fragile people.

Lori and Melina are not only more effective characters than Kirsten Quail in Dick’s short story, but they are also well acted by Sharon Stone and Rachel Ticotin. The film offers the possibility of transcending the gender stereotypes that it also rehearses, providing a more complex portrait of women than a single viewing might admit. In the end, however, Total Recall subordinates its female characters to Quaid’s masculine vigor, making the movie less progressive than Johanna Schmertz contends, but also, by challenging some

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of its own sexist assumptions, less regressive (or misogynistic) than its harshest critics believe. This ambivalence also mirrors Total Recall’s problematic representation of racial minorities and colonized peoples, pointing us toward the film’s valuable, if awkward, political engagement.

V.

Total Recall’s surface narrative does not offer a particularly tolerant view of racial minorities. The film’s only major African-American character, Benny, is a blue-collar worker (a cab driver) who must hustle for every fare, positioning him as an oppressed Martian colonist. Total Recall, however, reveals that Benny is both a mutant and a collaborator whose assassination of the rebel leader Kuato allows Cohaagen to practice genocide by cutting off Venusville’s air supply. Benny gains Quaid’s trust by repeatedly claiming that he has ‘‘five kids to feed,’’ referring to the stereotype of the sexually voracious and fertile black man. Benny’s betrayal, moreover, endorses racist myths of black men as untrustworthy, selfish, and corrupt individuals who sell out their own principles to get ahead. Frank Grady reads Benny as Total Recall’s fictional expression of ‘‘the historical organization of American politics around racial domination.’’30

Benny’s character, while in certain moments fulfilling this racist caricature, departs from it in others. Benny shows himself to be cynical about Martian politics when, just as Quaid gets into Benny’s cab, a gigantic explosion her-alds a rebel attack. As Martian military troops move in to quell the violence, Quaid wonders what the rebels want. Benny’s reply, delivered with the casual air of a man who has seen it all before, says, ‘‘The usual: More money, more freedom, more air.’’ This line recognizes that the resistance movement’s tactics are identical to Cohaagen’s brutal means of control. By accepting bloodshed as a necessary component of achieving political independence, the rebels’ rhetoric of liberation is hollow.

The fact that Benny is a traitorous mutant is deplorable from Quaid’s perspective, but demonstrates that Benny refuses to identify himself with ‘‘his people,’’ the mutants. The presumption that racial and ethnic groups (which the film, in typical SF fashion, represents as physiologically different from ordinary human beings) stick together, out of a sense of shared history and political solidarity, has no impact on Benny. This development mildly satirizes the tendency of American movies (not just SF movies) to construct racial and ethnic populations as monolithic. Benny cannot be defined by his group’s

‘‘progressive’’ ideals, especially its demand for equal rights for mutants. He instead chooses to ally himself with the political and economic mainstream.

This choice paradoxically casts Benny as a more individual thinker than his fellow mutants, illustrating that he does not conform to the supposed political sympathies of the homogenous mutant population, even as his duplicity evokes the specter of the corrupt black man who renounces his racial identity

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by collaborating with his oppressors. Johanna Schmertz incisively recognizes Benny’s symbolic role in Total Recall in her analysis of the film’s political context: ‘‘Whether Benny is violating the stereotypes of the right or the left, he is continually betraying the film’s representations of him. His betrayals expose a frantic necessity to locate him, and should point to a good black man/bad black man dichotomy lying at the roots of white consciousness.’’31

This more complicated reading of Benny reveals Total Recall’s racially ambivalent discourse. Many evaluations of the film’s approach to race make three major points: (1) the mutants are clear analogues of Third World peoples who have suffered egregiously as a result of industrial colonization; (2) Total Recall endorses a hackneyed and Eurocentric view of the mutants’ degenerated lives; and (3) the film relies upon a white man to save the mutants from their dismal existence. These criticisms are important to acknowledge even if they neglect significant, but subtle details that the film includes. While Linda Mizejewski’s observation that the mutants are dressed in Indian saris and African robes—
linking them more clearly with colonized, nonwhite peoples—is correct, just as many mutants are played by white actors dressed in clothing that typifies late 1980s American casual wear. The mother-daughter psychic mutants (Monica Steuer and Sasha Rionda) who offer to read Quaid’s mind as he enters The Last Resort, as well as Tony (Dean Norris), the mutant friend of Melina who accuses Quaid of betraying the rebels, are all played by Caucasian actors that are horribly disfigured, showing that Total Recall does not directly equate deformity with nonwhite racial difference. Quaid also proves himself to be insensitive when, in response to Tony’s accusation ‘‘You got a lot of nerve showing your face around here,’’ Quaid replies, ‘‘Look who’s talking.’’

Quaid, however, manifests no reservations about Kuato’s unusual appearance. The rebel leader lies within the body of his brother George (Marshall Bell), emerging to converse with Quaid in what might seem disgusting fashion. Schwarzenegger nicely conveys Quaid’s sense of curiosity and wonder about Kuato by regarding the mutant’s stunted, slimy, and infant-like body without ambivalence. This reaction starkly contrasts Cohaagen’s revulsion when, after examining Kuato’s dead body, he only comments, ‘‘No wonder he kept out of sight.’’

Perhaps the most overlooked aspect of Total Recall’s attitude toward race and ethnicity is that Melina, the woman who helps Quaid bring a breathable atmosphere to Mars, is Latina. The film makes no explicit commentary about this fact, just as it makes no overt mention that Benny is African-American, but critics who wish to assert that the movie’s finale endorses the myth of a white superman saving the oppressed, nonwhite masses must also acknowledge that Quaid requires the assistance of a nonwhite woman.

These observations do not suggest that Total Recall portrays a racial utopia, only that the film mediates regressive and progressive racial representations to exhibit Mars as a polyglot society that extends, rather than rectifies, the problems of discrimination and bigotry that characterized 1990s America.

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By using the mutants to symbolize down-on-their-luck white and nonwhite characters, Total Recall indulges a common SF tactic that tears down racist depictions even as the film consolidates prejudicial views of Benny and the mutants. Total Recall, in this regard, alters the attitude of ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ toward alien life to reflect America’s contradictory racial attitudes, in which calls for racial tolerance and equality compete with bigoted representations of nonwhite peoples. The film’s approach to xenophobia is more convoluted than Grady and Mizejewski recognize, making Total Recall a more intelligent adaptation of ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ than we might expect. The film’s racial politics, moreover, like its gender dynamics and graphic violence, cannot be discussed without exploring the most significant aspect of the short story’s transition into cinematic form: the casting of Arnold Schwarzenegger as Douglas Quaid.

VI.

By the time Total Recall began filming in April 1989, Arnold Schwarzenegger had become one of the most recognizable figures in American cinema. His success as a bodybuilder led to television and film jobs, including a well-known profile in the 1977 documentary Pumping Iron. Schwarzenegger’s lead performances in Conan the Barbarian (1982) and Conan the Destroyer (1984) culminated in his iconic role as an unstoppable cyborg in James Cameron’s The Terminator (1984). Schwarzenegger’s screen persona, by 1989, was firmly etched in the minds of American moviegoers: a strong, vigorous, and muscular man of action who refused to allow conversation to interrupt slaughtering his opponents. Schwarzenegger, apart from his soulful performance in Bob Rafelson’s 1976 film Stay Hungry, was generally regarded as a wooden actor who, while capable of expressing authentic emotion, allowed stunt work and terrible one-liners to overwhelm his performances.

Schwarzenegger’s casting as Douglas Quaid in Total Recall is, therefore, unusual for a role that requires introspection and emotional subtlety. Jeff Bridges or Richard Dreyfuss (both of whom were considered for the role before Verhoeven took over the project) may seem better choices to play the part, while Patrick Swayze, who was cast as Quaid when Bruce Beresford agreed to direct the film for producer Dino De Laurentiis in 1988, better fits the character that Philip K. Dick created in ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’: a colorless bureaucratic clerk who eventually realizes that he is Earth’s unwitting savior. The simple truth about Total Recall’s delayed production, however, was economic. The film had been in development at a number of studios and production companies since writer Ronald Shusett first optioned Dick’s story in 1974. No matter how appropriate Bridges, Dreyfuss, or Swayze might have been as the film’s leading man, none of these actors had the industry clout to get Total Recall made. Schwarzenegger did. He not only cast himself as Quaid but also pressured executive producers Mario Kassar and

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Andrew Vajna to hire Paul Verhoeven to direct the film. Schwarzenegger was so impressed by RoboCop that, by his own account, he accosted Verhoeven in a restaurant not long after that film’s 1987 premiere to insist that the two men make a movie together.32

Schwarzenegger’s casting resulted in script revisions that tailored the role of Quaid to the star’s rugged persona. The most fundamental alteration involved changing the character’s name. Dick’s protagonist is named Douglas Quail, a marvelous double entendre that not only matches the character’s initially timid and querulous behavior but also symbolizes the man’s status as a game bird who is hunted by Interplan Police Agency officers throughout the story.

The film’s producers, however, wanted to avoid suggestions that Total Recall’s protagonist is a meek man, as well as resist references to Dan Quayle, the Vice President of the United States at the time of the film’s production, that might have distracted audiences.33 Quail’s name, as a result, was changed to the more masculine Quaid.

Altering the film’s protagonist to fit Schwarzenegger’s persona rather than requiring the star to match the character’s nature results in a schizophrenic performance by Schwarzenegger that has more nuance than any of his previous roles. Oddly enough, Schwarzenegger is better at playing the vulnerable, insecure, and uncertain Quaid of the film’s first thirty minutes than many of the action-hero beats that follow. Quaid’s breakfast conversation with Lori, in which he laments that his blue-collar job as a construction worker makes him unimportant, is believably rendered by Schwarzenegger, whose quiet speech and downcast eyes convey the man’s sense that life has bypassed him.

The childlike wonder on Schwarzenegger’s face just before Quaid receives the first Rekall implant demonstrates that the actor, when properly motivated by a demanding director, is capable of laudable expressiveness. Schwarzenegger’s fear when accosted by Harry after arriving home from Rekall, as well as his distress at killing his four assailants, capably illustrates Quaid’s utter confusion. Schwarzenegger does not overplay these moments to telescope Quaid’s emergence as an efficient killing machine, but instead modulates his vocal inflections and eye movements to convincingly communicate Quaid’s tremulous existence. He seems, just like Douglas Quail in Dick’s short story, a dull man incapable of understanding what has happened to him.

Total Recall’s spectacular action sequences pose a surprising problem for Schwarzenegger. Verhoeven’s tight direction, cinematographer Jost Vacano’s kinetic camerawork, and production designer William Sandell’s imaginative sets depict the film’s violence as lurid almost to the point of voluptuousness, while Schwarzenegger’s physical adeptness at running, shooting, and hand-to-hand combat is excellent. The actor, however, fumbles the many puns and one-liners that the script gives him. Verhoeven, according to Rob van Scheers, cut as much of this dialogue as possible from the screenplay (which had at least forty-five drafts), but unfortunately failed to eliminate it altogether. Schwarzenegger’s delivery of ‘‘Consider that a divorce’’ after

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killing Lori, for instance, is strained and highly contrived. During their climac-tic fight on the Pyramid Mine’s elevator, Quaid yells ‘‘See you at the party, Richter!’’ after Richter’s arms are shorn away when the man, hanging off the elevator’s side, smacks into a cement ceiling. Schwarzenegger rushes this line, diluting the black comedy and twisted counterpoint that the moment demands. Worst of all, however, is Schwarzenegger screaming ‘‘Screw you!’’

while attempting to kill Benny, who assaults Quaid and Melina with a large digging machine after Cohaagen’s commandos attack Venusville. Quaid utters this line while pressing a phallic drill into the digging machine’s side door, which eventually bores its way through the door’s metal to eviscerate Benny. This strikingly garish violence is already so melodramatic that Schwarzenegger’s over-the-top yelling turns the scene into self-parody.

The point is not that Schwarzenegger delivers a bad performance in Total Recall, but that the moments specifically reserved to fulfill his action-hero screen persona are the least effective. Other scenes in Total Recall demonstrate that Schwarzenegger may not be as good an actor as Harrison Ford, but that Schwarzenegger can achieve genuine pathos when called upon to do so.

On the whole, Schwarzenegger is surprisingly good in Total Recall, succeeding precisely where he might have been expected to fail by gracefully conveying Quaid’s vulnerability and doubt. This accomplishment cannot be overlooked, since Schwarzenegger’s massive physique and tough-guy persona foreclose the possibility of accepting Quaid as the timid man of Dick’s short story. As Ron Miller, the production illustrator for Bruce Beresford’s aborted version of Total Recall, commented in a Cinefantastique article published not long after the film’s release, ‘‘Of course, nobody’s going to be surprised if Arnold turns out to be a hero.’’34

VII.

This conflict, between Schwarzenegger’s physical presence in Total Recall and Quail’s meekness in ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale,’’ is not as problematic as it seems. In ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale,’’

Quail does not visit Mars in an attempt to uncover his true identity. Instead, after Kirsten leaves him, two agents from the Interplan Police Agency confront Quail. This encounter prompts Quail to remember that he is capable of extraordinary physical acts:

‘‘On Mars,’’ Quail said hoarsely, ‘‘I killed a man. After getting past fifteen bodyguards. Some armed with sneaky-pete guns, the way you are.’’ He had been trained, by Interplan, over a five year period to be an assassin. A professional killer. He knew ways to take out armed adversaries. . .such as these two officers; and the one with the ear-receiver knew it, too.35

The officer has ample reason to worry, since Quail easily disarms the man’s partner before fleeing the scene. Quail may seem outwardly timid,

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but, as this passage reveals, he can be lethally effective when called upon to engage in violence.

Total Recall’s depiction of its protagonist as a violent man of action, therefore, does not depart quite as significantly from Dick’s story as Frank Grady claims. The film’s Mars sequence, however, far exceeds Dick’s narrative, even if Total Recall’s political engagement is reminiscent of much of Dick’s 1960s fiction. Dick’s short stories and novels of this decade present several futuristic extrapolations of the American military intervention in Vietnam that illustrate imperialism’s negative consequences. Equally characteristic of Dick’s authorial inventiveness is that ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ finds a novel solution to Quail’s problem. The ordinary suburban life that the Interplan Agency has designed to eradicate Quail’s recollections of working as an assassin on Mars fails to repress these memories. Quail, after escaping the two Interplan officers in his apartment, realizes that he cannot outrun the authorities. He volunteers to have the Agency determine his ‘‘ultimate fantasy wish’’36 so that Rekal’s doctors can implant this fantasy in his mind to erase all memory of Quail’s life as an intelligence operative.

In an ingenious twist, the doctors discover that Quail’s most intense fantasy is of himself as a nine-year-old boy. The young Quail discovers that a group of small, mouse-like extraterrestrials intend to invade Earth. ‘‘You,’’ one of Rekal’s psychiatrists tells Quail,
halt the invasion, but not by destroying them. Instead, you show them kindness and mercy, even though by telepathy—their mode of communication—you know why they have come. They have never seen such humane traits exhibited by any sentient organism, and to show their appreciation they make a covenant with you.37

Quail instantly realizes that the aliens, in his childhood dream, agree not to invade Earth as long as he remains alive. The story’s twist comes when the Rekal technicians discover, while trying to implant this fantasy into Quail’s mind, that it is not a fantasy at all, but rather the memory of an actual event.

Quail truly is Earth’s savior, which amazes the Interplan officers who, moments before, had derided Quail’s dream as nothing more than childish nonsense.

Total Recall modifies Dick’s denouement but preserves Quaid’s status as the savior of an entire planet. Mars, rather than Earth, is rescued by extraterrestrial technology rather than by simple goodwill. The film also markedly departs from Dick’s tale of peaceful contact between Quail and the extraterrestrials. Schwarzenegger’s character in Total Recall, for instance, kills Cohaagen’s soldiers with ruthless efficiency and, during a memorable foot-chase through his home city’s subway system, uses an innocent bystander as a human shield to protect himself from Richter’s gunfire. These differences

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illustrate how much Total Recall’s writers, producers, and director alter

‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ to service its star’s image.

Even so, Total Recall salvages the hallucinatory narrative of Dick’s short story in its most provocative scene. Quaid relaxes in his Martian hotel room, watching a televised press conference in which Cohaagen declares martial law, when he receives visit from a Rekall employee named Dr. Edgemar (Roy Brocksmith). The doctor tells Quaid that he (Quaid) is not really on Mars, but is strapped into one of Rekall’s implant chairs. ‘‘What you’re experiencing is a free-form delusion based on our memory tapes,’’ Edgemar tells Quaid, ‘‘but you’re inventing it yourself as you go along.’’ Edgemar then reminds Quaid, and the viewer, that his ‘‘dream started in the middle of the implant procedure. Everything after that—the chases, the trip to Mars, this suite at the Hilton—are all elements of your Rekall holiday and ego trip.

You paid to be a secret agent.’’ When Quaid protests, Edgemar opens the hotel room’s door. Lori enters, telling Quaid that she, like Edgemar, has been projected into his mind ‘‘to try to talk you down.’’ Quaid’s response is terse: ‘‘Bullshit!’’ Edgemar, who has been respectful, if slightly condescending, during the scene, becomes angry: ‘‘What’s bullshit, Mr. Quaid? That you’re having a paranoid episode, triggered by acute neurochemical trauma?

Or that you’re really an invincible secret agent from Mars, who’s the victim of an interplanetary conspiracy to make him think he’s a lowly construction worker?’’ Brocksmith’s marvelously textured performance in this scene is one of the film’s acting highlights, so much so that Quaid is nearly convinced by Edgemar’s reasoning. Quaid even goes so far as to place a small red pill that Edgemar gives him in his mouth as ‘‘a symbol of [Quaid’s] desire to return to reality.’’

This conversation, better than any other in Total Recall (or ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’), whipsaws the viewer back and forth among the multiple existential possibilities that Quaid might inhabit. Is he experiencing reality, Rekall’s original memory implant, the free-form delusion that Edgemar mentions, a total fantasy, or the breakdown of his mind?

The film skillfully unseats the barriers between these choices to make the border between reality and fiction uncomfortably porous. The viewer, like Quaid, cannot decide the truth. Total Recall, at least in this moment, achieves the sophisticated ambivalence about memory and human identity that characterizes Blade Runner. Schwarzenegger underplays Quaid’s confusion, then wonders what would happen if he (Quaid) were to shoot Edgemar in the head. Edgemar’s response is chillingly prescient: In your mind, I’ll be dead. And with no one to guide you out, you’ll be stuck in permanent psychosis. The walls of reality will come crashing down. One minute you’ll be the savior of the rebel cause, and the next thing you know you’ll be Cohaagen’s bosom buddy. You’ll even have fantasies about alien civilizations, as you requested. But in the end, back on Earth, you’ll be lobotomized.

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Edgemar’s predictions all come true by the film’s conclusion. The viewer even sees a throwaway comment made by Rekall technician Ernie (David Knell) early in the movie come to pass. Before Quaid’s Mars vacation/secret agent fantasy is first installed, Ernie, examining its contents, remarks, ‘‘That’s a new one: blue sky on Mars.’’ The scientific implausibility of Total Recall’s conclusion (Mars develops a breathable atmosphere in less than five minutes) also supports Verhoeven’s contention that Quaid’s adventures are merely the virtual imaginings of a damaged mind.

Verhoeven’s direction of Quaid’s conversation with Edgemar, moreover, reproduces its ambivalence. The scene begins with a low shot of Quaid, emphasizing his strong grasp on reality, then moves up and away from him to suggest that Quaid has less control over his fate (and his mind) as the scene continues. When Quaid notices a single drop of perspiration running down Edgemar’s head (the camera zooms in to track its descent), Quaid, taking this droplet as a sign that Edgemar is a Cohaagen agent, shoots the doctor in the head. Edgemar’s murder immediately precipitates another violent attack by Cohaagen’s soldiers, who crash through the walls of Quaid’s hotel suite.

Edgemar’s death and the resulting mayhem are open to interpretation.

Verhoeven believes that Edgemar’s perspiration is a projection of Quaid’s mind that perpetuates his fantasy: ‘‘The quintessence of the film is that Quaid likes the dream so much he does not want to wake up. He does not hesitate to pull the wool over his own eyes.’’38 Frank Grady disagrees, believing this development abrogates Total Recall’s intricate existential dance: Here the potential complexity of the scene, on both the level of the plot of Total Recall, which compels us to keep asking ‘‘Is it really all a dream?’’ and our plot, in which we play the part of a late-twentieth-century film spectator, is reduced to the simplicity of action, as the walls actually come tumbling down.39

A third alternative exists. Dr. Edgemar tells Quaid early in their conversation, ‘‘I’m monitoring you from [Rekall’s] psycho-probe console.’’ Edgemar, therefore, may perspire because the stakes of retrieving Quaid’s mind are so high. If Rekall lobotomizes its newest customer, the legal and financial consequences will be severe. If Quaid cannot be talked out of his fantasy, Edgemar’s failure will call into question the safety of Rekall’s memory-implantation process and Edgemar’s reputation as a public figure (he is Rekall’s corporate spokesperson). If Edgemar’s concern for Quaid’s mental health is genuine, then his failure to preserve Quaid’s mind will be a major professional defeat.

Edgemar, in other words, might want to save Quaid’s mind. He is not necessarily a Cohaagen flunky or a Quaid delusion. Other evidence supports the doctor’s sincerity. He is unarmed. He does not physically threaten Quaid.

He initially remains calm, even when Quaid points a gun at his head. He can manipulate physical objects in Quaid’s hotel room, which suggests that Rekall’s psycho-probe console allows Edgemar to project a hologram of

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himself into Quaid’s mind and interact with a hologram of Quaid while standing at the console (just as Dean Stockwell’s character, Al Calavicci, communicates with Scott Bakula’s Dr. Sam Beckett, a time traveler lost in the past, in the television series Quantum Leap). Otherwise, how could Edgemar sit in the hotel room’s chair, place the pill in Quaid’s hand, or allow Quaid to touch him? The authenticity of this virtual projection might seem so real that it causes the doctor to sweat when Quaid threatens his life, even if Edgemar intellectually understands that Quaid cannot harm him.

These prospects intimate that Total Recall does not merely seesaw between fiction and reality, but rather fragments into many ambivalent possibilities.

Quaid’s identity breaks down (or splits apart) when his memories become little more than saleable commodities for Rekall to manipulate. Stephen Prince’s book Visions of Empire: Political Imagery in Contemporary American Film, however, finds this theme to be less impressive than it seems. Total Recall, according to Prince, ‘‘seems denser and more multilayered than it really is.. . .

Clearly indicating the formula and narrative limits of contemporary commercial films, Total Recall cannot remain an open-ended text.’’40 For Prince, the dictates of Hollywood filmmaking, especially the preference for linear storytelling and clear resolutions, prevent Total Recall from fulfilling its own premise.

This observation, beyond endorsing the false dichotomy between commercial Hollywood moviemaking and the supposedly more subversive (and creatively satisfying) narratives of independent filmmakers,41 ignores Total Recall’s paradoxical conclusion. The suggestion that Quaid’s entire mission to Mars may be a dream, an illusion, or a delusion is no shallow philosophical point, but instead a possibility supported by other clues: (1) Quaid chooses a woman who precisely resembles Melina from an on-screen menu of potential partners before the initial Rekall implant procedure begins; (2) Edgemar’s head explodes when Quaid shoots him, a strange outcome for a man who claims to be nothing more than a projected image; and, most importantly, (3) the nightmare that opens the film, in which Quaid and Melina hike up a ridge to get a panoramic view of the Martian landscape, reappears at the finale in slightly altered form. Quaid and Melina, at the end, stand atop a mountain gazing in awestruck wonder at Mars’s blue sky. This image’s compositional similarity to the opening nightmare hints that the entire story is a savage and circular dream. Quaid’s deepest anxieties, in other words, are so powerful that they produce a fantasy capable of lobotomizing him. This idea is a monstrous inversion of the ending of ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale,’’ in which Quail’s gentle fantasy of first contact keeps his world safe. Quaid’s imagination, in Verhoeven’s film, becomes his most implacable enemy by making reality an impossible quality to define.

Total Recall, consequently, is a curiously successful adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale.’’ The film—
a gaudy mixture of sadistic violence, sexual crudity, and intellectual

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rumination—questions the reliability, power, and unity of human identity.

The final frames of Total Recall’s massively entertaining action film narrative also embrace an existential ambivalence more commonly associated with European art cinema. In this strange amalgamation of influences, Total Recall upholds the essence of ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale.’’ The movie’s schizophrenic production allows its Dutch director to manipulate the image of an Austrian action superstar, to satirize the conventions of a popular American film genre, and to emphasize the precarious nature of human memory. Total Recall survives multiple viewings by provoking questions about the nature of reality, memory, and identity that it refuses to resolve.

Verhoeven’s film, in other words, is a more complicated movie than the viewer initially dreams or expects it can be. This surprising development, more than any other factor, makes the film worthy of Philip K. Dick’s fiction.

CHAPTER 3

Unburdening the Soul:

Confessions d’un Barjo

I.

Confessions d’un Barjo is a singular entry in the canon of films adapted from Philip K. Dick’s fiction. Barjo, as it will hereafter be known, is the only French-language movie based on Dick’s writing, the only film adapted from one of Dick’s mainstream novels (1975’s Confessions of a Crap Artist), and the only Dick adaptation without obvious SF trappings. The film’s director, Jeŕoˆme Boivin, transfers the story of Jack Isidore—a mentally unstable Californian who collects notebooks, string, rocks, and other useless items—
to France with admirable fidelity to the spirit of Dick’s novel. Barjo is also the most comic of the eight films based on Dick’s fiction, although Boivin’s movie, like its source novel, includes disturbing and occasionally deranged themes. These elements, when combined with Barjo’s good cast, droll screenplay, and wry direction, make it a frequently delightful film to watch.

Barjo, however, is largely unknown to American moviegoers. Many of Dick’s fans, even those living in France, have never seen it. The film’s limited availability also restricts its audience (copies exist only on videocassette). This fact is doubly unfortunate, because Boivin and his co-screenwriter, Jacques Audiard, compress Dick’s 240-page novel into an 85-minute span that never betrays, even as it truncates, the book’s plot and tone. Barjo cuts so much narrative material from Dick’s novel that it cannot qualify as a close adaptation of Confessions of a Crap Artist, but the film’s attention to the book’s details makes it an enjoyable rendering of Dick’s novel.

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Boivin and Audiard, like Blade Runner screenwriters Hampton Fancher and David Peoples, were required to choose incidents from Dick’s novel worthy of inclusion in a short movie that cannot possibly replicate all the book’s events. This process of sifting Confessions of a Crap Artist’s most significant moments leads Boivin and Audiard to concentrate less on the fractious relationship between the film’s protagonist, known only as Barjo (Hippolyte Girardot), and his sister Fanfan (Anne Brochet) than on Fanfan’s and her husband Charles’s (Richard Bohringer) disintegrating marriage.

Barjo also emphasizes the comedy of errors that Dick creates for the novel’s married couple, Fay and Charley Hume, by adopting an attenuated form of Confessions of a Crap Artist’s rotating narration, in which each chapter is told from a different point of view. This structure not only mimics William Faulkner’s influential 1930 novel As I Lay Dying to locate Dick’s reader inside the minds of Jack Isidore, Fay Hume, and Charley Hume but also provides greater insight into each character’s fragmented, idiosyncratic, and conflicting thought processes. In addition, an unnamed third-person speaker narrates nine of the novel’s twenty chapters to offer a more objective viewpoint that cannot resolve the many divergences of perspective that Isidore, Fay, and Charley express. Isidore and Charley’s counterparts in Boivin’s film—Barjo and Charles—narrate various scenes and sequences to complicate the viewer’s understanding of what goes wrong with Fanfan and Charles’s marriage, but Fanfan does not. This alteration, as we shall see, constrains her character in Barjo even more than Confessions of a Crap Artist constrains Fay Hume.

Barjo, as a result, remains the movie’s viewpoint character. Hippolyte Girardot’s bouncy elocution makes Barjo an intriguing man despite the fact that he bears only a passing resemblance to Confessions of a Crap Artist’s Jack Isidore. Barjo sacrifices many of the novel’s details about Isidore’s inner life to satisfy the film’s brief running time, but Girardot invests Barjo with a nervous energy that communicates the character’s conflicted feelings. Barjo’s dishev-eled clothes, ruffled hair, and odd glasses enhance this image to portray the man as a strange, silly, and endearing character whose insightful observations belie his eccentric behavior.

Anne Brochet endows Fanfan with willowy grace, uncommon intensity, and credible mood swings that demonstrate the character’s dominating personality. Richard Bohringer, one of France’s most accomplished character actors, gives the film’s best performance as Fanfan’s put-upon, dyspeptic, and bemused husband Charles, whose inability to control his wife leads to a fatal heart attack. Brochet and Bohringer play against one another well to create a believably unhappy couple whose marriage has long ago ceased to fulfill them. Fanfan’s sometimes sneering disregard for Barjo and Charles matches the haughty coldness of Confessions of a Crap Artist’s Fay Hume, while the repressed eroticism of Fanfan’s fascination with an even younger married couple, Michel (Renaud Danner) and Gwen (Nathalie Boutefeu), gives the

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film a peculiar sexual edge that mystifies the viewer as much as it puzzles Barjo and Charles.

Barjo’s success is largely due to its compelling characters and actors.

Girardot, Brochet, and Bohringer play people that, no matter how oddly they behave, exist as authentic individuals who struggle with the pressures, anxieties, and difficulties of everyday life. The contentious relationship between Fanfan and Charles, as well as Charles’s disdain for Barjo, translates directly from Confessions of a Crap Artist, while the tragicomic tone of Boivin’s film evokes the emotional suppleness of Dick’s novel. Barjo condenses Confessions of a Crap Artist into manageable cinematic length, but these changes preserve Dick’s interest in the vagaries of human intimacy and the author’s wicked sense of humor about the vicissitudes of marriage.

II.

Confessions of a Crap Artist’s full title hints at the novel’s sardonic tone and acerbic humor: Confessions of a Crap Artist—Jack Isidore (of Seville, Calif.): A Chronicle of Verified Scientific Fact, 1945–1959. The book presents itself as a journal that Isidore stuffs with off-kilter observations, suppositions, and theories about the world around him. The novel’s opening paragraph, for instance, is a good example of Isidore’s unusual perspective: I am made out of water. You wouldn’t know it, because I have it bound in.

My friends are made out of water, too. All of them. The problem for us is that not only do we have to walk around without being absorbed by the ground but we also have to earn our livings.1

This passage’s ridiculous recounting of the well-known scientific fact that the human body is mostly composed of water is not a rational response to Isidore’s complaint about working to earn his living, but such absurdity characterizes the man’s unconventional thinking. The eight chapters that Isidore narrates contain similarly silly notions that charm the reader into accepting him as a man whose divergent perspective becomes a welcome distraction from the tense relationship between Fay and Charley Hume. Dick unveils Isidore’s quirky personality through the man’s atypical (and unintentionally humorous) approach to the world, which conflicts with his sister’s and brother-in-law’s bourgeois attitudes.

Fay Hume, whose moodiness occasionally borders on psychosis, is among Dick’s most fascinating (and troubling) female characters. Fay veers between narcissism, childishness, and hostility to become a woman who is as compelling as she is controlling. Her assessment of Isidore after he is arrested for stealing a can of chocolate-covered ants from a supermarket is witheringly accurate:

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He had seemed unable to imagine either the war [World War II] as an actual event or, for that matter, the real world itself in which that war was taking place. He had never been able to distinguish between what he read and what he actually experienced. To him, vividness was the criterion, and those nauseat-ing accounts in the Sunday supplements about lost continents and jungle goddesses had always been more compelling and convincing than the daily headlines.2

Fay’s attitude toward her brother, no matter how justified, is emblematic of her tendency to lash out at any person or object that upsets her. Fay’s impatience for what seems (to her, at least) Isidore’s shiftless existence frequently results in outbursts intended to wound her brother’s pride. ‘‘You’re the most ignorant, inept individual on the face of the globe,’’ she tells Isidore in one vicious passage. ‘‘In my entire life I’ve never seen anyone with such rubbish in their head. How do you manage to stay alive at all? How the hell did you get born into my family? There were never any nuts before you.’’3 Fay’s low regard for Isidore’s character marks her as another of Dick’s driven, willful, and unsympathetic female characters. Her strong opinions prevent Charley and Isidore from regarding Fay as a conventional ‘‘good woman’’ who obeys her husband and knows her proper (meaning passive) place. Fay’s vibrancy, in other words, diminishes her femininity despite her attractive appearance.

Charley Hume, as a result, frequently disparages his wife’s complex personality, especially after he suffers a massive heart attack. When Nathan Anteil, the young married man whom Fay eventually seduces into an extramarital affair, visits Charley in the hospital, the older man informs Nathan (Michel is Barjo’s version of this character) that he (Charley) will kill Fay after the doctor sends him home. Charley is amazed that Nathan defends Fay’s honor and can only describe her in callous terms:

‘‘What is it she does that’s the key? She always wants her own way.’’ He pointed a finger at Nathan. ‘‘And she can’t wait, can she? She’s like a child; she always wants her own way and she can’t wait. Isn’t that a psychopath? And she don’t care about nobody else. That’s a psychopath. It is. I’m not kidding you.’’4

Charley’s harsh assessment identifies Fay’s primary character flaws as the impatience and sense of entitlement that are commonly associated with children. Charley not only infantilizes Fay but also defines her behavior as pathological. Fay, in Charley’s mind, is a juvenile woman who can never be pleased because she always wants more money, admiration, sex, and affection.

Charley’s vow to kill Fay, therefore, is an assertion of masculine power to counter the impotence that Fay’s assertive personality threatens.

This unflattering portrait of Confessions of a Crap Artist’s female protagonist is typical of Dick’s fiction, which regularly suggests that a man’s wife is a harridan who seeks to rule, rather than submit to, her husband. As we have

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already seen, Dick himself recognizes this tendency in a 1960 letter written to Eleanor Dimoff, an editor at Harcourt Brace & Company: I do have the suspicion that I’m writing the same woman into one book after another.. . .I tend to take it for granted in a novel that a man’s wife is not going to help him; she’s going to give him a bad time, working against him. And the smarter she is, the more likely she’s up to something. A woman schemes.. . .5

This analysis perfectly describes Fay Hume, who feels no urge to hide the irritation, contempt, and wrath she feels for people who disappoint or disagree with her. Isidore fears Fay’s emotional eruptions, while Charley endures them as best he can. Neither man, however, accepts Fay’s behavior as normal. They both consider Fay to be a spoiled child whose self-absorption causes them unnecessary grief, unhealthy anxiety, and emotional torment. For Charley, the stress provoked by Fay’s behavior leads to the heart attack that removes him from the Humes’ sprawling Marin County, California, home for so long that Fay has ample opportunity to ensnare Nathan Anteil in a sexual liaison.

Barjo does not soften Fanfan’s personality or transform her into a more palatable character. She remains fascinating, irritating, and uncompromising in her desire to control the world around her. Brochet’s performance nicely realizes the contradictions of Fanfan’s childish narcissism by capturing the woman’s selfish disregard for the feelings of other people, as well as her need to be admired by the men in her life. She rarely exhibits the grating tone that Fay Hume indulges in Confessions of a Crap Artist, instead preferring to dominate Charles, Barjo, and Michel by issuing commands or by ignoring their objections to her behavior. An excellent example of the former trait comes early in the film, when Barjo accidentally sets his apartment on fire.

Neither Charles nor Fanfan are concerned for Barjo’s safety as he foolishly runs back into the burning building to retrieve his collection of old milk caps.

They instead gloomily consider what to do with their now-homeless relative.

Boivin comically suggests Fanfan’s dominance with jovial editing: Charles angrily declares, ‘‘He’s not coming to our house’’ before the scene quickly cuts to Charles, Fanfan, and Barjo riding in Charles’s minivan. Barjo’s voice-over narration ironically suggests Fanfan’s marital authority: ‘‘And so I came to live with them.’’ Boivin and editor Anne Lafarge juxtapose the two scenes to dramatize how persistent Fanfan can be, as well as how much implicit humor Barjo (and the viewer) gleans from his sister’s marital power.

Barjo, however, is only an approximation of Jack Isidore. The differences between Barjo and Isidore derive from Barjo’s short running time, which forces Boivin and Audiard to trim their protagonist’s first-person account of his own life. The eight chapters of Confessions of a Crap Artist narrated by Isidore offer an intimate sense of his foibles, flaws, and idiosyncrasies. Barjo is far more economical in its characterization, leading Boivin and Audiard to present Barjo as a man who is both more eccentric and more conventional

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than his novelistic counterpart. During one of the first scenes after Barjo moves into Charles and Fanfan’s large modern house, for instance, Charles visits Barjo’s ‘‘room.’’ Fanfan has relegated Barjo to the junk-filled attic rather than a finished room on the first floor, but Barjo seems not to mind.

Charles expresses fears about his marriage after helping Barjo construct a makeshift ‘‘suitcase shower’’ by hooking hoses to the attic’s faucets while Barjo stands in an open suitcase surrounded by a cheap screen. ‘‘She’s bored silly with me,’’ Charles comments, resigned to the fact that he cannot understand why Fanfan’s interest in him has shifted to Michel and Gwen. Barjo offers no support, taking a shower rather than attempting to console his brother-in-law’s fears.

In Dick’s novel, Charley Hume runs a new pipe to the drinking trough that waters the family’s pet ducks. Charley comments that Isidore should not do housework because it sets a poor example: ‘‘I don’t think that the girls should see a man doing it either. It gives them the idea a man can be bossed around by a woman.’’6 Isidore’s reaction stresses his powerlessness: ‘‘To that, I said nothing; I could think of nothing pertinent.’’7 Unlike Barjo, whose attention focuses on providing water for himself rather than listening to Charles, Isidore fails to fashion an appropriate response to Charley’s sexist statement because he feels incompetent to do so.

Isidore’s narration, however, immediately demonstrates how observant he has been:

I had noticed, almost as soon as I had moved in with them, how touchy Charley was with [Fay]. He seemed to resent her asking him to do anything, even helping her around the garden. One night, when she asked him to open a can or a jar. . .he blew up, threw the jar down on the floor, and started calling her names.

I noted that in my records, because I could perceive a pattern.8

The insight that this passage reveals, both about the growing impatience that Charley feels for Fay and about Isidore’s sensitivity to their domestic tension, does not characterize Barjo’s reaction in Boivin’s film. Barjo, in fact, asks Charles to look away while he removes his clothes (but not his glasses) before stepping into the shower. Barjo, moreover, does not agree to discuss Charles’s doubts about his marriage. The thoughtful viewer cannot help thinking that Barjo’s small suitcase will quickly overflow once he begins to shower, compounding this scene’s oddity while diminishing Barjo’s perceptiveness.

Charles’s lament that he no longer excites Fanfan does not register with Barjo, making his human response less intriguing than Isidore’s. Barjo only speaks in this scene when he claims that the suitcase shower is patented and when he says, in response to Charles’s query about what ‘‘comes out of Nietzsche,’’

that the German philosopher is a ‘‘very sexual writer’’ who ‘‘lived on a mountain.’’ Barjo, while showering, also fails to reply when Charles plaintively wonders, ‘‘What does she see in them [Michel and Gwen]?’’ This failure of

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sensitivity demonstrates the differences between Boivin’s and Dick’s protagonists. Barjo has less emotional depth than Isidore, suggesting that Boivin’s character is not as complex as Dick’s.

Hippolyte Girardot supplements his character’s shortcomings by playing Barjo as a childlike observer whose hyperactive imagination energizes the entire film. Barjo’s habit of speaking so rapidly that he becomes breathless by a sentence’s conclusion is both humorous and intriguing, especially during the character’s voice-over monologues, to demonstrate how mundane details exert an unusual fascination on him. Soon after Barjo arrives at Charles and Fanfan’s house, he tells the viewer, ‘‘The only notable events this year were the truck that banged up Monique Fortier’s cat and when the lumberjacks beat up the Boy Scouts.’’ This observation has no connection to other events or themes in the film, but its unexpected inclusion, as well as Barjo’s enthusiastic enunciation, is genuinely funny. The absurd image of lumberjacks fighting Boy Scouts does not seem plausible even for the rural, mountainous area where Charles and Fanfan live, underscoring how strangely Barjo’s mind operates.

Whatever restrictions may constrain Barjo’s character, Charles is an excellent cinematic translation of Charley Hume. Richard Bohringer’s finely tuned performance makes Charles lovable, exasperating, sympathetic, and infuriat-ing in equal measure, as his voice-over narration reveals during the scene in which Fanfan first spots Michel and Gwen. While Charles fuels his car at a gas station, Fanfan notices Michel and Gwen standing alongside a nearby road, smiling at one another, and laughing together despite the chilly weather.

Fanfan leaves the car, walking toward the young couple, but they disappear when a semitrailer truck wipes across the screen (presumably, Michel and Gwen have walked down a roadside embankment rather than simply vanish-ing). Charles ruminates about his slim and attractive wife, who is dressed in a flattering cocktail dress, as she walks back to the car: ‘‘Shit. She’s driving me nuts. She does have a great body. Two kids, still thin as a rail. Tight little pussy.

Who cares about those broads at the tennis club in their shorts?’’ This short, sexist reflection expresses Charles’s conflicted feelings about Fanfan. She is a troubling, controlling, and influential woman, making Charles wish that she did not wield such a powerful attraction over him.

Charley Hume, in Confessions of a Crap Artist, is not quite so chauvinistic when thinking about Fay after he sees Nathan and Gwen Anteil at the Marin County post office. Charley, however, wishes he could work up the courage that Fay naturally possesses to talk to the young couple. When he fails to approach Nathan and Gwen before they leave the post office, Charley’s thoughts both compliment and condemn Fay: At that he felt empty. Too bad, he thought. Opportunity missed. If Fay had been here, out the door she would have gone. That’s the difference between us; I would think of it, she’d do it. Be doing it while I was trying to figure out

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how to do it. Just start doing it—she wouldn’t think. That’s what I admire about her, he thought. Where she’s superior to me.9

This passage’s depressed and ironic tone informs the reader that Charley does not admire Fay, but in fact dislikes the vitality that allows her to affect the world around her. Fay’s power reduces Charley’s sense of his own strength, independence, and manliness: ‘‘She makes life over, he realized. She controls life, whereas I just sit on my can and let it happen to me. God, he thought.

And she’s certainly got firm control of me; didn’t she engineer this whole business? Get me, get the house?’’10 These ambivalent feelings may speak to Charley’s unresolved sexism, but they do not prevent him from taking pride in Fay’s physical appeal. When he sees Nathan and Gwen inside the Mayfair Market not long after they leave the post office, he impulsively walks over to them, talks with them, and eventually invites them to meet Fay. While driving them back to his house, Charley pompously emphasizes Fay’s beauty:

‘‘Wait’ll you see my wife. She’s the best god damn good-looking woman up here. They’re all a bunch of dogs compared to her. Why hell, even after having two kids she’s still a size twelve.. . .She really keeps her figure.’’11

Charles’s voice-over admiration of Fanfan’s body in Barjo is coarser than Charley’s appreciation of Fay’s beauty in Confessions of a Crap Artist, but it offers an intimate understanding of the character’s ambiguous relationship with Fanfan. The fact that Charles, in the film, is not seen speaking directly to Michel and Gwen (instead, he rams his minivan into their vehicle as a pretext for inviting them to his house) makes his sexist comment even more revealing.

Charles, as Barjo notes, is exactly the type of ‘‘fathead’’ who approves of a woman’s anatomical fineness and sexual performance but derides her intellectual and emotional passion. Boivin and Audiard reduce Charley Hume’s inner monologue to a short voice-over, but communicate the character’s ingrained chauvinism, uncertainty, and threatened masculinity with commendable precision. Richard Bohringer’s glum facial expression and quiet, almost dejected delivery of Charles’s voice-over (as Fanfan walks toward him) express in a few moments what Dick’s novel takes several pages to convey.

Barjo most closely resembles Confessions of a Crap Artist in scenes such as this one. The novel, which has a firm biographical foundation in Philip K. Dick’s life, is a fascinating portrait of heterosexual marriage in crisis.

Dick and his second wife, Kleo Apostolides, moved to Point Reyes Station, California, in September 1958. Dick soon met Anne Williams Rubenstein, an assertive local woman who was also the widow of the poet Richard Rubenstein. Dick and Anne began an affair that caused him to divorce Kleo and, in March 1959, to marry Anne in Mexico. Dick then moved into Anne’s large suburban home, became stepfather to her three daughters, tended the house’s large animal collection (a horse, chickens, and black-faced sheep), and continued to write. He came to feel threatened by Anne’s independence, by the memory of her first husband’s literary success (Richard Rubenstein’s

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poetry was well regarded by the California intelligentsia), and by the financial pressures placed upon him by his large family. Confessions of a Crap Artist was written during the summer of 1959, before the significant strains that later characterized Dick and Anne’s marriage developed. They divorced, after much rancor, in 1964, but the novel’s portrait of a man hounded by a demanding wife provides real insight into Dick’s inner conflicts. Confessions of a Crap Artist is, as Dick’s biographer Lawrence Sutin declares in Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick, ‘‘a hell of a novel about the male psyche at war with its demons.’’12

Barjo achieves a similar effect when focusing on Charles’s regrets about his marriage. The comic elements, particularly Barjo’s oddball observations, contrast the story’s more serious and objectionable aspects. The sequence in which Charles beats Fanfan, then regrets his loss of control, demonstrates how well Boivin’s film captures the tone of Dick’s novel. Barjo writes in his journal that Charles and Fanfan argue for many petty reasons, such as her failure to shop for the household. ‘‘It’s not my job!’’ Charles screams during one altercation, implicitly identifying shopping (and housework) as a woman’s province. This marital tension turns violent when Charles returns from buying Tampax tampons for his wife (‘‘the super-absorbent kind,’’ Barjo wryly notes in his log). Charles throws the box at Fanfan, then begins slapping her face and striking her back. Fanfan, enraged by this behavior, pushes her husband away, causing Charles to break a glass jar when he falls to the ground. Charles cuts his hand and cries out, much as a child would, ‘‘I’m wounded!’’ This reaction fails to move Fanfan, who demands that Charles hand over his car keys so that she and their two daughters may leave. Proclaiming that the keys and the car belong to him, Charles storms out of the house. He drives to the aluminum factory that he owns and operates (wittily named Alu Leroy, with the corporate motto ‘‘Le Roi de L’Alu’’—The King of Aluminum). Charles commands the plant’s night guard to respond to him: ‘‘Tell me who’s the boss here.’’

After the startled man answers, ‘‘Boss, you’re the boss,’’ Charles begins reproaching himself: ‘‘What the hell is wrong with me? She’s right. I must be nuts. You’ve got to be nuts to beat your wife.’’ Charles, however, will not accept all blame for his violent outburst: ‘‘It’s her fault, too. Why’d she do that to me? She knows how I feel about buying those things. I’m not her flunky.

Get that into her thick skull. And I never will be. Never! Never!’’ Bohringer is marvelous in this scene, pacing nervously around the factory yard while portraying the contradictory emotions (regret, anger, fear, and insolence) inspired by his domestic violence. His refusal to become his wife’s ‘‘flunky’’

skillfully echoes Charley Hume’s repeated declarations in Confessions of a Crap Artist that a man should not submit to a woman’s will.

Charles’s discomfort with purchasing Fanfan’s tampons also reflects Charley Hume’s humiliation in Confessions of a Crap Artist’s parallel scene. When Fay calls to ask him to buy tampons for her, Charley’s profound aversion to female anatomy is evident:

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What happens? he wondered, if she doesn’t get it? Do they bleed to death?

Tampax a stopper, like a cork. Or—he tried to imagine it. But he did not know where the blood came from. One of those regions. Hell, I’m not supposed to know about that. That’s her business.13

Charley’s anger and embarrassment at purchasing these items provokes murderous rage: ‘‘And the intention to kill her returned. I’ll go home and run into the house and beat the shit out of her, he thought. I’ll beat her; I will.’’14

Charley strikes Fay in the chest when he returns home, knocking her to the ground and causing Fay to break a lamp as she falls. His justification for this behavior is pathetically insufficient: ‘‘You know how I feel about getting that damn stuff. Why can’t you get it yourself ? Why do I have to go down and get it?’’15 Fay does not speak. She instead stands up, leaves the house, jumps in her Buick, and drives away, only to return a few minutes later. Fay wishes to collect her daughters, but, rather than leaving again, comforts the girls. This choice leads Charley to another crudely sexist response: But her manner was calm. She had gotten complete control of herself; he saw that she was not afraid of him, only wary. That perfect wariness of hers. . .the quickness of her responses. But she had let him haul off and let fly—she hadn’t been wary enough. So, he thought, she’s not such a hot specimen after all.16

Charles’s reaction in Barjo is equally immature, although the film alters the sequence of events by having him, rather than his wife, leave the house. This change suggests that Fanfan will not be intimidated, but her later behavior calls this implication into question. After Charles returns home, Fanfan helps bandage his hand. She does not respond when Charles asks her, ‘‘Why do you make me buy your. . .things,’’ so he simply comments, ‘‘You know what that does to me’’ before fondling Fanfan’s breasts. Quickly aroused, she passionately kisses Charles. The scene then cuts to Charles, with mussed hair and unbuttoned trousers, walking out of the bathroom and past Barjo (who, in a particularly unsubtle sexual reference, operates a small steam press to smooth a pair of pants) while muttering, ‘‘One of these days, she’ll bust my heart.’’

This sexual (and sexist) reconciliation diminishes Fanfan’s power in the same way that Charley Hume’s chauvinistic comments reduce Fay to a nagging wife in Confessions of a Crap Artist. Barjo, however, immediately satirizes this development to point out how fundamentally absurd it is. The scene cuts from Charles’s postcoital comment to Barjo writing in his journal: ‘‘Bust his heart? Bust his heart? Got it! Low rhythmic banging plus two kinds of cries equals busted heart.’’ The film acknowledges the fact that Charles, despite his troubled confession while outside the aluminum factory, learns little about himself. The overwhelming chauvinism that causes him to assault Fanfan does not relent, while Fanfan’s susceptibility to his sexual allure speaks to the

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ambivalence that she feels toward her husband. Charles’s own sexual confusion leads him to assert his battered masculinity by seducing his wife rather than acknowledging the threat that her autonomy represents to his strength, vitality, and control. He fears that Fanfan’s independence has domestically and socially emasculated him, while she cannot deny the attraction that she feels toward Charles even as his behavior repels her.

Barjo’s ‘‘bust his heart’’ comment, moreover, is humorous because it misperceives the basic facts of Charles and Fanfan’s sexual intercourse. It also recalls Jack Isidore’s continuing mystification about sexual relationships in Confessions of a Crap Artist. Barjo, in Boivin’s film, is more innocent than Isidore, who, early in Dick’s novel, reveals that he and his friends occasionally drive to Reno, Nevada, to gamble and to ‘‘[look] for women.. . .It’s really a filthy town. I actually don’t enjoy that part too much. It plays no role in my life, any more than any other physical activity. Even to look at me you’d recognize that my main energies are in the mind.’’17 Barjo, who has no friends in Boivin’s film and who admits to being a virgin, is more isolated than Isidore despite the fact that Barjo intellectually understands how mutual attraction can lead to physical intercourse. Since Barjo’s experience of sexuality is limited, his appreciation for the nuances of Charles and Fanfan’s relationship remains academic.

Barjo, in fact, only understands his sister and brother-in-law’s unhappy marriage through Barjo’s single nod to SF. After Charles assaults Fanfan, Barjo and his two nieces (Louise-Laure Mariani and Gilliane Sanki) watch an untitled, low-budget SF movie (or television series) about a large interstel-lar spacecraft that resembles a French version of Star Trek. Barjo, in a device that recurs throughout Boivin’s film, imagines that he participates in the on-screen events. Barjo trails the spacecraft’s captain (Bertie Cortez), asking him questions about the domestic violence that has occurred.

CAPTAIN:

She loves him because he’s strong, virile. But she’d like him to be different.

BARJO:

Yes, but different how?

CAPTAIN:

Clean, smooth, cultured . . .a flair for the turn of a phrase, with a word to say about the Roman Empire. That he could stop sweating up the armchairs. In short, she wants everything and its opposite.

This reductive analysis of Charles and Fanfan’s marriage understands that Fanfan’s attraction to her husband is so conflicted that it defies rational explanation. Since Fanfan never narrates any of Barjo’s scenes, the viewer has no sense of how she understands her own experience. This oversight is a significant difference from the three chapters of Confessions of a Crap Artist

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narrated by Fay Hume, implying that Fanfan is even more an object of male scrutiny in Boivin’s film than Fay is in Dick’s novel. The ship captain’s belief that Charles’s coarseness accounts for his sexual power is, of course, a projection of Barjo’s thoughts, as well as an immature rationalization of why Fanfan remains in the household after Charles beats her. Barjo cannot comprehend Charles’s ingrained sexism or how the man’s reaction to buying tampons for his wife reflects a profound discomfort with female sexuality. The SF drama in which Barjo imagines himself distances the protagonist even further from the messy combination of domestic abuse and sexual longing that characterizes Charles and Fanfan’s marriage. It also indicates how Barjo’s imagination frequently misconstrues the difficult realities of the world around him.

The viewer, despite Barjo’s misperceptions, suspects that the marriage cannot end happily. Charles’s comment that Fanfan ‘‘will bust my heart’’

foreshadows the heart attack that hospitalizes him for so long that Fanfan pursues an affair with Michel, the younger man whom Fanfan and Charles befriend (along with Michel’s wife, Gwen). Charles’s eventual death, after he returns home with the intention of murdering Fanfan, is also one of Barjo’s most revealing sequences. Not only is the prelude to Charles’s death one of the film’s greatest departures from Confessions of a Crap Artist, but it also becomes the best example of how Boivin’s film, despite its short length, remains true to the spirit of Dick’s novel. Barjo ends much differently from Confessions of a Crap Artist, but manages to suggest the emotional bleakness of its source novel.

III.

Fanfan’s affair with Michel in Barjo follows much the same course as Fay Hume’s affair with Nathan Anteil in Confessions of a Crap Artist. Fanfan pleads, seduces, hectors, entices, and bullies Michel into sleeping with her, all in front of Barjo and her two daughters. In one notable scene, the daughters lead Barjo into the house’s large living room, where Fanfan and Michel lie snuggling before the fireplace. As firelight plays over their features, Fanfan and Michel talk and kiss, becoming so passionate that they fail to notice the presence of three other people watching them. Barjo leads his nieces away before Fanfan and Michel begin to disrobe, but the message is clear: Fanfan chases her own pleasure so singlemindedly that she does not care if anyone else, even her children, knows about the affair.

Barjo, just like Isidore in Dick’s novel, tells Charles about his wife’s extramarital trysts. Michel, like Nathan Anteil in Confessions of a Crap Artist, then visits Charles in the hospital, where Charles vows to kill Fanfan after returning home. Barjo compresses Nathan’s two visits to Charley in Confessions of a Crap Artist into a single event, so that Charles’s threat against Fanfan’s life comes while Michel and Gwen are both in Charles’s hospital room. Charley Hume, in Confessions of a Crap Artist, explains his motivation for killing

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Fay during Nathan’s second visit, which largely accords with Charles’s attitude in Barjo:

This has got nothing to do with you [Nathan]. I like you; I have nothing against you. What do I care if she wants to go roll in the hay with you? She doesn’t mean anything to me. She’s just a lousy shit of a woman that I happen to be married to that I’ve got a lot against, and with this heart now I know sooner or later I’m going to fall over dead, so I can’t wait forever, I put it off too long as it is. I should have done it years ago, but I kept putting it off. I darn near lost my chance ever to do it.18

This passage explicitly expresses the exhaustion that Charley feels about his marriage, as well as his hatred for Fay. Charles is not nearly as verbose in Barjo, but Richard Bohringer’s outrage and fatigue during his dialogue with Michel communicates similar feelings. Charles becomes apoplectic when telling Michel to avoid Fanfan’s seductions: ‘‘She’ll suck you dry. She put me in here. She busted my heart. . . .I don’t want her to get you! She’s a fucking bloodsucker! She’ll get you by the balls!’’ Charles’s characterization of Fanfan as a vampire who will emasculate Michel is, in truth, a lament for his own powerlessness. Charles’s desire to kill Fanfan, this scene suggests, will not save Michel’s manhood so much as exact revenge for the youth and vigor that Charles believes Fanfan has stolen from him.

The most significant change between Dick’s novel and Boivin’s film, however, concerns Charles’s ultimate fate. Charley Hume, once he leaves the hospital, returns home after purchasing a revolver. He intends to kill Fay but, finding the house empty, systematically shoots the family’s many animals (a horse, sheep, ducks, and a pet dog). Charley then lies on the living room couch, hoping that Fay returns before he expires: His heart surely was going to stop working entirely; he could feel it preparing to cease beating. God damn it, he prayed. Keep going, you motherfucker. . . .He continued to lie dormant, conserving himself.. . .He lay on the couch, listening to the faint sounds of the animal out on the pasture dying, and meanwhile trying not to die himself.19

When Fay appears, she verbally attacks her husband: ‘‘ ‘You motherfucker,’

she said. ‘You daughterfucker. You fatherfucker. You turdface. You shit-head.. . .’ She went on steadily, never taking her eyes from him. She kept herself under control by cursing at him.’’20 When Charley realizes that the county sheriff has arrived, he commits suicide in a passage that demonstrates the depths of his hatred:

Putting the muzzle of the gun into his mouth he pulled the trigger.

A light came on. Instead of sound. He saw, for the first time. He saw it all.

He saw how she had moved him. Put him up to this.

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I see, he said.

Yes, I see.

Dying, he understood it all.21

Charley, even in death, blames Fay. The graceful simplicity of Dick’s prose is also vicious by suggesting that Charley’s soul continues to exist after he dies, allowing the man to continue evading responsibility for his troubled marriage. Charley moves beyond death, to a place of light, still hating his wife. This passage’s astonishing bitterness is the novel’s most significant expression of Charley’s misogyny, as well as an example of how carefully Dick calibrates the tone and the mood of his writing.

Barjo changes nearly every detail of this sequence. The film’s lighthearted approach disappears when Charles arrives home with a shotgun. He pets his horse’s muzzle before shooting it dead. He next approaches the other animals, clearly threatening to slaughter them, but the scene cuts to Fanfan arriving home after a day spent at an amusement park with her daughters and Michel. As Fanfan walks toward the house, the camera passes over the carcasses of the horse, the sheep, and the ducks. When Fanfan rounds a corner of the house, she sees Charles holding the shotgun.

He points it at her, but Fanfan calmly approaches him, talking all the while:

You want to kill me? Because of Michel? You’re jealous? You’re so silly. I do stupid things. Then it’s over. You know me. You didn’t have to kill the animals.

What would you have preferred? That I want to, but not do it? Anyway, he’s going back to his wife in a week.

As Charles backs away from Fanfan, the camera focuses on Charles’s face in a powerful close-up that demonstrates how little comfort he receives from her soothing voice. Richard Bohringer is extraordinary in this long take. Charles says nothing, but the mixture of fear, regret, and resignation on his features betrays the character’s suspicion that, if he continues to listen to Fanfan, he will never be free of her pathological influence. When Fanfan tells Charles,

‘‘The girls need you. And I need you too,’’ his contorted features react as if she has physically struck him.

Charles, suffering another heart attack, falls to the ground. He gazes at Fanfan, who bends over his body to ask how he feels. Charles’s dying voiceover melds personal insecurity, physical pain, and sexual desire into a darkly humorous meditation on masculine hubris: ‘‘Shit, it’s happening again. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel anything. Damn, that hurts. This time it’s over.

I’m done for. She won. She’s stronger than I am. If I could just slip my hand under her skirt. Touch her just a little. But I can’t anymore.’’ Then, as Charles dies, he exclaims, ‘‘I got a hard-on!’’ This moment of gallows humor illustrates Charles’s unmatched coarseness. He dies thinking that his renewed

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sexual potency is a triumph over Fanfan’s oppressive hold on him rather than recognizing how truly powerless he is.

Barjo, by allowing Charles to die rather than commit suicide, softens the horror that Charley Hume feels before killing himself. Charles’s death in Boivin’s film may be just as absurd as Charley’s demise in Dick’s novel, but it fails to achieve the same elegiac tone. Confessions of a Crap Artist, in the aftermath of Charley’s death, also depicts Fay Hume as a total shrew.

Charley’s will leaves half of the house to Fay and half to Isidore, causing Fay and Nathan Anteil (who has divorced Gwen so that he can marry Fay) to cajole Isidore into selling the equity of Isidore’s half to them.

Isidore does not unduly concern himself with these legal issues because he believes that the world will end on April 23. He also expects that Charley Hume will be resurrected on that date, solving all of his problems. When the world does not end, however, Isidore realizes that ‘‘Charley was right in what he said about me; namely, that I was a crap artist. All the facts I had learned were just so much crap. I realized, sitting there, that I was a nut.’’22

The novel concludes with Isidore resolving to exercise a clause in Charley’s will that allows Isidore to receive $1,000 worth of psychoanalysis. Isidore, in Confessions of a Crap Artist’s final paragraph, finally recognizes what should have been obvious to him all along: ‘‘It seemed to me that the least I could do was try to use Charley’s money wisely and not squander it on some charlatan. And on the basis of past choices, it seems pretty evident that my judgment is not of the best.’’23

This downbeat resolution not only implies that Isidore may finally achieve normalcy in his life but also emphasizes the irony that Charley Hume’s suicide is necessary for Isidore to grow as a character. Barjo presents a different scenario to similar effect. Barjo attempts to pull Charles’s body out of the ambulance into which it has been loaded, believing that Charles will return to life when the world ends. Charles, however, almost immediately begins calling to him. A ghostly image of Charles forms next to Barjo and mocks the younger man. ‘‘You starting that bullshit again?’’ Charles asks Barjo.

‘‘Don’t you get it? It’s all in your nutcase head, your End of the World. In your stupid nutcase head.’’ Charles is as intolerant of Barjo in death as he was in life, but, when Fanfan arrives to hug her husband’s corpse, the image of Charles tells Barjo to take care of her. ‘‘Who knew she’d grieve like that?’’

Charles asks Barjo as they both look at Fanfan’s dazed expression: ‘‘She can’t cry. It’s inside, but it can’t get out.’’ As Fanfan begins to break down, Charles happily comments, ‘‘That’s the real thing! Real pain! Real grief! Not like your bullshit about the End of the World.’’

Charles commands Barjo to hug Fanfan, who cries after her brother takes her in his arms. This reaction, so different from Fay Hume’s indifference to Charley’s death in Confessions of a Crap Artist, illustrates how comfortably the film’s screenwriters feel in modifying Dick’s plot and characters. When Fanfan asks Barjo to stay with her in Charles’s house, the man’s spirit makes

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peace with his own death by speaking to Barjo with passion, even happiness, about the future:

Don’t worry, buddy. The world hasn’t stopped. It’ll keep turning. One day you’ll wake up and you’ll be all better. You’ll be a little less stupid. More like other people.. . .Fanfan will think of me from time to time when she gets back to the house.. . .But with you and her, I’m not worried. Time passes, leaves fall, you sweep them up. You’ll have long lives. And you’ll drive a lot of people up the wall. The girls get married. And that’s enough. I gotta go! I’m really beat.

Charles then walks away, into fog, until he is lost from sight. His marginally insulting tone expresses satisfaction with the lives that his family will lead.

Charles’s monologue stresses how the challenges that Barjo, Fanfan, and the girls will face are valuable and inevitable aspects of leading authentic lives.

Bohringer invests this speech with humor, warmth, and playfulness in a scene far different from the terror that, in Dick’s novel, drives Charley Hume to suicide.

Although Barjo ends more happily than Confessions of a Crap Artist, the film’s resolution is nearly as ironic as the conclusion of Dick’s novel. Charles’s spirit, if the viewer takes seriously his admonition that ‘‘it’s all in your nutcase head,’’ is a figment of Barjo’s imagination that comforts the protagonist by assuring him that life will treat himself, Fanfan, and the girls well. Since Barjo does not know how to console his sister, he projects the confidence necessary to accomplishing this task into an image of Charles that returns from the grave to advise his brother-in-law. Barjo does not want to lose the strength that Charles, despite his vulgar habits, represents throughout the film. Barjo’s imagination, so often derided by Charles, therefore provides some measure of stability and salvation in the protagonist’s hour of greatest need.

This irony becomes more complex when Fanfan, who takes no notice of the dialogue between Barjo and Charles, turns to look at the fog cloud into which her husband has receded. The suggestion that Fanfan hears Charles’s final words further confuses the issue of whether or not Charles’s appearance is a figment of Barjo’s imagination. The film satirizes its own narrative choice to bring Charles back from the dead by implying that Fanfan is as disturbed and delusional as her twin brother. This development also underscores one of Barjo’s primary ironies, namely that Charles’s death liberates Fanfan from his violent outbursts while freeing Charles from Fanfan’s influence. Charles walking into the fog, moreover, demonstrates just how insubstantial a presence Charles has been in Fanfan’s life. This event is an appropriate place for Boivin to close Barjo, but the director then cuts to a recycled shot from the film’s opening. Much younger versions of Fanfan and Barjo ride behind a motorcycle driven by their father, then cheerfully wave at the camera. This flashback to Fanfan and Barjo’s youth forces the viewer to realize that the lives of these happy children will be far more difficult than their genial upbringing

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suggests. By juxtaposing Charles’s spectral appearance with the pleasant image of Fanfan and Barjo riding in their father’s motorcycle, Boivin intimates that the life Fanfan and Barjo will lead after Charles’s death is not as secure as his final monologue would have the viewer believe.

The lighthearted touch of Barjo’s final two scenes, therefore, belies the ambivalence with which the film concludes. This complicated tone is fitting for a movie based on Confessions of a Crap Artist, which is not only one of Dick’s most rewarding novels but also the only mainstream (meaning non-SF) novel published during the author’s lifetime. Jeŕoˆme Boivin and Jacques Audiard, along with a talented cast, transfer Confessions of a Crap Artist’s story to France, but they remain loyal to the novel’s eccentric atmosphere.

Barjo is a refreshing change of pace from the other, more technological, and more dismal films based on Dick’s fiction, as well as an accomplished movie in its own right. Its admirers can only hope that the film’s audience will grow once it becomes available in digital format. Barjo, until then, will remain a little-known, but hardly minor gem in the pantheon of Dick adaptations.

CHAPTER 4

Future War: Screamers

I.

Philip K. Dick’s 1953 short story ‘‘Second Variety’’ is one of his best. It is a monstrous extrapolation of the nuclear arms race that affected nearly every aspect of American life during the 1950s, as well as a testament to Dick’s mastery of that era’s political paranoia. The Cold War, in fact, produced some of the most distinctive SF in the genre’s history by grappling with the economic, political, and cultural anxieties of mid-century America. Dick, indeed, published his first short story in 1952, making him one of the most significant contributors to 1950s SF, even if he was rarely recognized as such at the time.1

Dick’s academic reputation as a valuable American author did not begin to develop until the 1970s. Dick’s most avid fans, however, had known for years that his SF reflected serious concerns about politics, war, and ecology. It took mainstream readers far longer to realize how rewarding Dick’s writing could be, which is a particularly unfortunate oversight when we consider the potent alloy of horror, political conspiracy, and mordant wit that Dick creates in

‘‘Second Variety.’’ This story, as much as any other, confirms his talent as a keen social observer by generating an atmosphere of suspicion, doom, and angst that reflects the most vivid fears that 1950s Americans held about their nation’s precarious relationship with the Soviet Union.

‘‘Second Variety’’ depicts the arms race as a conflict that takes on a life of its own. The Russians have attacked the United States with nuclear weapons, forcing American institutions and industries to relocate to the moon.

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The war continues on Earth until the Americans develop an advantage that changes, in Dick’s evocative phrase, ‘‘the complexion of the war’’2: mechanical devices called claws that kill human beings without distinction or pity.

American weapons technicians have designed these lethal, blade-wielding weapons in an underground moon base before transmitting the plans to Earth’s subterranean weapons factories for mass production. The claws, however, begin appearing in such variety that Major Joseph Hendricks, the story’s American protagonist, regards them as a new life-form: The claws weren’t like other weapons. They were alive, from any practical stand-point, whether the Governments wanted to admit it or not. They were not machines. They were living things, spinning, creeping, shaking themselves up suddenly from the gray ash and darting toward a man, climbing up him, rushing for his throat. And that was what they had been designed to do. Their job.3

The embedded contradictions here, of living machines programmed to kill rather than manifesting the free will associated with organic creatures, speak to the hazards of refining weaponry to the point that it can no longer be controlled. The fear generated by the threat of atomic destruction is one anxiety that the claws embody, although pervasive dread about all technology emerges as the story’s central theme. Dick seizes upon one of the most important changes facing the United States during the 1950s, after the nation’s military victory over Nazism during World War II led to America’s uncertain future as a rival of the Soviet Union: the increasing presence of machines in every facet of American life.

Americans of the 1950s, as M. Keith Booker points out in his excellent book Monsters, Mushroom Clouds, and the Cold War: American Science Fiction and the Roots of Postmodernism, may have embraced technology’s promise to improve their lives, but they were also wary of technology’s destructive tendencies. The average citizen’s suspicions of advanced machinery’s potential to intrude into the most intimate corners of human experience equaled, and occasionally exceeded, the era’s predominant apprehensions about nuclear annihilation. The result was a profound and protracted cultural fear of homogenization. Americans were alarmed about losing their individual identities and personal distinctiveness in the face of mass-produced technologies—pre-fabricated housing, automobiles, electronics, clothing, even food-stuffs—that seemed to make each person just like every other. Booker refers to this social anxiety as ‘‘routinization,’’ a term that, he correctly notes, ‘‘well captures the sense of stultifying pressure to conform that was central’’4 to the American experience of the 1950s. The average American citizen desired to distinguish his/her individual character from that of family, friends, and neighbors who lived in the same type of house, bought the same goods, and used the same services as everyone else they knew. This reaction resulted in a cultural schizophrenia that expressed itself in SF’s contradictory attitude

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toward technology’s liberatory and oppressive potentials. The ‘‘growing popularity of science fiction in the 1950s,’’ Booker writes, ‘‘can be related, at least in part, to the desire to recover some sense of the marvelous, to gain some reassurance that the very technologization that was helping to make life routine might also help make it magical once again.’’5

‘‘Second Variety’’ carefully renders American misgivings about technology, but extinguishes hope. Dick provides no reassurances about the benefits of technology, transforming the wonder of living machines into the horror of uncontrolled, overwhelming, and destructive mechanical devices. In ‘‘Second Variety,’’ the claws develop a human face. As Major Hendricks walks toward a Russian base camp for an urgently requested meeting, he encounters a young boy carrying a teddy bear. Presuming that the boy, named David, is an orphaned survivor of the Russian nuclear assault, Hendricks permits David to accompany him. A two-man Russian squad, however, soon intercepts them. The Soviet soldiers fire on Hendricks’s position and destroy David, who is revealed to be a human-shaped robot. As the first Soviet soldier, named Rudi Maxer, tells Hendricks, ‘‘We found out. . .that your claws were beginning to make up new designs on their own. New types of their own. Better types. Down in your underground factories behind our lines. You let them stamp themselves, repair themselves. Made them more and more intricate.’’6

The machines have outdone their human designers by inventing at least three varieties of human-shaped claw. David, Hendricks soon learns, is Variety Three. Variety One is a wounded soldier who has managed to dupe the Russians’ entire northern wing by begging for medical assistance and then, once admitted into their bunker, killing everyone in sight. Variety Two, according to the second Russian soldier, Klaus Epstein, has never been seen.

The invocation of machines that are indistinguishable from human beings in ‘‘Second Variety’’ raises the 1950s American fear of internal subversion to a level of paranoia so rampant that the story becomes one of the Dick’s gloomiest fictions. The widespread anxiety about enemy infiltration that characterized the United States during the 1950s merges, in Dick’s short story, with the nation’s ambivalence toward the expansion of technology into new areas of human life. The sense of technology’s magical potential to infuse routine life with marvelous feeling gives way to machinery’s destructive capacity. Neither Hendricks nor the Russians can be certain that Variety Two is not already among them, making ‘‘Second Variety’’ emblematic of Dick’s most vital concerns about the survival of authentic humanity in a world of proliferating technology. These themes also explain why ‘‘Second Variety’’

became an attractive, if unlikely, candidate for film adaptation.

Blade Runner’s cult status and Total Recall’s financial success led Triumph Films to produce the long-delayed cinematic version of ‘‘Second Variety’’ as Screamers in 1995. Executive producer Charles W. Fries initiated the deal that eventually resulted in Screamers as early as 1980,7 but the film held out few prospects of becoming a box-office success. Dick’s plot is grim, his characters

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are uninviting, and his conclusion is disheartening. Movie audiences could not be expected to embrace so pessimistic a view of the future. The final film, in fact, offers so dismal a vision of the twenty-first century that Roger Ebert, in his Screamers review, comments that it could justifiably occupy a high place on any list of the most depressing movies of all time.8

Screamers, in its cinematic inception and intentions, is not so different from either Blade Runner or Total Recall. Both Ridley Scott’s film and Paul Verhoeven’s movie took more than ten years to arrive on the silver screen after their initial options were purchased. Screamers features a script cowritten by Dan O’Bannon, one of the three credited screenwriters for Total Recall, as well as an industrially ugly visual style reminiscent of Blade Runner. In addition, Screamers’s poor financial performance and mixed critical reception were, by 1996, unsurprising for a movie based on Dick’s fiction (the film only grossed $5,781,885 in the United States against an estimated budget of $20 million9).

Screamers, however, is a good film that reproduces Dick’s original text more faithfully than most other movies adapted from his writing. Its ominous atmosphere occasionally verges into outright misery, which captures the sinis-ter tone of ‘‘Second Variety’’ remarkably well. Christian Duguay’s competent direction cannot match the visual virtuosity of Ridley Scott or the hyperkinetic exertions of Paul Verhoeven, but Duguay honors the short story’s focus on what Dick himself has identified as ‘‘my grand theme—who is human and who only appears (masquerades) as human?’’10 Perri Gorrara’s set design reflects the short story’s malevolent atmosphere, while Rodney Gibbons’s cinematography plunges the audience into a world of unsightly nuclear devastation that gives way to uncomfortably constricted interiors. Most impressive is Peter Weller’s textured performance as Commander Joseph Hendricksson, a man who, like the short story’s Major Hendricks, is so exhausted by fighting an endless war that his desire to establish peace with his enemies leads to disastrous consequences for humanity. These elements make Screamers a valuable, if little known, addition to the film adaptations of Dick’s fiction. The movie’s flaws, thankfully, neither torpedo its commentary about the limitations of advanced technology nor attenuate its depiction of the horrors of war.

II.

‘‘Second Variety,’’ despite its high quality, posed a fundamental problem for the production team charged with adapting it into cinematic form. The short story is a remarkably accurate future extrapolation of Cold War tensions and terrors that perfectly fits the cultural milieu of 1950s America. After the Soviet Union’s disintegration into smaller states in 1991, however, long-standing international fears about the disastrous results of a thermonuclear exchange between the United States and the Soviet Union dissipated. The world’s geopolitical relationships changed so fundamentally that the early

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1990s became a time of optimism about the prospects for international peace and cooperation.

This optimism was short-lived, as the grim complexities of the post–Cold War political landscape quickly replaced American dreams of a less contentious world. The United States’ successful military victory over Iraq in the first Gulf War was followed by two events—the tragic American military intervention in Somalia and the breakout of war between the Yugoslavian states of Bosnia-Herzegovina, Serbia, and Croatia—that demonstrated how fractious the post–Soviet era could be. These developments accompanied the international failure to prevent 1994’s Rwandan genocide and the intensification of military conflicts in Africa, Asia, and South America. The 1990s, in short, were more complicated than first expected by an American public happy with the fall of the Berlin Wall, enthused by the end of Soviet Communism, and confident of the United States’ international preeminence.

Director Christian Duguay, screenwriters Dan O’Bannon and Miguel Tejada-Flores, and the Screamers production team could not ignore this global political realignment (which the American President, George H. W. Bush, famously designated as a ‘‘New World Order’’). The alternative—presenting Dick’s short story in its original Cold War context—might have created an intriguing film that, in the end, would merely have been a throwback to such SF movie classics as The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), The Thing from Another World (1951), and Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956). All these films use SF conventions to fictionalize the paranoid conflict between the United States and the Soviet Union in imaginative ways, but following their example would have transformed Screamers into a movie with far less urgency than its 1950s predecessors. These earlier films, like Dick’s 1950s fiction, engaged contemporary tensions to involve their audiences in futuristic extrapolations of then-current events.

The new political arrangements of the early 1990s not only transformed American thinking about the nation’s future but also forced Screamers to alter its narrative setting in order to keep pace with these global changes. Anxieties about a nuclear contest between two competing superpowers had faded, resulting in American doubts about the wisdom of military intervention in foreign political crises. The closure of domestic military bases, the reduction of the American defense budget, and the perceived folly of the U.S. mission in Somalia caused a contentious debate within Congress, the armed forces, and, to a lesser degree, the general public about the appropriate role of American military strength in securing a world where smaller states could pose a significant threat to international peace. The Gulf War, which George H.W. Bush’s administration repeatedly described as a battle for freedom and democracy against the territorial aggression of Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein, became emblematic of the unstable international relationships ushered into being by the end of the Cold War. Communism was no longer the sole enemy; newer threats could arise from unexpected adversaries.

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O’Bannon and Tejada-Flores were consequently required to update the political outlook of ‘‘Second Variety’’ if Screamers was to remain relevant.

They chose to set the film on an entirely different planet, Sirius 6B, to tell a story of civil war between the Earth-based New Economic Block Corporation (the NEB, for short) and the forces of ‘‘the Alliance,’’ a coalition of Sirius 6B
scientists and miners who rebel against the NEB’s demand that the extraction of a substance known as ‘‘berynium’’ continue unabated despite the deadly radiation released by the mining process. The film’s opening narration describes berynium as ‘‘the solution to the world’s energy crisis,’’ so the NEB will not willingly stop excavating it in order to save the lives of a few offworld miners. When the Alliance refuses to risk its workers’ health or to countenance further economic exploitation by the New Economic Block, NEB military forces attack Sirius 6B with nuclear weapons that devastate the once-pristine planet. Screamers opens in 2078, ten years into this conflict, as a NEB soldier (Sylvain Masse´) attempts to deliver a message to Joseph Hendricksson (Peter Weller), the commander of Sirius 6B’s Alliance garrison, requesting a peace conference. The soldier is unfortunately cut to pieces by an

‘‘autonomous mobile sword,’’ the Alliance’s weapon of choice to defend itself against NEB incursions. This mechanism, of course, is the film’s version of Dick’s ‘‘Second Variety’’ claws. Screamers, as this synopsis makes clear, retains the nuclear brinkmanship and underlying paranoia of ‘‘Second Variety’’ even as it contemporizes the story’s Cold War scenario. The film chronicles how corporate greed incites internal divisions within a previously stable society that eventually decimates the ecology of an extraterrestrial planet.

This plot also recalls the violent resistance to Vilos Cohaagen’s control of Mars’s terbinium mining operation in Total Recall, which is hardly surprising when we consider that Dan O’Bannon cowrote both screenplays. Each film expresses moral opprobrium for the colonial ambitions of wealthy business enterprises by using the larger canvas of SF to transform multinational conglomerates into multiplanetary corporations whose greed, by consuming the natural resources and the human populace of an entire world, becomes cosmic in its avarice. Blade Runner’s similar skepticism about the Tyrell Corporation’s political and economic influence illustrates how deeply suspicious Dick’s fiction is of corporate power. This trait is so common to American literary and cinematic SF that Screamers, by making commercialism responsible for the film’s primary conflict, adopts a thoroughly conventional cynicism about the relationship between money, politics, and military power.

This traditional approach does not, however, diminish the effectiveness of Screamer’s commentary about the dangers of corporate, political, and military collusion. The film, in fact, takes these hazards directly from ‘‘Second Variety.’’ The claws in Dick’s story are manufactured in underground terrestrial factories according to plans invented by American designers who inhabit a moon base that houses all American industry, the American government, and the American military command. Dick never makes clear exactly who

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employs the claw’s designers, suggesting that the distinctions between business, politics, and the armed forces no longer matter. If this notion is Dick’s fictional acknowledgment of the increasingly militarized culture of the United States during the 1950s, then it applies even more precisely to 1990s’

America. By the late twentieth century, Americans had largely come to accept the presence of a permanent armaments industry that supplied their military with advanced weaponry. Entire communities, in fact, sometimes depended upon this industry for their economic sustenance. Screamers, therefore, functions as a grotesque exaggeration of the dangers of the military-industrial complex that President Dwight D. Eisenhower identified in his 1961 farewell address to the nation. Duguay’s movie portrays the ecological, moral, and personal devastation that results when an entire society—in this case, Earth—transforms itself into a perpetual war machine. The film offers no hope that an overtly militarized democracy can produce happiness, optimism, or security; endless conflict and spiritual ennui are the only outcomes.

Screamers, consequently, is as dreary a portrait of the human future as Dick’s original short story. This fact prevented it from having a wide appeal with either audiences or critics when released in the United States in early 1996. The movie’s moral gravity and Peter Weller’s fine performance as Joseph Hendricksson, however, redeem the story’s defects. The film, for instance, fumbles its attempt to illustrate how the screamers develop the capacity to feel love. Roy Dupuis’s poor performance as the NEB soldier Becker, to take another example, mars an otherwise well-acted film. Dupuis’s bad acting, thankfully, cannot overwhelm Weller’s nuance or Jennifer Rubin’s excellent turn as Jessica Hansen, a black marketeer who helps Hendricksson in his quest to defeat the screamers. The changes to Screamers’s plot also complicate the short story’s politics to show that Duguay’s film is no simple SF shoot-’em-up, but rather a surprisingly honest acknowledgment of the pessimism that the post–Cold War era produced. Screamers is certainly not a pleasant film to watch, but this judgment, rather than condemning the movie’s quality, confirms its merit.

III.

Screamers, like Blade Runner, opens with a textual crawl that provides the film’s backstory. The NEB Corporation, the viewer learns, ‘‘has controlled mining operations throughout the known solar systems’’ for fifty years. Berynium is discovered on Sirius 6B twenty years before the film’s events begin, but the lethal effects of mining it have led to war. The viewer also discovers a crucial fact about these hostilities: ‘‘The conflict between the Alliance and the N.E.B. has fueled a new cold war on Earth, but so far, the fighting has been confined to Sirius 6B.’’ Screamers, therefore, maintains the Cold War atmosphere of Dick’s story while reversing its political geography. Whereas ‘‘Second Variety’’ confines the fighting to a nuclear-devastated Earth, Screamers makes

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Earth the site of political tension that outsources war to the planet that houses the contested resource, berynium.

Dick’s story does not identify a specific reason for the war between the Americans and the Soviets because the political tensions between the two nations were so endemic to life in 1953 that the author presumed his readers would immediately recognize that ‘‘Second Variety’’ literalized their deepest fears about nuclear annihilation. As Major Hendricks walks toward the Russian garrison, he reflects upon the conflict’s origins: The Soviet Union had gained great initial success, usual with the side that got the war going. Most of North America had been blasted off the map.

Retaliation was quick in coming, of course. The sky was full of circling diskbombers long before the war began; they had been up there for years. The disks began sailing down all over Russia within hours after Washington got it.

But that hadn’t helped Washington.11

‘‘Second Variety’’ takes Russian aggression as natural, reflecting the common 1950s’ American perception—reinforced by the rhetoric of the Eisenhower administration, the anticommunist hearings conducted by the House Un-American Activities Committee, and many examples in popular culture—
that the Soviet Union was a combative nation waiting to attack the United States with nuclear weapons when the opportunity presented itself. Dick’s story transforms American hysteria about nuclear annihilation into a fait accompli that occurs at an undetermined future date. The diskbombers filling the sky years before the war begins indicate that America, in the guise of defending its national interests, acts just as belligerently as Russia. This detail is Dick’s sly commentary on the United States’ bellicose posture during the Cold War, while his casual mention that American retaliation ‘‘of course’’

quickly followed the Soviet attack is further evidence that ‘‘Second Variety’’

portrays the United States as far from blameless (even if America nominally rejects any responsibility for the war).

Screamers cannot make such assumptions about its audience’s political feelings, particularly at a time when the Soviet Union had ceased to be a nuclear opponent. The opening crawl both highlights the film’s debt to

‘‘Second Variety’’ and underscores the movie’s divergence from its literary source. Screamers may scrupulously preserve the plot and thematic concerns of ‘‘Second Variety,’’ but the film’s opening moments announce its intention to modernize the 1950s context of Dick’s story.

Screamers’s first scene depicts the NEB messenger’s brutal death. Several screamers, so named because they emit an ear-piercing shriek, lurk under the sand outside the Alliance bunker that Hendricksson commands. These killing machines lie in wait for the approach of people who fail to wear a ‘‘tab,’’ an electronic device that prevents a screamer’s attack. As the NEB soldier nears the Alliance bunker, the screamers converge on him, amputating his right

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arm and left leg before cutting into his head. This violence is so extreme that Leone (Jason Cavalier), one of the two soldiers watching these grisly events from the safety of the Alliance garrison, vomits. His partner, Landowska (Liliana Komorowska), verbalizes the disgust that the garrison’s soldiers feel when she comments, ‘‘No matter how many times I see this, it makes me sick’’ while wiping tears from her eyes. The screamers’ lethal efficiency in eviscerating the NEB soldier is disturbing precisely because of the unsentimental and graphic violence that Landowska laments. She also sets the stage for the moral exhaustion that Hendricksson expresses throughout the film.

When Leone expresses relief that ‘‘those things (the screamers) [are] on our side,’’ Landowska explicitly identifies the problem facing the Alliance soldiers:

‘‘And our side’s the good side, right? Tell me again. The line gets a little blurry.’’

Chuck Elbarak (Ron White), Hendricksson’s executive officer, enters at this moment to remind Landowska, ‘‘Without the screamers, we’d have lost the war.’’ Elbarak takes little pleasure in this pronouncement, stating it without arrogance or guile. White’s performance in this scene is quiet, tempered, and convincing; Elbarak, in other words, is no warmonger. The film’s opening frames, consequently, waste no time in establishing Screamers’s bleak worldview. The NEB messenger’s death is horrific, diluted only by the screamer’s brief appearance (the machine is too visually generic to be truly menacing).

Landowska’s mildly sententious pronouncements, moreover, reveal the pessimism produced by long stretches of guard duty interspersed with moments of vicious combat. Dick’s story evokes similar emotions that are best summarized by an American soldier named Eric, who comments, after witnessing a claw’s evisceration of the Soviet messenger who has approached the American bunker, ‘‘God, those damn things (the claws) give me the creeps. Sometimes I think we were better off before them.’’12

This attitude runs throughout Screamers. Hendricksson is the film’s fore-most example of the spiritual attrition caused by extended warfare. His disgust at creating the screamers, even if they help the Alliance achieve a military stalemate with the NEB Corporation, expresses itself in profanity and profound cynicism. Peter Weller’s first-rate performance realizes Hendricksson’s contradictions by conveying feral intensity, restless energy, and palpable intelligence. He transforms Dick’s barren protagonist into a tragic figure forced to endure a senseless, never-ending war who sublimates his emotional sensitivity and cultural refinement into military gruffness. Major Hendricks, the central figure of ‘‘Second Variety,’’ is undoubtedly cynical (‘‘I hate the damn things

[the claws]. I wish we’d never invented them,’’13 he says at one point), but Weller gives the character an emotional heft that Dick’s short story never fully develops.

Screamers also alters Dick’s narrative by injecting a plot twist that complicates the film’s political context. Hendricksson and Elbarak receive a holographic communication from Secretary Green (Bruce Boa), one of the

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Alliance’s Earth-based leaders, shortly after the NEB soldier dies delivering a request for a meeting between Hendricksson and the NEB’s Sirius 6B
commander, Marshall Richard Cooper. Green informs them that the NEB

Corporation has requested an armistice after discovering berynium on the planet Triton Four. This berynium, unlike the substance found on Sirius 6B, produces no radiation or lethal side effects when mined. ‘‘We are on the verge of signing a world peace agreement that would also renew contracts with the New Economic Block,’’ Green says, implying an end to the civil war between the NEB and the Alliance. Green also tells Hendricksson that peace negotiations between the two parties are so delicate that ‘‘I’m sure you can see why it is imperative to make no contact with NEB forward command on Sirius 6B. I’m sure I don’t have to worry about you doing anything that would jeopardize our chances now.’’ This pronouncement not only forestalls any response by Hendricksson to Cooper’s request for a meeting but also reminds Hendricksson of his place in the chain of command. Green’s message is clear: Hendricksson and his troops are soldiers, not diplomats, who should stick to the business of war rather than meddling in politics.

Hendricksson must follow orders rather than make policy decisions, which is one of Screamers’s most prevalent subtexts: soldiers are not meant to think for themselves, but to obey their superiors’ commands.

Hendricksson, like Hendricks in Dick’s short story, is pessimistic about the prospects for lasting peace. He professes faith in Secretary Green’s character, but responds to Elbarak’s comment that, without Green’s steady leadership, a shooting war between the NEB and the Alliance would have begun on Earth long before by saying, ‘‘Well, a shooting war on Earth might have done

’em some good. Hell, we could’ve ended this war up here a long time ago if some of those assholes on Earth rolled around in the mud and the ash a little bit.’’ Hendricksson’s weariness in conducting an increasingly futile war, combined with the emotional costs of living on a desolate planet, demonstrates the existential fatigue that characterizes life on Sirius 6B. Hendricks, in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ manifests similar fatigue when he speculates that the Russians have requested a meeting with him because the claws’ effectiveness in killing Soviet troops has ended the war: Maybe he was going to hear the news. Maybe the Politburo had decided to throw in the sponge. Too bad it had taken so long. Six years. A long time for war like that, the way they had waged it. The automatic retaliation disks, spinning down all over Russia, hundreds of thousands of them. Bacteria crystals.

The Soviet guided missiles, whistling through the air. The chain bombs. And now this, the robots, the claws—14

This short passage’s tone, full of regret and isolation, expresses Dick’s terse rejection of warmongering. The fact that a soldier expresses these feelings alerts the reader to Dick’s understanding of war’s physical, psychological,

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and spiritual impact upon the people charged with fighting it. Screamers achieves a similar attitude through the industrially unattractive set design of the Alliance bunker, the aimlessness of its characters (symbolized by the constant cigarette smoking of Hendricksson and his soldiers, who have nothing better to do), and the world-weary sensibility that Peter Weller and Ron White give their characters. Both actors create a convincing sense of intimacy between Hendricksson and Elbarak that cannot stave off the malaise of waiting for a NEB attack that never comes.

This boring existence is interrupted when a spacecraft crashes just outside the Alliance bunker. Despite its markings as a civilian transport, the ship holds thirty-seven dead Alliance soldiers, a nuclear generator, several weapons, and one survivor: Private Michael Jefferson (Andy Lauer), known as Ace, a gun-nery specialist and expert marksman. Jefferson, who is nearly eviscerated by a screamer after he climbs out of the crashed spacecraft’s fiery remains, tells Hendricksson and Elbarak that he is part of a task force on its way to Triton Four, the site of the new berynium deposits. The task force’s purpose, according to Jefferson, is ‘‘to invade, attack, and extinguish the enemy’’ (namely, NEB troops stationed on Triton Four) before a full complement of 4,000

Alliance troops arrive on the planet. Jefferson also reveals that Secretary Green could not have sent a message to Sirius 6B because Green was removed from power by Alliance Command two years before and that no armistice has been proposed by the New Economic Block. This disclosure briefly confuses Hendricksson and Elbarak, who cannot be certain what the truth is. Was Green’s message faked by the Alliance to prevent Hendricksson from making peace with Marshall Cooper and Sirius 6B’s NEB forward command? Why dispatch a military task force under the guise of a civilian transport? Why lie about the armistice? Hendricksson’s and Elbarak’s ensuing conversation certifies, for Hendricksson at least, the profound disillusionment that he feels.

ELBARAK:

What do you expect me to believe here? That we’re being dumped just like that? That twenty years of death and a stand against the horror up here has turned into a fucking galactic gold rush?

Why do they keep sending us provisions? What do you think? They’re waiting for us to grow old and die up here so they can carry on running the universe?

HENDRICKSSON:

Yes.

ELBARAK:

Well, fuck you! I don’t buy it!

HENDRICKSSON:

Oh, wake up, man! We are betrayed here, brother. We are beached. We are stuck. You heard that kid. Green’s been shitcanned and this whole goddamned place is a lie. I mean, they can’t just cut us off up here, because too many families on Earth would raise hell about it, and they sure as hell ain’t going to take us back there.

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If we sound off about this, nobody’s going to fight the fucking war for

’em. So they’re just going to let us roll on and on and on up here until we’re dead. And we ain’t ever getting off here, Chuck. I’ll tell you something else. Marshall Richard Cooper and his NEB Command knows it goddamn well too, and that’s why he sent us a goddamned map [a detailed schematic of the NEB garrison included with the invita-tion to meet Cooper, which Hendricksson takes as proof of his counterpart’s sincerity]. And your single, solitary NEB grunt came over here and got his ass shot to stop this thing. They know it’s pointless now.

ELBARAK (as Hendricksson walks out of the room): Where are you
going?

HENDRICKSSON:

I’m going to NEB Command. Alliance wants a goddamn shooting war. Well, we’ve had ours already. We’ll make our own goddamned peace right here.

Peter Weller skillfully conveys Hendricksson’s angry, righteous indignation at being betrayed by his superiors, turning the commander’s profane rant into a lacerating critique of the political cowardice necessary to abandon soldiers who have faithfully served their civilian government. Hendricksson’s belief that the Alliance will continue to supply its now-superfluous Sirius 6B garrison rather than risk the public backlash of deserting the Sirius 6B troops (or the loss of faith in the war effort that revealing this neglect might provoke) pitches Screamers into conspiratorial paranoia. The film’s fictional depiction of the collusion between political and corporate interests suggests that the Alliance treats the soldiers who maintain its power and profits as expendable commodities that can be ignored when they are no longer useful.

This scene deepens the soldier’s dilemma that Major Hendricks experiences in ‘‘Second Variety.’’ Hendricks must deal with the claws’ newly human form, rather than a political conspiracy that abandons him to an unhappy fate, if he wishes to save himself and his troops from the claws’ relentless slaughter.

‘‘Second Variety,’’ in fact, depicts no direct contact between Hendricks and his superiors. He may have been abandoned by his commanders, or they may be dead, but Dick’s story provides too few details to know. Screamers expands its protagonist’s motivation for visiting his adversaries by showing that Hendricksson is not a mindless soldier content merely to follow orders, but rather a man who, when his fears about fighting a pointless conflict are realized, decides to become a peacemaker. Hendricks, in ‘‘Second Variety,’’

decides to visit the Russian garrison because, ‘‘They want somebody at policy level.. . .I haven’t been outside in months. Maybe I could use a little air.’’15

This explanation is hardly satisfying as a reason for Hendricks to risk his life in making the dangerous journey to the Russian bunker, although it lays bare the underlying senselessness of the American-Russian stalemate that ‘‘Second Variety’’ cultivates.

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Duguay’s film, however, goes one step further to expose the political deceit at the heart of the protracted war between the NEB and the Alliance. This commentary about the political chicanery involved in justifying and prosecuting a war is more ambiguous than Dick’s Cold War satire in ‘‘Second Variety’’

because Screamers’s audience never learns if Hendricksson’s analysis is correct.

The fake civilian transport, as well as Jefferson’s honest surprise that this ship was masquerading as a nonmilitary vessel, seems to confirm Hendricksson’s fear that the Alliance has lied about its newfound peace with the New Economic Block when, in fact, the Alliance will ignore its obligations to the Sirius 6B troops in favor of launching new attacks on the NEB’s Triton Four berynium mining operation. Screamers also leaves open the possibility that it is the screamers who fake Green’s message in order to draw Hendricksson out into the open, thereby making the Alliance bunker more vulnerable to infiltration by humanoid screamers. The film’s ambivalence, by never resolving the question of who sent Green’s message, portrays the uncertain relationship between battlefield soldiers and their civilian commanders.

Hendricksson’s choice to make peace with the NEB Command on Sirius 6B
no matter what happens to Earth reflects his political disdain for a meaningless war. This development is bleaker than the situation Dick sketches in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ justifying Ebert’s judgment that Screamers is an insistently depressing film.

The fact that the screamers have adopted human guises also connects Screamers to Blade Runner. Screamers is not as convincing a meditation on the relationship between human and mechanical life as its predecessor, manifesting a failure of imagination by attempting to copy Blade Runner’s love story, but the pessimism in Duguay’s film about human beings losing control of their most advanced weaponry matches Dick’s scornful tone in ‘‘Second Variety.’’ The differences between the conclusion of the short story and the film also merit consideration, for they speak to differences in the American experience of the 1950s and the 1990s. Screamers, in other words, is a capable film that, despite its flaws, honorably represents the tenor, the attitude, and the intentions of ‘‘Second Variety.’’

IV.

The bulk of Screamers’s first hour involves Hendricksson and Jefferson hiking toward the NEB garrison. Escaping the Alliance bunker’s ugly interior brings no relief, for the external environment is even more distasteful.

The blasted landscape—filmed in a sandpit and a cement quarry in Que´bec, Canada—evokes Dick’s description, in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ of postatomic destruction:

[Hendricks] took a deep breath and then stepped out onto the gray rubbled ground. After a minute he lit a cigarette and stood gazing around him.

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The landscape was dead. Nothing stirred. He could see for miles, endless ash and slag, ruins of buildings. A few trees without leaves or branches, only the trunks. Above him the eternal rolling clouds of gray.. . .16

The unremitting harshness of Sirius 6B’s surface, through which Hendricksson and Jefferson move like nomads futilely searching for a nonexistent oasis, is a tribute to Duguay’s control of all the elements at his disposal. Perri Gorrara’s set design, Michael Devine’s art direction, and Deak Ferrand’s matte paintings recreate the desolation of Dick’s short story, making the characters’ enervation at having to endure such austere surroundings entirely plausible.

The film’s most satirical flourish also comes to the fore during Hendricksson’s and Jefferson’s trek. Cigarette smoking, a casual detail in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ is rampant in Screamers. Hendricksson constantly smokes, as do most of the soldiers inside the Alliance garrison. The film’s first scene, in fact, finds Leone and two other soldiers using cigarettes as the only currency in a Game of Ur—an ancient Mesopotamian chess game—that they play to pass their time on guard duty. Jefferson, during the hike, comments that the air smells terrible, prompting Hendricksson to offer him a red cigarette. Smoking this

‘‘anti-radiation red,’’ Hendricksson says, is the only way to prevent death in Sirius 6B’s radioactive environment. Jefferson’s retort is an excellent example of film’s gallows humor: ‘‘I can’t believe you’ve got to put this shit in your lungs just to neutralize the shit in your lungs.’’ The fact that cigarette smoking actually saves lives in Screamers demonstrates how well screenwriters Dan O’Bannon and Miguel Tejada-Flores understand Dick’s pitiless satire in

‘‘Second Variety.’’ They push Dick’s unforgiving portrait of the aftereffects of nuclear annihilation into the realm of parody, for the scientific implausibility of an anti-radiation cigarette can only be understood as the film’s darkly comic reaction to the threat of nuclear war.

Screamers, however, otherwise hews closely to Dick’s plot. Private Jefferson, a creation of O’Bannon and Tejada-Flores, allows the movie to externalize what, in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ are Major Hendricks’s internal thoughts about the war’s origins. Hendricksson explains the film’s backstory to Jefferson during the early part of their hike, educating him (and the viewer) about the horrors of war. Hendricksson’s disparaging attitude toward the conflict fully emerges when they come across the dormant berynium mine: That, Private Jefferson, used to be the most profitable, sophisticated, and wonderful enterprise in the galaxy. Produced berynium, the great answer to the world’s energy question. A spoonful of berynium could take you from Earth to Saturn in a day. Then those mines started puking up radiation, cubic tons of it. We thought we discovered gold. We discovered shit.

Peter Weller delivers this hardboiled, unforgiving assessment with just enough empathy to indicate that Hendricksson’s stern exterior is a defensive reaction

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to the deep sadness he feels about the destruction of Sirius 6B’s surface. His reaction is in line with the character that Dick creates in ‘‘Second Variety,’’

but Weller gives Hendricksson an underlying moral outrage missing from the short story.

Hendricksson and Jefferson soon encounter David (Michael Caloz), a young boy clutching a teddy bear. Caloz’s listless speech, hollow eyes, and lack of affect fully realize Dick’s description of the lethargic David: He was small, not very old. Perhaps eight. But it was hard to tell. Most of the kids who remained were stunted. He wore a faded blue sweater, ragged with dirt, and short pants. His hair was long and matted. Brown hair. It hung over his face and around his ears.17

The dullness of David’s appearance in Screamers reflects the boy’s humble circumstances. He tells Hendricksson and Jefferson that he lives alone in the ruins of an abandoned settlement. The boy’s lack of adult supervision disturbs Hendricksson and Jefferson, who treat David as gently as they can.

David, like his counterpart in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ is destroyed when the boy approaches the NEB bunker. Two NEB soldiers named Becker (Roy Dupuis) and Ross (Charles Powell) shoot David without injuring Hendricksson or Jefferson. Each man’s outrage at David’s death is soon tempered by proof that David is an automaton. Screamers corresponds to the general outline of

‘‘Second Variety’’ in this scene but also changes Dick’s plot in its portrayal of Becker and Ross. Their counterparts in Dick’s short story, Klaus Epstein and Rudi Maxer, inhabit the small underground dwelling of Tasso (the story’s only female character), a woman who provides sexual favors to the Russian soldiers. Rudy Maxer’s bitterness at surviving the destruction of the Russian bunker condemns his carnal involvement with Tasso and bemoans his inability to fight alongside his lost comrades: ‘‘It was just chance that Klaus and I were not there’’ (at the Russian bunker when it was attacked by claws), Rudi says. ‘‘Weakness. Saved by our lusts.’’18

Becker and Ross, by contrast, live in an underground structure attached to the NEB Command bunker. These men are not sexually involved with Jessica Hansen (Jennifer Rubin), the black-market supplier of food, alcohol, and other goods who presides over the subterranean compound. Jessica, the film’s version of Tasso, takes charge after Becker and Ross bring Hendricksson and Jefferson into the shelter. The four bickering soldiers point their weapons at one another just as Jessica appears. She rebukes them all: Pardon me, gentlemen, but would you mind taking that outside? Stray bullets are bad for the inventory. It’s worth a lot more when it ain’t all shot to shit.

I’m letting you stay here under the kindness of my heart, Becker. So follow the ground rules. First, no gunplay inside. Second, this is my place and my stuff, so nobody touches anything unless I offer.

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This last line, delivered by Rubin with seen-it-all weariness, implies that sexual favors are not part of Jessica’s repertoire. Both Hendricksson and Jefferson stare, smile, and leer at Jessica. Their attention, significantly, seems not to bother her.

Rubin’s physical grace contrasts her sallow complexion and faded clothing.

The film, by placing such a beautiful woman in the planet’s ugly environment, emphasizes how unusual a place Sirius 6B is. These juxtapositions, along with Rubin’s quiet intelligence, make Jessica a more interesting character than Tasso is in ‘‘Second Variety.’’ Dick’s character has little personality, and even the revelation that Tasso is a claw does not make her intriguing. Rubin’s spirited performance, however, transforms Jessica into an independent woman who is wiser than the twenty-year-old ingeńue of Dick’s story. Rubin’s genuineness also adds poignancy to Hendricksson’s realization, at the film’s climax, that Jessica is a screamer. Hendricksson is so dispirited by this knowledge that Screamers underscores the tragedy of Jessica’s mechanical origin more than ‘‘Second Variety,’’ which sees Major Hendricks disappointed, but not devastated, to learn that Tasso is the second variety of claw.

Roy Dupuis, unfortunately, does not play the role of Becker nearly as well as Jennifer Rubin plays Jessica. Dupuis’s performance is unnecessarily macho, while the hardbitten manner by which Dupuis delivers Becker’s dialogue so blatantly foregrounds the character’s tough-guy credentials that the audience doubts Becker’s sincerity from his first appearance. Becker, for instance, growls ‘‘you made them (the screamers) hungry, so now they don’t give a shit what uniform is covering your ass. And neither do I’’ at Jefferson in a voice so melodramatic that the viewer chuckles rather than taking this threat seriously.

Becker then mistakenly kills Ross because he believes Ross to be a screamer, just as Klaus Epstein kills Rudi Maxer in ‘‘Second Variety.’’ Dupuis’s reaction to the suspicious stares that greet him in response to murdering Ross is laugh-ably inept: ‘‘You think I’m one of them? Well, hey, then you better kill me too, to see if I got any switches inside. Come on. Be on the safe side. Do it!’’ Becker bellows these lines in a gravelly monotone that advertises his eventual unmasking as a screamer. Even so, Becker’s behavior is maddeningly effective.

Hendricksson unaccountably allows the man to accompany him, Jessica, and Jefferson back to the Alliance bunker. Although this development parallels the events of ‘‘Second Variety,’’ Dupuis acts the scene so poorly that viewer has no doubt that Becker will soon betray his traveling companions.

Dick’s short story handles Epstein’s murder of Rudi Maxer better than Duguay’s film. Hendricks, in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ will not allow Tasso to kill Epstein in retaliation for murdering Maxer: ‘‘Let’s stop it right now. One is enough. We’re afraid, the way he was. If we kill him we’ll be doing what he did to Rudi.’’19 Epstein’s response to this largesse is to look ‘‘gratefully up at him [Hendricks]. ‘Thanks. I was afraid. You understand, don’t you?’ ’’20

Screamers, by contrast, presents the aftermath of Ross’s death as a contest of wills that Becker wins by daring Hendricksson, Jefferson, and Jessica to

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disbelieve him. The fact that Hendricksson neither challenges Becker nor justifies his decision to allow the man to continue traveling with the group is a rare tactical blunder that, due to Dupuis’s strained performance, is a more blatant error than it should be.

The manner of Ross’s death also emphasizes two more of Screamers’s imaginative disappointments. First, Becker throws a knife into Ross’s chest rather than shooting him with a heat-ray gun (the weapon of choice in ‘‘Second Variety’’). Dick memorably describes the aftermath of Rudi Maxer’s death:

‘‘Tasso stared past [Klaus Epstein] at the remains of Rudi, at the blackened, smoldering fragments and bits of cloth.’’21 Ross’s death in Screamers has no comparable physical or emotional disgust; the event is curiously flat. Just as unsatisfactory are the conventional weapons used by the film’s characters, whose bullets destroy the screamers with surprising ease. The viewer, however, can be forgiven for expecting that the self-evolving and self-replicating screamers, as the most advanced weapons ever designed, might take the obvious precaution of equipping themselves with flakjackets. The ingenuity that allows the screamers to produce many copies of their multiple varieties apparently does not extend to protecting themselves against standard munitions. Dick’s heat-ray guns, by contrast, suggest that his future world’s munitions technology has advanced as rapidly as all other weapons. Screamers overlooks this extrapolation for no other reason than to increase the film’s tension at convenient moments. The scene in which Hendricksson, Jefferson, Jessica, and Becker use bullets and flamethrowers to fend off the horde of David-variety screamers that pours out of the Alliance bunker, for example, is intensely staged, but the gunplay and flames too effortlessly destroy the screamers, whose only advantage is their large number.

Becker’s eventual revelation as the Type Two screamer is also less successful than it should be. Dupuis’s ineffectual acting is again to blame. The Type Two screamer is a wounded soldier who uses his injuries to dupe human beings into treating him sympathetically, which allows the Type Two to easily kill his unsuspecting victims. After Hendricksson defeats the army of Davids by firing a plutonium missile into one of the Alliance bunker’s fuel depots (an event that improbably produces no radioactive fallout), Becker lies on the ground and cries in pain. He, however, crushes Jefferson’s rib cage when the private tries to treat him, then walks toward Hendricksson. The colonel shoots a grenade at Becker, which destroys him. The truly insipid aspect of Becker’s death, however, is that he spouts a profane version of Gloucester’s speech, delivered in Act Five, Scene Six of Shakespeare’s The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth, that accompanies Gloucester’s murder of King Henry VI:

Down, down to hell and say that I sent you there. I came into the world with my legs forward and the woman cried, ‘‘he was born with teeth!’’ I had no father, I am like my father. I have no brother, I am like my brother. And this word

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‘‘love,’’ which old farts call divine, be resonant in men you like, asshole, but not in me. I am my motherfucking self, alone.

This allusion may suggest that the screamers are culturally literate creatures, not simple killing machines, but it is wholly out of place. Screamers’s screenwriters surrender to the desire to ennoble the film’s lurid violence by referencing Shakespeare. This choice is also a thoroughly unsuccessful attempt to burnish Becker’s image. Dupuis delivers the lines awkwardly, creating the impression that Becker has been waiting his entire life to quote Shakespeare while killing human beings. This development, therefore, transforms Screamers into a frightfully bad parody of the intriguing SF story that, up to this point, it has told reasonably well.

Becker’s destruction also suffers from unimpressive visual effects that turn the screamer into a comical, rather than menacing, herky-jerky robot.

Screamers thankfully improves after this point, as Hendricksson and Jessica head for New Alamogordo, the site of hidden bunker that houses a small escape craft that permits Sirius 6B’s Alliance commander to return to Earth in case of an emergency.

These last events also roughly conform to the denouement of ‘‘Second Variety,’’ although several differences distinguish the end of Dick’s short story from the conclusion of Duguay’s film. Hendricks, in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ is severely injured by the concussive force of an exploding bomb that Tasso sets off to destroy the claws that attack them outside the American bunker.

Hendricksson, in Screamers, is only slightly injured by the explosion of a plutonium missile near the Alliance bunker. Hendricks and Tasso share a purely professional relationship in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ but Hendricksson and Jessica develop romantic feelings for one another in Screamers. ‘‘Second Variety’’ quickly concludes after Hendricks and Tasso find the escape craft.

Screamers, however, lingers over two fights that break out before the movie ends: Hendricksson battles a screamer that resembles Chuck Elbarak, his second-in-command, while Jessica fights a screamer who is an exact replica of herself.

These alterations expand Dick’s plot in both provocative and regrettable ways. Hendricksson and Jessica are attracted to one another from the moment they meet, so their romance is not unbelievable. Jessica, in fact, undresses in front of Hendricksson soon after she meets him, while Hendricksson treats Jessica with respect throughout the film. His attraction, however, does not prevent Hendricksson from cutting Jessica’s right palm with a knife before they set off for New Alamogordo. The blood that flows from the wound, as well as Jessica’s confused pain at having to endure such treatment, causes Hendricksson to apologize. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he says. ‘‘I had to know. I had to know’’ (that Jessica is fully human). Hendricksson offers to cut his own palm as a demonstration of his humanity, but Jessica tells him, ‘‘Don’t do that.

You don’t need to.’’ They then passionately hug and kiss. The camera moves

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up and away from them to show Hendricksson and Jessica sitting amidst the Alliance bunker’s fiery ruins. Their sexual bond is plausible given the emotional trauma that both characters suffer as a result of repeated screamer attacks, allowing Weller and Rubin to strike the right chords of doubt, desire, and sensitivity in a scene that achieves authentic pathos.

Later, just before arriving at the launch site, Jessica collapses. ‘‘I don’t want to go on anymore,’’ she says. The ensuing dialogue reflects Hendricksson’s loneliness and his need to connect with Jessica: HENDRICKSSON:

I don’t have anybody. I don’t have a family.

I don’t have a best friend. I don’t have that kid Jefferson anymore.

I don’t even have him. But I have you. You hear me? I have you and we’re going home.

JESSICA:

I’m so glad.

HENDRICKSSON:

I’m taking you home.

This simple expression of love is well played by Weller and Rubin, who demonstrate that their characters wish to escape Sirius 6B’s barren environment to experience compassion and happiness with one another. Hendricksson and Jessica’s relationship not only succeeds because of this good acting but also transcends the eleventh-hour, out-of-nowhere romance that afflicts too many Hollywood films.

This relationship is also more effective than Screamers’s most ill-advised homage to Blade Runner. After Hendricksson and Jessica enter the New Alamogordo launch site, they find a hanging gantry obstructing the escape craft’s launch path. Jessica descends an elevator to stand near the ship while Hendricksson climbs atop the gantry to move it out of the way. Elbarak, however, emerges from the shadows to attack Hendricksson, who ends up hanging from the gantry, far above the escape vehicle. The parallels to Deckard’s final confrontation with Roy Batty are undeniable, but they lack the poetry and tragedy of Blade Runner’s climax. Hendricksson’s assailant is not, in fact, Elbarak, but rather a screamer that has ‘‘ripped off’’ Elbarak’s face (Becker’s face, the screamer reveals, was stolen from NEB Commander Marshall Richard Cooper). The Elbarak screamer speaks in Elbarak’s, then Becker’s, then Hendricksson’s voice to prove that screamers are capable of perfectly mimicking a human being’s behavior and personality. The screamer even repeats fragments of a conversation that Elbarak and Hendricksson shared during the film’s early scenes, which raises many provocative questions: How could the screamer have access to such intimate information? Is it telepathic?

Had the humanoid screamers infiltrated the Alliance bunker and replaced Elbarak before the film begins? Do the screamers monitor all aspects of the Alliance and NEB soldiers’ lives? The film makes no attempt to answer these questions, and Hendricksson easily defeats the screamer by sticking a knife

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into its shoulder, then throwing it into one of the laser beams that surrounds the escape craft. The screamer disintegrates on contact, ending the threat that it poses to Hendricksson’s safety.

This scene, apart from poorly recalling Blade Runner’s finale, goes far afield from ‘‘Second Variety.’’ It might have been effective had the existential questions raised by the screamers’ ability to impersonate specific human beings appeared earlier in the story, or if the film took more time to explore the issue’s implications. Screamers instead can only hint at one of Dick’s best narrative surprises in ‘‘Second Variety’’: the claws are not a unified or coordinated group of living machines. As Tasso tells Hendricks, ‘‘There appears to be little communication between the varieties. Each is made in a different factory. They don’t seem to work together. You might have started for the Soviet lines without knowing anything about the work of the other varieties.

Or even what the other varieties were like.’’22 Screamers draws out this possibility, but the suggestion that its humanoid weapons are not a cohesive unit comes so late in the story that the viewer barely registers its significance (Elbarak and Becker are so uncoordinated in their attacks on Hendricksson that the term military intelligence hardly applies to them). This climax, in truth, is an anticlimax that cheapens the ambiguously human qualities of mechanical life that Screamers might have developed.

The clash between Hendricksson and the Elbarak screamer also presages the film’s final battle between Jessica and her double, a plot point that diverges even more radically from ‘‘Second Variety’’ than the first fight. Tasso and Hendricks, in Dick’s short story, discover that the American escape rocket ship can carry only one passenger. Tasso convinces Hendricks to allow her to go in his place because his injuries (from her bomb) might kill the man before he reaches the American moon base. Hendricks, near death, eventually reveals the base’s location to Tasso. After she launches the vessel, Hendricks spots two Tasso-variety claws walking toward him. ‘‘Second Variety’’ ends with one of Dick’s most depressing and supremely sardonic conclusions.

As Hendricks attempts to destroy the many Tasso claws that threaten him, he makes a startling realization:

The line of Tassos came up to him. Hendricks braced himself, watching them calmly. The familiar face, the belt, the heavy shirt, the bomb carefully in place.

The bomb—

As the Tassos reached for him, a last ironic thought drifted through Hendrick’s [sic] mind. He felt a little better, thinking about it. The bomb. Made by the Second Variety to destroy the other varieties. Made for that end alone.

They were already beginning to design weapons to use against each other.23

This denouement perfectly encapsulates Dick’s satire of how Cold War paranoia infects all elements of human life. The machines designed to fight human conflicts not only take on a life of their own but also adopt the hatred

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that characterizes human warfare. ‘‘Second Variety,’’ in this melancholy conclusion, becomes both a cautionary tale about the dangers of technologizing warfare and a satire of Cold War lunacy. Killing his protagonist is Dick’s final commentary about the hopelessness that gripped America during the era of the short story’s composition.

Screamers attenuates this conclusion, depriving the film of narrative power even though its finale is just as depressing as the short story’s. After defeating the Elbarak screamer, Hendricksson encourages Jessica to use the escape rocket, which can only carry one passenger, to return to Earth. She refuses this gallant offer, but Jessica’s double appears before Hendricksson can board the escape craft. Hendricksson’s lover is now incontestably revealed as a screamer. The two women soon engage in a brief struggle that Barry Walters, in his San Francisco Examiner review of the film, refers to as an ‘‘exploitative semi-lesbo-erotic catfight.’’24 This assessment is unfortunately accurate, for the battle between the two Jessicas serves little purpose beyond sensational-ized titillation. It also recalls the final clash between Lori and Melina in Total Recall, which is hardly a positive comparison. Screamers’s final fifteen minutes, in fact, seem determined to remind the film’s viewer of both Ridley Scott’s and Paul Verhoeven’s earlier adaptations of Dick’s fiction, but such homages are unnecessary. Screamers’s plot and characters are strong enough to stand on their own merit, but Christian Duguay, Dan O’Bannon, and Miguel Tejada-Flores seem unwilling to trust their own material. Both fights not only compromise the storytelling integrity that Duguay’s movie has earned but also abrogate Screamers’s unsentimental, even bitter, mood to dilute the impact of Hendricksson’s recognition that the woman he loves is a screamer.

Peter Weller’s performance, however, saves Screamers from deteriorating into schlock SF. Before attacking ‘‘good’’ Jessica (the woman Hendricksson has known throughout the film), ‘‘bad’’ Jessica tells Hendricksson, ‘‘We can smile, we can cry, we can bleed, we can fuck.’’ This comment not only implies that the screamers have equaled humanity’s physical and emotional sophistication but also recalls Eldon Tyrell’s description of Blade Runner’s replicants as ‘‘More Human than Human.’’ Jessica, realizing that her true identity has been revealed, says to Hendricksson, ‘‘I wanted to tell you.’’ He, however, hurls her away. The ‘‘bad’’ Jessica screamer then easily tosses Hendricksson aside. She attempts to board the escape vessel, but is stopped by ‘‘good’’

Jessica, who demonstrates her love for Hendricksson by receiving a fatal wound from her counterpart. The escape vessel’s engines then conveniently incinerate ‘‘bad’’ Jessica, leaving Hendricksson to comfort his dying companion. Jessica tells him that she did not want to return to Earth because she represents a threat to the planet’s human population. Hendricksson utters one of the film’s best lines in response to her confession: ‘‘Well, you’re coming up in the world. You’ve learned how to kill each other now.’’ This dialogue preserves the irony of Dick’s final sentence in ‘‘Second Variety,’’

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but Jessica’s dying declaration destroys the scene’s dark tone: ‘‘I learned something else, too. I learned to—.’’ Hendricksson completes the thought for her: ‘‘Love.’’

Weller masterfully handles this schlmatzy finale, pronouncing the word

‘‘love’’ so softly that he reverses the scene’s descent into maudlin sentimentality. If any doubts remain about Weller’s acting talent, his ability to redeem such poor dialogue dispels them. Screamers then reclaims the harder edge of Dick’s short story when Hendricksson launches the rocket ship. The vessel rises into orbit of Sirius 6B, heading into open space as the camera enters the ship’s cockpit and comes to rest on an image of David’s teddy bear. This toy has presumably been thrown there by Jessica’s double when, moments before her destruction, the screamer tries to steal the escape craft. The bear, in a final twist, begins to move. This incident suggests that Hendricksson, like his counterpart in ‘‘Second Variety,’’ has unwittingly given the screamers access to the human population. Once the escape vessel reaches its destina-tion, the bear will presumably replicate itself, then begin slaughtering Earth’s human inhabitants. Duguay does not belabor this twist, but quickly cuts to an exterior shot of Hendricksson’s ship speeding through space before the credits roll. Screamers, in its final frames, salvages some narrative integrity by counteracting the embarrassing tenor of its penultimate scenes.

This problematic third act prevents Screamers from being as successful an adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s fiction as Blade Runner and Confessions d’un Barjo, or even Total Recall. The film, however, honorably updates the terror, cynicism, and hopelessness of ‘‘Second Variety’’ for its 1990s context.

Thanks to Peter Weller’s admirable performance, Screamers is a movie that overcomes its own worst tendencies toward rank sentimentality to evoke the social, economic, and military uncertainties of the decade that birthed the film. Screamers, therefore, may not be the best adaptation of Dick’s fiction, but its serious themes and political story line make the movie worthwhile viewing.

CHAPTER 5

Identity Theft: Impostor

I.

Impostor, Gary Fleder’s 2002 adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s 1953 short story (of the same title), is a searching and surprisingly entertaining film about the ambivalent nature of human identity. The film rehearses many of the ideas seen in the previous adaptations of Dick’s fiction, particularly Blade Runner, but these similarities do not diminish Impostor’s fundamental seriousness of tone and purpose. Impostor, like Blade Runner, attempts to fuse disparate genres into a coherent whole. Fleder’s movie is, at once, a cerebral SF story, a war picture, a thriller, and an action film that does not always succeed in marrying the conventions of its different influences. Impostor, despite this flaw, nonetheless manages to maintain the bleak tone of Dick’s original story.

Impostor also boasts one of the most impressive casts of any cinematic adaptation of Dick’s work, and certainly the best overall collection of actors since Blade Runner. While Total Recall suffers from Arnold Schwarzenegger’s wooden acting and Screamers is marred by Roy Dupuis’s unnecessary machismo, Impostor features excellent performances from all its actors, even those cast in minor roles. Gary Sinise plays the film’s protagonist, Dr. Spencer

‘‘Spence’’ Olham, as an empathetic and loving man rather than as the aloof genius so common in SF literature and cinema. Olham is a brilliant government scientist who, after developing a doomsday weapon to destroy the extraterrestrial inhabitants of Alpha Centauri, is accused of being a Centauri cyborg with a bomb inside his chest programmed to massacre Earth’s most important political and scientific officials. These complexities

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require all of Sinise’s talents to realize the character’s nuances. Madeleine Stowe may be relegated to a supporting part as Olham’s wife, Maya, but the actress is believably sympathetic as a medical doctor who refuses to sacrifice her principles and who questions the wisdom of Earth’s war against the Centauri. Vincent D’Onofrio’s turn as Major D. H. Hathaway, the ESA (Earth Security Agency) officer who accuses Olham of treason, infuses his tough-as-nails role with intelligence, ferocity, and bureaucratic arrogance.

Mekhi Phifer gives a passionate performance as Cale, the social outcast who helps Olham after the doctor escapes from Hathaway’s custody. Tony Shalhoub (as Olham’s best friend and fellow scientist Nelson Gittes), Lindsay Crouse (as Earth’s militant chancellor), and Tim Guinee (as Maya Olham’s colleague Dr. Carone) convey depth despite their characters’ minimal screen time (Crouse, for instance, has only one, thirty-second scene). By casting good actors from which he coaches excellent performances, Fleder creates a future world that feels authentic and legitimately ‘‘lived-in’’ because its characters are believable, relatable, and well drawn.

This attention to character surpasses Dick’s ‘‘Impostor,’’ which, while an ingenious tale of enemy infiltration and wartime paranoia, is so short that only Olham receives any true development. Impostor also expands the parameters of ‘‘Impostor’’ to imagine a future landscape that is more fully realized than the short story. Fleder’s film, like Christian Duguay’s Screamers, contemporizes the political context of Dick’s tale to speak to the anxieties of the film’s moment, which were considerable: Impostor premiered on January 4, 2002, less than four months after the September 11, 2001, attacks on New York City and Washington, D.C.1 Although Impostor’s unusual production history precluded the film from being a direct response to 9/11’s events, Fleder’s movie plumbs American uncertainties about personal and political identity in an age of terrorism. Impostor, in the words of Guardian film critic Peter Bradshaw, is ‘‘interesting, high-IQ sci-fi, and if ever a film spoke to America’s post-September 11 paranoia, this one does.’’2

Dick’s ‘‘Impostor,’’ like ‘‘Second Variety’’ (the 1953 short story that inspired Screamers), reflects the suspicions of its era. ‘‘Impostor’’ finds Terra at war with the Outspacers of Alpha Centauri, whose superior spacecraft (suggestively called needle-ships) threaten the planet’s existence until a

‘‘protec-bubble’’ developed by Westinghouse Labs shields Earth from alien attack and invasion.3 The Outspacers are never seen, but have reportedly sent

‘‘a spy in the form of a humanoid robot’’ whose task is ‘‘to destroy a particular human being and take his place.’’4 This premise’s Cold War analogy is clear: Terra represents the United States of the 1950s as it attempts to defend itself from infiltration by Soviet spies who cannot be distinguished from other members of the populace.

McCarthyist overtones emerge when Spence Olham is arrested under suspicion that he is the humanoid robot in question, equipped with a ‘‘U-bomb’’

that can be detonated by ‘‘a particular spoken phrase.’’5 The subversive

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character of this plot, in which a human being may not only be an enemy agent, but also a living bomb, literalizes the paradoxical alienation that M. Keith Booker, in Monsters, Mushroom Clouds, and the Cold War, sees as fundamental to the SF of ‘‘the long 1950s,’’ Booker’s term for the period running from 1946 (the first full year of the Cold War) to 1964 (the first year of the post-Kennedy era):

The particular form of alienation that was so prevalent in America in the long 1950s can be described as a fear of exclusion, as a fear of not fitting in.

Surrounded by a pressure to conform, individuals feared their own inability to do so; they feared being identified as different, as being, in fact, the Other.

Conversely, routinization in the long 1950s involves a sense of being forced into conformity, at a loss of individual identity. In short, Americans in the long 1950s suffered from two principal fears: the fear of being different from everyone else and the fear of being the same as everyone else.6

‘‘Impostor’’ expertly realizes this social anxiety by sketching an insoluble existential trap for its protagonist. Is Olham a loyal human scientist or an unde-tectable enemy agent? This question drives the short story’s plot, but does not resolve itself until Olham, much to his own surprise, discovers in the story’s final moments that he is, in fact, the Centauri robot. The U-bomb inside Olham then detonates, destroying the world. Dick’s narrative, however, repeatedly suggests that Olham is fully human to discount the possibility that he is an automaton. Convincing the reader that Olham is an honest man unfairly accused of treason is crucial to preserving the story’s final twist.

Olham, as the opening paragraphs of ‘‘Impostor’’ reveal, dislikes his routine work on ‘‘the Project,’’ a government program that has taken ten years of his life in an effort to develop a weapon that can defeat the Outspacers. Olham, bored by the war as much as his job, tells his colleague Nelson, ‘‘Maybe it’s just the propaganda from the news-machines, but in the last month I’ve gotten weary of all this. Everything seems so grim and serious, no color to life.’’7

The fear of becoming just another cog in the story’s military-industrial machine infects Olham’s thinking, inclining him to leave his humdrum life and difficult work behind. Olham’s fondest wish, expressed to his wife Mary in the story’s first scene, is to vacation in a quiet park named Sutton Wood as a way of escaping his occupation’s conformist demands.

Olham even doubts the war effort, telling Mary, ‘‘The war will be won without me. This ball of clay of ours isn’t really in much danger.. . .The newsma-chines alter dispatches to make it appear the Outspacers are right on top of us.’’8 Dick evokes the protagonist’s personal and professional ennui with typical concision to create a character who keenly feels the constrictions of social orthodoxy. Once arrested for treason, however, Olham vigorously protests his newly outcast status. He has ample reason to fear for his life. Major Peters, an officer in the FSA security agency, accompanies Nelson and Olham on their

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morning drive to the Project’s headquarters. Once Peters and Nelson subdue Olham, the ‘‘bug’’ (or car) in which they ride blasts away from Earth, heading for the Moon. Peters informs Olham of the protagonist’s unenviable fate:

‘‘After we land you’ll be turned over immediately to a team of men waiting there. Your body will be destroyed at once. . . .Within two hours your parts will be strewn over the landscape. There won’t be anything left of you.’’9

Now that he is distinct from everyone else, Olham’s inability to conform to his role as a loyal employee of the state threatens his identity (and his life).

Peters also forecloses the possibility that Olham is human by commenting that the Centauri robot ‘‘would be unaware that he was not the real Spence Olham. He would become Olham in mind as well as body. He was given an artificial memory system, false recall. He would look like him, have his memories, his thoughts and interests, perform his job.’’10

Olham’s plight, therefore, substantiates the simultaneous fear of being-different-from-but-the-same-as everyone else that Booker notes, while also extrapolating many prevalent Cold War anxieties of the 1950s—enemy infiltration, internal subversion, government propaganda, a race to find the most lethal offensive weaponry, and the existence of a doomsday device that can destroy the world—into a future setting whose date is never precisely identified. Gary Fleder and Impostor’s production team, consequently, faced the same quandary in adapting Dick’s short story into cinematic form as Christian Duguay and his team did when transforming ‘‘Second Variety’’

into Screamers: either retain Dick’s original settings and political context or update them for a more contemporary audience. Fleder and his screenwriters (Caroline Case, Ehren Kruger, and David Twohy) chose to contemporize Dick’s short story to take account of fin-de-siècle anxieties about terrorism, as well as to expand Dick’s narrative to include an explicit indictment of American society’s class divisions. These changes, along with the fact that Impostor was originally filmed as a 38-minute short movie before being expanded to a 102-minute feature, opened Fleder’s film to charges of straying too far from Dick’s material (Geoff Pevere, for instance, titles his Toronto Sun review ‘‘Impostor Doesn’t Know Dick’’). Such judgments, however, overlook the quality of the film’s social commentary. Impostor, despite its lugubrious middle section, may fall short of Blade Runner’s intellectual and visual poetry, but Fleder’s movie still manages to provide an intriguing gloss on the themes, characters, and concerns of Dick’s short story.

II.

Impostor was originally intended as one segment of a three-part SF movie that Dimension Films (a subsidiary of Miramax) referred to as both the

‘‘Alien Love Trilogy’’ and The Light Years Trilogy.11 Gary Sinise, who served as both producer and star of the feature film, spoke to Impostor’s atypical production history in a January 4, 2002, interview with the New York Times:

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There was a love story in each episode. They made one, and ours was actually the second one, and they liked ours so much that they asked if we’d keep working on it. There was a lot of room to turn it into a feature, and everyone had ideas on how to expand it. So they scrapped the trilogy idea and just focused on Impostor. It was a year and a half later when we went back and finished it.12

The original, 38-minute movie, filmed during the early months of 2000, is a more concise rendering of Dick’s story than the theatrical release. The short film opens with images of Spence Olham (Sinise) and his wife Maya (Madeleine Stowe) making love before cutting to Olham standing in a high-tech shower, singing along with John Lee Hooker’s song ‘‘Boom Boom.’’ Maya, meanwhile, watches a news report about the devastating attack of Centauri forces against Earth’s Tolstoy Colony, located, the viewer learns, ‘‘on Aste-roid X83.’’ Olham soon joins Maya to see a newscast of Earth’s Chancellor (Lindsay Crouse) assuring her constituents that ‘‘this heinous act, this war crime, will be avenged’’ as images of nuclear explosions imply that the colony has been bombed out of existence. The next news segment, a report about a fire of unknown origin raging at a park named Sutton Word, faintly disturbs Olham. He and Maya had gone camping in Sutton Wood during the just-concluded weekend (the film, this information intimates, begins on Monday morning, only one or two days after the Olhams’ camping trip). The movie does not linger over this detail, which becomes increasingly important once Spence arrives at Project Headquarters with his friend Nelson Gittes (Tony Shalhoub). Olham is the head of research for the Project, a program that has developed a doomsday weapon to defeat Earth’s Centauri attackers. Major D.H. Hathaway (Vincent D’Onofrio) arrives and accuses Olham of treason before arresting the man. Hathaway claims that the ESA has intercepted and translated a Centauri communication that reveals a ‘‘hit list’’ of prominent figures targeted for assassination and replication. Olham’s name is on this list, leading Hathaway to believe that the real Spence Olham was replaced sometime during the weekend by a Centauri cyborg. This humanoid robot carries a bomb inside its chest that will detonate during a meeting of Project scientists with the Chancellor to be held later that evening. Hathaway, who believes that Olham’s mission is to assassinate the Chancellor and as many Project scientists as possible, interrogates Olham in front of his colleagues to humiliate the man into confessing his crimes. Spence pleads with Nelson to call off Hathaway by recalling specific memories of his long friendship with Nelson to authenticate his own humanity. Nelson’s ambivalent reaction, however, causes Olham to realize that Nelson has been co-opted by Hathaway into betraying him.

This revelation distresses Spence, but he has little time to contemplate Nelson’s behavior. Hathaway orders two guards to strap Olham into ‘‘the vivisector,’’ a machine that will slice open his chest in order to remove the bomb that Hathaway believes resides there. This fate promises a horribly painful death, so Spence, playacting the role of a Centauri cyborg bomber

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on the verge of detonation, violently escapes Hathaway’s captivity. Olham accidentally kills Nelson while shooting two armed guards who threaten his (Olham’s) life, convincing Hathaway that Olham is an enemy agent. Spence contacts Maya after escaping Project Headquarters and asks her to meet him at Sutton Wood, which is the only place that a Centauri cyborg could have gotten near him during the past few days. Olham hopes to find the crashed Centauri spacecraft that Hathaway mentions during the interrogation, as well as its pilot, to prove that he is a human being, not a traitorous automaton.

When Maya arrives at Sutton Wood, she is startled by Spence’s frenzied appearance. She tells her husband that she does not believe Hathaway’s story that Olham is a sleeper agent, but their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Hathaway and several ESA soldiers, who chase them into the park’s forest. Spence and Maya find the crashed Centauri craft, but just as they are about to remove enough debris to see who sits in its cockpit, Hathaway tells Olham that ESA’s translation of the Centauri hit list was incomplete.

Hathaway now recognizes that Olham is not guilty of any crime and pleads with Spence to walk away from the crashed spacecraft.

Spence and Maya, however, remove a piece of debris blocking the craft’s cockpit. They are shocked to discover Maya’s dead body lying inside. As Maya, aghast, protests her innocence, Hathaway tells Olham what ESA has learned: ‘‘Spencer, it wasn’t you who they wanted. You were the link to the Chancellor. It was her [the Maya cyborg’s] target.. . .You were just a decoy, a dupe. That is not your wife. That thing murdered your wife.’’ Hathaway then shoots the Maya cyborg to death. Olham, crying and confused by this turn of events, cradles the Maya cyborg’s bloody corpse in his arms. He asks Hathaway how he could have been so fooled by a Centauri copy of his wife.

Hathaway offers little comfort, claiming that Earth will defeat the Centauri just as one of his men discovers that the spacecraft’s cockpit also contains Spence Olham’s dead body. Hathaway, realizing too late that the Centauri replaced both Olham and his wife with cyborgs, moves toward Spence, who makes a final, fatal recognition when he observes his own corpse sitting in the spacecraft. ‘‘Oh God,’’ Spence says, ‘‘if that’s Olham—’’ before a gigantic nuclear explosion devastates Sutton Wood, killing everyone in sight and whiting out the screen to conclude the short film.

This downbeat twist ending preserves the tone of Dick’s denouement while slightly altering its details. In Dick’s ‘‘Impostor,’’ Olham escapes from the custody of Major Peters and Nelson (who does not die) by pretending to be a humanoid robot bomber on the verge of detonation just after they land on the Moon. Peters and Nelson rush out of the ‘‘bug’’ that has transported them to the lunar surface, allowing Olham to hijack the ship and return to Earth. Spence arrives at his home to discover security agents there. Olham’s wife Mary has allowed these men to wait in the house with her. Olham barely escapes their pursuit, running into Sutton Wood to find the downed Outspacer craft. The next morning, after Peters, Nelson, and Peters’s troops

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discover Olham in the wood, Spence points them toward the crashed ship and

‘‘a grotesque form’’ lying ‘‘on the ground, bent and twisted in a strange shape.’’13 The corpse’s chest has been ripped open, revealing a metal object that Peters and Olham mistake for the Outspacer U-bomb. Nelson, however, grabs the metal object, leading to the story’s dismal conclusion: Nelson stood up. He was holding on to the metal object. His face was blank with terror. It was a metal knife, an Outspace needle-knife, covered with blood.

‘‘This killed him,’’ Nelson whispered. ‘‘My friend was killed with this.’’

He looked at Olham. ‘‘You killed him with this and left him beside the ship.’’

Olham was trembling. His teeth chattered. He looked from the knife to the body. ‘‘This can’t be Olham,’’ he said. His mind spun, everything was whirling.

‘‘Was I wrong?’’

He gaped.

‘‘But if that’s Olham, than [sic] I must be—’’

He did not complete the sentence, only the first phrase. The blast was visible all the way to Alpha Centauri.14

This ending highlights Dick’s fascination with the fractured nature of human identity by emphasizing the threat of enemy infiltration that characterized American culture during the 1950s. It is also one of the author’s bleakest, most hopeless conclusions. Impostor’s short, 38-minute version achieves the same grim power as Dick’s story by instantly changing its protagonist from an innocent man unfairly hounded by a repressive government into the instrument of worldwide destruction. The short film’s final whiteout implies that the detonation, caused when Olham remembers his true identity, is a global cataclysm (even though Hathaway earlier claims that the bomb can only devastate a finite area).

Impostor’s early version, in other words, is more faithful to the general parameters of Dick’s short story than its longer theatrical release. The short film works well as a cinematic adaptation, sticking close to Dick’s narrative.

This first version, however, alters many of the short story’s particulars. It kills Nelson, never leaves Earth for the moon, implicates Olham’s wife in the Centauri plot to destroy Earth, and provides Olham with a concrete motivation to complete the Project’s doomsday weapon. Olham’s commitment to destroy the Centauri originates in grief and anger over the fate of his father, a spacefighter pilot, who died in a Centauri prisoner-of-war camp after being flayed alive. Olham, the viewer learns, was only eight years old when this event occurred. The short film also deepens Maya Olham’s character by making her a medical doctor who questions both Spence’s work as a weapons engineer and the Chancellor’s militant tactics. This change is a considerable improvement over Dick’s story, in which the barely present Mary Olham betrays Spence to Major Peters. Maya Olham, in Impostor’s first version, admits to Spence that she has told Hathaway where to find him, but she does so in the

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hopes of saving his life. Fleder’s initial 38-minute cut of the film is tight, coherent, well acted, and briskly paced. This early version, like Dick’s ‘‘Impostor,’’ wastes little time establishing its environment or emphasizing its future landscape. The movie instead concentrates on telling its story as economically as possible.

Expanding Impostor to feature-film length allowed Fleder and his collaborators to create a more satisfying visual, cultural, and political context for Dick’s story. Some reviewers, however, felt that the longer version attenuates the power and impact of the author’s tale by padding it with unnecessary plot points. These criticisms have merit insofar as the feature-length Impostor’s second act involves too many chases, fights, and cloak-and-dagger shenanigans, but the theatrical release is better than reviewers such as the New York Times’

A.O. Scott claim. Impostor’s mixed reviews, like Blade Runner’s, indicate that the film’s underlying complexity is subtler than some observers can appreciate.

The film’s concern with the instability of human identity during wartime makes it more ambitious than Scott recognizes when he claims that ‘‘the movie is either alerting us to the uncanny prescience of its source or apologiz-ing in advance for its dated view of the world that awaits us.’’15 Impostor is not so obvious. Its problematic second act may be saddled with repetitive action sequences and a frenetic visual style, but the theatrical version of Fleder’s movie reflects American fears about terrorism and social decay in an intelligent, if not especially original, manner. Impostor’s defects, in other words, cannot obscure its merits or its pleasures.

III.

Impostor, particularly the Director’s Cut that Gary Fleder prepared for the film’s DVD release, updates the Cold War angst of Philip K. Dick’s ‘‘Impostor’’ for an early-twenty-first-century audience. Impostor’s overtly militarized future (set in the year 2079) had become a staple of SF literature, film, and television by the time of the movie’s 2002 release. Impostor’s pessimistic dystopia was so familiar to its audience, in fact, that the New York Times’

A. O. Scott, the London Observer’s Gaby Wood, and Salon.com’s Andrew O’Hehir, in their reviews, consider this unattractive future world to be a cliche´. The film’s dingy environment and police-state politics, however, directly derive from Dick’s story, allowing Fleder to take account of twenty-first-century America’s social anxieties.

Impostor also repeats many of the sociological and visual motifs of scholar Fred Glass’s ‘‘New Bad Future’’ film. For Glass, a New Bad Future movie portrays the future as a time when powerful governmental and/or corporate forces consolidate their power by employing advanced technology in the service of environmental degradation, political repression, and economic stratifi-cation. This subgenre of SF film, at least in its American character, frequently extrapolates fears about the dangers of autocratic technocracy into unbearable

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paranoia. The totalitarian landscapes of New Bad Future films also repudiate a competing SF vision of the future as an era of political, social, and economic progress. Blade Runner, perhaps more than any other American film of the last quarter of the twentieth century, has unfairly exiled more progressive SF
movies to the status of naı¨ve utopianism by exerting tremendous influence on the New Bad Future genre, both in terms of visual style and in terms of thematic content. Impostor clearly descends from Ridley Scott’s movie to depict 2079 Earth as a place of gleaming cityscapes that exist in the midst of poverty, pollution, and urban degradation. The future, in Fleder’s movie, includes many new technological wonders, but it is also incontestably bad.

Impostor, like the previous adaptations of Dick’s SF, uses the premise of its literary source as the launching point for political and cultural commentary about American life. The film is not, as Peter Bradshaw implies in the London Guardian, a direct response to the events of 9/11 because its production was largely complete by the time of the terrorist attacks against New York City and Washington D.C. Impostor’s early 2002 release should not dupe viewers into falsely believing that Fleder and his screenwriters were more prescient about 9/11 than they actually were. The film’s creators, however, were hardly ignorant of the threats posed by suicide bombers or of the dangers posed by people who infiltrate government installations to destroy as many lives (and as much property) as possible. The August 7, 1998, bombings of the United States embassies in Nairobi, Kenya, and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, and the continued violence of the Israeli occupation of Palestine were two major international events that demonstrated how globally fractious the late 1990s had become.

An even more resonant incident for Americans was Timothy McVeigh’s April 19, 1995, bombing of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma’s Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. The April 3, 1996, arrest of Unabomber Theodore Kaczynski and the July 27, 1996, explosion of a bomb at Atlanta, Georgia’s Centennial Olympic Park (during the second week of the 1996 Summer Olympics), underscored the reality of domestic terrorism to many Americans. Shortly after the Centennial Park blast, the explosions at two Southern abortion clinics and a nightclub perpetrated by right-wing extremist Eric Robert Rudolph also viscerally demonstrated the terror that a lone bomber could provoke on American soil.

Impostor intensifies the horror of suicide bombing by depicting a rational man who becomes the instrument of global destruction. The film’s nightmare scenario relies upon a cyborg that believes itself to be fully human because of false implanted memories. This character appears so often in Dick’s writing that it is one of his great contributions to the field of American SF. Blade Runner, Total Recall, and Screamers have included variations of this theme, while its presence in other SF films—including Logan’s Run (1974), The Terminator (1984), RoboCop (1987), and the Star Wars trilogies (1977–1986 and 1999–2005)—and SF television series—including Doctor Who (1963–1989
and 2005–present), The Six Million Dollar Man (1974–1978), and Star Trek:

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The Next Generation (1987–1994)—makes it one of the most popular aspects of contemporary SF mass media. Impostor employs the cyborg-who-does-not-know-he-is-a-cyborg character to excellent effect, tempting the viewer into believing that Spence Olham is human until its final moments.

Gary Sinise’s accomplished performance is responsible for giving Olham enough depth to convince the audience that the character is a real person.

His anger during Hathaway’s interrogation, as well as his playful and prickly relationship with Maya, grounds Impostor in plausible human behavior. The film, indeed, is a good example of humanistic SF that maintains great sympathy for its protagonist. The revelation that Spence and Maya are Centauri cyborgs is a genuine surprise, even for readers of Dick’s short story, because Sinise and Madeleine Stowe play mature people who are mystified by the barely understandable circumstances that confront them.

Both actors also reflect the film’s larger political conflict. When the newscast of the Tolstoy Colony’s destruction mentions that the Chancellor is in town for a meeting with government scientists (including Olham), Spence wonders why the government leaks secret information. Maya’s reply is both cynical and cutting: ‘‘They want us to think she’s Joan of Arc and not some warmonger.’’

Spence reminds Maya that he and she will shake the Chancellor’s hand at a reception later that evening, but his wife gives no ground: ‘‘Well, I hope she likes talking politics.’’ Stowe delivers this line with the confidence of a woman unfazed by political celebrity and unafraid to speak truth to power. Sinise’s reaction indicates that Olham does not agree with his wife’s attitude, although Olham’s position as head of special-weapons research for the Project no doubt constrains any political disagreements he might have with Earth’s ruling administration.16

Olham’s opening voice-over monologue, moreover, provides Impostor’s most explicit political commentary:

There wasn’t always a war with the Centauri, but in my lifetime, it’s all I’ve ever known. By the year 2050, six years after the first attack, we’d lost so many things. We’d lost the sky to electromagnetic domes to shield the earth from frequent air raids, increasing in intensity. We’d lost the uncovered cities that the government forgot. We’d lost democracy to global leadership.

This final line, when considered in the context Maya’s reaction to the Chancellor’s policies, suggests that Impostor depicts a totalitarian police state. As Olham and Nelson walk toward Project Headquarters, amiably discussing their weekend and their families, Fleder’s camera finds numerous armed soldiers standing on the streets. These troops visibly maintain law and order, as well as offer an implicit threat against anyone who wishes to oppose them.

Several patriotic banners hang in the background, proclaiming ‘‘Take Decisive Action;’’ ‘‘Strength, Victory, Pride;’’ ‘‘The Project Will Secure Our Future;’’

‘‘For Our Children;’’ and other sententious slogans that recall George

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Orwell’s novel 1984. Nelson extends the film’s Orwellian implications when, in response to Olham’s comment about the enhanced security, he quips,

‘‘They’re gearing up for Big Sister.’’ The Chancellor’s visit may mandate a more noticeable police presence, but the viewer quickly understands that such unsubtle reminders of the state’s power are the rule, not the exception, in the year 2079.

Fleder and his editors, Bob Ducsay and Armen Minasian, emphasize the government’s pervasive influence by intercutting Olham and Nelson’s conversation with scenes of Maya’s work as associate director of Veteran’s Memorial Hospital. This facility and its staff treat severe combat injuries.

Maya’s colleague Dr. Carone (Tim Guinee) complains that Maya has allowed a ship transporting survivors of the Tolstoy Colony attack to bring new patients to the already overloaded hospital, but Maya does not want to reroute these survivors to another facility. When Carone says, ‘‘I am all for the war effort,’’ Maya cuts him off: ‘‘I’m not interested in the war effort. I just care about saving as many women as I possibly can.’’ Maya’s statement reflects her independent political thinking in two different ways. First, she expresses the common medical concern for treating patients no matter what circumstances have caused their injuries by rebuffing Carone’s jingoistic support for Earth’s war with the Centauri. Second, Maya’s desire to save ‘‘as many women as possible’’ is curious considering that the scene’s opening, panoramic shot of the hospital’s main ward shows as many bedridden men as women. Maya apparently employs the term ‘‘women’’ to describe all the hospital’s patients, reversing the sexist habit of referring to people of both genders as ‘‘men’’ or ‘‘guys.’’ These details reject the prevailing attitude of patrician patriotism that suffuses Impostor’s future society to emphasize how unafraid Maya is to disagree with her culture’s engrained militarism.

Olham, the viewer soon realizes, is also not as enthusiastic a supporter of the war as his position as director of the Project’s special-weapons research division might suggest. When he and Nelson stop at an observation window to consider the doomsday weapon that they have designed, Olham recalls the detonation of the first atomic bomb: OLHAM:

July 16, 1945. . .5:29 a.m.

NELSON:

What?

OLHAM:

Oppenheimer tests the first atomic bomb in Alamogordo, New Mexico.

NELSON:

Ah.

OLHAM:

Three weeks later, the weapon hits ground zero in Hiroshima, Japan, wiping out 140,000 people. Oppenheimer sees the mad-ness and urges the UN to gain control of thermonuclear development.

The government turns around and calls him a Communist sympathizer.

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NELSON:

Let the celebration begin.

OLHAM:

Yeah. When it was all over, Einstein said, ‘‘Only two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity. And I’m not sure about the universe.’’

NELSON:

What’s the matter with you?

OLHAM:

Nothing.

Olham’s doubts parallel Oppenheimer’s, for the Project’s weapon—a large, missile-like contraption—visually recalls the design of early atomic bombs.

Sinise’s cynical delivery of Spence’s lines hints that Olham has reservations about building a genocidal weapon of war in spite of the need to defend Earth from Centauri attacks that devastate the planet’s unprotected surface. Olham cannot see the doomsday weapon—his highest professional achievement—as an unproblematic triumph. This ambivalence ensures that Olham will be treated by the government he serves just as shabbily as J. Robert Oppenheimer was treated by the American government: Hathaway soon accuses Olham of disloyalty, then arrests him for treason against the state.

The unfairness of this development illustrates the dangers of authoritarian-ism, but Impostor, like Dick’s short story, poses an even more difficult political dilemma. The film refuses the traditional story line of an innocent, lone hero who fights for his freedom—and, by implication, the civil liberties of his fellow citizens—against corrupt state power. The fact that Hathaway’s paranoia is justified, that both Olham and Maya turn out to be enemy agents, pushes Impostor beyond the conventions of the standard political thriller. Neither Dick’s short story nor Fleder’s film accepts a simplistic rendering of political tension during wartime. The film also repudiates the conclusion that Olham’s betrayal of the state justifies Hathaway’s totalitarian tactics. Impostor’s middle section forces Olham to live outside his home city’s protective dome in an area called the Dead Zone. By creating the character of Cale, a mercenary who lives in the Zone, the movie’s screenwriters reflect upon the continuing American problems of urban poverty, homelessness, and violence. Impostor, despite its second-act flaws, continues the tradition of criticizing American society’s inequitable class structure inaugurated by Blade Runner and Total Recall (and, to a lesser extent, Screamers). Impostor’s muddled commentary about the political origins of America’s class divisions may not rise to the artistic level of Blade Runner, but the film’s honest effort to imagine the consequences of a highly militarized future makes it a worthy addition to the cinematic adaptations of Dick’s fiction.

IV.

Dick’s ‘‘Impostor’’ avoids explicit socioeconomic commentary, preferring to focus on the political implications of Major Peters’s accusations of treason.

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The advantage that Terra hopes to gain by creating an irresistible offensive weapon disappears once Peters suspects Olham of being a highly placed sleeper agent. The struggle between humanity and the Outspacers, consequently, becomes dangerously unstable. Dick evokes the anxieties of 1950s’ America by referencing three related events that defined much of the decade: (1) the Soviets’ initial 1949 test of an atomic bomb; (2) the end of the American monopoly over nuclear weaponry; and (3) the resulting arms race that even President Eisenhower came to see as a waste of money, material, and international goodwill.

The twist that Dick incorporates into ‘‘Impostor’’—the infiltrating Outspacer robot has false memories of the person it replaces—strikes at the core of Olham’s belief in his own identity. Olham rarely doubts himself during the course of the story, but the reader cannot make a secure determination about his status as either a loyal human being or a disloyal robot. Dick’s short story forces its reader into complicity with this dualistic Us-Them ideology.

It also raises the specter of universal destruction to foreclose objections to Major Peters’s harsh measures against Olham by highlighting legitimate security concerns. Protecting Earth against enemy infiltration becomes a necessity when the stakes are so high, and Peters’s ruthless decision to terminate Olham makes more sense as a result. As Olham himself realizes, ‘‘The cordon was coming all the time, squeezing him into a smaller and smaller space,’’17 which describes not only the reader’s constrained position within the narrative’s rapidly diminishing field of choice but also the story’s political subtext.

‘‘Impostor,’’ however, does not validate Peters’s authoritarian security measures because Olham’s false memories complicate the simplistic loyalty/
treason dichotomy that Peters invokes. Since Olham is unaware of his true identity as an enemy agent, he is neither a traitor nor a loyalist. The fact that Olham believes himself to be an honest citizen until the story’s final moments blurs the distinction between loyalty and treason so effectively that ‘‘Impostor’’ demolishes the false Cold War rhetoric that defined American citizens as either patriots or enemy collaborators. This ideology did not acknowledge the possibility that American citizens could remain loyal to their nation even while disagreeing with its government’s attitude toward the Soviet Union.

‘‘Impostor’’ refuses such binary thinking, concluding on an extraordinarily pessimistic note: Olham’s recognition of his true identity destroys the world, underscoring the insanity of extended warfare and the perversion of international trust that the Cold War embodied.

Fleder’s film accomplishes a similar goal, but extends its political commentary to consider the economic ramifications of long-term warfare. Once Olham escapes from Major Hathaway’s interrogation, he enters the Dead Zone, an area outside his city’s protective dome that houses indigent people who cannot afford to live inside the city’s secure perimeter. Mekhi Phifer’s character, Cale, functions as the voice of these outcasts, who must endure the Zone’s brutal world of crime, vice, and immorality, where inhabitants

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must fight one another for the most basic necessities, including food and medicine. This miserable setting occupies much of Impostor’s second act, after Olham flees Hathaway’s patrols and is captured by Cale. Olham pleads with Cale not to turn him over to ESA’s border-patrol agents to collect the cash reward that has been offered for Olham’s return. He bargains with Cale, who eventually agrees to lead Olham into the city so that Spence can conduct a ‘‘molecular-core PET scan’’ at Veteran’s Memorial Hospital (Maya’s work-site) that will prove him to be fully human. In exchange for his assistance, Olham agrees to allow Cale to raid the hospital’s medical supplies to restock the ragtag Zoner medical clinic that provides treatment to several patients, including Cale’s seriously ill sister (Golden Brooks). Cale, however, forces Olham to barter for his life in a conversation that portrays the social dissolution produced by war.

OLHAM:

Whatever you’re going to trade me for—whatever you can get—I’ll triple it.

CALE (pointing a gun at Olham):

It’s too late.

OLHAM:

House allocation, food rations . . .I can get you all of it.

Come on, help me out.

CALE:

Too late. (He knocks Olham to the ground.) See that dome right there? A government program built that after we were bombed by the Centauri. After we got turned into the Dead Zone. See, that’s how you G-fucks always deliver. Too goddamn late.

Cale’s anger is justified. The political callousness of leaving a large segment of the city’s population to fend for itself, outside the protection or notice of governmental authority, is Impostor’s fictional intensification of the poverty, homelessness, and hunger that were visible on American streets even during the height of the economic boom of the 1990s. The resulting division between the wealthy and the destitute achieves an uncompromising reality in Fleder’s movie that recalls similar scenarios in Michael Anderson’s Logan’s Run (1974), John Boorman’s Zardoz (1974), John Carpenter’s Escape from New York (1981), and, of course, Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (1982). All of these films feature privileged populaces who physically separate themselves from the impoverished masses. The Dead Zone, an area of wretched urban blight, becomes Impostor’s primary metaphor for the hopelessness engendered by unremitting warfare. The establishing shot that precedes Cale and Olham’s conversation reveals a wasted landscape whose ruined buildings, forlorn cemetery, and abandoned religious iconography testify to the failure of all institutions. The camera, for instance, lingers on two moldering crosses that offer little faith or comfort. This sequence’s set design and cinematography would rival Blade Runner’s depiction of urban misery were

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it not for Fleder’s tendency to cloak every locale in a murky darkness that obscures important details. Fleder’s use of color, however, particularly his fondness for metallic blues and grays, suggests a depressing atmosphere that contrasts the domed city’s sunny landscape.

Cale also objects to what he perceives as Olham’s stereotypical assumptions about Zoner life. Olham, refusing to be taken back into custody by ESA troops, offers to procure the drugs ‘‘Jump’’ and ‘‘Delirium’’ for Cale.

CALE:

So what you think? You’ve got me down? You think you know me? All Zoners are junkies, right? (Cale threatens Olham with his gun.) Right?

OLHAM:

That’s not what I meant. Not you.

CALE:

You know, I don’t like you. You keep saying all the wrong things.

OLHAM:

Then listen to the words. I’m not saying ‘‘junkie,’’ I’m saying ‘‘payoff.’’ I’m offering you a real trade.

Mekhi Phifer and Gary Sinise play this scene well. Neither Cale’s anger nor Olham’s fear is melodramatic, while Olham seems sincere in his desire to trade with Cale (rather than indulging elitist bigotries about the lives of the Zone’s urban poor). Cale’s suspicions about Olham’s intentions and assumptions, however, are legitimate responses to a lifetime spent on the social margins. Olham also realizes that his judgment of Cale (as little more than a greedy mercenary) is mistaken when Cale takes him to the Zoner medical clinic. Olham wishes to have his ‘‘CimCode’’ removed so that Hathaway’s security teams cannot track him. All dome residents carry an implanted metallic identification tag known as a CimCode near their lower spine that allows ESA to monitor their location. The CimCode, which law-enforcement personnel can access at a moment’s notice, not only contains a person’s entire biography but also attests to the authoritarian measures that Earth’s government employs to secure its cities. After a medic at the clinic (Elizabeth Pen

˜a) surgically removes Olham’s CimCode, Olham sees Cale comfort his (Cale’s) sister as she lies in a hospital bed. The visual elegance of this shot, in which Olham silently watches Cale stroke his ailing sister’s hair, underlines the moment’s tenderness. Sinise plays this scene with restraint, allowing concern and surprise to cross his features. Olham’s opinion of Cale also changes.

For the remainder of the film, Olham never condescends to Cale, but treats the man with the respect he deserves.

Mekhi Phifer accounts for much of the success of Impostor’s second act. He plays Cale as a fiercely intelligent and committed man rather than an egotisti-cal (and stereotypical) urban tough. Phifer energizes every scene he shares with Sinise, equating himself admirably in a part that transcends the cliche´d

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‘‘black sidekick’’ role that enjoyed currency in American movies of the 1980s and 1990s. The film’s screenwriters give Cale good dialogue and an honorable motivation for his violent streak, but it is Phifer’s soulful performance that evokes the viewer’s sympathy.

The remainder of Impostor’s middle section, however, is not nearly as compelling as Cale’s story line. Whereas the second act’s representation of political repression and social decay achieves intriguing ends, the plot predictably allows Olham to elude Hathaway’s dogged pursuit. The most remarkable aspect of Impostor’s cloak-and-dagger subplot is how precisely it anticipates a parallel, but far more gripping sequence in Steven Spielberg’s Minority Report, which appeared in theatres only five months after Impostor’s January 2002 release. Olham’s refuge in a dreary apartment building, Hathaway’s frustrated attempt to track him with remarkable surveillance technology, and Olham’s feverish journey through the Zone amount to a dress rehearsal for the exciting Minority Report sequence in which John Anderton (Tom Cruise) evades detection and arrest by agents of the government he once served.

Impostor’s on-the-lam chase, by contrast, is a limp misadventure included mainly to sustain Hathaway as a viable threat to Olham’s safety. It also unnecessarily justifies Olham’s genius by demonstrating how this bourgeois scientist is nearly as street smart as Cale. Fleder, in addition, overuses hyperkinetic camerawork and jangly jump-cut editing to reflect Olham’s emotionally frazzled, adrenaline-filled attempts to escape Hathaway. The entire sequence is especially superfluous in light of the thoughtful depiction of Dead Zone life that precedes it. Impostor’s attempt to become an action film flounders, leaving the viewer impatient for the rest of the story to unfold.

The movie’s action sequences also interrupt its primary story line about whether Olham is the Centauri sleeper agent that Hathaway claims or a human being who is seriously mistreated by his own government. Impostor becomes more compelling after Olham infiltrates Veteran’s Memorial Hospital and forces Dr. Carone, in a visually arresting scene, to perform a molecular-core PET scan to authenticate Olham’s humanity. The scanning machine has six insect-like legs that project laser beams all over Olham’s body, producing a marvelously detailed computer image of his internal organs. The arrival of Hathaway’s security forces, however, interrupts the scan just as it reaches Olham’s chest, where the Centauri bomb supposedly resides. The machine cannot process what it detects there, but Olham has no time to ponder the troubling implications (namely, that he is not what he seems) because he must again escape Hathaway’s pursuit. Impostor’s theatrical release then reverts to the previously filmed footage of its 38-minute original version, with one important exception: Maya, in the full-length feature film, does not admit to revealing Olham’s location to Hathaway when she meets her husband in Sutton Wood.

Impostor also diverges from the end of Dick’s short story. After the bomb’s detonation destroys Olham, Maya, and Hathaway, the explosion’s blinding

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brightness dissolves into a short scene set inside the Zoner medical clinic where Olham’s CimCode was removed. The camera focuses on clinic staff members administering syringes of Omnicillin, a medication that Cale stole from Veteran’s Memorial Hospital after helping Olham break into the medical facility, to several patients. Cale and his sister chat and laugh together. The sister looks much healthier than before, indicating that Omnicillin is curing her illness. Cale then notices a televised news report about the Sutton Wood explosion, which, according to the newscaster, has killed several thousand people. File footage of an on-camera interview with Olham plays on the screen while the newscaster notes that the ESA had suspected Olham of espionage. The expression on Cale’s face softens as he watches Olham speak to a reporter: ‘‘We lose lives to progress. It’s a necessary sacrifice. As a layman, I want to see peace in my lifetime.’’ Cale’s sister, noticing this reaction, asks if Cale knew Olham. Cale’s response, well delivered by Mekhi Phifer, is full of irony and regret: ‘‘I’d like to think so.’’ The screen then dissolves to the same images of Olham and Maya making love that began the film.

This conclusion provides a quiet elegy for the tragedy of Olham’s death.

The Centauri cyborg cares enough to allow Cale to steal the medication that saves his sister’s life, obscuring the question of Olham’s identity even further.

Cale does not know what to think, clinging to the hope that he came to know the real Olham. The ambiguity of Impostor’s finale is not as bleak as the surprise conclusion of Dick’s short story, but the autumnal mood of the movie’s final scenes is more plaintive. Impostor’s final frames, in other words, evoke the misfortune of Spence Olham’s strange experience without destroying the harshness of Dick’s ‘‘Impostor.’’ The film’s conclusion may be happier than the short story’s insofar as Olham provides the means for sick Zoner residents to survive, but this ending is far from optimistic. The inequities between the wealthy and the poor still exist, while the war with the Centauri continues.

The viewer does not discover if the Sutton Wood explosion destroys the Project’s weapon or kills the Chancellor, leaving Impostor’s audience with unresolved questions. The movie makes no effort to answer them, preferring to linger on the human tragedy of Spence and Maya Olham’s deaths.

Impostor’s ambivalent conclusion thereby achieves a thematic sophistication that some of the film’s critics missed. Impostor is not as mature an exploration of American political repression, social malaise, and economic inequality as Blade Runner, but it offers a thoughtful extrapolation of American life in the year 2079. Good performances, competent direction, and a contemplative script (that falls down in its second act) make Impostor an imperfect, yet compelling adaptation of Dick’s short story. The film repays multiple viewings by reminding its audience of the personal and social costs of unchecked militarism. Impostor also implies that private lives, human memories, and power politics are never truly what they seem. These disquieting possibilities transform the film, whatever its defects, into an emotional and intellectual success.

CHAPTER 6

Future Crime: Minority Report

I.

Steven Spielberg’s 2002 film Minority Report, based on Philip K. Dick’s provocative 1956 short story ‘‘The Minority Report,’’ is not only the most successful cinematic adaptation of Dick’s fiction since Blade Runner but also the longest, most expensive, and best reviewed of the eight movies inspired by Dick’s writing. Blade Runner may be the most acclaimed film of this group, but its reputation developed in response to the critical ambivalence that Blade Runner’s reviewers initially demonstrated. Although popular and scholarly observers now acknowledge the quality, the complexity, and the value of Ridley Scott’s movie, achieving this recognition required years of effort on the part of Blade Runner’s admirers.

Minority Report had no such difficulty. The critical response to Spielberg’s film was generally enthusiastic, if not rapturous, in its praise. The opening lines of Anthony Lane’s New Yorker review embody this esteem: ‘‘The worst thing about the new Steven Spielberg picture is the title, ‘Minority Report.’

The best thing about it is pretty much everything else.’’1 Richard Corliss, in Time, identifies one of the film’s principal appeals: ‘‘Part of the high-IQ fun of Minority Report—Spielberg’s sharpest, brawniest, most bustling entertainment since Raiders of the Lost Ark and the finest of the season’s action epics—
is its mix of future and retro.’’2 This notion connects Minority Report with Blade Runner in terms of theme, set design, and generic hybridity. It also indicates how the elaborate texture that Spielberg, cinematographer Janusz Kaminski, and production designer Alex McDowell developed for their film rivals Blade Runner’s visual density.

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As J. Hoberman comments in his Village Voice review, ‘‘Minority Report has been shot by Janusz Kaminski as though all color has been leeched from the world, along with criminality. The lighting is pale and diffuse; the space sometimes turns alarmingly viscous.’’3 Hoberman correctly recognizes how the film’s spare visual palette parallels the bleakness of its future world, in which arresting potential murderers before they take a human life allows for an extraordinary reduction in violent crime. Minority Report’s chrome, blue, and silver tones suggest that the year 2054 is a passionless, nearly purposeless era in which the security afforded by preventing homicide has reduced America (or at least Washington D.C.) to a state of civic lethargy.

Hoberman nevertheless believes that Minority Report is ‘‘miscast, misguided, and often nonsensical’’ despite the fact that it is ‘‘the most entertaining, least pretentious genre movie Steven Spielberg has made in the decade since Jurassic Park.’’4 This assessment may be the harshest of the film’s few negative appraisals, but, in a pattern characteristic of critics who found Minority Report to be less than the sum of its parts, Hoberman refuses to pronounce it a cinematic failure. Stuart Klawans continues this trend in his Nation review by unfavorably comparing Minority Report to Jacques Audiard’s movie Read My Lips before stating that Minority Report is still worth watching: If I tell you that I’d gladly watch Read My Lips several times but will be content with one viewing of Minority Report, please don’t take it to mean that Minority Report shouldn’t be seen at all. On the contrary: to miss it would be like bypass-ing one of those grand and macabre curiosities that lie just off the tourist’s route—like visiting Madrid, for example, without troubling to descend the marbled stair to the crypt of the Escorial. In the monumental edifice of Minority Report, as in that palatial tomb, you may encounter something madly idiosyncratic, yet absolutely characteristic of its culture. It’s just not much of a pleasure.. . .5

Klawans, who thinks Spielberg’s movie is a technically impressive production with a fascinating premise, also reproaches it for what he perceives to be an overly solemn tone. Raphael Shargel, in the New Leader, agrees that Minority Report contains good moments, but argues that screenwriters Scott Frank and Jon Cohen ‘‘stuff their tale with digressions and inconsistencies that ultimately make the viewer’s experience more unsettling than pleasurable.’’6

Hoberman’s and Shargel’s lukewarm responses still endorse Klawans’s vivid metaphor of Minority Report as a ‘‘monumental edifice’’: the movie offers so much material for its audience to ponder that even disapproving reviewers cannot bring themselves to dismiss it.

Roger Ebert, by contrast, has no qualms about Minority Report, identifying the film as a masterpiece:

At a time when movies think they have to choose between action and ideas, Steven Spielberg’s Minority Report is a triumph—a film that works on our

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John Anderton (Tom Cruise) and Agatha the Precog (Samantha Morton) don’t see eye to eye in Minority Report, Steven Spielberg’s 2002 adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s 1956 short story ‘‘The Minority Report.’’ (Courtesy of Photofest) minds and our emotions.. . .Here is a master filmmaker at the top of his form, working with a star, Tom Cruise, who generates complex human feelings even while playing an action hero.7

Ebert’s sentiments were shared by global audiences: the film grossed more than $350 million worldwide to triple its $102 million budget.8 The combination of Spielberg’s and Cruise’s superstardom partially accounted for this popularity, but Minority Report’s critical reputation demonstrates that the film’s narrative and visual intricacy was responsible for much of its success.

Minority Report, therefore, is unique among the cinematic adaptations of Dick’s fiction. Its largely enthusiastic reviews and strong box-office performance distinguish the film from Blade Runner’s initially mixed critical response and financial failure. Its positive notices also elevate Minority Report above critical uncertainty about the fineness of Total Recall’s story line and acting. Screamers, Impostor, and Paycheck are marginal movies in terms of their critical and commercial reception, while Barjo, because of its French setting and release, is far less popular than it should be. Minority Report stands apart from these films, no matter how intriguing their ideas or imagery, to occupy a singular position in the canon of movies based on Dick’s writing.

Spielberg’s film, moreover, has generated some of the most thoughtful reviews of any American film released during the first decade of the twenty-first century. It has also produced a small but growing body of excellent scholarship. Martin Hall’s ‘‘Time and the Fragmented Subject in Minority Report’’

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and Mark Garrett Cooper’s ‘‘The Contradictions of Minority Report’’ are two worthwhile academic examinations of Spielberg’s movie, although the growing number of scholarly essays devoted to Minority Report suggests that it may one day be as much a subject of academic inquiry as Blade Runner. The intellectual effort necessary to understand Minority Report’s complicated plot and to appreciate its beguiling premise ensures that the film sustains repeated screenings. Minority Report’s evocative musings about the nature of free will, determinism, and liberty occur within a story of family tragedy that challenges the viewer’s expectations of the standard SF thriller. Mark Garrett Cooper is correct to state that Minority Report ‘‘addresses an early-twenty-first-century United States that loathes technocracy even as it craves it,’’9 although the film’s emotional exploration of John Anderton’s (Tom Cruise) troubled public and private life transcends the staid ambivalence of this formulation.

Minority Report, no matter how amenable to scholarly analysis it may be, is not an exercise in rational argument or academic restraint, but rather a work of art that examines how political malfeasance resonates in the most intimate corners of human experience. The film is a mindbender, to be sure, but Minority Report’s attention to human suffering makes it a commendable heir to Dick’s fiction.

The film’s connection to its source material is no less intriguing. Chris Chang, in his Film Comment essay on Minority Report, claims that ‘‘the relationship between original story and film is both tenuous and reverential.

Spielberg has captured the tone and concept while exploding and reworking the narrative so completely that comparisons are essentially futile.’’10 Minority Report’s reworking of Dick’s plot is inevitable considering that nearly fifty years separate them, while the sparseness of Dick’s characterization allows screenwriters Scott Frank and Jon Cohen to transform John Anderton into a more sympathetic person. Changing Dick’s protagonist into a more identi-fiable character may imply that Spielberg’s movie dilutes the short story’s uncompromising depiction of a man trapped inside an insidious bureaucratic nightmare, but Minority Report carves out a territory less bright and rosy than its apparent happy ending suggests. Spielberg’s film and Dick’s short story are distinct works, but they complement one another in the same manner that Dick believed Blade Runner reinforces the essential themes of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Minority Report is not a faithful adaptation, but it remains an excellent reimagining of Dick’s 1950s tale for an early-twenty-first-century audience.

II.

Dick’s long 1956 story ‘‘The Minority Report’’ is an intellectual rumination about the political consequences of predicting the future. The story’s protagonist, John Anderton, is the middle-aged founder of Precime, a police agency that exploits three precognitive mutants who can foresee legal

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transgressions before they occur. Although Anderton tells Ed Witwer—the younger man who has been assigned as Anderton’s assistant, prote´ge´, and eventual successor—that Precogs can sense ‘‘petty crimes’’ such as ‘‘thefts, income tax evasion, assault, [and] extortion,’’11 Precrime’s primary function is preventing homicide. Only one murder has been committed in the five years before the story begins, causing Witwer to comment ‘‘Quite an impressive record. . .something to be proud of.’’12

Anderton concurs with this sentiment, even though he mistrusts Witwer.

The younger man, much to Anderton’s chagrin, openly discusses managing Precrime once he takes over the agency. Dick’s opening paragraph reveals the doubt that Witwer’s arrival provokes: The first thought Anderton had when he saw the young man was: I’m getting bald. Bald and fat and old. But he didn’t say it aloud. Instead, he pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and came resolutely around the side of his desk, his right hand rigidly extended. Smiling with forced amiability, he shook hands with the young man.13

Like many of Dick’s characters, Anderton is a beleaguered functionary whose position within an overweening bureaucracy depends upon ego, jealousy, and suspicion. Anderton masks his inner turmoil with affectations of amiability that, Dick’s narration implies, are little more than performances put on for Witwer’s benefit. Anderton’s melancholia casts ‘‘The Minority Report’’

as a story about the drawbacks of maturity, the usurpation of the old by the young, and the disappointments of middle age. Dick’s unadorned prose portrays Anderton as a man who fears that life will soon bypass him to embrace the vitality that Witwer displays, but that Anderton no longer embodies.

Anderton’s suspicions about Witwer become outright paranoia when the Precogs identify Anderton as the future murderer of Army General Leopold Kaplan. Never having heard of Kaplan, Anderton suspects that his ‘‘slim and attractive young wife,’’14 Lisa, has conspired with Witwer to remove Anderton from office. Witwer’s sexual attraction to Lisa does not ease Anderton’s anxiety: ‘‘Witwer remained silent. But his pale eyes flickered slightly as they rested on the brown-haired woman in her trim police uniform. Lisa was now an executive official of Precrime but once, Witwer knew, she had been Anderton’s secretary. Noticing the interest on Witwer’s face Anderton paused and reflected.’’15 The suggestion that Lisa married Anderton to improve her professional career is characteristic of Dick’s unkind portrait of women, making the prospect that she might transfer her allegiance to Witwer, the newly selected second-in-command, an even greater possibility (at least in Anderton’s mind). Anderton cannot be certain that his wife has betrayed him (‘‘Lisa was an improbable element,’’16 he thinks to himself), causing Anderton to wonder if larger forces are at work:

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Of course, the conspiracy could be large-scale and elaborate, involving far more than a ‘‘rigged’’ card inserted somewhere along the line. The original data itself might have been tampered with. Actually, there was no telling how far back the alteration went. A cold fear touched him as he began to see the possibilities.17

The original data refers to information transferred from the Precogs to an elaborate computer system capable of decoding their knowledge of the future. This data’s potential untrustworthiness forces Anderton to tacitly acknowledge the possibility that Precrime is a sham.

The mixture of bureaucratic backstabbing, political skullduggery, and personal paranoia that Anderton’s behavior exemplifies is captured by Spielberg’s film despite the many changes that the director and his screenwriters make to Dick’s story. Minority Report casts John Anderton as the chief of Precrime, an agency that has abolished the need for police detectives because the Precogs make detective work unnecessary. Precrime’s director, Lamar Burgess (Max von Sydow), is an older man who works closely with Anderton to ensure that the Washington D.C. metropolitan area is homicide free. By splitting the short story’s protagonist into two separate characters, Minority Report emphasizes the bureaucratic wrangling necessary to operate Precrime as the nation’s premiere law-enforcement agency. As the film opens, a national referendum on implementing Precrime’s methodologies across the United States is only one week away, causing Burgess to lament the fact that he will soon lose control of the agency that he helped found. Anderton, however, assures Burgess that he will not allow the federal government to wrest control from Burgess’s wise stewardship of the agency. This conviction, along with Cruise and von Sydow’s easy camaraderie, demonstrates the deep respect that Anderton feels toward his mentor. The father–son dynamic between these two men, however, is a creation of Speilberg, Scott Frank, and Jon Cohen; the short story does not portray Anderton (the older man) and Witwer (the younger upstart) as particularly chummy.

The film’s Danny Witwer (Colin Farrell) is a Justice Department official charged with evaluating Precrime in preparation for the referendum. He and Anderton immediately disagree over how Precrime treats the civil liberties of the people it incarcerates. While touring Precrime’s headquarters, Witwer wonders if the Precogs ever receive false positives, or mistaken impressions that implicate the wrong people. Anderton, who is convinced that the legal system made possible by the Precogs’ insight is infallible, provides a graphic demonstration of its perfection. Anderton rolls a large wooden ball along a countertop, but Witwer catches the object before it drops to the floor.

Anderton asks Witwer why he does so. Witwer replies, ‘‘Because it was going to fall,’’ allowing Anderton to triumphantly declare, ‘‘The fact that you prevented it from happening doesn’t change the fact that it was going to happen.’’ Witwer, unconvinced by this reasoning, asks how the Precogs

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differentiate between cases of premeditated murder and instances in which a person who intends to kill his wife or his boss never goes through with the act.

Anderton gives no ground: ‘‘The Precogs don’t see what you intend to do, only what you will do.’’

This exchange focuses on the fundamental paradox of future prediction.

If Precrime’s agents intervene to prevent a homicide before it happens, then they have changed the future. The predicted event never occurs, rendering the incarceration of future criminals like Howard Marks (Arye Gross)—the man whom Anderton’s Precrime squad prevents from murdering his wife, Sarah (Ashley Crow), and her lover, Donald Dubin (Joel Gretsch), in the film’s electrifying opening sequence—legally problematic, at least for Witwer, who echoes an objection that John Anderton himself voices in Dick’s short story: ‘‘You’ve probably grasped the basic legalistic drawback to precrime methodology. We’re taking in individuals who have broken no law.’’18 The film’s Witwer is far more tentative about the legal machinery that supports Precrime’s operation than his counterpart in Dick’s story. Cruise, by contrast, plays Anderton as a man fully in command of both the theory and the rhetoric of Precrime’s legal perfection. The actor’s confident swagger borders on arrogance as he deflects Witwer’s questions with answers delivered in the practiced, condescending tones of a man accustomed to getting his way.

Minority Report also alters Dick’s story to reveal that the Precogs can only foresee homicide. When Witwer, whom Colin Farrell plays as an intelligently ambitious bureaucrat, asks why the mutants cannot predict rapes and assaults, Gordon Fletcher (Neal McDonough), one of Anderton’s trusted Precrime squad members, responds that the crime of murder is both ‘‘absolute metaphysics’’ and a unique occurrence unlike any other felony: ‘‘There’s nothing more destructive to the metaphysical fabric that binds us than the untimely murder of one human being by another.’’ Witwer’s dismissive quip that Fletcher’s statement is less poetic than Walt Whitman conveys the man’s skepticism, but Fletcher’s pronouncement repeats a crucial line from John Anderton’s explanation of Precrime’s effectiveness in Dick’s short story:

‘‘We get them [future criminals] first, before they can commit an act of violence. So the commission of the crime itself is absolute metaphysics. We claim they’re culpable. They, on the other hand, eternally claim they’re innocent.

And, in a sense, they are innocent.’’19 This invocation of metaphysics seems as strained in Dick’s story as it is in Spielberg’s film (McDonough delivers the line ironically, as if repeating a grade-school bromide that he no longer believes) to imply that Precrime’s foundation is more tenuous than is generally known. Minority Report reverses Anderton’s and Witwer’s attitude toward Precrime’s legal justification to externalize the inner doubt that Dick’s protagonist experiences throughout the short story. Tom Cruise plays Anderton as a harder-edged character than Colin Farrell plays Witwer during their first scene together, allowing the viewer to realize that Anderton’s job has made him insensitive to allegations that Precrime’s basic methodology is flawed.

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Spielberg’s film, consequently, portrays Anderton as an even more rigid bureaucrat than Dick’s short story. Anderton’s unwillingness to question his own faith in Precrime amplifies the shock he feels when the Precogs predict that he will murder a man named Leo Crow (Mike Binder). Anderton, like his counterpart in Dick’s story, suspects that Witwer has framed him (in this case to accelerate the Justice Department’s takeover of Precrime), although Anderton’s wife, named Lara in the film, does not figure into the elaborate conspiracy that Cruise’s character comes to believe has ensnared him.

Lara (Kathryn Morris), the viewer soon learns, divorced Anderton six years before the events of the film begin, after their son Sean (Tyler Patrick Jones) disappeared from a busy Baltimore public pool where he and his father were swimming. This household trauma brings an entirely new dimension to Minority Report that Dick’s short story avoids, but that characterizes Spielberg’s fascination with fractured families. The film’s domestic tension is a marked departure from Dick’s original tale, as well as an unexpectedly rich addition to the author’s taciturn characterization. Rather than plunging Minority Report into domestic schmaltz, the film’s anxiety about shattered families becomes a theme that enlivens Dick’s narrative material.

These changes, at least according to screenwriters Scott Frank and Jon Cohen, were necessary to compensate for what they perceived as the deficiencies of Dick’s original short story. Frank, in an interview with Creative Screenwriting, describes the challenges of adapting ‘‘The Minority Report’’

into a workable screenplay primarily as difficulties of characterization: ‘‘Philip Dick’s stuff, at least for Minority Report, operates on a purely conceptual level and his characters in the short story were very flat. They had no arc. So for me they weren’t all that interesting. There wasn’t much to draw from in the short story in terms of character.’’20 Jon Cohen agrees, stating that ‘‘I think my character stuff came through a little bit, especially in the imagining of the female Precog and humanizing her. Sci-fi is often very conceptual and as a result very chilly.’’21 Cohen’s reference to the character of Agatha (Samantha Morton) underscores one of the largest differences between Dick’s story and Spielberg’s film adaptation. In Dick’s tale, the Precogs are described as ‘‘deformed and retarded’’22 or as ‘‘three gibbering, fumbling creatures, with. . .enlarged heads and wasted bodies’’23 that barely seem human. Their confinement in Precrime’s headquarters is tantamount to slavery: ‘‘All day long the idiots babbled, imprisoned in their special high-backed chairs, held in one rigid position by metal bands, and bundles of wiring, clamps.’’24

Neither Anderton nor Witwer, in Dick’s story, questions the Precogs’ incarceration or manifests any compassion toward them. Dick, in fact, gives almost no attention to the Precogs, who are barely more than a plot device that enables the narrative’s innovative premise.

Spielberg, Frank, and Cohen transform the Precogs into the children of mothers addicted to neuroin, a designer drug that, as the film’s futuristic analogue of Thalidomide, causes severe birth defects. Escaping Precrime

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headquarters after being identified as Leo Crow’s future killer, Anderton goes to see Dr. Iris Hineman (Lois Smith), the scientist who developed the Precrime interface that condemns Agatha, Arthur (Michael Dickman), and Dashiell (Matthew Dickman) to captivity within Precrime headquarters, where they must continually foresee murders. Hineman tells Anderton that her discovery of the Precogs’ talent was accidental, that Precrime is the result of ‘‘a series of genetic mistakes and science gone haywire.’’ Hineman reveals to Anderton that, as a researcher at the Woodhaven Clinic, she tried to help the children of mothers addicted to an impure form of neuroin that caused severe brain damage. Agatha, Arthur, and Dashiell (named, in one of the film’s many literary allusions, after mystery writers Agatha Christie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Dashiell Hammett) were among a small group of neuroin babies that survived. When Hineman tells Anderton that most of these neuroin babies died before they were twelve, he appears sickened by this tragic information.

The depravity at the center of Precrime requires the Precogs to live as inden-tured servants to the American state, enduring the horrors of their homicidal visions to preserve the citizenry’s safety. Minority Report humanizes the Precogs by refusing to depict them as physically deformed, but the film captures the wanton disregard for Precogs’ rights that Dick’s story exemplifies.

Early in Spielberg’s film, as Witwer tours the Precog chamber, Anderton tells him, ‘‘It’s better if you don’t think of them as human.’’ This blatant reduction of Agatha, Arthur, and Dashiell to crime-prevention tools demonstrates how ethically and morally bankrupt Precrime is. This police agency (and, by implication, the society it serves) accepts the enslavement of three individuals to protect public welfare.

As Jon Cohen recognizes, the decision to portray the Precogs as human beings rather than as the malformed mutants of Dick’s short story requires Anderton’s character to change: ‘‘Whether or not the system works, you’ve enslaved a person to make the system work. No decent hero is going to allow that to happen.’’25 Cohen implies that he had no wish to transform Anderton into an immoral antihero who ignores the Precogs’ suffering after Hineman divulges their appalling backstory. Scott Frank goes even further by noting that, at the conclusion of Dick’s story, ‘‘he (Anderton) even sacrifices himself to save that system,’’26 leading to a difficult screenwriting question: ‘‘So I thought, ‘how do you get behind someone who embraces such a Fascistic system?’’’27

Cohen and Frank’s hesitation might suggest that Minority Report adulterates the tone of Dick’s short story by allowing Anderton to behave like a conventional, do-gooder hero who fights to bring down Precrime. This assessment is true in the sense that Anderton first questions, then opposes the legal system that Precrime makes possible. Spielberg’s movie also treats the Precogs far more kindly than Dick’s story, referring to the chamber that houses them as ‘‘the Temple’’ rather than Dick’s coarse term:

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‘‘the monkey block.’’28 Minority Report, however, is not a total departure from the pessimistic tenor of its source story. The Precogs remain confined to a milky white pool, wearing an electronic apparatus that transfers their visions to Precrime’s complex computer system for analysis and that forces them to suffer torrents of violent imagery. This locale is not as restrictive as that described in the short story (no one is fastened to a chair with metal bands), but the film’s Precogs must still endure the anguish of their unique detention.

Anderton, in addition, is essentially an antihero as the film begins. When not supervising Precrime, he jogs into a Washington D.C. ghetto known as ‘‘the Sprawl’’ to purchase neuroin from an eyeless dealer named Lycon (David Stifel). Anderton then returns to his dirty apartment to snort the drug while watching holographic videos of his wife and son in happier days. Cruise renders Anderton’s despair so believably that his earlier thick-headedness in refusing to admit that Precrime may be infallible (and that the Precogs may be human) becomes a poignant reminder of how damaged the man is. Dick’s protagonist does not carry these emotional burdens, nor does he wish to invalidate Precrime’s methodology. He is, in Dick’s story, a man mostly concerned with clearing his name, which should not suggest that the short story’s Anderton is an uncomplicated character.

He is, however, less interesting than his cinematic counterpart, whose psychological wounds give Cruise’s character more depth than Dick’s protagonist.

Had Dick lived to see Spielberg’s film, he might have agreed with Scott Frank and Jon Cohen’s assessment of the limited characters that populate

‘‘The Minority Report.’’ In the author’s foreword to The Preserving Machine, a 1969 anthology of his short stories, Dick writes, ‘‘The difference between a short story and a novel comes to this: a short story may deal with murder; a novel deals with the murderer, and his actions stem from a psyche which, if the writer knows his craft, he has previously presented.’’29 Dick believes that a short story’s emphasis on plot rather than character has even greater ramifications for novel writing:

There is one restriction in a novel not found in short stories: the requirement that the protagonist be liked enough or familiar enough to the reader so that, whatever the protagonist does, the readers would also do, under the same circumstances . . .or, in the case of escapist fiction, would like to do.

In a story it is not necessary to create such a reader identification character because (one) there is not enough room for such background material in a short story and (two) since the emphasis is on the deed, not the doer, it really does not matter—within reasonable limits, of course—who in a story commits the murder. In a story, you learn about the characters from what they do; in a novel it is the other way around: you have your characters and then they do something idiosyncratic, emanating from their unique natures.30

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Dick recognizes the greater possibilities that novels afford for character building. If we extrapolate his thinking to Minority Report, we can begin to understand how Spielberg, Frank, and Cohen use their 150-minute motion picture’s expansive narrative canvas to flesh out Anderton’s motivations more extensively than Dick does in his thirty-page story. Anderton’s idiosyncracies in Spielberg’s film—his drug use, his professional rigidity, and his determination to make Precrime work so that no one needs to experience a loss similar to the disappearance (and presumed murder) of his son—emanate from the unique nature that the director, his screenwriters, and Tom Cruise jointly craft. Anderton’s emotional devastation leads him to pursue future criminals as doggedly as he would pursue Sean’s abductor. The film’s audience soon realizes that Anderton’s belief in preemptive arrest and prosecution is a direct response to the psychological trauma that results from Sean’s disappearance.

Minority Report’s protagonist may not, like his literary counterpart, endorse Precrime or leave it intact, but Anderton (as played by Cruise) becomes a brooding character that is neither admirable nor approachable as the film begins.

Many of the film’s alterations to Dick’s story proceed from a similar impulse: the need to transform Dick’s high-concept premise into an authentic future world that lives and breathes as much as Anderton does. These changes do not suggest that Dick’s story is carelessly written, only that

‘‘The Minority Report’’ is not a story primarily concerned with the details of its future landscape or its characters’ internal lives. Minority Report’s alterations to Dick’s plot also better acknowledge the technological, political, and social realities of early-twenty-first-century America. Spielberg’s film, consequently, is a loose adaptation of Dick’s short story that retains the original’s skepticism about institutional bureaucracy even as it professes greater faith in the values of freedom, democracy, and humanism.

III.

The setting of ‘‘The Minority Report’’ is conspicuously limited in details, allowing Dick to consider the possibilities and probabilities of future prediction rather than investing his narrative energy in world creation. The short story’s political, technological, and social landscapes are arid compared to most of Dick’s novels, or even to ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’

and ‘‘Second Variety.’’ The ‘‘Minority Report’’ reader must infer the story’s geographical and technological features from its austere prose rather than lavish description. Dick, for instance, describes the Precogs’ chamber in the most economical possible terms: ‘‘Doors opened and closed, and they were in the analytical wing. Ahead of them rose impressive banks of equipment—
the data-receptors, and the computing mechanisms that studied and restructured the incoming material. And beyond the machinery sat the three precogs, almost lost to view in the maze of wiring.’’31

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Minority Report revises Dick’s meager details into an elaborately imagined 2054 Washington D.C. that competes favorably with Blade Runner’s massively detailed 2019 Los Angeles. Both films, as Richard Corliss notes in Time, combine futuristic technology with elements of twentieth-century design to achieve an aesthetic that Fred Glass might call the New Bad Future Look, but that is more accurately described as ‘‘Retro Future.’’ Blade Runner did not innovate this design concept (William Cameron Menzies’s Things to Come and George Lucas’s first two Star Wars films are earlier examples), but Ridley Scott’s movie added the grime, corruption, and decay reminiscent of the film noir and hardboiled detective pictures of the 1930s and 1940s. Gary Fleder’s Impostor, particularly its second act, also dabbles in the Retro Future Look: Spence Olham’s trip through the Dead Zone is a stark contrast to the bright domed city that Olham calls home. These films imply that America will become a nation where advanced technology exacerbates socioeconomic divisions and environmental degradation to the point that profound urban ugliness is all that remains.

Minority Report, at least initially, does not seem as dirty or as depressing as Blade Runner. The film’s first ten minutes are a bravura display of editor Michael Kahn’s skill that intercut hazy images of Howard Marks murdering his wife Sarah (and her lover Donald Dubin) with Anderton’s urgent attempt to prevent this crime. Marks’s Georgetown residence and neighborhood are clean, proper, and bourgeois. No futuristic equipment is visible, while many older objects (a merry-go-round and Marks’s bifocal lenses) maintain continuity with nineteenth- and twentieth-century American life. The audience only realizes that it is watching a Precog vision when the scene cuts to Anderton entering Precrime’s polished headquarters. Anderton sorts through this vision’s confusing images by standing in front of the large display screen of the room’s fluidly designed, holographic computer system. He uses virtual-reality gloves to manipulate the Precogs’ chaotic future images with graceful arm and hand movements that resemble the gestures of an orchestral conductor. The first movement of Franz Schubert’s Symphony No. 8 in B

Minor, more commonly known as the ‘‘Unfinished Symphony,’’ even plays in the background to drive home this comparison.

The jet craft that Anderton and his team fly to Georgetown in their rush to prevent Marks’s homicide is the second major example of the film’s approach to future technology. This hovering transport, in a nod to Lucas’s Star Wars films, resembles Slave One, the space vessel piloted by bounty hunter Boba Fett, in The Empire Strikes Back (or, as Anthony Lane puts it in his New Yorker review, ‘‘policemen. . .race toward trouble spots not in a wailing squad car but in the belly of a giant hair dryer’’32) to illustrate that advanced technology is not always attractive or inviting. In Dick’s story, Anderton’s wife, Lisa, refers to ‘‘a good fast ship’’33 located on the roof of Precrime headquarters, which she and Anderton steal in his attempt to flee police custody, but the vessel never receives a full description. Dick’s story does not require such visual

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detail, but Spielberg’s film must imagine how the future looks in order to present a convincing world.

Minority Report’s cityscapes, however, are its most arresting visual innova-tions. Freeways have become so integrated into Washington D.C.’s civic architecture that they run on top and alongside skyscrapers, allowing comput-erized vehicles to cling to the side of high rises before moving straight down into the main traffic flow. This unique transportation system transforms the city into an enormous concrete roller coaster that is fascinating to watch, with cars moving up and down tall buildings, as well as around one another, in a highly stylized automotive ballet. Environmentally friendly engine technology has apparently become the norm, since little smog is visible. The city, at least in these wide establishing shots, appears clean and inviting.

The futuristic skyscrapers that tower over the Washington Monument and the capital’s other famous edifices testify to rampant urban development, which reaches horrific apotheosis in the ghetto known as ‘‘the Sprawl.’’ This disheartening neighborhood’s urban filth, in one of the film’s many satirical comments about the perverse pervasiveness of advertising, still makes room for holographic commercials that encourage the downtrodden residents to vote in favor of the national Precrime referendum. When Anderton jogs into the Sprawl to purchase neuroin from his dealer, Lycon, he wears a hood and dark glasses that recall Spence Olham’s wardrobe during Impostor’s Dead Zone sequence. The similarities among Anderton’s trip to the Sprawl, Olham’s furtive journey through the Dead Zone, Colonel Hendricksson’s search of the NEB bunker in Screamers, and Rick Deckard’s walk through Los Angeles’s trash-strewn streets in Blade Runner thematically connect Minority Report to all three earlier adaptations. Spielberg’s film, however, includes an unexpected wrinkle, for Anderton’s drug habit alerts the audience to the protagonist’s dismal interior life. The Sprawl’s oppressive shadows cannot hide Anderton’s identity from the eyeless Lycon, who promises not to reveal the Precrime chief’s secret. The irony that a blind man can see through Anderton’s disguise makes the first full shot of Lycon’s empty eye sockets all the more startling. Scar tissue fills them so that, for one brief moment, Lycon’s eyes appear to be full of worms. This notion is a good metaphor for the Sprawl’s moldering environment, as well as for Anderton’s need to worm his way into such a miserable neighborhood to purchase illegal narcotics.

These details do not appear in Dick’s short story. They are inventions and extrapolations prepared by Spielberg, his screenwriters, and his production team for Minority Report’s 2054 setting that envision past, present, and future architecture coming together to produce a singular example of the Retro Future Look. Minority Report, in other words, does not crib the design of earlier SF films or the previous cinematic adaptations of Dick’s fiction.

Minority Report is also one of the few American SF films since 1982 that does not openly embrace Blade Runner’s dingy landscape as the model for its own future city. The Sprawl may come closer to Blade Runner’s hellish depiction

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of urban decay than any other aspect of Spielberg’s movie, but this set does not attempt to rigorously reproduce the oppressive atmosphere that makes Ridley Scott’s movie a milestone in American SF cinema.

Minority Report also avoids Blade Runner’s insistent gloom by emphasizing color. Certain scenes, as Hoberman points out, feature so little color that the viewer may mistake them for black-and-white shots. Blue tones, however, predominate in Minority Report to the point that entire sequences are tinted azure or cobalt. This chilly palette suggests an aloof world, while the silvery green tones that characterize Anderton’s visit to Iris Hineman’s overgrown estate demonstrate how sickly 2054’s natural environment has become.

The brightness of other scenes also distinguishes Minority Report from the shadowy compositions of Blade Runner, Screamers, and Impostor. Spielberg and Janusz Kaminski light these scenes to point that on-screen objects appear unnatural (when they are not fully washed out of the frame). The resulting visual dissonance reminds the viewer that Minority Report does not document a utopian metropolis. It instead stylizes Washington D.C. as a city that has surrendered itself to constant surveillance (ubiquitous retinal scanners identify citizens in all public places) and rampant commercialism (advertisements tailored to a person’s retinal scan address consumers by name34).

Dick does not lavish much attention on his story’s atmosphere. ‘‘Cold, light rain beat against the pavement, as the car moved through the dark streets of New York City toward the police building’’35 is typical of the author’s environmental minimalism, as well as the spare prose of 1950s’ SF.

Such passages provide the reader with the barest possible details to visualize

‘‘The Minority Report.’’ For Dick, physicality is less important than the intellectual excitement of predicting the future. For Spielberg, Minority Report’s richly imagined environment allows the film’s characters, as well as its audience, to inhabit a world that exceeds the limited features of Dick’s original short story. Spielberg, Kaminski, production designer Alex McDowell, and set decorator Anne Kuljian collaborate to produce exterior panoramas and interior spaces that envision 2054 Washington D.C. as alternately beautiful, functional, or unattractive. This variable setting allows Minority Report to tell a fully realized story of the ambiguities that accompany Anderton’s attempt to reclaim his life.

Much of Minority Report’s narrative effectiveness comes from the film’s fascination with eyes, light, sight, and seeing. Spielberg’s film shares these themes with Blade Runner, but intensifies them to levels of mania that exceed Ridley Scott’s movie. Agatha, for instance, asks Anderton the seemingly simple question ‘‘Can you see?’’ several times, while the eye transplant that Anderton receives during the film’s second act is perhaps its most effective sequence. The movie’s opening images of Howard Marks’s crime of passion against his wife resolve into an extreme close-up of Agatha’s eyeball as she half-chants, half-declaims the word ‘‘Murder.’’ Agatha’s unique foresight also piques Anderton’s curiosity about the premeditated killing of Agatha’s

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mother, Anne Lively (Jessica Harper), by Lamar Burgess several years before the film begins. Burgess murders Lively to eliminate the final obstacle to making Precrime operational: Lively, who has kicked her neuroin habit, wishes to take custody of Agatha. Removing Agatha, however, will destroy the Precog ability to visualize the future because the three mutants, as their caretaker Wally (Daniel London) reveals, form a hive mind that depends upon Agatha to regulate its collective consciousness. Burgess ingeniously fakes a prevision that enables him to get away with Lively’s murder and to incarcerate Agatha, but Anderton eventually sees this vision for what it is: a record of the primal death that makes Precrime possible.

This story line diverges markedly from Dick’s ‘‘The Minority Report’’ to develop an entirely new plot. Lively’s neuroin addiction results in the loss of her daughter, while Anderton’s unhappy life is an inversion of this story: Sean’s disappearance causes his father to abuse neuroin. Burgess shoots Witwer dead and frames Anderton for both Witwer’s and Leo Crow’s murder, just as he framed an unidentified criminal (Bertell Lawrence) for Lively’s death. Anderton, who is eventually arrested by his own Precrime agents for accidentally shooting Crow, is then incarcerated within the Department of Containment, a warehouse-like facility that houses thousands of future criminals who have been ‘‘haloed’’: they reside in vertical tubes that plunge the precriminals into a half-conscious, half-virtual netherworld of their own imaginations. Containment’s strange administrator, Gideon (Tim Blake Nelson), happily presides over Anderton’s imprisonment until Lara forces him, at gunpoint, to release her ex-husband. Anderton and Lara, having obtained a recording of the prevision of Anne Lively’s murder, play it during a ceremony honoring Burgess for stewarding Precrime to national success (the referendum passes by a wide margin). Burgess commits suicide rather than face justice, leaving Anderton and Lara to remarry, as well as to conceive another child. Precrime is disbanded, the Precogs are released, and the film’s final shot finds Agatha, Arthur, and Dashiell—looking healthy and happy—
quietly reading books in a house on an unnamed island.

Dick’s story finds Anderton murdering General Kaplan, not in an effort to destroy Precrime, but rather to preserve it. Kaplan and the Army’s Military Intelligence wing wish to split up Precrime so that ‘‘a return to military law’’36 becomes inevitable. ‘‘The Minority Report’’ takes place after a devastating war has transformed the United States into the Federal Westbloc Government, which has returned to civilian leadership after a period of military governance. Kaplan professes public concern for protecting the civil liberties of incarcerated future criminals, but merely uses this issue as a fac¸ade to take command of the nation’s law-enforcement agencies. This bureaucratic fight leads to double crosses and reversals of fortune for Anderton, who escapes Precrime after Witwer becomes its acting commissioner, only to return when he realizes the extent of Kaplan’s mendacity. Kaplan believes that the existence of minority reports proves how unreliable Precrime is. Minority

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reports are dissenting visions in which one of the three Precogs (named Donna, Jerry, and Mike in Dick’s story) sees a slightly different version of the future than the two others. Kaplan hopes to prove that Precrime is a sham by appearing with Anderton at an event in which the general will read a Precog

‘‘majority report’’ to an audience of Veterans’ League members. This report claims that Anderton will shoot Kaplan, but the general hopes that civic chaos will ensue (and that the Army will be empowered to police the nation) once the audience realizes that Anderton is not a murderer. Anderton’s failure to kill Kaplan will palpably demonstrate that the Precogs’ visions are untrustworthy and that the system of jailing individuals who have committed no crime is untenable. Anderton, however, murders Kaplan in front of the audience before he and Lisa, with Witwer’s assistance, flee Earth to live on the colony planet Centaurus X. Dick’s story ends with Anderton revealing to Witwer that the Precogs did not generate a majority and a minority report, but rather three consecutive minority reports that saw the same event from three slightly different perspectives. These divergent reports allow Anderton to piece together General Kaplan’s plan to wrest control away from the civilian authorities: Faced with the knowledge of the first report, I had decided not to kill Kaplan.

That produced report two. But faced with that report, I changed my mind back.

Report two, situation two, was the situation Kaplan wanted to create. It was to the advantage of the police to recreate position one [in which Anderton murders Kaplan]. And by that time I was thinking of the police. I had figured out what Kaplan was doing. The third report invalidated the second one in the same way the second one invalidated the first. That brought us back where we started from.37

‘‘The Minority Report’’ concludes with Witwer wondering if he should over-haul the entire Precrime system to prevent this situation from recurring.

Anderton relishes his response:

‘‘My case was unique, since I had access to the data. It could happen again—but only to the next Police Commissioner. So watch your step.’’ Briefly, [Anderton]

grinned, deriving no inconsiderable comfort from Witwer’s strained expression.

. . .‘‘Better keep your eyes open,’’ he informed young Witwer. ‘‘It might happen to you at any time.’’38

This resolution allows Anderton to get away with Kaplan’s murder, as well as triumph over his replacement. The Precogs remain enslaved by Precrime, but

‘‘The Minority Report,’’ unlike many of Dick’s stories, ends with its protagonist feeling somewhat satisfied.

Dick’s story does not overtly trouble itself with the Precogs’ human rights or the civil liberties of the people arrested by Precrime. General Kaplan uses the latter concern as a pretext for abolishing Precrime’s authority, but no

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character frets over due-process protections. ‘‘The Minority Report’’ demonstrates how easily the United States can adopt authoritarian strategies during a time of war, leaving Anderton to choose between two distasteful options: martial law (and, presumably, military dictatorship) or incarcerating people who have committed no legal misdeeds. The short story’s resolution does not fully endorse Precrime’s methods, but instead demonstrates how irresistible an ends-justifies-the-means mindset can become. The crime-free world that Precrime makes possible so empowers the police’s overwhelming institutional bureaucracy that even the Army fears its influence. The public and political debate that Kaplan hopes to engender about Precrime’s legal authority never occurs because, in the story’s most merciless narrative irony, the general’s murder ensures Precrime’s survival. Anderton’s final comments to Witwer tacitly concede that the law-enforcement system is unbeatable, although its leader remains perpetually vulnerable to the machinations of military and civilian bureaucrats. This resolution is as politically dispiriting for Dick’s reader as it is personally upsetting for Witwer. Anderton is also not as victorious as he believes himself to be when ‘‘The Minority Report’’

ends, for he and Lisa must flee their lives on Earth. The only winner is an oppressive bureaucracy, making ‘‘The Minority Report’’ one of Dick’s most disheartening fictions.

Spielberg’s Minority Report, by contrast, traffics in moral outrage, particularly when Dr. Iris Hineman tells Anderton that the existence of minority reports has been deliberately suppressed by Burgess to prevent the public from losing faith in Precrime’s viability (the advertisements supporting the national Precrime referendum, for instance, bear a simple tagline: ‘‘It works’’).

Anderton, the chief of Precrime operations, has never heard of a minority report until he escapes police custody and begins investigating the origin of the institution to which he has devoted himself. Anderton and Hineman’s exchange acknowledges the legal, political, and moral ambiguities of Precrime’s fundamental methodology, as well as Anderton’s role in sustaining it: HINEMAN:

Obviously for Precrime to function, there can’t be any suggestion of fallibility. After all, who wants a justice system that instills doubt? It may be reasonable, but it’s still doubt.

ANDERTON:

Are you saying I’ve haloed [incarcerated] innocent people?

HINEMAN:

I’m saying that every so often, those accused of a precrime might, just might, have an alternate future.. . .

ANDERTON:

Does Lamar Burgess know about the minority report?

HINEMAN:

Yes, of course he knew. But at the time, he felt—we both felt—that their existence was an insignificant variable.

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ANDERTON:

Insignificant? To you, maybe. But what about those people that I put away with alternate futures? My god, if the country knew there was a chance—

HINEMAN:

The system would collapse.

Anderton’s anger at the possibility of jailing innocent civilians contrasts the protagonist’s attitude in Dick’s short story. Dick’s character worries for nothing more than his personal safety because, as he realizes toward the story’s conclusion, only the police commissioner can be falsely accused of a crime.

‘‘The Minority Report’’ implies that Precrime is a nearly flawless crime prevention system that only permits a person with access to future visions to carry out murders by correctly interpreting Precog reports. Minority Report goes in a different direction. The scene between Hineman and Anderton holds out hope that Precrime’s questionable methods will lose legitimacy if the truth about their reliability becomes public. Spielberg’s film does not transform Anderton into an earnest civil-liberties warrior, but his desire to find the truth about Precrime leads Anderton to secrets about Anne Lively, Lamar Burgess, and Precrime’s birth that he would rather forget.

Anderton begins questioning his belief in Precrime when he first visits the Department of Containment. Anderton has forgotten how many people have been haloed when Gideon raises the facility’s thousands of containment cylinders into view. Each tube holds a haloed human being who has been arrested and convicted for committing a future murder based on the Precogs’ collective vision. This scene is a staggering display of sophisticated special effects, with green light emanating from the cylinders to suggest the malignant atmosphere that Containment represents. The scale of Precrime’s effectiveness surprises even Anderton, who has not often paused to consider the ramifications of his work. Tim Blake Nelson adds to this scene’s creepy mood by performing Gideon as a ghoulish caretaker whose ostensible sympathy for his charges is, in fact, thinly veiled contempt. Gideon’s organ music (he relentlessly plays Bach’s ‘‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’’ to the prisoners) is one of the film’s sickest jokes about the possibility (or rather impossibility) of redemption in a world that no longer professes any belief in rehabilitative therapy. Containment is, therefore, a graveyard as much as a prison; its detainees will never again enjoy freedom, or even full consciousness.

The Containment sequence also demonstrates how well Minority Report extrapolates, and occasionally exceeds, its source. Dick’s story mentions Precrime’s prisoners in passing, but devotes no attention to their status or their rights. Spielberg’s film does not hesitate to restructure the plot of

‘‘The Minority Report’’ to present a more humanistic narrative. Anderton’s conversation with Hineman forces him to face the civic and moral consequences of his actions even as it compels him to solve the mystery of Leo Crow’s murder. The movie never ceases being an entertaining thriller, but Minority

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Report’s story of preemptive incarceration and authoritarian injustice resonates with the predominant American anxieties of its moment. By the time of the film’s June 17, 2002, theatrical release, a vigorous debate over the provisions of the USA PATRIOT Act and the United States’ treatment of prisoners arrested after the September 11, 2001, attacks against New York City and Washington D.C. had entered public consciousness. The PATRIOT

Act was particularly controversial, with civil libertarians identifying it as unnecessarily onerous legislation that allowed the federal government to intrude into the lives of American citizens who had committed no crime. This argument pointed out that individuals suspected of terrorism could be detained without evidence of wrongdoing. The incarceration of so-called enemy combatants in the Army’s facility at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, after America’s October 2001 invasion of Afghanistan, also raised concerns about the rights and treatment of prisoners who, the government claimed, did not deserve access to legal counsel or other due-process rights because they had engaged in hostilities against American forces.

Spielberg’s film can be seen as a response to the cultural, political, and legal foment that characterized American life during the year following 9/11. This interpretation reads Hineman’s disparaging reference to ‘‘the Attorney General, who just wants it [Precrime] all for himself’’ as an allusion to Attorney General John Ashcroft, whose forceful defense of the PATRIOT Act made him extremely unpopular with civil libertarians. Precrime becomes a fictional extrapolation of Ashcroft’s desire, expressed in numerous public appearances, to catch terrorists before they can strike. Ashcroft’s insistence that the Justice Department’s actions were necessary legal strategies to protect the American public from future attacks resonates with the pronouncements of Lamar Burgess and Attorney General Vincent Nash (Victor Raider-Wexler) in Minority Report, both of whom emphasize how Precrime will secure the United States from the civic violence that has reached epidemic proportion.

Minority Report, in this reading, becomes a cautionary tale about the dangers of manipulating public fear for political gain.

This interpretation of Spielberg’s film has merit, although Minority Report was well into production by the time that the PATRIOT Act became federal law on October 26, 2001. Jon Cohen began working on his version of the screenplay in 1997,39 while Scott Frank entered the scripting process in January 1999.40 Spielberg became actively involved in the project in 1999 by assembling a team of academic and industrial experts to help him imagine America in the year 2054. Scott Frank’s 2002 interview with Creative Screenwriting also elaborates on Minority Report’s long production process:

Early on, before [Spielberg] went on to do A.I., we worked for a year solid.. . .

But Tom was in the middle of making Mission: Impossible 2 in Australia, and that schedule kept getting pushed back for various reasons, so therefore our

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production kept getting postponed. We had more and more time to work on the script and what we ended up doing was reinventing the story.41

This timeline indicates that Minority Report’s production team, like Impostor’s, was able to successfully predict political trends that came to fruition at the time of the film’s theatrical release. Minority Report not only engaged public concerns about the legal implications of the Bush Administration’s response to 9/11 but also became part of the cultural discussion about that response. The film’s lengthy production, however, means that Minority Report cannot be considered a direct reply to the aftermath of the terrorist attacks.

This political engagement, however, is entirely appropriate for a film based on Dick’s short story. Minority Report’s supposedly happy ending engendered much critical commentary, with reviewers such as David Edelstein claiming that the film’s resolution abrogates the bleak conclusion of Dick’s story to offer a more optimistic appraisal of the American political system. The film’s plot moves briskly after Anderton speaks with Dr. Hineman. Anderton receives an eye transplant from Dr. Solomon Eddie (Peter Stormare); sneaks into Precrime headquarters; breaks Agatha free; finds, confronts, and elects not to kill Leo Crow after realizing that Burgess has paid Crow to pose as Sean’s abductor; and is arrested after accidentally shooting the man. Anderton is then haloed by the Department of Containment, much to Gideon’s delight.

Lara, however, forces Gideon to release Anderton when she realizes that Burgess is Anne Lively’s killer. Anderton, in the movie’s penultimate scene, confronts Burgess, who, as previously noted, commits suicide rather than face the public humiliation that the truth about his homicidal past will entail.

Minority Report concludes as Anderton’s voice-over accompanies consecutive shots of Precrime’s deserted headquarters, Anderton and the now-pregnant Lara watching the rain from inside Anderton’s apartment, and the Precogs’

quiet life in their anonymous cottage:

In 2054, the six-year Precrime experiment was abandoned. All prisoners were unconditionally pardoned and released, although police departments kept watch on many of them for years to come. Agatha and the twins were transferred to an undisclosed location: a place where they could find relief from their gifts. A place where they could live out their lives in peace.

This resolution strikes some critics as selling out the film’s dystopian premise. John Petrakis, in Christian Century, says, ‘‘the concluding segments mar an otherwise skillful and intelligent film, and suggest that Spielberg’s audience-pleasing instincts will keep him from inheriting the mantle of Stanley Kubrick, who understood early on in his storied career that the most profound endings aren’t always happy.’’42 David Edelstein offers the most bruising assessment of Minority Report’s conclusion in his Slate.com review: ‘‘Whose

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idea was it to turn Minority Report into a mushy declaration of humanism?

It ends up as less of a warning about an Orwellian police state than a protest that Pre-Cogs are people, too. It’s Dick-less.’’43 Petrakis’s and Edelstein’s dissatisfaction recalls the frustration provoked by Total Recall’s too-bright ending, but each man ignores important evidence that Minority Report is not as optimistic as it seems. Gideon’s dialogue when Anderton is first housed in Containment is crucial to understanding the film’s fundamental ambiguity:

‘‘They say you have visions, that your life flashes before your eyes, that all your dreams come true.’’ This line, so easily overlooked, suggests that all the events occurring after Anderton’s incarceration are part of a humanist fantasy that fulfills the man’s most ardent desires: Anderton is reunited with his wife, the Precogs are released from bondage, and Precrime is disbanded. This possibility also emphasizes the terrible circumstances of Anderton’s life: after losing his son, his marriage, and his job, he must endure lifelong captivity because Burgess succeeds in framing him for a crime that he would never otherwise have committed. All that Anderton has left is a dream of better days and happier times that will replay endlessly through his consciousness.

Other details support reading Minority Report’s concluding segment as a delusion. The film’s final shot finds the Precogs sitting in a rough triangle as they read books, then cranes upward and away from their cottage to reveal that the cabin sits on an island surrounded by water. This mise-en-scene roughly approximates the Precrime containment tank—with its triangular body positioning, circular perimeter, and cloudy water—that houses the Precogs for most of the film. Minority Report does not belabor this similarity or its implication (that Anderton’s fantasy incorporates the people, architecture, and settings of his actual experience), but allows the careful viewer to infer this prospect without certifying its truth.

One problem with interpreting Minority Report’s happy ending as a delusion is that Anderton would presumably imagine an even sunnier life for himself. Why should Lara be pregnant when Anderton could picture Sean alive and growing into manhood? Agatha, after all, provides Anderton and Lara with a glimpse of their alternate future, and of how Sean’s life might have developed, while hiding in Lara’s country home. One of the film’s most emotionally devastating scenes sees Agatha reveal what might have been: There’s so much love in this house. He’s ten years old. He’s surrounded by animals. He wants to be a vet. You keep a rabbit for him, a bird and a fox.

He’s in high school. He likes to run, like his father. He runs the two-mile and the long relay. He’s twenty-three. He’s at a university. He makes love to a pretty girl named Claire. He asks her to be his wife. He calls here and tells Lara, who cries.. . .There was so much love in this house.

Samantha Morton delivers this monologue with grace, while the sadness that overtakes Tom Cruise’s and Kathryn Morris’s faces is genuinely moving.

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When Cruise tearfully moans the line ‘‘I want him back so bad,’’ the misery that has characterized Anderton’s life is nakedly displayed. Why, if Anderton fantasizes the film’s resolution, would he not dream the lovely vision that Agatha narrates? Why not envision the happiest possible outcome for himself ? These questions do not receive answers, but they hang over the end of the film to call into question any definitive conclusion about the optimism of Minority Report’s finale.

This uncertainty is an example of productive narrative ambiguity that allows Minority Report’s viewer to doubt the nature of reality, a theme so common in Dick’s fiction that the author nearly patented it. Minority Report, by suggesting that Anderton’s confinement allows him to dream another life, does not recapitulate the conclusion of its original source story as much as it adapts ‘‘half-life,’’ the central premise of Dick’s 1969 novel Ubik, for its own purposes. Ubik’s protagonist, Joe Chip, suspects that he does not die in an explosion staged by the main industrial competitor of his employer, a firm named Runciter Associates that helps its clients block telepathic mind probes. Chip comes to believe that he is cryogenically preserved in a state known as half-life that allows a person’s consciousness to be resuscitated long enough to allow that person to communicate with the living. Half-life is a netherworld in which reality freely intermingles with fantasy, and where dreams come true. The novel concludes with Joe Chip unable to ascertain whether he is alive or dead, which is a fair approximation of Anderton’s haloed state as a prisoner of the Department of Containment. Minority Report’s (perhaps unintentional) allusion to Ubik shows just how much the film is indebted to Dick’s fertile imagination, even if it does not scrupulously adapt the tone or the cynicism of ‘‘The Minority Report.’’

Minority Report’s concern with fractured families is also one of Steven Spielberg’s enduring fascinations, occurring in so many of his films that his cinematic career has been defined by it. This theme also casts Minority Report’s resolution in a different light that has nothing to do with delusions, dreams, or fantasies. The plot’s movement from domestic trauma to family reunion parallels Minority Report’s political story, in which the American embrace of Precrime produces civic tensions that disappear once Precrime’s

‘‘six-year experiment’’ ends. Minority Report combines the public and the private to demonstrate how dependent the political realm is on the personal rectitude of individual citizens. Anderton’s absolute faith in Precrime blinds him to his responsibilities as a husband, as well as his duty to uphold the innocence of all Americans until they are proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The result is a justice system that dispenses with trials in favor of Precog foresight.

Minority Report may dismantle this system, but altering the end of Dick’s short story is not the flaw that reviewers like Petrakis and Edelstein assert. Anderton fails to avenge the loss of his son, while the six years of wretchedness that he endures cannot be erased by the death of Precrime.

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Mark Garrett Cooper provides the best analysis of Minority Report’s denouement by observing that the film does not so much provide a happy ending as cite the formulaic conclusion audiences expect. Rather than prove that the world has been made safe for romance (again), the film envisions the private sphere as an isolation zone. To be even remotely secure, the family must have no contact whatsoever with the intrusive world of bureaucrats, policemen, and advertisers that exists outside.44

This bleak truth, reinforced by the last image of Anderton and Lara seques-tered in their apartment during a rainstorm, becomes even more forlorn when juxtaposed with Anderton’s comment that the police keep tabs on Precrime’s prisoners for years after their release. The possibility that Anderton and Lara are surveilled during their final appearance counteracts the optimism that Minority Report’s surface narrative presents. Spielberg’s happy ending, therefore, is more complicated than it appears.

IV.

Despite the controversy surrounding Minority Report’s resolution, the film is a masterpiece. Minority Report includes so many stunning images, kinetic action sequences, deft performances, and witty cinematic allusions that the viewer cannot exhaust the movie’s visual or intellectual riches in one viewing.

Three sequences in particular testify to Minority Report’s narrative sophistication, as well as to the talent of its cast. In the first, Anderton receives an eye transplant from Dr. Eddie and his assistant, Greta Van Eyck (Caroline Lagerfelt), to avoid detection by 2054 Washington’s ubiquitous retinal scanners. This sequence is a surreal homage to Kubrick’s 1971 film A Clockwork Orange, with Anderton’s eyes being stretched open in the same way that Alex de Large’s (Malcolm McDowell) are in Kubrick’s film. Whereas the authorities of Alex’s dystopian England attempt to forcibly rehabilitate his violent tendencies, Anderton hopes to avoid the authorities to prove that he is not a violent man. The theme that connects Spielberg and Kubrick’s films, however, is the attempt to prevent criminal behavior before it occurs. Minority Report’s approach to this idea, moreover, is just as fresh as A Clockwork Orange’s: it forces Anderton to change how he sees the world.

The eye transplant takes place in a dingy apartment that Dr. Eddie selects to keep his black-market surgery secret, as well as to isolate Anderton from all assistance. The doctor taunts Anderton with his own vulnerability, enjoying the irony of gaining total control over the man (Anderton) who sent him (Eddie) to prison. Anderton arrested Eddie in Baltimore years before the film begins for setting his female plastic-surgery patients on fire, raising the possibility that Eddie will disfigure or otherwise harm Anderton, who has little choice but to trust the doctor. Eddie demands that Anderton remain

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blindfolded for twelve hours after the eye transplant so that he will not go blind. Anderton’s solitude after the transplant (Eddie and Van Eyck uncer-emoniously exit once they finish) prompts him to remember his dead son’s happy childhood and the tragedy of Sean’s abduction. Cruise is excellent at playing Anderton’s sadness, but Peter Stormare steals the transplant sequence by delivering Dr. Eddie’s lines with mockery, self-deprecation, and sick humor. One of the scene’s early shots sees Eddie sneeze so hard that snot streams from his nose. As the doctor uses his hand to wipe away the mucus, he tells a skeptical Anderton, ‘‘Don’t worry. You see, I could cut open your chest and sew a dead cat in there. You would never get an infection.’’ Even funnier is Eddie’s description of his stint in prison: For true enlightenment, there’s nothing quite like . . .well, let’s say taking a shower while this large felon with an attitude you can’t even knock down with a hammer whispers in your ear: ‘‘Oh Nancy, oh Nancy.’’ Now that was a lot of fun. Thank you so very much, John, for putting me in there.

Stormare, in his short interaction with Cruise, brings emotional texture to a character that could have been one-dimensional. The screenplay gives the actor good dialogue, but Stormare’s ironic delivery nicely blends Eddie’s sense of humor with his deep resentment of Anderton. Stormare skillfully projects the dignified bitterness of a man who must live with the mistakes of his past. His performance, in a testament to Spielberg’s shrewd casting, is one of Minority Report’s many acting highlights.

This scene leads into the film’s most impressive sequence. Gordon Fletcher, Anderton’s former lieutenant, leads the Precrime squad to the apartment building where Anderton recuperates from his eye surgery. The squad releases several ‘‘spyders’’—small, three-legged, arachnid-like mechanisms—to scour the building. The spyders scan the retinas of the building’s residents in an effort to locate Anderton, who plunges himself into an ice-water bath to hide his body’s heat signature. The spyders that enter Anderton’s bathroom nearly leave when they cannot find a warm body, but a single air bubble floats to the tub’s surface (Anderton is holding his breath while lying submerged in the tub, hoping to escape detection long enough to avoid the spyder search).

The noise of this popping bubble causes the spyders to shock the bathwater with a mild electrical charge that forces Anderton to the surface. The spyders then scan Anderton’s new eyes in what seems like a gruelingly long process.

Dr. Eddie’s operation, however, has been successful. The spyders’ retinal scan identifies Anderton as a man named Mr. Yakamoto.

Spielberg transforms this sequence into a witty homage to Alfred Hitchcock’s 1955 movie Rear Window.45 As Anderton scrambles to hide in the bathtub, the camera floats upward until it occupies a birds-eye, cross-sectional view of the entire apartment complex. The building’s inhabitants stop their actions just long enough to allow the spyders to scan their eyes.

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The audience sees a man sitting on his toilet, a couple making love, and, in the funniest moment of the entire sequence, a woman who beats her husband (or boyfriend) during a domestic squabble pause just long enough for a retinal scan before she resumes hitting her partner. The virtuoso timing of camera movement and physical action makes this sequence an impressive display of directorial and cinematographic collaboration that recalls the small domestic vignettes that L. B. Jeffries, Jimmy Stewart’s character in Rear Window, observes during the course of Hitchcock’s film. The visual effects, in addition, perfectly mesh with the live-action performances. One of the spyders even stops in mid-step, with a single leg raised just above the floor, while listening for additional sounds after Anderton’s air bubble bursts.

As good as these two sequences are, the scene in which Anderton confronts Leo Crow is among the best work of Spielberg’s career. Agatha pleads with Anderton to spare Crow’s life, repeatedly telling Anderton that he can change his future because, as she says, ‘‘You still have a choice.’’ Anderton initially resists her entreaties after discovering photographs of Crow and Sean together—photos taken after Sean’s disappearance—littered across the bed of Crow’s empty hotel room. Tom Cruise plays this scene with exactly the right combination of sadness and rage. Anderton capitulates to what he perceives as his destiny, telling Agatha that he has had only two thoughts each day during the past six years: ‘‘The first is what my son would look like if he were alive today, if I would recognize him if I saw him on the street. The second is what I would do to the man who took him.

You’re right. I’m not being set up.’’ Cruise’s calmly lethal tone is frightening:

‘‘There is no minority report. I don’t have an alternate future. I am going to kill this man.’’

Anderton physically assaults Crow when the man enters the room. Mike Binder plays Crow as a timid, yet insolent criminal who tells Anderton that Sean did not suffer during or after his abduction. Anderton realizes, however, that Crow would not have carelessly left photographs of Sean for Anderton to find if he wanted to hide his involvement in Sean’s disappearance. Burgess has manipulated events to dupe Anderton into killing Crow as revenge for Sean’s presumed death. This homicide will not only prove the Precogs’ vision of Crow’s murder to be correct but also demonstrate Precrime to be an infallible system. Crow, during the tense and violent interrogation that Anderton conducts, finally admits that an unknown benefactor has agreed to financially care for Crow’s family if he agrees not only to play the role of Sean’s abductor but also to allow Anderton to murder him. When Anderton refuses to kill Crow, the man becomes distressed. He wants Anderton to murder him so that his family will receive the financial rewards he has been promised. Crow becomes so agitated that he grabs hold of Anderton’s gun. The ensuing struggle causes Anderton to accidentally discharge the weapon into Crow’s body, causing the man to crash through a nearby window and fall to his death in imagery that matches the Precog vision.

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Cruise’s, Binder’s, and Samantha Morton’s fine performances make this scene an emotionally gripping excursion into guilt, sadness, rage, and hope.

Agatha’s declaration that Anderton can choose his own future also allows Minority Report to distinguish itself from Dick’s short story. Far from endorsing mushy humanism, this alteration to the pessimistic tone of ‘‘The Minority Report’’ emphasizes how important free choice is to maintaining the dignity of individual lives and the moral authority of democratic societies. Anderton repeats Agatha’s belief in the necessity of choice when he confronts Burgess at the film’s climax, not to provide a simplified civics lesson for the film’s audience, but to underscore how quickly justice becomes a casualty of bureaucratic expedience when the United States surrenders the ambiguities of free will for the certainties of future knowledge. Minority Report, by highlighting the personal costs of blind faith in governmental institutions, becomes a mature evocation of the competing political, social, and legal forces that characterize a nation beset by internal conflict. In this regard, Spielberg’s film is reminiscent of much of Dick’s fiction. Minority Report provides a fascinating portrait of early-twenty-first-century American angst that unsettles its audience’s faith in the American legal system.

Minority Report’s vivid characters also enrich these philosophical points to create compelling drama. Spielberg casts every role in the film to ensure that the story remains an intriguing mystery. Samantha Morton, Max von Sydow, Kathryn Morris, Tim Blake Nelson, and Lois Smith are particularly good in their roles, while Steve Harris’s small turn as Jad, one of Anderton’s Precrime assistants, is excellent. Without a good lead performance, however, the film would founder. Minority Report, in the end, is Tom Cruise’s movie. The actor does not disappoint, etching a memorable portrait of a man whose faith in the system he loyally serves slowly dissipates. Cruise’s superstar status occasionally obscures his quality as an actor, but the depth and nuance of his performance in Minority Report recalls his best roles: as Joel Goodsen in 1983’s Risky Business, as Charlie Babbitt in 1988’s Rain Man, as Ron Kovic in 1989’s Born on the Fourth of July, as the vampire Lestat in 1994’s Interview with the Vampire, as Jerry Maguire in 1996’s Jerry Maguire, as Bill Harford in 1999’s Eyes Wide Shut, as Frank ‘‘T.J.’’ Mackey in 1999’s Magnolia, and as David Aames in 2001’s Vanilla Sky. Cruise’s offscreen reputation, moreover, was not an issue at the time of Minority Report’s summer 2002 release. His antics did not negatively influence the critical or commercial response to Minority Report in the same way that the actor’s later collaboration with Spielberg, 2005’s War of the Worlds, was castigated after a series of public-relations blunders provoked a backlash against Cruise’s beliefs about psychiatric drugs and Scientology.

The combination of its good script, excellent performances, and lyrical direction makes Minority Report an intelligent and entertaining adaptation of Dick’s original short story. The film goes far afield of Dick’s writing, but Minority Report retains the dystopian atmosphere and intellectual energy that make ‘‘The Minority Report’’ one of Dick’s most absorbing fictions.

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The film’s design, story line, and allusions to other movies (particularly North by Northwest46) ensure that Minority Report is a pleasure to watch. Its filmmakers contemporize Dick’s narrative to account for the cultural and political anxieties of early-twenty-first-century America, allowing the thoughtful viewer to appreciate the different historical moments that Dick’s story and Spielberg’s movie occupy. Minority Report may not be the most faithful adaptation of Dick’s fiction, but it remains one of the best. The richness of Spielberg’s film honors Minority Report’s literary source by enlivening the story’s intellectual, political, and emotional scope.

CHAPTER 7

Money in the Bank: Paycheck

I.

Paycheck, John Woo’s 2003 adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s 1953 short story (of the same title), is the most disappointing film based on Dick’s fiction. Paycheck is not the disaster that some reviewers claimed at the time of its Christmas 2003 release, but Woo’s movie fails to stimulate its audience’s intellect or emotions. Paycheck, indeed, is such a tired affair that, by its conclusion, the audience finds itself in unwitting agreement with Mark Holcomb, whose Village Voice review provides a fitting epitaph for Woo’s effort: The law of diminishing returns appears to have caught up with Hollywood’s Philip K. Dick infatuation. . . .The diversity of his vision has been so diluted by well-meaning dilettantes and profit-hungry bandwagoneers that it now has the unmistakable rigidity of formula. Paycheck, the latest big-dollar cinematic Dickwork, flogs that formula mercilessly.1

Paycheck is particularly bland when compared to Blade Runner and Minority Report, the adaptations that most successfully extrapolate their source material into splendid visions of future America’s moral, political, and social climate. Woo’s movie attempts similar goals, but falls short by restricting its visual style and narrative imagination to the director’s preferred genres (the action thriller and the crime melodrama) rather than integrating Dick’s distinctive worldview into its story. Blade Runner and Minority Report, despite all the changes that they make to Dick’s fiction, retain the author’s fevered anxiety about the United States becoming a more commercialized, technology-driven, and authoritarian nation. Paul Verhoeven’s Total Recall,

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Christian Duguay’s Screamers, and Gary Fleder’s Impostor also succeed (to varying degrees) in preserving Dick’s concerns about the deleterious influence of bureaucracy and technology. These films, whatever their flaws, do not enervate Dick’s writing so severely that they become exercises in pointless cinematic drudgery (although Screamers’s and Impostor’s general critical reputation suggests otherwise).

Jeŕoˆme Boivin’s Confessions d’un Barjo maintains Dick’s fascination with the alternately comic and tragic complications of marriage, while Richard Linklater’s A Scanner Darkly expertly captures its source novel’s ambivalent tone. Both of these films excise much of Dick’s narrative material from their cinematic plots, but neither movie loses sight of the author’s twisted imagination or emotional complexity. Boivin and Linklater recognize the bizarre combination of wild ideas, creeping paranoia, and mordant wit that characterizes Dick’s fiction to produce films that successfully reflect his singular perspective.

Paycheck, by contrast, so frequently repeats character moments, design concepts, and plot devices from earlier Dick adaptations that Woo’s film nearly qualifies as a piece of cinematic plagiarism. The movie also owes a tremendous debt to Alfred Hitchcock’s oeuvre. Both Woo and screenwriter Dean Georgaris, in their commentary tracks for Paycheck’s Special Edition DVD, acknowledge their intention to transform Paycheck into an explicit Hitchcockian homage, but their honesty does little to excuse the film’s lazy allusions to Strangers on a Train (1951), Rear Window (1955), and North by Northwest (1959). This indolence is especially noticeable when compared to Minority Report, which is one of the most allusive American films ever produced. Steven Spielberg’s movie includes so many references to earlier films and directors that the viewer loses count of them within the first forty-five minutes. Spielberg, however, nimbly incorporates these cinematic citations into a film that combines SF, the detective genre, the action picture, and the family melodrama into a well-paced chase thriller.

Paycheck, unlike its immediate predecessor, never develops the energy or the conceptual freshness to intrigue its viewer for more than a few minutes.

Woo’s uncharacteristically flaccid direction and Georgaris’s sluggish script are partially to blame, but Woo’s decision to cast Ben Affleck as protagonist Michael Jennings is the largest reason for Paycheck’s failure. Affleck’s wooden performance undercuts the talented actors that surround him, particularly Paul Giamatti (in the role of Jennings’s friend, Shorty), Uma Thurman (as Jennings’s love interest, Rachel Porter), and Joe Morton (as FBI Agent Dodge). Affleck, who delivered respectable performances in Phil Alden Robinson’s 2002 adaptation of Tom Clancy’s The Sum of All Fears and Roger Michell’s 2002 film Changing Lanes, remains so stilted in Paycheck that Jennings becomes less a character than a collection of nervous tics and vacant stares. The audience feels little sympathy for Jennings, whose perpetually blank expression resembles a mannequin’s face. While perfect for the first

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Michael Jennings (Ben Affleck) has his memory erased by Shorty (Paul Giamatti) in Paycheck, John Woo’s 2003 adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s 1953
short story ‘‘Paycheck.’’ (Courtesy of Photofest) twenty minutes of a film about a man who repeatedly agrees to have his memory erased by the corporations that employ his engineering talents, Affleck’s inexpressive features quickly become a barrier to understanding Jennings’s inner life.

Affleck is also unable to convey any complicated sense of Jennings’s fears, doubts, and anxieties. Paycheck’s viewer, therefore, cannot empathize with the inventive plight that the film constructs for its protagonist. Jennings cannot remember the events from his most recent job, a three-year stint with a multinational technology corporation named AllCom that is owned and operated by Jennings’s good friend Jimmy Rethrick (Aaron Eckhart). This amnesia hides information that, when it threatens to emerge in Jennings’s memory, makes him a target of AllCom’s security chief, John Wolfe (Colm Feore), as well as a potential informant for Federal Bureau of Investigation agents Dodge and Klein (Michael C. Hall). These men wish to discover how Jennings has helped engineer AllCom’s newest invention, a machine that, according to Rethrick, ‘‘involves optics’’ and that Dodge believes is based on classified government research. Jennings must piece together what happened during the missing three years of his life by relying on twenty items that he mailed to himself before his memory was wiped. This scenario is the source of potentially rich inner conflicts—about Jennings’s integrity, sanity, and identity—that Affleck cannot embody.

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The actor’s lethargic performance not only deprives the film of energy but also plunges Paycheck into unintentional bathos. The scene in which Jennings and Shorty meet at Seattle’s Union Station to discuss Jennings’s predicament (as a man on the run from both AllCom and the government) leads Jennings to realize that Rethrick has built a machine that can see into the future. Jennings, who has been wondering why Rethrick would spend billions of dollars on a top-secret project, eventually exclaims, ‘‘I know what you’d spend $500
billion to see: the future!’’ Affleck delivers this line so awkwardly that laughter is the audience’s primary response. Rather than suggesting a moment of intellectual wonder, Affleck’s wide eyes make Jennings appear childish (rather than childlike, which would have been a more appropriate choice for a character who has suddenly solved a knotty mental puzzle). Affleck also unnecessarily draws out this line, extending it in forced fashion that advertises how excited Jennings should appear rather than expressing genuine enthusiasm.

The relationship that Jennings develops with Dr. Rachel Porter, an AllCom biologist whom he meets at a party hosted by Rethrick, also deprives Paycheck of interest. Uma Thurman invests Porter with intelligent charm, but the easy banter that she and Jennings share, as well as the love that they develop during the three-year period that Jennings has erased from his memory, is disrupted by Affleck’s fumbling attempts to alternate between nervous discomfort and suave seduction. Thurman’s natural delivery improves every scene in which she appears, stranding Affleck in an ungainly performance that cannot match her grace or elegance. Jennings and Porter’s love story is an invention of Woo’s and Georgaris’s that might have worked well because Thurman is adept at redeeming the feeble dialogue that Porter utters throughout the film.

Affleck, however, stumbles over the warmth and conviviality that the two characters share, and the few moments of authentic affection that he manages to play cannot prevent Paycheck’s romance from becoming as limp as the rest of the film.

These drawbacks do not irretrievably condemn Paycheck to the status of cinematic debacle, but they point out how much better the film would have been had a more engaged director, a more literate screenplay, and a more talented lead actor emerged from the production process. Paycheck’s many missed opportunities are regretful because the movie, properly handled, could have been as provocative and as emotionally intricate as Blade Runner and Minority Report. The filmmakers, however, sacrifice Dick’s restless exploration of the dark intellectual possibilities of future prediction for the pedestrian pleasures of a standard action thriller. Paycheck, as a result, cannot live up to the promise of its source story.

II.

Philip K. Dick’s ‘‘Paycheck’’ bears the traces of having been written quickly, and without much revision. Dick’s normally evocative prose is less prominent,

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while his characterization is more tentative, than usual. ‘‘Paycheck’’ is not poorly written, but, despite its thirty-page length, the story feels rushed and malformed. Michael Jennings solves the mystery of his own past through an ingenious plan: Jennings depends upon a collection of seven items (a code key, a ticket stub, a parcel receipt, a length of wire, half a poker chip, a green strip of cloth, and a bus token) that he assembles during the two-year period in which he works for Earl Rethrick, the owner of the Rethrick Construction Company. Jennings’s work is so secret that his memory of the entire experience is erased. This premise suggests that Jennings’s amnesia holds the key to his identity and that, if he could only remember what happened during those two years, Jennings might finally understand himself. The story instead delivers a disturbing political extrapolation of American life during the 1950s. Rethrick, for instance, updates Jennings on the state of the nation when the latter awakens after his memory wipe: ‘‘It’s almost two years later.

You’ll find a lot of things have changed. The Government fell a few months ago. The new Government is even stronger. The SP, Security Police, have almost unlimited power. They’re teaching the schoolchildren to inform, now. But we all saw that coming.’’2 Rethrick’s foresight proceeds even further, for he has positioned his company to resist the government’s repressive control by using the invention that Jennings’s expertise makes possible—a

‘‘time scoop, a mirror to see and a scoop to pick up things’’3—to aid a revolutionary movement that will eventually oppose the Security Police. Jennings theorizes that, while helping to perfect the time scoop, he managed to see his own future, in which the Security Police interrogate him about the nature of his work for Rethrick. This foreknowledge leads Jennings to assemble seven items that allow him to elude capture, to locate the secret factory that houses the time scoop, and to blackmail his way into running Rethrick Construction.

‘‘Paycheck,’’ therefore, portrays Rethrick Construction as the lesser of two social, political, and moral evils. Jennings recognizes the bleak state of Dick’s imagined future after a piece of wire helps effect his escape from police custody:

The big economic forces had managed to remain free, although virtually everything else had been absorbed by the Government. Laws that had been eased away from the private person still protected property and industry.. . .Business, industry, corporations, were safe from the Security Police. Due process was required. Rethrick Construction was a target of SP interest, but they could do nothing until some statute was violated. If he could get back to the Company, get inside its doors, he would be safe. Jennings smiled grimly. The modern church, sanctuary. It was the Government against the corporation, rather than the State against the Church. The new Notre Dame of the world. Where the law could not follow.4

The fact that Jennings’s best hope for survival requires him to take refuge inside a corporation that has more rights than he does expresses Dick’s

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pessimism about how industrial power can reduce human liberty to an insubstantial proposition. Unlike the collusion of industry and government that characterizes many of Dick’s short stories, ‘‘Paycheck’’ opposes these entities to leave human beings in an ambiguous, nearly stateless position where they are vulnerable to the predations of both forces. Jennings cannot live an unfet-tered existence after he helps Rethrick perfect the time scoop, or even after his memory is erased. Corporate and governmental bureaucracies, he realizes, will always constrain his freedom.

Paycheck dilutes the short story’s pessimistic outlook by posing AllCom as a conventionally greedy corporation willing to manipulate the future for its own advantage. AllCom, it seems, only wishes to enhance its profits rather than fight governmental oppression. Jimmy Rethrick, as played by Aaron Eckhart, is not a snarling villain, but his quest to prevent both Jennings and the government from controlling the time window that Jennings helps build (during the three-year period missing from his memory) leads Rethrick to order his security chief, John Wolfe, to assassinate Jennings. This decision results in Paycheck’s many chase scenes, none of which are particularly exciting. The gratuitous motorcycle chase in which Jennings and Rachel Porter outrun Wolfe’s henchmen and Agent Dodge’s FBI squad, for instance, is an unimaginative cobbling together of action set pieces from previous John Woo films. This sequence references the absurdly entertaining and visually impressive motorcycle chase that concludes Mission: Impossible II nearly one dozen times, but these allusions only serve to remind the viewer of how much better the earlier film’s motorcycle pursuit is.

The problem with Paycheck is not that it strays from Dick’s original short story. Each adaptation of Dick’s fiction diverges from the author’s work to some degree, with Blade Runner and Minority Report departing markedly from their source stories. Ridley Scott’s and Steven Spielberg’s films, however, transform Dick’s writing into meditations about the ambiguities of human identity and the survival of personal freedom in worlds where technocracy reigns supreme. The fights and chases included in both films not only complement the emotional lives of their characters but also emphasize the danger that Rick Deckard and John Anderton face once they decide to challenge the dominant economic, political, and social institutions that circumscribe their lives. Paycheck, by contrast, substitutes fights, chases, and action for a deeper contemplation of the forces arrayed against Michael Jennings. The film bores its audience by including action sequences that fail to exhilarate the viewer or to illuminate Dick’s most profound concerns.

‘‘Paycheck,’’ in other words, tells a better story than Paycheck. In Dick’s tale, Jennings is a mechanical engineer who responds to a cryptic newspaper advertisement promising impressive remuneration for sacrificing his time and his memory to assist with an unnamed project. The story begins simply enough: ‘‘All at once he was in motion. Around him smooth jets hummed.

He was on a small private rocket cruiser, moving leisurely across the afternoon

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sky, between cities.’’5 Jennings, in this opening scene, accompanies Earl Rethrick, his now-former employer (and an older man who had not met Jennings before hiring him), back to New York City. The only other major character that Jennings encounters is Kelly McVane, the Rethrick Construction Company employee who pays Jennings’s salary. Jennings, to his dismay, discovers that his paycheck consists of the seven common items that he mailed to himself rather than the fifty thousand credits for which he was contracted.

The remainder of the story recounts Jennings’s attempt to solve the mystery of the missing two years. He eventually sneaks into the company’s secret factory, steals plans for the time scoop, and gives those plans to Kelly for safe-keeping. Jennings intends to blackmail Rethrick by threatening to turn over these schematics to the Security Police unless Rethrick allows Jennings to manage the construction company. Kelly, however, reveals herself to be Rethrick’s daughter, telling the bemused Jennings that she has secreted the plans in a safe location. Rethrick’s corporation, therefore, will remain under family control. Jennings, however, produces the final item of the seven that he sent to himself: a parcel receipt from the Dunne National Bank. When Kelly protests, finding the receipt in her purse, a dark space forms in the air above her: ‘‘From the dark circle a claw appeared, a metal claw, joined to a shimmering rod. The claw dropped, swinging in a wide arc. The claw swept the paper from Kelly’s fingers. It hesitated for a second. Then it drew itself up again, disappearing with the paper, into the circle of black.’’6 Kelly and Rethrick are amazed by this turn of events, but Jennings points to his pocket: ‘‘It’s safe.

It’s safe, right here. I wondered when he would show up. I was beginning to worry.’’7 Jennings, in other words, has been waiting for himself—meaning the man who gained access to the time scoop while working at Rethrick’s factory—to employ the scoop to reach into the future and retrieve the receipt.

This item, in the story’s ingenious final twist, allows Jennings to force his way into the company’s top management.

Jennings gets the proverbial last laugh, although the story’s oppressive future world ensures that his victory is ambiguous. Running Rethrick Construction’s secret program to stockpile weapons, advanced technology, and human expertise in preparation for the forthcoming revolution against the Security Police will not be an easy or a pleasant task. ‘‘Paycheck’’ may conclude happily—Jennings eyes Kelly before declaring ‘‘And maybe by that time there’ll be even more members of the family!’’8—but the story cannot offer a simple resolution to the social and political problems that it raises.

Woo’s film, by contrast, offers a more dire situation that it then tidily resolves. Jennings helps Rethrick, one of his oldest friends, develop a time window to preview the future (but not a time scoop capable of retrieving objects). Jennings, once his memory is wiped, learns that he has signed away the $92-million stock portfolio he received as payment for his services in exchange for an envelope containing twenty items. He uses these objects to outwit Wolfe, Agent Dodge, and Agent Klein in a series of increasingly absurd

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hair-breadth escapes. Rethrick (unsurprisingly) wants Jennings eliminated to prevent the man from revealing any technical secrets to the government, while Attorney General Brown (Peter Friedman) wants to interrogate Jennings to learn how the government can construct its own time window. The power to see the future, Jennings soon realizes, is dangerous. The United States government will not only declare a preemptive war against an unnamed enemy that culminates in nuclear devastation but also confine the victims of an unknown epidemic to camps that lead to a humanitarian disaster. Jennings discovers that knowing the future provokes both outcomes, rather than preventing them, by leading the government into hasty action before considering the full consequences. Jennings, therefore, sends himself information about this dismal future as a warning to destroy the time scoop, which, with Porter’s help, he accomplishes by utilizing the envelope’s twenty items. The film concludes with Rethrick dead and all knowledge of the time window ruined, conveniently ensuring that the government cannot replicate AllCom’s technology. Jennings, in Paycheck’s final scene, helps Shorty and Rachel manage a thriving nursery business. An innocuous conversation between the three friends causes Jennings to realize that one of the envelope’s twenty items, a Chinese fortune-cookie fortune, provides a clue to the location of a winning $90-million lottery ticket that Jennings purchased while working for Rethrick. The film ends with Jennings and Shorty good-naturedly arguing about how to spend the proceeds while Porter happily looks forward to her life with Jennings.

These changes to Dick’s story could have produced a movie that examines the dangers of future prediction with as much intelligence as Minority Report.

The personal relationship between Rethrick and Jennings might have resulted in an emotionally devastating confrontation between the two friends rather than the predictable physical altercation in which they engage. Porter’s character, loosely based on Kelly McVane, might have provided an excellent love interest for Jennings, while the three-year romance that Jennings cannot remember after he leaves AllCom might have given Paycheck a poignant emotional complexity. Including Shorty in the film’s narrative should have transformed Jennings into a more intriguing character by showcasing aspects of his personality that Dick does not dramatize.

Woo’s film, however, undercuts Dick’s ambiguous resolution by allowing Jennings to escape both AllCom’s corporate control and the government’s scrutiny. The sole emotional complication in his life (the fact that Jennings cannot remember his three-year relationship with Porter) disappears once they defeat Rethrick, and Paycheck’s sunny resolution suggests that their new life together will more than make up for Jennings’s lost memories. This development is difficult to accept, especially considering that one of the film’s few emotionally mature scenes finds Jennings paging through a scrapbook of photos that Porter gives him. The unspoken regret on Affleck’s face as he attempts to remember his relationship with Porter is the only believable

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moment of his entire performance. Thurman is even better by not allowing Porter to become a clingy girlfriend. She instead suppresses the emotional pain that Jennings’s amnesia causes before leaving the room so that Jennings can be alone with his thoughts. Porter’s reaction provides a brief but powerful glimpse of inner turmoil that, for one moment, gives the film an emotional heft that it otherwise lacks.

Paycheck, instead, degenerates into a chronicle of missed opportunities.

Dean Georgaris’s DVD commentary track gives Paycheck’s viewer even more reason to regret that the movie abrogates the short story’s underlying cynicism. Georgaris’s discussion of the film is generally intelligent, if overly admiring, but reveals how much better his original ideas for Paycheck were than the changes that Woo suggested. During a montage of scenes depicting the horrors of the future (in which war, famine, and disease predominate), Georgaris mentions that he originally wished to offer a more disturbing vision of how access to the time window leads to personal tragedy: In the first draft of the screenplay those scenes culminated with a woman who looks into the machine and, based on what she sees, she abandons her baby.

In one version, she even threw the baby in the trash, sort of as a way of showing people just how destructive it can be. But ultimately, we decided that was a little too dark.

This scene, had it been included, would have improved Paycheck for exactly the reasons that Georgaris states. Demonstrating the emotionally devastating choices that people make when they know their future would have cohered with the cynical tone of ‘‘Paycheck.’’

Georgaris’s original ending, which might have salvaged the existing film’s sophomoric conclusion, should have been honored by Woo: Jennings being haunted by a bullet which kills him was something that we created when John Woo came onboard. In the initial draft of the screenplay, he was actually haunted by things he had seen in the machine, visions of the future which would get progressively worse throughout the movie, ending in a world which was addicted to staring at machines. We had a sequence where he was walking down a street that was completely empty, looking up at skyscrapers, and just seeing the blue glow of monitors in the windows, and realizing that essentially machines had taken over the world, but not by attacking us. By us simply giving ourselves over to them.

This notion is a marvelous evocation of Dickian pessimism that proves how well Georgaris understands the author’s literary tone, style, and attitude.

The fact that Georgaris was not allowed to make Paycheck as depressing as he preferred illustrates how accomplished the movie might have been. Woo’s influence, as Georgaris notes, transformed Paycheck from an inventive SF
thriller into a chase-filled crime melodrama that fails to match the dazzling

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kineticism of the director’s best films, particularly The Killer (1989), HardBoiled (1992), and Face/Off (1997). The viewer who listens to Georgaris’s commentary track can only feel sorry that such an uninspiring movie emerged from such good ideas.

III.

These comments should not suggest that Paycheck is a complete failure, since Woo’s film has its narrative and visual pleasures. Jennings, for instance, is a ‘‘reverse engineer’’ who, in Paycheck’s opening sequence, deconstructs the ARC corporation’s newest three-dimensional computer monitor so that he can provide Nexim, ARC’s chief industrial competitor, with the display’s technical schematics. Jennings also improves the product’s design to create a holographic display that requires no monitor. In order to discover how ARC’s computer has been engineered, Jennings manipulates holographic projections of the machine’s innards in much the same way that John Anderton does in Minority Report. The fluid cutting of editors Christopher Rouse and Kevin Stitt, however, gives this sequence a droll energy that distinguishes it from the parallel scene in Spielberg’s film. An added treat comes in the form of Kathryn Morris (Lara Anderton in Minority Report), who happily overplays the role of Rita Dunne, Jennings’s Nexim contact, as a forceful woman who sexually pursues Jennings because she knows that his memory of their tryst will be erased.

Jeffrey Kimball’s crisp cinematography, moreover, evokes different moods for each of Paycheck’s settings. Jennings’s narrow escape from an oncoming subway car is notable for how many gradations of light Kimball’s camera captures in a subterranean train tunnel. Likewise, the greenhouse and biological laboratory that Rachel Porter administrates is a lavish set that confirms production designer William Sandell’s talent (Sandell also designed the sets for Paul Verhoeven’s Total Recall). The film’s cast also includes many fine actors. Paul Giamatti brings emotional depth to the small role of Shorty, especially in the Union Station scene where Shorty meets Jennings to discuss the latter’s work for AllCom. ‘‘I told you not to take that job, Mike,’’ Shorty tells Jennings as his voice breaks. Giammati expresses genuine friendship in this moment, giving his dialogue more significance than it would otherwise have.

These positive aspects, however, are not enough to salvage Paycheck.

Kimball’s cinematography is wasted on the action sequences, particularly the motorcycle chase, while Woo’s admonition against making Paycheck too futuristic (the film takes place in 2007) causes Sandell to design generically unimaginative sets. Shorty, who is barely a character through most of the movie, appears in too few scenes. When combined with a conventional action-hero plot and Affleck’s poor performance, these elements ensure that Paycheck is too bland a film to arouse its viewer’s interest.

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Not even the story’s romantic subplot or Uma Thurman’s good acting can inject Paycheck with needed sensuality. The awkward dialogue of Porter’s first meeting with Jennings is emblematic of the film’s immature approach to their relationship. Jennings spots Rachel at a party hosted by Rethrick, introduces himself, and flirts with her for only a few moments before the following exchange takes place:

JENNINGS:

Let’s go.

RACHEL:

Excuse me?

JENNINGS:

I mean, I’m happy to continue blathering on, trying helplessly to charm you, but I thought maybe, you know, cut to the chase and just, you know, go somewhere.

RACHEL:

I’ll tell you what, Michael. I’m going to walk over there and talk to a friend of mine. If you get the urge to have a real conversation, you’ll know where to find me.

JENNINGS:

Okay. Fair enough. It was nice to meet you.

RACHEL:

Giving up so easily? You don’t believe in second chances, now, do you?

JENNINGS:

In my experience, no, I don’t.

This conversation, in which Rachel’s interest in Jennings can only be explained by physical attraction, is as stilted as it is banal. Affleck’s forced delivery of his lines also draws attention to how unpolished his performance is. The scene should illustrate Jennings’s cavalier approach to life, but Affleck cannot communicate his character’s impatience for the tedious details of getting to know Rachel. Jennings instead comes off as insufferably cocky, not as the confused and lonely man that he should be.

These flaws detract from the few good moments that Paycheck manifests.

Woo’s lackluster direction, Dean Georgaris’s unadventurous screenplay, and Ben Affleck’s mediocre acting prevent Paycheck from attaining the artistic mastery of Blade Runner, Minority Report, and A Scanner Darkly; the observational fineness of Confessions d’un Barjo; and the beguiling narrative contor-tions of Total Recall, Screamers, and Impostor. Woo’s film cannot even capture the intellectual intrigue of its own tagline: ‘‘Remember the Future.’’ Such drawbacks make Paycheck a massive disappointment for film buffs who enjoy literate SF cinema, as well as a poor big-screen adaptation of Dick’s fiction.

CHAPTER 8

Schizophrenia on Demand:

A Scanner Darkly

I.

Philip K. Dick’s 1977 novel A Scanner Darkly is an emotionally gripping, intellectually perplexing, and occasionally harrowing account of the perils of drug use. Dick’s story of a future police state that observes the most mundane details of its citizens’ lives goes far beyond its Orwellian trappings to achieve a powerful intimacy that confirms the author’s talent for astute social observation and satire. Set in 1994 California, A Scanner Darkly traces the mental dissolution of Bob Arctor, an undercover narcotics agent ordered by his superiors to dismantle a drug network that deals Substance D, commonly referred to as ‘‘Death’’ by its users (all of whom eventually develop paranoia, dementia, and a host of other mental instabilities). Arctor has ingratiated himself into a small group of Substance D addicts by opening his house to two stoner roommates, Jim Barris and Ernie Luckman. These men while away their days engaged in sometimes fascinating, but generally meaningless conversations about the world around them. Arctor has also formed an emotional (rather than sexual) bond with a Substance D dealer named Donna Hawthorne in an effort to discover the identity of Donna’s suppliers. Arctor, in order to maintain his cover, regularly ingests Substance D. The resulting addiction causes Arctor’s personality to bifurcate when he is assigned to monitor video surveillance of all his house’s inhabitants (himself included). Arctor, in other words, must ‘‘narc’’ on himself.

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This odd, apparently paradoxical situation is made possible by one of Dick’s most fascinating technological inventions: the scramble suit. This device projects ‘‘a million and a half physiognomic fraction-representations of various people: men and women, children. . .onto a superthin shroudlike membrane large enough to fit around an average human.’’1 The randomized projection of these characteristics ensures that ‘‘the wearer of a scramble suit was Every-man and in every combination (up to combinations of a million and a half sub-bits) during the course of each hour. Hence, any description of him—or her—was meaningless.’’2 The man who introduces the scramble-suited Arctor to the Anaheim Lions Club at the opening of the novel’s second chapter describes Arctor as nothing more than ‘‘a vague blur,’’3 which is a perfect metaphor for Arctor’s existential state. The aimlessness of Arctor’s dual life, in which he reports Barris’s, Luckman’s, and Donna’s activities to his superiors (who only know Arctor by his cover name, Fred), leads him to question the validity of his professional and personal choices. Substance D addiction, however, eventually reduces Arctor to a burned-out husk incapable of caring for himself. A Scanner Darkly, as this synopsis indicates, is not an uplifting novel. Although its subject matter makes a happy ending virtually impossible, the book still radiates compassion for people whom Dick, in his Author’s Note, says ‘‘were punished entirely too much for what they did.’’4

Nearly thirty years passed between the publication of Dick’s novel and Richard Linklater’s 2006 film adaptation. One reason for this delay is that depicting the scramble suit depends upon advanced visual effects that must downplay the suit’s strange characteristics. Since the scramble suit has become an accepted aspect of law enforcement in Dick’s future world, any showy display of visual-effects mastery would detract from A Scanner Darkly’s cinematic believability. Another reason for this long interval, beyond Hollywood’s normal lethargy in producing films based on Dick’s fiction, is that transforming A Scanner Darkly into a hopeful story of drug addicts overcoming their miserable circumstances would so diminish the source material that the entire venture would become meaningless. Linklater’s A Scanner Darkly, however, rests comfortably in a tradition (if not a genre) of depressing films about American drug culture that includes Terry Gilliam’s 1998 adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Darren Aronofsky’s 2000 adaptation of Hubert Selby Jr.’s Requiem for a Dream, and Ted Demme’s 2001 adaptation of Bruce Porter’s Blow (to name only three examples). Linklater’s movie, moreover, is distinguished by his decision to employ a process known as interpolated rotoscoping to digitally alter each frame of live-action film with computer animation that overlays the projected images. Linklater first used this technique in Waking Life, his 2001 film about lucid dreaming that not only includes explicit references to Dick’s ideas about the nature of existence but also functions as an experiment in what might be called overtly philosophical cinema. Linklater’s adaptation of A Scanner Darkly is less abstract than Waking Life, trimming many of the novel’s long

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Bob Arctor (Keanu Reeves), narcotics detective and drug addict, doubts his own identity in A Scanner Darkly, Richard Linklater’s 2006 adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s 1977 novel A Scanner Darkly. (Courtesy of Photofest) passages of intellectual speculation about human identity and brain chemistry, but it maintains the book’s sense of spiritual ennui, physical degeneration, and existential purposelessness. Linklater, indeed, preserves so much of Dick’s novel that his film is the most faithful adaptation of the author’s fiction yet seen on-screen.

This fidelity to Dick’s A Scanner Darkly, when combined with its unique visual style, differentiates Linklater’s movie from all previous adaptations of Dick’s writing. A Scanner Darkly is as successful as Blade Runner and Minority Report in conveying the contradictory aspects of Dick’s future world even as it portrays a believable human story. Linklater coaches excellent performances from his cast (particularly Keanu Reeves, whose performance as Bob Arctor/Fred is the best of his career), while editing the film to replicate the unusual and meandering pace of Dick’s novel. Linklater employs rotoscoping to enhance the story’s psychedelic aspects and to comment on twenty-first-century America’s social, economic, and political dissolution. The film also disrupts its viewer’s expectations by including long stretches of elliptical dialogue that seem to go nowhere before circling back on themselves to advance ambiguous statements about human identity. A Scanner Darkly then tests its audience’s patience by refusing the action movie thrills that Total Recall, Minority Report, and Paycheck reliably exhibit, moving even more slowly than some portions of Blade Runner. All these elements combine to produce a fascinating, if schizophrenic, film that evokes the mood of its source novel particularly well. A Scanner Darkly, at least in the popular press, has not

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yet joined Blade Runner and Minority Report as one of the best adaptations of Dick’s fiction, but the film’s attention to characterization makes A Scanner Darkly a worthy entry in the growing body of cinematic productions based on Dick’s work.

II.

Richard Linklater, the writer and director of A Scanner Darkly, faced the same dilemma confronted by Ridley Scott during Blade Runner’s production and by Jeŕoˆme Boivin during Barjo’s early stages: trimming a novel of more than 200 pages into manageable cinematic length. Scott and his screenwriters (Hampton Fancher and David Peoples) accomplished their task by excising from Blade Runner all of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’s explicit references to Mercerism, while Boivin and Jacques Audiard removed several scenes from Confessions of a Crap Artist when transferring the novel’s California setting to France for Barjo.

Linklater chooses a different tack with A Scanner Darkly: preserve as much of Dick’s plot and dialogue as necessary, while condensing its characters to provide a more streamlined narrative. The film opens with a scene that perfectly captures the first paragraph of Dick’s novel: Once a guy stood all day shaking bugs from his hair. The doctor told him there were no bugs in his hair. After he had taken a shower for eight hours, standing under hot water hour after hour suffering the pain of the bugs, he got out and dried himself, and he still had bugs in his hair; in fact, he had bugs all over him. A month later he had bugs in his lungs.5

Dick’s character, Jerry Fabin, is a pitiable man whose psychological affliction, brought on by Substance D addiction, lands him in a rehabilitation clinic run by New-Path, a corporation that administrates several such facilities.

Jerry’s friend, Charles Freck, cannot see the insects until Jerry claims to have captured a large specimen in a jar. Freck then not only sees what Jerry believes to be a large aphid but also helps his friend collect more of them so that, in Jerry’s words, ‘‘I can take it (the jar) with me when I go to the doctor and he can analyze it (the large aphid).’’6

Linklater simplifies this scene by combining Jerry and Freck into a single character named Charles Freck, who is memorably played by Rory Cochrane.

The film’s opening shot finds insects crawling all over Freck as he futilely attempts to rid himself of their presence by spraying insect repellant over his body and scrubbing his skin during a long shower. Cochrane’s nervous tics and twitches effectively suggest the brain damage resulting from Freck’s Substance D addiction, while the animated aphids communicate the horror and the absurdity of his predicament. This scene could not have been easy for Cochrane to perform, since reacting to nonexistent aphids crawling all over him might have produced implausibly over-the-top movements, but the

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actor’s anxiety, mixed with an expression of defeated weariness, informs the audience that Freck’s life consists of little more than trying to wash the insects away. The next shot (of Freck bathing the pet dog he imagines also suffers from aphid infestation) takes only a few moments to depict the compassion that Dick, in A Scanner Darkly, emphasizes as integral to Jerry Fabin’s character:

Sometimes he stood in the shower with the dog, trying to wash the dog clean too. He had no more success with him than he did with himself. It hurt to feel the dog suffer; he never stopped trying to help him. In some respect this was the worst part, the suffering of the animal, who could not complain.7

Folding Jerry’s character into Freck’s allows Linklater to underscore the pathetic humor of Jerry’s compulsive dog-washing, which Dick’s prose evokes by paralleling Jerry’s failure to free the dog of aphids with Jerry’s own plight. Cochrane’s gyrations while scrubbing the dog are humorous, even affectionate, but the worried distress on his face indicates that Freck wishes to help the dog no matter how fruitless the attempt may be.

The strangeness of these opening scenes also demonstrates that Linklater’s A Scanner Darkly, like the novel it adapts, is an unconventional story.

The uninitiated viewer has no way of knowing whether the insects are real, a product of Freck’s imagination, or evidence of mental instability. Only later, during Freck’s diner conversation with Jim Barris (Robert Downey Jr.), does the subject of drug use arise to suggest that Freck’s aphids are unreal. Each scene’s rotoscoped images, moreover, unpredictably shimmer and shift to suggest the unreality of Freck’s situation even as they emphasize the oddness of the film’s future world, set, as an opening title card reveals, ‘‘seven years from now.’’ Linklater’s refusal to specify a date for the movie’s story suggests that A Scanner Darkly is a cautionary tale whose fictional depiction of the United States reflects American life in 2006 (the year of the film’s release) as much as it extrapolates life in the year 2013. America, in Linklater’s film, is a nation with 20 percent of its population addicted to Substance D. This significant drug problem justifies seemingly ubiquitous police surveillance. The potential civil-rights violations that this surveillance suggests push A Scanner Darkly into the realm of political satire, but the film’s commentary on this point is not overtly partisan. Peter Travers is incorrect to state in his Rolling Stone review that ‘‘Embedded in the visionary headtrip of A Scanner Darkly is a hotly political call to arms.’’8 Linklater’s film is certainly a headtrip, but its political commentary, like that of Dick’s novel, is understated. The theme of Orwellian surveillance may have, as Travers claims, ‘‘a this-just-in-urgency for the Dubya era,’’9 but Linklater does not criticize any specific presidential administration. A Scanner Darkly instead underscores the tendency of bureaucratic agencies and law-enforcement personnel to invade the privacy of individual lives in a quest to maintain social order that is already a failure.

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The aimless behavior of the film’s characters, as well as the disrepair of Arctor’s house, also foregrounds an urban malaise that functions as social satire.

A Scanner Darkly’s tragedy, however, goes much deeper than carping about the overwhelming power of bureaucracy. By showing the terrible consequences of industrial capitalism, in which drug addiction has become a commodity that the New-Path Corporation uses to enrich itself, A Scanner Darkly engages a typically Dickian reaction to the collusion of politics, commerce, and law enforcement. Linklater, taking his cues from Dick, understands that a wholesale rejection of American culture is impractical, so the director refuses to explicitly encourage the audience to renounce a nation that so mistrusts its populace that constant surveillance has become normal. A Scanner Darkly prefers to focus on the personal calamities that befall its characters as a result of drug use and bureaucratic indifference, using Bob Arctor’s mental breakdown as a microcosm of the social ills that the film diagnoses.

This attention to the significant problems and complicated lives of ordinary people qualifies Linklater’s film as a worthy heir to Dick’s writing. The novel A Scanner Darkly manifests enough compassion for Bob Arctor that the reader experiences the unfolding tragedy of his mental breakdown as an intellectual, moral, and spiritual defeat. Linklater, whose previous films Slacker (1991), Dazed and Confused (1993), and SubUrbia (1996) concentrate on the unexpectedly rich experiences of unremarkable characters, wisely avoids the smart-ass sensibility of his earlier work in adapting Dick’s novel. A Scanner Darkly, in many scenes, is mordantly funny, but, like Dick’s novel, never employs humor to dismiss or to belittle its characters. The movie prefers sympathetic observation, as the opening sequence with Charles Freck demonstrates. The laughter provoked by Freck’s attempts to wash away imaginary aphids is not mean-spirited or derisive, but instead acknowledges the unintentional humor that addicts often exhibit. Linklater does not look down on his characters, choosing instead to depict their human foibles, frailties, and fullness. The film’s limited running time forces the director to give Ernie Luckman (Woody Harrelson) less attention than he receives in Dick’s novel, but Arctor, Barris, and Donna (Winona Ryder) emerge as fully formed people.

This accomplishment is a testament to the richness of Dick’s writing, to be sure, but also to Linklater’s talent as a moviemaker. His cast enlivens and enriches the screenplay to give Dick’s characters an authenticity that the viewer remembers long after the film has concluded.

III.

A Scanner Darkly features high-caliber acting that grounds its story in believable human emotions. This statement may seem surprising for a film starring Keanu Reeves, an actor whose reputation as a pretty-boy performer with limited emotional range has followed him throughout his career. Reeves’s best-known roles—as slacker high-school student Ted Logan in Bill and

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Ted’s Excellent Adventure (1989) and Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey (1991), as bomb-squad officer Jack Traven in Speed (1994), and as savior of humanity Neo in The Matrix Trilogy (1999–2003)—emphasize his physical grace, kooky humor, and inscrutable physiognomy. Reeves is effective in all six performances, demonstrating more emotional range than he is generally credited with possessing, but his vocal inflections and facial expressions are occasionally so restrained that Reeves appears to be blank or unfeeling.

His more emotional performances—as Tod Higgins in Parenthood (1989), as Scott Favor in My Own Private Idaho (1991), and as Donnie Barksdale in The Gift (2000)—are often overlooked in favor of dismissive comments that Reeves is a mediocre actor whose good looks and sex appeal are responsible for his Hollywood success.

Reeves is a more complicated performer than this judgment allows, although he is far from the best American film actor of his generation. Even so, casting Reeves as Bob Arctor in A Scanner Darkly proves to be one of Richard Linklater’s best decisions, for the actor turns in his most nuanced performance. Arctor is a conflicted character whose mental breakdown plunges him into a world of paranoid ambiguity. Arctor’s most intimate thoughts, moreover, are heard in voice-over monologues taken directly from Dick’s novel that Reeves delivers with plausible confusion, sadness, and despair.

Arctor’s increasingly haggard appearance also manipulates the audience’s expectations of Reeves’s attractive features to demonstrate Substance D’s debilitating effects. This contrast is best seen in a flashback sequence that depicts Arctor’s life before he became a narcotics agent. Arctor’s yard is well trimmed, his house is spotless, and his wife (Melody Chase) and two daughters (Eliza Stevens and Sarah Menchaca) are lovely. Most jarring, however, is Arctor’s unlined, untroubled, and clean-shaven face, which nearly glistens with health. The rotoscoped animation emphasizes the idyllic nature of Arctor’s home by bathing it in unnatural brightness, while Reeves’s well-manicured look so effectively contrasts Arctor’s appearance throughout the remainder of the film that the viewer realizes how far Arctor has descended into drug-induced dementia.

This flashback also affirms Linklater’s ability to capture the concise and casual tone of Dick’s novel:

In former days Bob Arctor had run his affairs differently: there had been a wife much like other wives, two small daughters, a stable household that got swept and cleaned and emptied out daily, the dead newspapers not even opened carried from the front walk to the garbage pail, or even, sometimes, read. But then one day, while lifting out an electric corn popper from under the sink, Arctor had hit his head on the corner of a kitchen cabinet directly above him. The pain, the cut in his scalp, so unexpected and undeserved, had for some reason cleared away the cobwebs. It flashed on him instantly that he didn’t hate the kitchen cabinet: he hated his wife, his two daughters, his whole house, the back yard

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with its power mower, the garage, the radiant heating system, the front yard, the fence, the whole fucking place and everyone in it. He wanted a divorce; he wanted to split. And so he had, very soon. And entered, by degrees, a new and somber life, lacking all of that.10

Reeves, in Linklater’s film, placidly describes this event in a voice-over monologue that closely follows Dick’s prose. The angry expression on Arctor’s face after bumping his head on the kitchen cabinet is also accompanied by one shouted word (‘‘Fuck!’’) that jars the audience’s attention. Arctor’s wife and daughters look at him in confusion as rotoscoped images of Arctor’s sparkling house, yard, and lawn mower testify to the man’s superficially happy suburban life. Reeves neither overplays nor underplays the moment. The flashback sequence works well because of the texture that Reeves brings to his voice, juxtaposing Arctor’s detached recollection of his transformation into a suburban-hating narcotics detective with the explosive anger that brings about this change. Reeves pitches his performance to suit Arctor’s dual perspective as both the restrained narrator of his own biography and a frazzled man undergoing a life-altering experience.

Duality is Arctor’s chief existential state as the novel and the film continue.

The grungy, downtrodden house that Arctor, Barris, and Luckman inhabit is one of the movie’s chief reflections of ‘‘the new and somber life’’ that Dick sketches in A Scanner Darkly. The house’s cluttered interior contrasts the pleasantness of the flashback sequence to become Linklater’s cinematic evocation of kipple, the detritus of quotidian life that threatens to overwhelm all else (and that Dick first named in his 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?). The junky set dressing of Arctor’s house—newspapers, magazines, maps, drug paraphernalia, worn furniture, faded dećor, and old electronics fill every corner—reflects his domestic desolation while emphasizing Arctor’s social diminishment from bourgeois homeowner to suburban slacker.

The fact that Arctor’s home is the site of continuous police surveillance points to the uncertainties that define the man’s life, especially once Arctor loses sight of his identity. Arctor becomes progressively somnambulant and slow witted as his mind deteriorates, forcing Hank (Mark Turner), Arctor’s scramble-suited supervising officer in the Orange County Sheriff Department’s narcotics division, to order him to participate in tests of mental acuity. These scenes, in which two psychologists played by Angela Rawna and Chamblee Ferguson explain the origin of Arctor’s condition, offer the same diagnosis as Dick’s novel. Arctor’s decline, as explained by the first psychologist in Dick’s book, is ‘‘more . . .a competition phenomenon than impairment.’’11 The second psychologist then tells Arctor that ‘‘Competition between the left and right hemispheres of your brain. It’s not so much a single signal, defective or contaminated; it’s more like two signals that interfere with each other by carrying conflicting information.’’12 Rawna and Ferguson, in Linklater’s film, play these medical professionals as slightly less clinical.

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The actors talk over each other and exchange annoyed expressions that suggest to the viewer, rather than to Arctor (who struggles to process their conversation), that both psychologists are figments of Arctor’s imagination.

Their one-upmanship, in other words, reflects the competition between both sides of Arctor’s brain that Dick’s novel more didactically explains.

Linklater directs this scene carefully, ensuring that Rawna and Ferguson insinuate this possibility without certifying it. Such subtext does not underlie the parallel passage of Dick’s novel, in which the psychologists (both male in Dick’s version) present their diagnosis more neutrally than their cinematic counterparts. Arctor, however, is emotionally untethered in both versions.

Keanu Reeves is particularly effective during Arctor’s response to the female psychologist’s comment that, ‘‘if you keep your sense of humor like you do, you just might make it after all.’’ Arctor’s profane rant shows just how unstable he has become as a result of Substance D addiction: Make it? Make what? The team? The girl? Make good? Make do? Make out?

Make sense? Make money? Make time? Define your terms. The Latin for

‘‘make’’ is facere, which always reminds me of fuckere, which is Latin for ‘‘to fuck,’’ and I haven’t been getting shit in that department lately.

Taken nearly verbatim from Dick’s novel, Arctor’s outburst only concludes when he wonders how he can get close to Donna Hawthorne, whom he describes as a ‘‘sweet, unique, stubborn little chick.’’ Rawna and Ferguson’s perplexed reactions silently corroborate Arctor’s mental damage, since he should know the answer to his own question. When Rawna’s character replies, ‘‘You could buy her flowers,’’ Reeves’s face expresses surprise at the suggestion’s simplicity and disgust that Arctor did not think of this strategy himself. Rawna’s character also says that ‘‘little blue flowers’’ are plentiful in the area, so Arctor should not have difficulty finding any. These flowers are the plant that produces Substance D’s active narcotic (in the same way that poppies produce opium), but Arctor misses the reference. His mental decline becomes evident in this scene, which compresses the novel’s account of Arctor’s worsening condition into a short conversation that centers on Arctor’s sexual confusion.

Arctor’s interest in Donna is also one of the movie’s more intriguing elements. Arctor wishes to use Donna to make contact with important members of Orange County’s Substance D trade, as well as develop a sexual relationship with her that never materializes. His frustration at not being able to ‘‘make it’’

with Donna reflects the fear of sexual inadequacy that Dick’s novel and Linklater’s film exemplify. Charles Freck’s first conversation with Barris in a local diner, immediately after the film’s opening man- and dog-washing sequence, is a good example. Freck says, ‘‘I can’t believe she (Donna) doesn’t put out,’’

in a voice so casual that Freck seems unsurprised to learn that Arctor has never slept with Donna. Barris, however, counters with blatant sexism: ‘‘Well, she would if she were handled right.’’ Robert Downey Jr.’s delivery of this line

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strikes a good balance between lechery and charm to reproach Arctor’s sexual failure. The actor’s insouciant facial expression, however, emphasizes Barris’s utter hypocrisy: Barris, after all, has not bedded Donna, either. His adolescent dialogue, in fact, construes her as little more than a sex object.

The thought balloon that appears above Barris’s head after an attractive waitress (Natasha Valdez) asks to take his order is an even starker example of the man’s objectifying tendencies. Barris envisions the waitress stripping away her clothes, revealing her naked breasts in a display that arouses him as much as it surprises Freck, who, in a moment of self-reflexive wit, finds himself able to see Barris’s thought balloon. This fantasy typifies Arctor, Barris, and Freck’s sexual immaturity. The men discuss women, often in crude terms, but rarely act on their impulses. The film’s single sex scene, Arctor’s night of passion with Connie (Lisa Marie Newmyer), is hardly an improvement. Dick’s novel presents Arctor and Connie’s intercourse as an instance of unvarnished sexual barter: ‘‘He brought a cute little needle-freak named Connie home with him that night, to ball her in exchange for him giving her a bag of ten mex hits.’’13

Keanu Reeves’s and Lisa Marie Newmyer’s unfeeling interaction in Linklater’s movie dramatizes the spiritual deadness of Arctor and Connie’s liaison so well that the scene documents a transaction between people who care nothing for one another. Their dialogue is a pathetically inept, drug-induced parody of dirty talk that reduces Connie and Arctor to sexual automatons. Connie, while listlessly removing her clothes, asks Arctor if he is gay. ‘‘I try not to be,’’ Arctor says, adding, ‘‘That’s why I called you tonight.’’ Connie’s response is mechanical, not flirtatious: ‘‘So you’re putting up a pretty good battle against it?’’ ‘‘You better believe it,’’ Arctor perfunctorily replies. The film then cuts away as their coupling begins, jumping forward in time to find the two sleeping in bed. Arctor awakens, but finds Donna lying next to him. Dick’s description of Arctor’s reaction, in the novel, demonstrates the fearful world that Arctor now occupies:

Christ! he thought, and reached for the bedside light. His fingers touched it; the lamp tumbled and fell. The girl, however, slept on. He still stared at her, and then by degrees he saw Connie again, hatchet-faced, bleak-jawed, sunken, the gaunt face of the out-of-it junkie, Connie and not Donna; one girl, not the other.

He lay back and, miserable, slept somewhat again, wondering what it meant and so forth and on and on, into darkness.14

Linklater nicely captures this scene’s frantic tone: Reeves thrashes about wildly, not certain which woman’s face he sees, while rotoscoped images of Donna’s features morph into Connie’s. Donna has a profound effect on Arctor that he cannot explain or deny, testifying to his sexual ennui. Arctor’s misery is also another example of his chauvinistic attitude. Arctor rejects his wife, uses Connie for pleasure, and hopes to manipulate Donna into revealing

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her drug connections. These choices underscore the man’s disregard, if not outright antipathy, for the women in his life.

A Scanner Darkly’s pronounced sexism, however, does not stereotype Donna as a subservient woman. Winona Ryder’s excellent performance alternates between serenity and agitation to bring laudable nuance to the role. Donna’s mercurial behavior, for instance, keeps Arctor off balance.

In one scene, she rejects his sexual advances by saying that ‘‘I do a lot of coke!’’

Enraged by her evasive attitude, Arctor storms out of Donna’s house. ‘‘You have a habit,’’ Arctor says, accusing Donna of substituting drugs for authentic human connection. Her response is poignantly immature: ‘‘We all do.

What’s the difference now? I’m happy. Aren’t you happy?’’ Ryder’s obstinate, almost manic tone expresses Donna’s childlike vulnerability. Her tough, no-nonsense persona cracks, prompting Donna to reveal her fondest desire: moving north, away from the city, to a place where she can lead a less complicated life. Arctor, depressed by Donna’s refusal to return his affection, asks if he can accompany her. Donna’s eyes widen, becoming even sadder, before she slowly nods yes. This moment is heartbreaking in its simplicity. Donna makes Arctor a promise that she has no hope of fulfilling, and Ryder communicates the character’s regret with admirable depth of feeling.

This scene is much shorter than its parallel version in Dick’s novel. Donna, in the book, rejects Arctor’s sexual advances because, as she tells him, ‘‘you’re too ugly.’’15 She also asks him, ‘‘What’s there really in this world, Bob? It’s a stopping place to the next where they punish us here because we were born evil.’’16 Their conversation begins to meander, but Donna eventually mentions her desire ‘‘to move north to Oregon and live in the snow’’17 with a man she has yet to meet: ‘‘Mister Right. I know what he’ll be like—he’ll drive an Aston-Martin and he’ll take me north in it. And that’s where the little old-fashioned house will be in the snow, north from here.’’18 This fantasy, as sad as it is unrealistic for a drug addict like Donna, depresses Arctor. When he asks to accompany her to Oregon, Dick’s prose is quietly devastating:

‘‘She smiled at him, gently and with acute tenderness, with the answer no.’’19 Winona Ryder embodies this line so completely that she preserves the scene’s integrity. Keanu Reeves, in one of the film’s only false moments, reacts with simple disappointment to Ryder’s complexly rendered feelings, under-cutting the wistful beauty of Arctor’s emotional response in Dick’s novel: But the actual touch of [Donna] lingered, inside his heart. That remained. In all the years of his life ahead, the long years without her, with never seeing her or hearing from her or knowing anything about her, if she was alive or happy or dead or what, that touch stayed locked within him, sealed in himself, and never went away. That one touch of her hand.20

Reeves fails to convey Arctor’s heartache, but Ryder’s superb restraint salvages the scene’s unhappy tenor.

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Linklater also uses Donna to change the twist ending of Dick’s novel, in which Arctor’s mental breakdown results in psychosomatic stress so acute that he becomes severely ill. Donna, in the book, is driving Arctor toward a New-Path rehabilitation center for care when he asks to smoke Donna’s hash pipe to relieve the pain caused by Substance D withdrawal. She obliges, pulling over to the side of the road, but a patrolling police officer finds them.

The officer is surprised when he examines Donna’s identification:

‘‘You’re undercover for the federal people.’’

‘‘Keep your voice down,’’ Donna said.

‘‘I’m sorry.’’ The officer handed the wallet back to her.

‘‘Just fucking take off,’’ Donna said.21

This revelation confirms how pervasive police surveillance of the American population has become in Dick’s future world. Not only has Arctor suffered a mental collapse after ingesting the drug that he is charged with interdicting, but the woman he hoped would lead him to the highest levels of Orange County’s Substance D trade is also a narcotics agent.

Linklater’s film diverges from Dick’s novel by divulging that Donna is not only a narc but also Arctor’s superior officer, Hank. When Hank removes his scramble suit near the movie’s climax, revealing Donna’s features, the agility of Linklater’s adaptation of A Scanner Darkly is evident. The earlier scenes between Arctor and Hank become more poignant, for the viewer recognizes that Arctor has unknowingly interacted with the woman he loves all along.

Donna and Arctor’s final scene together also demonstrates the fineness of Winona Ryder’s performance. Donna takes Arctor to a New-Path rehabilitation center when Substance D sickness overwhelms him. Arctor collapses, convulses, and vomits on the floor just as they enter the facility’s lobby. One of the two New-Path staff members who observes this behavior calls Arctor as a loser, but Donna responds by saying, ‘‘It’s easy to win. Anybody can win.’’ Ryder enunciates this dialogue, taken verbatim from Dick’s novel, with a palpable regret that transfers to Donna’s later meeting with Mike Westaway (Dameon Clarke), an undercover narcotics agent masquerading as an employee at the same New-Path clinic where Arctor receives treatment.

Westaway believes that New-Path manufactures Substance D to create an endless supply of addicts that will justify the large government subsidies the corporation receives to help the drug’s victims. He tells Donna that Arctor’s illness may enable the Orange County Sheriff’s Department to confirm this theory by sending Arctor to a secret New-Path farm that Westaway suspects grows the small blue flowers from which the drug is refined. Donna, realizing that this plan will make Arctor the police department’s unwitting spy, mutters

‘‘It’s just such a cost to pay.’’ Ryder speaks this line tenderly, but also unhappily, to illustrate the conflicting emotions that Arctor’s diminished condition forces Donna to endure. Arctor, in the end, exhibits the mentality of an obtuse

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child, which makes him the perfect person to expose New-Path’s complicity in the Substance D trade even as it emphasizes the drug’s cruel effects on human personality. Donna, as Ryder’s final appearance in Linklater’s film makes clear, can barely countenance this tragic irony.

Tragedy, however, is not the province of Jim Barris and Ernie Luckman.

Winona Ryder, Keanu Reeves, and Rory Cochrane may have the most difficult roles in A Scanner Darkly, but Robert Downey Jr. and Woody Harrelson have the most fun. Barris and Luckman transcend simple comic relief, but their silly exploits and ridiculous conversations leaven the film’s glum proceedings.

Downey’s zestfully demented performance makes Barris A Scanner Darkly’s most memorable character, while Harrelson plays Luckman as an amusingly paranoid jock. Luckman may be Barris’s sidekick more than a fully formed character, but Harrelson’s and Downey’s interaction infuses the film with the mordant humor exemplified by Dick’s novel. Barris and Luckman’s byplay also acknowledges the absurdity of their aimless lives without dismissing their humanity.

Linklater’s A Scanner Darkly honors Dick’s writing by allowing Barris and Luckman to be eccentric, funny, and charming. They are refreshingly alive characters who constantly snipe at one another. Barris, in a scene set in Arctor’s backyard, explains to Luckman and Charles Freck how he has constructed ‘‘for approximately sixty-one cents of ordinary household materials a perfect homemade silencer.’’ When Barris fires the gun, the weapon’s report is so loud that it awakens the sleeping Arctor, startles the neighborhood dogs, and provokes Luckman’s ire. Freck’s droll response, ‘‘That sure is some silencer,’’ is more restrained than Luckman’s, who yells that, thanks to Barris’s ingenuity with the silencer, ‘‘we’re now deaf!’’ Barris, in a later scene, tells Luckman, ‘‘I’m going to squash you like a bug.’’ When Luckman asks, ‘‘Yeah, what kind,’’ Barris’s response is uproarious: ‘‘A fucked-up bitch beetle.’’ Even funnier is Luckman’s reply after Barris brings a ten-speed bike into Arctor’s house that he has just purchased for $50 from some neighbors. Arctor, Donna, and Luckman conclude that Barris’s bike has been stolen when they learn that it was one of four bicycles up for sale. Barris’s disappointment inspires him to confront the neighbors in an attempt to get his money back.

Arctor, Donna, and Luckman agree to go with him, but, as they exit Arctor’s house, Luckman nonchalantly tells Barris, ‘‘I’ll give you $23.75.’’

Robert Downey Jr. and Woody Harrelson are accomplished comic performers. Linklater uses their talents to lighten the film’s depressing subject matter, although many of A Scanner Darkly’s funniest moments come directly from Dick’s novel. Linklater’s tight direction fully realizes each scene’s comic potential, while Downey and Harrelson are thoroughly enjoyable as a comedic duo. Barris, the loquacious stoner, is a perfect role for Downey, whose hyperactive elocution brings winning sarcasm to the character. In his diner conversation with Charles Freck, for instance, Barris declares, ‘‘This is a world getting progressively worse. Can we not agree on that?’’ before turning to

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the waitress to ask, ‘‘What’s on the dessert menu?’’ Harrelson plays Luckman as a paranoid variation of Woody Boyd, the slow-witted bartender from the 1980s’ sitcom Cheers that first brought the actor fame. Luckman’s clueless ramblings are frequently hilarious, particularly during Arctor, Barris, and Luckman’s road trip to San Diego. Arctor’s car revs to such a high speed that he nearly loses control of it. Barris, after Arctor pulls to the side of the road, determines that a linking rod connecting the gas pedal to the carburetor has fallen apart because ‘‘the idle screw [has] been turned all the way out.’’

Luckman cannot believe this turn of events: ‘‘So much for our great road trip to San Diego! Bob, I told you we should have gone to San Francisco.’’ Barris retorts by asking, ‘‘Like going to San Francisco would not have caused this problem with the engine?’’ Luckman’s response, well played by Harrelson, is amusingly childish: ‘‘Yeah! Because when you’re going north, it screws this way, and when you’re going south, it screws that way!’’

Two of the film’s funniest scenes, however, involve neither Barris nor Luckman. In the first, reproduced almost verbatim from Dick’s novel, Charles Freck decides to commit suicide by downing several barbiturate pills with a bottle of fine wine. Dick cultivates some of his best satire for Freck’s suicide: He would be found lying on his back, on his bed, with a copy of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead (which would prove he had been a misunderstood superman rejected by the masses and so, in a sense, murdered by their scorn) and an unfinished letter to Exxon protesting the cancellation of his gas credit card. That way he would indict the system and achieve something by his death, over and above what the death itself achieved.22

Linklater communicates Freck’s ludicrous reasoning in a voice-over monologue narrated by actor Leif Anders, who explains Freck’s motives with the same droll wit of Dick’s prose. The scene becomes truly absurd when,

‘‘instead of quietly suffocating, Charles Freck began to hallucinate.’’23 Freck sees a creature from between dimensions that, he realizes, intends to recite his sins. The film adaptation’s animation renders this entity precisely as Dick describes it: ‘‘The creature had many eyes, all over it, ultra-modern expensive-looking clothing, and rose up eight feet high. Also, it carried an enormous scroll.’’24 As the creature begins listing Freck’s sins, Rory Cochrane sighs and shrugs: Freck has no choice but to listen. When the narrator declares, ‘‘One thousand years later they had reached the sixth grade, the year he had discovered masturbation,’’ the audience screams in laughter. Anders’s line reading is even better as the scene concludes. While the creature talks, the narrator informs the audience, ‘‘Charles Freck thought, ‘At least I got a good wine.’’’ Linklater evokes this scene’s comedy exactly as Dick writes it, thanks in large part to Cochrane’s and Anders’s good work.

The second scene finds Arctor wearing his scramble suit while watching surveillance footage of his home. The playback eventually comes across video

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evidence of Arctor’s sexual encounter with Connie. Arctor freezes the images when he sees himself (known hereafter as Video Bob) awaken next to Connie.

Video Bob is startled because he believes that Connie has become Donna.

Arctor then focuses his display camera onto the face of the woman lying next to Video Bob, transfers this single image to a holographic projector on his desk, and runs the image forward. Arctor watches Connie’s features meld into Donna’s, but does not seem relieved to learn that Connie’s transformation is more than just a figment of his imagination. Arctor, rather, appears unsettled by the prospect that the surveillance equipment captured the breakdown of his reality. This disturbing implication, however, is punctured by the scene’s background imagery. As Arctor examines the holographic image of Connie-Donna, the video monitors behind him display accelerated footage of Video Bob’s and Connie’s entire sexual escapade. Video Bob and Connie flail together on the bed in a herky-jerky parody of the sexual act, achieved simply by running this footage at high speed. When Video Bob mounts Connie from behind, A Scanner Darkly presents its audience with two divergent tones.

Arctor’s somber reaction to witnessing Connie’s holographic face change into Donna’s contrasts the slapstick humor of Video Bob’s and Connie’s marathon sex session.

Linklater again suggests that Arctor’s dual identity seeps into the surrounding world. Arctor can no longer be certain that his perception of reality is trustworthy because no other character objectively confirms that Connie’s face morphs into Donna’s. A Scanner Darkly’s audience, like Arctor, is cast adrift. From this point in Linklater’s film, the viewer does not know whether Arctor’s experience is real, imagined, or a precarious combination of the two. Dick’s novel presents an even more solemn prospect. Arctor believes that the image of Connie’s face melding into Donna’s is evidence of equipment tampering:

I better run this over to the lab, he thought; it’s been tampered with by an expert. I’ve been fed fake tape. . . .Somebody faked in Donna. Superimposed over Connie. Forged evidence that Arctor was laying the Hawthorne girl.

Why?. . .

Again he rolled the tape. Connie again, and Connie it stayed. And then. . .again Fred saw Donna’s face melt back in, and this time the sleeping man beside her in the bed, Bob Arctor, woke up after a moment and sat up abruptly, then fumbled for the light beside him; the light fell to the floor and Arctor was staring on and on at the sleeping girl, at sleeping Donna.

Christ, Fred thought, and shut off the equipment before him entirely.25

Dick inflects this passage with gloomy foreboding. Referring to Arctor and Fred by separate designations not only emphasizes Arctor’s mental division but also allows the two personalities to meld together much as Connie’s and Donna’s images do. Linklater’s film lightens this passage’s tone by displaying

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Video Bob’s and Connie’s sexual exploits behind Arctor, but Keanu Reeves’s disconcerted reaction exposes the absurd misfortune of Arctor’s life. Dick’s original scene is not as funny as Linklater’s adaptation, but Linklater’s adaptation is able to convey the slippery emotions that Arctor experiences in Dick’s novel.

This scene, as much as any other, demonstrates how A Scanner Darkly’s rich narrative material spurs the film’s cast to uniformly excellent performances. Some reviewers preferred to comment on how Keanu Reeves’s stoicism, Winona Ryder’s 2001 arrest for shoplifting, Woody Harrelson’s work on behalf of legalizing marijuana, and Robert Downey Jr.’s drug arrests well suited them to playing stoners, addicts, and criminals. Linklater’s actors, however, reveal their characters’ human vulnerabilities so convincingly that Arctor, Donna, Barris, and Luckman become authentic individuals. A Scanner Darkly’s cast, as a result, stands alongside Blade Runner’s, Impostor’s, and Minority Report’s in its range and depth. Even the smaller parts are nicely textured, especially Rory Cochrane’s turn as Charles Freck. This accomplishment is a testament to Linklater’s directorial judgment, to his cast’s talents, and to A Scanner Darkly’s overall excellence.

IV.

Despite the film’s humor, A Scanner Darkly concludes as a tragedy.

Arctor’s mind and body break down to the point that he can no longer function. After Donna delivers Arctor to the New-Path recovery center, a short montage of Arctor’s life in rehabilitation reveals how hollow it has become.

Arctor (called Bruce by the clinic’s staff) sits in group therapy, listens to other addicts recount their struggles with Substance D, eats bland food, and performs mindless chores. One evening, while pushing a mop bucket down an empty hallway, Mike Westaway intercepts Arctor, saying that New-Path is about to transfer Arctor to one of its farms. When Arctor arrives at a bucolic Napa Valley ranch, its manager (Jason Douglas) explains the rules to him.

The most disturbing aspect of this final sequence is Arctor’s simple, childlike behavior. He repeats nearly everything the manager says, moves listlessly from place to place, and fails to notice the manager’s condescending attitude.

Arctor also speaks so tonelessly that he seems sedated, but retains enough presence of mind to politely ask when he will see the friends he made in group therapy. The ranch manager is unsympathetic, coldly telling Arctor that ‘‘The people from the residence facilities, they don’t come out to the farms, Bruce. But, you know, you might get back up there a couple of times a year.’’ The manager also says that New-Path occasionally hosts gatherings of its residents, so Arctor will probably see his friends at Thanksgiving.

The disappointment on Arctor’s face upon hearing this news is heart-wrenching. Reeves’s blank features become momentarily distressed, then

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quickly return to somnolent serenity. Arctor’s inability to concentrate for more than a few seconds offers poetic testimony to the extensive brain damage caused by Substance D abuse. The film’s final scene eloquently makes this point. Arctor works in one of the ranch’s many cornfields. When he bends down, Arctor sees small blue flowers carpeting the ground. The corn, the viewer now realizes, camouflages New-Path’s real crop: Substance D’s mother plant. Arctor tells himself, ‘‘I saw death rising from the earth, from the ground itself in one blue field,’’ but is not upset by this knowledge.

Donald Abrahams (Marco Perella), New-Path’s executive director, soon comes across Arctor examining the blue flowers. Abrahams, as if reprimand-ing a recalcitrant child, tells Arctor that these blossoms are not for him. When Arctor says, simply, ‘‘Not for me,’’ Abrahams’s response is chilling: ‘‘You’ve had too much of a good thing already.’’

This confirmation that New-Path produces Substance D to secure government subsidies for treating the drug’s addicts is A Scanner Darkly’s most disturbing commentary about government, industry, and law-enforcement collusion. The manner by which this conspiracy diminishes the lives of ordinary citizens is appalling in its brazen disregard for even basic decency, but Arctor is beyond such ethical judgments. After Abrahams walks away, Arctor plucks a few blue flowers from the earth as ‘‘a present for my friends at Thanksgiving.’’ The camera then rises above Arctor in a languorous crane shot, watching him walk down the rows of endless corn.

This concluding image captures the depravity, the sympathy, and the regret that Dick infuses in the novel’s final words: ‘‘Stooping down, [Arctor] picked one of the stubbled blue plants, then placed it in his right shoe, slipping it down out of sight. A present for my friends, he thought, and looked forward inside his mind, where no one could see, to Thanksgiving.’’26 Dick underlines the novel’s repeated themes of surveillance, sight, and secrecy by making Arctor’s mind the one private place left to him. Arctor can only look forward to seeing his friends in the isolation of his thoughts, which are now so naı¨ve that his existence as caretaker of New-Path’s Substance D crop becomes the novel’s (and the film’s) most vicious indictment of the drug trade’s moral bankruptcy.

A Scanner Darkly’s fascination with the metaphor of sight also enacts the curse that Arctor fears will ovetake his life. In the film’s most desolate scene, Arctor returns home after reviewing video surveillance of the house’s inhabitants more depressed than he has ever been. Arctor’s voice-over acknowledges his profound physical and intellectual exhaustion: What does a scanner see? Into the head? Down into the heart? Does it see into me? Into us? Clearly or darkly? I hope it sees clearly because I can’t any longer see into myself. I see only murk. I hope for everyone’s sake the scanners do better, because if the scanner sees only darkly, the way I do, then I’m cursed and cursed again.

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Reeves’s dejected inflection and defeated body language—Arctor shambles into his living room before collapsing on the couch—are bleak reminders of how terrible he feels. Dick’s novel features the same hopelessness: ‘‘Because,

[Arctor] thought, if the scanner sees only darkly, the way I myself do, then we are cursed, cursed again and like we have been continually, and we’ll wind up dead this way, knowing very little and getting that little fragment wrong too.’’27

This allusion to 1 Corinthians 13:12—St. Paul’s famous declaration, ‘‘For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; but then shall I know fully even as I was fully known’’—demonstrates the awful consequences of Arctor’s addiction. He cannot hope to fully understand himself or be fully understood by anyone else. The desire for reciprocity expressed by Paul’s words, to say nothing of the grace that they imply, is out of Arctor’s reach as Dick’s novel and Linklater’s film end. Arctor is adrift, isolated, and bereft.

This grim conclusion prevents A Scanner Darkly from appealing to all viewers. The film’s unusual tempo is also a marked departure from the driving narrative pace of Steven Spielberg’s Minority Report and the many action sequences of John Woo’s Paycheck. Linklater’s film, like its source novel, develops organically, even lackadaisically, to challenge its audience’s patience.

Sean Axmaker, in his Seattle Post-Intelligencer review of A Scanner Darkly, finds this challenge unworthy of the viewer’s attention. The movie’s

‘‘results,’’ Axmaker writes, ‘‘are not exactly emotionally involving. Like the hazy characters themselves, we lose the thread of the story in the distracted, mind-numbing diversions that become these dysfunctional characters’ entire lives.’’28 Owen Gleiberman, in Entertainment Weekly, is even more succinct in assessing the film’s quality: ‘‘In A Scanner Darkly, we’re watching other people freak out, but the film is maddening to sit through because their freak-outs never become ours.’’29

These reactions are understandable for a film that does not move in conventional cinematic rhythms. One of A Scanner Darkly’s pleasures, however, is how it rewards repeated viewings. The first screening acclimates the viewer to the unusual characters, visual style, and pace of Linklater’s future world.

A second viewing exposes the emotional complexities of Arctor, Donna, Barris, and Freck. Additional screenings unveil small, but welcome touches: Arctor’s scramble suit, for instance, briefly displays an image of Philip K. Dick’s face in an early scene that finds Arctor addressing the members of a civic organization called the Big Bear Lodge, while the VK mk1 model designation on the laptop computer used by the Sheriff’s Department psychologists to test Arctor’s mental acuity is a reference to the Voight-Kampff machine of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? and Blade Runner. Once attuned to the movie’s odd cadence and odder characters, the viewer can appreciate the care that Linklater’s production team devotes to visualizing Dick’s schizophrenic future America. The characters’ freak-outs can, in truth,

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demonstrate how well A Scanner Darkly adapts Dick’s emotionally resonant novel, as well as the conventions of the American stoner film, for its own purposes.

A Scanner Darkly transforms Dick’s 1977 novel into excellent cinema.

Linklater’s film, along with Blade Runner and Minority Report, is the most successful adaptation of Dick’s fiction to have yet reached movie screens.

Bob Arctor’s absurdly tragic experience confronts the ennui and meaninglessness at the center of American life. Refusing to adulterate this pessimistic outlook permits A Scanner Darkly to live up to the tagline printed on the movie’s posters: ‘‘Everything Is Not Going to Be Okay.’’ By doing so, Linklater’s film becomes a valuable work of art.

CONCLUSION

Roll Credits: The Films of

Philip K. Dick

Philip K. Dick did not live to enjoy any of the films adapted from his fiction.

His untimely death on March 2, 1982, of complications due to a series of strokes robbed Dick of the opportunity to view the completed version of Blade Runner. The author, according to his literary agent, Russell Galen, was enthusiastically anticipating the June 1982 release of Ridley Scott’s movie

‘‘like a kid on Christmas Eve,’’1 so Dick’s inability to see the final film compounds the tragedy of his passing. Despite Blade Runner’s initially mixed reviews, this film’s artistic quality, visual sophistication, and intellectual clever-ness were evident to many of its original audience members. Dick would likely have reacted to Scott’s movie in the same manner that he responded to the twenty-minute reel of special effects footage that he viewed in December 1981: astonished approval.

We cannot know how Dick would have judged the subsequent cinematic adaptations of his writing. We can be certain, however, that he would have recognized how influential his paranoid fiction has become. It is now cliche´
to comment that the future has caught up with Dick’s gloomy outlook and that the United States in the early years of the twenty-first century conforms to the imperfect extrapolations of social, economic, and political tensions that fill his short stories and novels. Dick’s concern about mass media becoming powerful enough to manipulate an entire population into doubting the nature of authentic reality seems perfectly calibrated for an era in which the merging of journalism and entertainment allows wars to be justified by flashy imagery rather than solid evidence. Dick’s repeated theme of everyday people

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attempting to preserve their moral integrity in a world ruled by multinational conglomerates appears to be brilliantly prescient in an age where giant corporations receive favors from the political, military, and media establishment unimaginable to most people living in the 1950s and 1960s. This state of affairs, however, was thoroughly imaginable to Philip K. Dick, whose 1964
novel The Simulacra, derided by some readers and reviewers at the time of its publication as the crackpot ramblings of an unstable paranoiac, now reads like a playbook for American society. In this witty novel, the President of the United States is a programmable mannequin rolled out on cue by his handlers to offer mediocre analyses of international affairs and cloying platitudes about the national character. True power resides within a secret cabal of global industrialists who control mass media so completely that only corporately approved messages reach the public. Readers who have lived through some or all of the presidencies of John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George H. W. Bush, Bill Clinton, and George W. Bush have seen Dick’s cynical appraisal come far closer to reality than they might wish to acknowledge.

Dick’s influence on American cinema, particularly American SF cinema, is now incontestable. Movies that are in some way Dickian regularly appear, even when not directly adapted from Dick’s fiction. The most famous such project is Larry and Andy Wachowski’s The Matrix Trilogy (1999–2003).

These films tell a story of how consensual reality—the quotidian world of work, family life, struggle, and leisure—is actually a complicated virtual ruse established by self-aware machines that have enslaved humanity.

The computer intelligence that programs The Matrix to reproduce late-twentieth-century America uses this computer-generated illusion to dupe human beings into believing that their lives have value rather than allowing them to confront the dreary truth: that people are little more than batteries whose body heat provides the machines with their primary power source. This absurd premise becomes terrifyingly tactile when the trilogy’s protagonist, Thomas Anderson (Keanu Reeves), awakens from his apparently ‘‘real’’ life into the far more dismal world of human bondage to mechanical masters.

The Matrix Trilogy’s fundamental premise (of reality being nothing more than a convincing, nearly perfect fake delusion) is pure Dick. His 1953 short story

‘‘The Defenders’’ and his novels Eye in the Sky (1957), Time Out of Joint (1959), The Penultimate Truth (1964), and Ubik (1969) include this theme so prominently that The Matrix Trilogy can be read as an amalgamation of these stories. Dick’s estate should almost certainly receive royalties from Warner Bros., the studio that produced The Matrix films, because the trilogy so closely resembles so much of his fiction.

Other movies that chronicle the breakdown of reality, or the confusion of reality with some other (often virtual) world, include Alejandro Amena´bar’s Abre los ojos (1997) and its American remake, Cameron Crowe’s Vanilla Sky (2001); Kathryn Bigelow’s Strange Days (1995); John Carpenter’s They Live

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(1988); David Cronenberg’s Videodrome (1983) and eXistenZ (1999); David Fincher’s The Game (1997) and Fight Club (1999); Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys (1995); Michel Gondry’s Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004); Ron Howard’s EdTV (1999); Spike Jonze’s Being John Malkovich (1999); Brett Leonard’s The Lawnmower Man (1992) and Virtuosity (1995); Adrian Lyne’s Jacob’s Ladder (1990); Alex Proyas’s Dark City (1998); Josef Rusnak’s The Thirteenth Floor; M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense (1999); Bryan Singer’s X2: X-Men United (2003); and, of course, Peter Weir’s The Truman Show (1998). The Truman Show, in fact, so faithfully reproduces the premise and characters of Time Out of Joint that the film’s failure to acknowledge the debt it owes to Dick’s 1959 novel with an on-screen credit makes Weir’s movie an undeclared adaptation of the author’s fiction (or, for the less charitably minded reader of Dick’s excellent book, an example of cinematic near-thievery).

James Cameron’s 1984 film The Terminator, its sequels, and all the films inspired by it [including Roland Emmerich’s Universal Soldier (1992), Norberto Barba’s Solo (1996), and Paul W.S. Anderson’s Soldier (1998)] lift their premise from Dick’s 1953 story ‘‘Second Variety.’’ Likewise, Andrew Niccol’s 1998 movie Gattaca, which tells the story of a future America where genetic perfection and purity result in a new caste system, bears similarities to elements of Dick’s short stories ‘‘Progeny’’ (1954), ‘‘A World of Talent’’

(1954), and ‘‘Oh, to Be a Blobel!’’ (1964), as well as his novel The World Jones Made (1956).

Television has also embraced Dickian themes. Several Twilight Zone (1959–

1964) and Star Trek episodes question the nature of reality, with Star Trek: The Next Generation’s (1987–1994) holodeck embodying the power of virtual-reality technology to blend fictional and authentic worlds in ways startlingly similar to Dick’s 1950s and 1960s fiction. The Sci-Fi Channel’s remake of Battlestar Galactica (2004–present) includes a species of intelligent, evolving, and cunning organic machines known as Cylons that clearly recall Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’s androids and Blade Runner’s replicants. The USA Network’s contemporary SF drama The 4400 includes several subtle nods to Dick’s work, while Chris Carter’s The X-Files—one of the most imaginative, intriguing, and intellectually provocative television series in American history—offers so many episodes about alien invasion and governmental conspiracy that its writers seem to have channeled Dick’s paranoia directly into their scripts. Carter’s short-lived virtual-reality series Harsh Realm (1999), which sees its characters trapped inside a military training simulation that precisely recreates the entire world, evokes Dick’s anxieties about the ambivalent boundary between reality and fantasy even more than The X-Files. Certain episodes of Blake’s 7 (1978–1981) and Doctor Who (1963–1989 and 2005–present) are remarkably Dickian in their tenor, while Showtime’s one-season series Total Recall 2070 explicitly blends themes, designs, and character types from Blade Runner and Total Recall.2

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FUTURE IMPERFECT

This list could indefinitely continue. Few of the films or television series mentioned here were directly inspired by Dick’s writing, but the potent mixture of head-spinning reality breakdowns, pessimistic future extrapolations, and sympathetic everyday characters that Dick innovated is now unavoidable for consumers of American popular culture. Dick is not the only, or even the first, author to include these themes in his fiction, but he combines them so uniquely that his idiosyncratic, mordantly funny, and mercilessly sardonic writing places Dick in the top echelon of twentieth-century American satirists.

These plaudits, however, do not mean that the films adapted from Dick’s fiction are merely pale imitations of his literary output. These movies’ dystopian outlook should also not be taken as more sophisticated than alternative, more optimistic SF visualizations of the human future. Blade Runner’s narrative cynicism and ominous visual design have become so popular that they exert a sometimes stultifying influence on American SF cinema. So many SF movies and television series since 1982 have been set in the New Bad Future (to employ Fred Glass’s useful term) or in dreary modern-day locales (the New Bad Present, so to speak) that competing SF fictions (such as Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek film-and-television franchise and George Lucas’s Star Wars trilogies) have been erroneously dismissed as naı¨ve utopias simply for suggesting that humanity can technologically, economically, and socially progress. These less cynical visions of the future are no less valid, nor do they have less intellectual credibility, than the depressing character of Dick’s cinematic adaptations. Dick himself once told Gregg Rickman that ‘‘it is not the role of science fiction, to predict the future. Science fiction books and stories are not judged on whether they come true or not. Because if that were the case there’d be one science fiction book. The right one.’’3

Dick’s unpleasant portraits of the future have found vivid expression in Blade Runner, Total Recall, Minority Report, and the other films based on his writing. The prominent, even dominant, cinematic niche that these movies have inspired marginalizes more progressive SF forecasts of future societies, but we must remember that Dick’s vision, as compelling as it may be, is not comprehensive. Valorizing Blade Runner and its cinematic descendants so excessively that they seem to be the only legitimate representations of future eras, technologies, relationships, and cultures is a mistake. The film adaptations of Dick’s fiction are, with the exception of Paycheck, intriguing movies.

A few are marvelous. But their cynical take on the future should not constrain the possibilities of imagining how the coming centuries will unfold.

Even with this proviso in mind, Dick’s admirers can rest secure in the knowledge that more adaptations of his fiction are on the way. Next—
directed by Lee Tamahori; written by Gary Goldman, Paul Bernbaum, and Jonathan Hensleigh; produced by Revolution Studios; and starring Nicolas Cage—arrived in theatres in April 2007. Warner Bros. has long owned the rights to Time Out of Joint, while independent producer John Alan Simon

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has purchased the rights to Dick’s novels Flow My Tears the Policeman Said (1974), VALIS (1981), and Radio Free Albemuth (1985). According to Brian J. Robb’s Counterfeit Worlds, Simon has completed a screenplay for Flow My Tears the Policeman Said that was originally scheduled to be a joint production between Paramount Pictures, Tom Cruise’s Cruise/Wagner Productions, and Oliver Stone’s Illusion Entertainment. This project’s viability, however, has become unclear in the wake of Paramount’s summer 2006
decision to formally severe ties with Cruise (although Cruise’s plan to recon-stitute United Artists as a functioning movie studio might revive it). Simon has also combined VALIS and Radio Free Albemuth into one script, but no production date has been announced for the film itself. Dick’s official Web site, http://www.PhilipKDick.com, confirms that an unidentified producer has purchased an option on Dick’s 1954 short story ‘‘Adjustment Team,’’

but no other information about this film is available. Perhaps the most exciting news involves a biopic tentatively set to star Paul Giamatti (Shorty in Paycheck). The actor will play Philip K. Dick in a movie that will combine the author’s life and fiction with elements from his unfinished novel The Owl in Daylight.4

Dick’s readers can only hope that some, if not all, of these projects come to fruition. Four of the eight films profiled here (Blade Runner, Confessions d’un Barjo, Minority Report, and A Scanner Darkly) demonstrate that thoughtful, literate, and emotionally resonant movies can be made from Dick’s writing, while three others (Total Recall, Screamers, and Impostor) illustrate, despite their flaws, that intriguing SF cinema is possible. Paycheck is the only disappointment, but the fact that Dick’s characters, themes, and ideas are resilient enough to survive Ben Affleck’s attentions should give the author’s admirers reason for cautious optimism about future cinematic adaptations of his fiction.

Philip K. Dick was one of the most talented American novelists of the twentieth century, even if he was not recognized as such during his lifetime.

The movies based on Dick’s writing, consequently, have played a crucial role in promoting and preserving his fiction. Since Blade Runner’s 1982 release, all of Dick’s 125 short stories, all of his 46 novels, and several collections of his voluminous letters have come back into print (or seen publication for the first time). Dick’s writing has also become a subject of sustained academic inquiry, with new scholarly articles, dissertations, and books published each year. The popular acclaim that Dick now enjoys generally surges when a new film adaptation of his fiction appears in theatres, while the number of newspaper and magazine articles devoted to Dick’s work multiplies by the week. American readers have caught up with their counterparts in Germany, France, Italy, and Japan, who considered Dick an important author long before he died. Dick’s authorial talents explain some of the renewed interest in his writing, but not all. Happily enough, the movies based on his fiction, by reaching millions of filmgoers around the world, have played a critical role in transforming Dick into a major American author.

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FUTURE IMPERFECT

These films, for the most part, challenge their viewers’ presumptions about the nature of reality, the place of technology in human life, the hazards of unchecked commercialism, and the costs of political repression. They are not always comfortable to watch, and they are not always easy to follow. Blade Runner, Total Recall, and Minority Report may be the best known of these movies, but Confessions d’un Barjo, Screamers, Impostor, and A Scanner Darkly should not be overlooked. Even Paycheck is worth seeing, if only to recognize how much better it might have been. Each film (except Paycheck), like the story or novel upon which it is based, rewards multiple viewings because its imagery, ideas, and emotions reveal new ways of looking at the American present and new ways of thinking about the American future. That this future is imperfect should not surprise readers familiar with Dick’s troubling portrait of life in the twenty-first and -second centuries. Dick did not create this future, but he foresaw some of its most disconcerting elements.

The filmmakers who have transformed Dick’s fiction into visually innovative cautionary tales about the viability of human identity and autonomy in a world rife with military conflict, economic injustice, and environmental degradation have understood one important truth about his influence: Dick writes movingly about lonely people who strive to live authentically in a bureaucratized world that often dehumanizes them. The compassion that Dick feels for his characters and the care that he takes in crafting their vulnerabilities are poignant reminders of how closely we have come to fulfilling his unsettling outlook. Dick’s fiction remains relevant, within Hollywood and without, because it faces the uncertainties of the future with honesty, integrity, and empathy.

The film adaptations profiled here live up to this standard more often than they fail. Blade Runner, Total Recall, Confessions d’un Barjo, Screamers, Impostor, Minority Report, Paycheck, and A Scanner Darkly therefore remind us of another essential truth about their literary source: that, as the twenty-first century approaches its second decade, we have become the descendants and the inheritors—in short, the children—of Dick’s vision.

Notes

INTRODUCTION

1. Lawrence Sutin, Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick (1989; New York: Carol & Graf-Avalon, 2005), xi.

2. Ibid.

3. See page 156 of Sutin’s Divine Invasions for a short discussion of Dick’s story proposal for The Invaders. Pages 54–61 of Brian J. Robb’s Counterfeit Worlds: Philip K. Dick on Film (London: Titan Books, 2006) offer the most thorough synopsis and discussion of Dick’s Invaders plot outline, which, had it been produced, would have been among that series’s most fascinating episodes.

4. Dick’s ‘‘Plot Idea for Mission: Impossible’’ appears in its entirety on pages 144–48 of The Shifting Realities of Philip K. Dick: Selected Literary and Philosophical Writings (New York: Vintage-Random, 1995), an invaluable collection of Dick’s essays; articles; proposals for short stories, novels, television, and film; and autobio-graphical pieces. See pages 61–64 of Robb’s Counterfeit Worlds for his discussion of Dick’s Mission: Impossible treatment.

5. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘TV Series Idea,’’ in The Shifting Realities of Philip K. Dick: Selected Literary and Philosophical Writings, ed. Lawrence Sutin (New York: Vintage-Random, 1995), 149.

6. Ibid.

7. Robb, Counterfeit Worlds, 85.

8. Ibid., 11. Robb identifies Milestone’s film as appearing in 1931, but its American premiere came on April 21, 1930.

9. Gregg Rickman, Philip K. Dick: In His Own Words (1984; Long Beach: Fragments West/Valentine Press, 1988), 214.

10. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘Universe Makers. . .and Breakers,’’ in The Shifting Realities of Philip K. Dick: Selected Literary and Philosophical Writings, ed. Lawrence Sutin (New York: Vintage-Random, 1995), 104.

182

NOTES

11. Gwen Lee and Doris Elaine Sauter, eds., What If Our World Is Their Heaven?

The Final Conversations of Philip K. Dick (Woodstock: The Overlook Press, 2000), 23.

12. Paul M. Sammon, Future Noir: The Making of Blade Runner (New York: HarperPrism, 1996), 21. Dick offers an even more cynical view of Hollywood when he says, on page 214 of In His Own Words, In dealing with Hollywood I was dealing with power brokers for the first time in my life. . . .These people are real power brokers. They buy and sell human beings. It’s like it says in the Bible about Babylon, they sell pearl, ivory, and the souls of men. And that is exactly what is going on in Hollywood, they deal with the souls of human beings. (emphasis Dick’s, Rickman 214)

Dick’s later admiration for Blade Runner and its production team underscores the author’s ambivalent feelings toward the movie studios, executives, and producers who held the wealth and the power to control future film and television adaptations of his fiction.

13. James Naremore, ‘‘Film and the Reign of Adaptation,’’ in Film Adaptation (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2000), 6.

14. Ibid., 8.

CHAPTER 1

1. Paul M. Sammon, Future Noir: The Making of Blade Runner (New York: HarperPrism, 1996), 268.

2. See Sammon 313 and John L. Flynn’s short 2001 essay ‘‘The Irony of Negative Reviews: Creating SF Cult Classics’’ for Berman’s original quote. Full publication information for both sources can be found in the Bibliography.

3. Roger Ebert, ‘‘Blade Runner,’’ review of Blade Runner (Warner Bros. Pictures movie), Chicago Sun-Times, 2 June 1982. RogerEbert.com, 7 October 2005. http://
rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/19820602/REVIEWS/

40819003/1023.

4. Stanley Kauffmann, ‘‘The Miracle Workers,’’ review of Blade Runner (Warner Bros. Pictures movie), New Republic, 19 & 26 July 1982, 30.

5. Ibid.

6. Pauline Kael, ‘‘Baby, the Rain Must Fall,’’ review of Blade Runner (Warner Bros. Pictures movie), New Yorker, 12 July 1982, 83.

7. Ibid., 85.

8. Jack Kroll, ‘‘High-Tech Horror Show,’’ review of Blade Runner (Warner Bros.

Pictures movie), Newsweek, 28 June 1982, 72.

9. Richard Corliss, ‘‘The Pleasures of Texture,’’ review of Blade Runner (Warner Bros. Pictures movie), Time, 12 July 1982, 68.

10. Hiawatha Bray, ‘‘Blade Runner,’’ review of Blade Runner (Warner Bros.

Pictures movie), Christianity Today, 3 September 1982, 97.

11. Ibid.

12. Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1957), 4.

NOTES

183

13. Gwen Lee and Doris Elaine Sauter, eds., What If Our World Is Their Heaven? The Final Conversations of Philip K. Dick (Woodstock: The Overlook Press, 2000), 33.

14. Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (New York: Del Rey-Ballantine, 1968), 16.

15. Ibid., 19.

16. Ibid.

17. Ibid., 24.

18. Ibid., 23.

19. Ibid., 22 and 25.

20. Lee and Sauter, Final Conversations of Dick, 33.

21. Dick, Do Androids Dream? 20.

22. M. Keith Booker, Alternate Americas: Science Fiction Film and American Culture (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2006), 173.

23. Harlan Kennedy, ‘‘21st Century Nervous Breakdown,’’ Film Comment, July/

August 1982, 66.

24. Dick, Do Androids Dream? 46.

25. Ibid., 122.

26. Ibid., 125.

27. Ibid., 141. The emphasis is Dick’s.

28. Ibid., 142–44. The emphasis is Dick’s.

29. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘Notes on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?,’’ in The Shifting Realities of Philip K. Dick: Selected Literary and Philosophical Writings, ed. Lawrence Sutin (New York: Vintage-Random, 1995), 158.

30. Ibid. The emphasis is Dick’s.

31. Dick, Do Androids Dream? 204–5.

32. Ibid., 206.

33. Ibid., 211.

34. Ibid., 196.

35. Ibid., 198.

36. Ibid.

37. Dick, ‘‘Notes on Androids,’’ 160.

38. Dick, Do Androids Dream? 225–26.

39. Dick, ‘‘Notes on Androids,’’ 160.

40. Ibid.

41. Ibid., 160–61.

42. Sharon L. Gravett, ‘‘The Sacred and the Profane: Examining the Religious Subtext of Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner,’’ Literature/Film Quarterly 26 (1998): 41.

43. Sammon, Future Noir, 285.

44. Ibid., 192–93.

45. Ibid., 194.

46. Ibid., 285.

47. Ibid., 69.

48. See pages 359–64 of Sammon’s Future Noir, the long interview that Sammon conducted with Scott (included as Appendix A of Future Noir from pages 375–93), and the short BBC documentary ‘‘On the Edge of Blade Runner’’ for Ridley Scott’s thoughts about Deckard’s replicant status.

49. Lee and Sauter, Final Conversations of Dick, 32.

184

NOTES

CHAPTER 2

1. The Internet Movie Database estimates Total Recall’s budget as $65 million.

Bill Florence, in a series of articles about Total Recall that appeared in Cinefantastique magazine, reports that Carolco Pictures, the production company that financed the film, estimated the budget to range between $50 and $60 million, although the actual costs were, at one time, believed to be as high as $73 million. Whatever the true figure is, Total Recall was one of the most expensive films produced at the time of its release.

2. Janet Maslin, ‘‘A Schwarzenegger Torn Between Lives on Earth and Mars,’’

review of Total Recall (Carolco Pictures movie), New York Times, 1 June 1990, C10.

3. Ibid.

4. Ibid.

5. Ibid.

6. Jack Kroll, ‘‘Thanks for the Memories,’’ review of Total Recall (Carolco Pictures movie), Newsweek, 11 June 1990, 62.

7. Richard Corliss, ‘‘Mind Bending on Mars,’’ review of Total Recall (Carolco Pictures movie), Time, 11 June 1990, 85.

8. Ibid.

9. Ibid. Corliss expressed less enthusiasm for Total Recall in a later article, titled

‘‘Revenge of the Dyna-Movies,’’ about how American filmmakers had become more concerned with creating visually astonishing worlds rather than crafting carefully rendered dramatic narratives. Corliss comments that young moviegoers have become

‘‘connoisseurs of carnage. They know that in a blood ballet like Total Recall that everybody gets killed but nobody gets hurt—because the characters aren’t human beings but ciphers, cyborgs, stunt people and stunted characters, no more real than the creatures vaporized in Nintendo games’’ (64). This assessment reacts only to Total Recall’s action film narrative, ignoring its more imaginative aspects to make an argument that was already hackneyed in 1990: ‘‘the MTV generation’’ (64), as Corliss calls the intended audience of films such as Total Recall, Gremlins 2, and RoboCop 2, enjoys speed, visual overload, and indestructible characters more than the ‘‘emotional heft’’

(64) of more serious films.

10. Terrence Rafferty, ‘‘Terminated,’’ review of Total Recall (Carolco Pictures movie), New Yorker, 18 June 1990, 92.

11. Ibid.

12. Ibid. Richard Alleva, in his Commonweal review of Total Recall, shares Rafferty’s dislike, calling it ‘‘trivial and disgusting’’ (456).

13. Bill Florence, in the second of three Cinefantastique magazine articles devoted to Total Recall, criticizes the movie’s ‘‘ ‘red planet Mars’ setting’’ (60). Florence is unsympathetic to Verhoeven’s stylized presentation of Mars: The film’s anachronisitic, scientifically inaccurate view of our planetary neighbor is straight out of ’50s B-movies and pulp science fiction in an age when NASA has all but set foot on the planet. Such a cliche´d handling of Mars seems especially inexcusable when you consider that Total Recall had at its disposal Ron Cobb, the celebrated conceptual artist of Star Wars, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and Alien. (60)

NOTES

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Florence has a point insofar as Total Recall’s depiction of Mars is far redder than the photos transmitted by the Viking planetary probes that landed on the planet in the late 1970s. He, however, neglects the film’s symbolic representation of Mars as an arena of hellish corruption and industrial savagery.

14. Rob van Scheers, Paul Verhoeven, trans. Aletta Stevens (London: Faber and Faber, 1997), 223.

15. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale,’’ in The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick, Volume 2: We Can Remember It for You Wholesale (New York: Citadel-Carol, 1995), 37.

16. Ibid., 35.

17. Lawrence Sutin, Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick (New York: Citadel-Carol, 1991), 82.

18. Dick, ‘‘Wholesale,’’ 43.

19. Ibid., 44–45. The emphasis is Dick’s.

20. Verhoeven makes this comment most explicitly in the commentary track for Total Recall’s Special Edition DVD. Significantly, Arnold Schwarzenegger, who talks about the film alongside Verhoeven, does not deny the strong possibility that Quaid’s mind is destroyed at the film’s conclusion. See van Scheers, Paul Verhoeven, pages 220–23, for Verhoeven’s extended thoughts about Quaid’s illusory adventures in Total Recall.

21. See pages 226–28 of van Scheers’s book, Michael Wilmington’s fascinating interview with Verhoeven (titled ‘‘On Dangerous Ground’’) in Film Comment’s July/August 1990 issue (particularly page 29), and Verhoeven’s remarks in the interviews and commentary track included on Total Recall’s Special Edition DVD for more information about the director’s attitude toward violence.

22. van Scheers, Paul Verhoeven, 228.

23. Frank Grady, ‘‘Arnoldian Humanism, or Amnesia and Autobiography in the Schwarzenegger Action Film,’’ Cinema Journal 42 (Winter 2003): 44.

24. Ibid.

25. Linda Mizejewski, ‘‘Total Recoil: The Schwarzenegger Body on Postmodern Mars,’’ Post Script 12 (Summer 1993): 28.

26. Dick, ‘‘Wholesale,’’ 46.

27. Grady, ‘‘Arnoldian Humanism,’’ 45.

28. Johanna Schmertz, ‘‘On Reading the Politics of Total Recall,’’ Post Script 12

(Summer 1993): 37. The emphasis is Schmertz’s.

29. Gregg Rickman, To the High Castle: A Life 1928-1962 (Long Beach: Fragments West/Valentine, 1989), 356. The letter also appears under the title ‘‘A Letter from Philip K. Dick February 1, 1960’’ in the Philip K. Dick Society’s Pamphlet 1

(Glen Ellen: Philip K. Dick Society, 1963). Lawrence Sutin also quotes the letter on page 109 of Divine Invasions.

30. Grady, ‘‘Arnoldian Humanism,’’ 50. See Michael Rogin, ‘‘Make My Day!: Spectacle as Amnesia in Imperial Politics,’’ Representations 29 (Winter 1990): 107, for the original quotation.

31. Schmertz, ‘‘Reading the Politics,’’ 38.

32. Schwarzenegger has told this story many times, especially during the commentary track for Total Recall’s Special Edition DVD. Paul Verhoeven, who participates in this commentary track alongside Schwarzenegger, confirms its veracity. See pages

186

NOTES

208–9 of van Scheers’s book, all three of Bill Florence’s Cinefantastique articles, and Chapter 7 of Robb’s Counterfeit Worlds (pages 152–79) for detailed production information.

33. Frank Grady sees the change in Quail’s name as a reflection of Total Recall’s conservative political message. He writes that retaining Quail’s name ‘‘would have been more than just a distraction, not only because of the vice president’s buffoonish reputation at the time but also because the reference might have called attention to the ways in which Total Recall is so perfectly a film for the first Bush administration’’

(50). Grady refers to several instances of Bush pere changing his mind when it politically suited his presidency, then conveniently forgetting these prior claims to pass himself off as a man of unchangeable integrity, to prove this contention.

34. Bill Florence, ‘‘Schwarzenegger: Total Recall,’’ Cinefantastique 21

(July 1990): 9.

35. Dick, ‘‘Wholesale,’’ 46–47.

36. Ibid., 49.

37. Ibid.

38. van Scheers, Paul Verhoeven, 222–23.

39. Grady, ‘‘Arnoldian Humanism,’’ 49.

40. Stephen Prince, Visions of Empire: Political Imagery in Contemporary American Film, Praeger Series in Political Communication (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1992), 184.

41. Prince, for instance, nominates Alain Resnais’s 1959 movie Hiroshima Mon Amour as more nuanced than Total Recall because the older film’s ‘‘narrative relationships of time and space are unstable, in flux, because they are interpenetrated by the subjectivity and desires of the characters’’ (184). The author, however, fails to analyze a single frame of Resnais’s movie to substantiate his claim or to note that the film’s complicated and nonlinear structure is typical—even conventional—for European avant-garde cinema.

CHAPTER 3

1. Philip K. Dick, Confessions of a Crap Artist—Jack Isidore (of Seville, Calif.): A Chronicle of Verified Scientific Fact, 1945–1959 (1975; New York: Vintage-Random, 1992), 3.

2. Ibid., 36.

3. Ibid., 38.

4. Ibid., 164.

5. Gregg Rickman, To the High Castle: A Life 1928–1962 (Long Beach: Fragments West/Valentine, 1989), 356.

6. Dick, Crap Artist, 75.

7. Ibid., 76.

8. Ibid.

9. Ibid., 50–51.

10. Ibid., 51.

11. Ibid., 57.

12. Lawrence Sutin, Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick (New York: Citadel-Carol, 1991), 105.

13. Dick, Crap Artist, 23.

NOTES

187

14. Ibid., 25.

15. Ibid., 28.

16. Ibid., 31.

17. Ibid., 11.

18. Ibid., 162–63.

19. Ibid., 188.

20. Ibid., 190.

21. Ibid., 192.

22. Ibid., 244.

23. Ibid., 246.

CHAPTER 4

1. Even some of the editors and the readers of the 1950s’ SF magazines in which Dick’s fiction regularly appeared considered him to be a hack writer, a poor prose stylist, or both. Kingsley Amis, by contrast, was one of the few mainstream authors to recognize Dick’s talent during his (Dick’s) early career. In his 1960 book New Maps of Hell: A Survey of Science Fiction, Amis approvingly regards Dick’s 1953 short story ‘‘The Defenders’’ as a worthy entry in the tradition of SF stories that warn readers about the dangers of technology escaping human control:

There is here and there even a complacency about man’s ability to keep his cre-ations under physical control, and in some places I detect a tendency to regard electronic behaviour as ‘‘better,’’ because more rational and predictable, than human. This idea is delightfully burlesqued in a story by Philip K. Dick, ‘‘The Defenders,’’ in which the human race is living underground while the robots fight the war on the surface. (72)

SF writer Damon Knight also disagreed with negative evaluations of Dick’s fiction, providing an optimistic assessment of Dick’s potential in his 1956 book In Search of Wonder: Essays in Modern Science Fiction: ‘‘At his intermittent best, Dick is still one of the most vital and honest working science fiction writers. I don’t believe he has mastered his form yet; but his journeyman work deserves our respectful attention’’

(232–33). Dick’s trip from literary obscurity to grudging mainstream acceptance, as these quotations suggest, is a complicated one. Consult Lawrence Sutin’s definitive biography, Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick, and Gregg Rickman’s To the High Castle: Philip K. Dick: A Life 1928–1962 for extensive discussions of Dick’s changing reputation.

2. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘Second Variety,’’ in The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick, Volume 3: Second Variety (New York: Citadel-Carol, 1991), 378.

3. Ibid. The emphasis is Dick’s.

4. M. Keith Booker, Monsters, Mushroom Clouds, and the Cold War: American Science Fiction and the Roots of Postmodernism, 1946–1964, Contributions to the Study of Science Fiction and Fantasy, Number 95 (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2001), 18.

5. Ibid.

188

NOTES

6. Dick, ‘‘Second Variety,’’ 385.

7. Mick LaSalle’s review of Screamers in the January 26, 1996, edition of San Francisco Chronicle (http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/1996/

01/26/DD28863.DTL) mentions Fries’s involvement in the film’s earliest production deal. The Internet Movie Database (http://imdb.com/title/tt0114367/trivia), moreover, mentions that Dan O’Bannon began writing the film’s screenplay as early as 1981, with Michael Campus listed as cowriter on the script’s October 10, 1984, draft.

8. Roger Ebert, ‘‘Screamers,’’ review of Screamers (Triumph Films movie), Chicago Sun-Times, 26 January 1996. RogerEbert.com, 10 December 2005. http://
rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/19960126/REVIEWS/

601260305/1023.

9. This information can be found on the Internet Movie Database’s business page for Screamers, at http://imdb.com/title/tt0114367/business.

10. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘Notes,’’ in The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick, Volume 3: Second Variety (New York: Citadel-Carol, 1991), 414.

11. Dick, ‘‘Second Variety,’’ 377.

12. Ibid., 374.

13. Ibid., 376.

14. Ibid., 378.

15. Ibid., 376.

16. Ibid., 377.

17. Ibid., 379.

18. Ibid., 387.

19. Ibid., 393.

20. Ibid.

21. Ibid., 392.

22. Ibid., 396.

23. Ibid., 410.

24. Barry Walters, ‘‘Screamingly Bad Sci-Fi Flick Earns Viewers’ Jeers,’’ review of Screamers (Triumph Films movie), San Francisco Examiner, 26 January 1996. SF

Gate, 10 December 2005. http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/e/a/

1996/01/26/WEEKEND15028.dtl.

CHAPTER 5

1. One of Impostor’s trailers lists its release date as December 25, 2001, but the film, which had been repeatedly delayed due to its unusual production schedule, did not premiere until January 4, 2002. Since Dimension Films did not promote Impostor in any systematic manner, the film had only a short theatrical run.

2. Peter Bradshaw, ‘‘Impostor,’’ review of Impostor (Dimension Films movie), London Guardian, 14 June 2002. Guardian Unlimited Film, 7 January 2006. http://
film.guardian.co.uk/News_Story/Critic_Review/Guardian_review/0,,736916,00.

html.

3. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘Impostor,’’ in The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick, Volume 2: We Can Remember It for You Wholesale (New York: Citadel-Carol, 1995), 299.

NOTES

189

4. Ibid., 302.

5. Ibid.

6. M. Keith Booker, Monsters, Mushroom Clouds, and the Cold War: American Science Fiction and the Roots of Postmodernism, 1946–1964, Contributions to the Study of Science Fiction and Fantasy, Number 95 (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2001), 19.

7. Dick, ‘‘Impostor,’’ 300.

8. Ibid., 299.

9. Ibid., 302.

10. Ibid., 303.

11. Karl Williams, on the All Movie Guide Web site, writes that the SF trilogy originally planned by Dimension Films was also known as ‘‘The Light Years Trilogy.’’

See his article at http://www.allmovie.com/cg/avg.dll?p=avg&sql=1:196448 for more information, as well as for Williams’s review of the finished film. Brian J. Robb, in Chapter 11 of Counterfeit Worlds, also mentions that The Light Years Trilogy was the project’s early title.

12. Dave Kehr, ‘‘An Earthling with a Mission,’’ New York Times, 4 January 2002, E26.

13. Dick, ‘‘Impostor,’’ 309.

14. Ibid., 310.

15. A.O. Scott, ‘‘Good Guy or Robot Alien Suicide Bomber?,’’ review of Impostor (Dimension Films movie), New York Times, 4 January 2002, E33.

16. In Impostor’s original short version, a conversation between Maya and Spence cut from the theatrical release sees her question Spence about his occupation as a weapons designer to underscore the differences in their political opinions:

MAYA:

Doesn’t it get to you at all, this insanity? You don’t even flinch.

SPENCE:

Do we have to rehash this?

MAYA:

Doesn’t it do something to you? Doesn’t it kill something in you?

SPENCE:

What do you want? Do you want me to weep?

MAYA:

Every day I go to work and I watch people die. . .children die. They’re just people, too, Spence.

SPENCE:

They’re not people. They’re Centauri.

Spence is no dove, but rather a man who regards his enemy as unworthy of compassion. His attitude here also contrasts the doubt that he later expresses when noting the parallels between his stewardship of the Project and J. Robert Oppenheimer’s supervision of the Manhattan Project. Olham’s feelings about designing a doomsday weapon are more conflicted than they initially seem.

The Olhams’ conversation may have been removed from Impostor’s feature-length version because it is too ‘‘on the nose,’’ meaning that it explicitly exposes Spence’s internal doubts when Sinise’s performance conveys this conflict far more subtly.

17. Dick, ‘‘Impostor,’’ 307.

190

NOTES

CHAPTER 6

1. Anthony Lane, ‘‘Whowillhavedunit,’’ review of Minority Report (DreamWorks SKG and 20th Century Fox movie), New Yorker, 1 July 2002, 96.

2. Richard Corliss, ‘‘No Artificial Intelligence; Just Smart Fun,’’ review of Minority Report (DreamWorks SKG and 20th Century Fox movie), Time, 16 June 2002.

Time.com, 14 October 2005. http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/

0,9171,1002717,00.html.

3. J. Hoberman, ‘‘Private Eyes,’’ review of Minority Report (DreamWorks SKG
and 20th Century Fox movie), Village Voice, 20 June 2002. VillageVoice.com, 14

October 2005. http://www.villagevoice.com/film/0226,hoberman,35942,20.html.

4. Ibid.

5. Stuart Klawans, ‘‘Future Shock,’’ review of Minority Report (DreamWorks SKG
and 20th Century Fox movie), Nation, 22/29 July 2002, 34.

6. Raphael Shargel, ‘‘Different Paths to the Future,’’ review of Minority Report (DreamWorks SKG and 20th Century Fox movie), New Leader, July/August 2002, 36.

7. Roger Ebert, ‘‘Minority Report,’’ review of Minority Report (DreamWorks SKG and 20th Century Fox movie), Chicago Sun-Times, 21 June 2002.

RogerEbert.com, 14 October 2005. http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll

/article?AID=/20020621/REVIEWS/206210304/1023.

8. Consult the Internet Movie Database’s entry on Minority Report, http://
imdb.com/title/tt0181689/business, for more detailed information about the film’s budget, domestic and international grosses, and production schedule.

9. Mark Garrett Cooper, ‘‘The Contradictions of Minority Report,’’ Film Criticism 28.2 (Winter 2003/2004): 24.

10. Chris Chang, ‘‘Future Shock,’’ review of Minority Report (DreamWorks SKG
and 20th Century Fox movie), Film Comment, July/August 2002, 44.

11. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘The Minority Report,’’ in The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick, Volume 4: The Minority Report (New York: Citadel-Carol, 1991) 74.

12. Ibid.

13. Ibid., 71. The emphasis is Dick’s.

14. Dick, ‘‘Minority,’’ 75.

15. Ibid.

16. Ibid.

17. Ibid.

18. Ibid., 72.

19. Ibid. The emphasis is Dick’s.

20. Christopher Wehner, ‘‘Minority Writing,’’ Creative Screenwriting, May/

June 2002, 41.

21. Ibid., 40.

22. Dick, ‘‘Minority,’’ 73.

23. Ibid.

24. Ibid.

25. Wehner, ‘‘Minority Writing,’’ 41.

26. Ibid., 40.

27. Ibid.

NOTES

191

28. Dick, ‘‘Minority,’’ 74.

29. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘Notes,’’ in The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick, Volume 1: The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford (New York: Citadel-Kensington, 1990), 399.

30. Ibid., 400. The emphasis is Dick’s.

31. Dick, ‘‘Minority,’’ 72–73.

32. Lane, ‘‘Whowillhavedunit,’’ 96.

33. Dick, ‘‘Minority,’’ 88.

34. These commercials, which can be read as the film’s withering parody of cinematic product placement, also recall the advertisements that have become so pervasive in Dick’s 1954 short story ‘‘Sales Pitch’’ that they drive the protagonist, Ed Morris, to suicidal despair. In a marvelous example of Dick’s gallows humor, the commercials that assault Morris on his daily trip home from his workplace on Ganymede to his home on Earth are telepathic in nature. When Morris closes his eyes to block out the ads, they form images inside his mind. Minority Report does not go this far, but its intrusive commercials hail Anderton by name in annoyingly chipper tones as he strolls through public spaces.

35. Dick, ‘‘Minority,’’ 81.

36. Ibid., 95.

37. Ibid., 101. The emphasis is Dick’s.

38. Dick, ‘‘Minority,’’ 101–2. The emphasis is Dick’s.

39. Wehner, ‘‘Minority Writing,’’ 40.

40. Ibid., 44.

41. Ibid.

42. John Petrakis, ‘‘A Future in Crime?,’’ review of Minority Report (DreamWorks SKG and 20th Century Fox movie), Christian Century, July 31–August 13, 2002, 42.

43. David Edelstein, ‘‘Blame Runner,’’ review of Minority Report (DreamWorks SKG and 20th Century Fox movie), Slate.com, 21 June 2002. Slate.com, 14 October 2005. http://www.slate.com/toolbar.aspx?action=print&id=2067225.

44. Cooper, ‘‘Contradictions of Minority Report,’’ 24–25.

45. The spyder sequence also improves its parallel scene in Gary Fleder’s Impostor, in which Major Hathaway (Vincent D’Onofrio) supervises a massive building scan while attempting to locate Spence Olham (Gary Sinise), who has taken refuge in a run-down apartment complex in the Dead Zone. Anderton’s room, which seems to be located in the urban ghetto known as the Sprawl, is even less attractive than Olham’s, while the spyders are a more innovative search-and-surveillance technology than the giant thermal scanning unit that Hathaway employs. The most remarkable aspect of these two scenes is how each film’s production team independently concocted such similar scenarios. Minority Report’s spyder sequence, however, is more imaginative and more elaborately staged than Impostor’s.

46. Almost every review, article, and essay devoted to Spielberg’s film notes Minority Report’s debt to North by Northwest. Minority Report’s story of a man on the run from authorities who mistake him for someone that he is not recapitulates the plight of Roger Thornhill (Cary Grant) in Hitchcock’s film. Minority Report is certainly a chase movie in the vein of North by Northwest once Anderton escapes Precrime headquarters. Minority Report’s car-factory sequence, moreover, sees an automobile

192

NOTES
assembled around Anderton’s body in a variation of the gag that Hitchcock wished, but was not able, to include in North by Northwest. Hitchcock wanted to show a dead body falling out of a car just as it leaves the assembly line.

CHAPTER 7

1. Mark Holcomb, ‘‘Philip K. Paycheck,’’ review of Paycheck (Paramount Pictures and DreamWorks SKG movie), Village Voice, 24–30 December 2003. Village Voice.com, 19 October 2005. http://www.villagevoice.com/film/0352,hol comb,49714,20.html.

2. Philip K. Dick, ‘‘Paycheck,’’ in The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick, Volume 1: The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford (New York: Citadel-Kensington, 1990), 279.

3. Ibid., 292.

4. Ibid., 286.

5. Ibid., 279.

6. Ibid., 308.

7. Ibid. The emphasis is Dick’s.

8. Ibid. The emphasis is Dick’s.

CHAPTER 8

1. Philip K. Dick, A Scanner Darkly (1977; New York: Vintage-Random, 1991), 23.

2. Ibid.

3. Ibid., 22.

4. Ibid., 276.

5. Ibid., 3.

6. Ibid., 5.

7. Ibid., 4–5.

8. Peter Travers, ‘‘A Scanner Darkly,’’ review of A Scanner Darkly (Warner Independent movie), Rolling Stone, 23 June 2006. RollingStone.com, 25 June 2006.

http://www.rollingstone.com/reviews/movie/6152674/review/10655736/
a_scanner_darkly.

9. Ibid. Travers’s reference to President George W. Bush’s controversial decision to authorize the National Security Agency to intercept domestic phone calls as one element of the so-called War on Terror is a common theme in the reviews of Linklater’s film. Dick’s 1977 novel, in a significant parallel, was seen by many of its reviewers as a reaction to revelations about the existence of domestic FBI and CIA surveillance programs that investigations by the United States Senate Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect to Intelligence Activities, more commonly known as the Church Committee (after its chairman, Idaho Senator Frank Church), brought to public attention in 1975.

10. Dick, A Scanner Darkly, 64.

11. Ibid., 209.

12. Ibid.

13. Ibid., 158.

14. Ibid., 160.

NOTES

193

15. Ibid., 152.

16. Ibid., 155.

17. Ibid., 156.

18. Ibid., 157.

19. Ibid.

20. Ibid.

21. Ibid., 235.

22. Ibid., 186. The emphasis is Dick’s.

23. Ibid., 187.

24. Ibid., 188.

25. Ibid., 173–74.

26. Ibid., 275.

27. Ibid., 185.

28. Sean Axmaker, ‘‘Unsettling Scanner Tends to Lose Its Way,’’ review of A Scanner Darkly (Warner Independent movie), Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 7 July 2006.

Seattlepi.com, 10 July 2006. http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/movies/276715_scan ner07q.html.

29. Owen Gleiberman, ‘‘A Scanner Darkly,’’ review of A Scanner Darkly (Warner Independent movie), Entertainment Weekly, 23 July 2006. EW.com, 24 July 2006.

http://www.ew.com/ew/article/review/movie/0,6115,1210208_1_0_,00.html.

CONCLUSION

1. Paul M. Sammon, Future Noir: The Making of Blade Runner (New York: HarperPrism, 1996), 285.

2. The most thorough discussion of Total Recall 2070 can be found in the tenth chapter of Brian J. Robb’s Counterfeit Worlds (pages 200–25). At press time, the two-hour pilot is the only episode available on DVD, meaning that only the few Showtime subscribers who watched the entire series during its initial broadcast run (January 5–June 8, 1999) have seen its twenty-two episodes. Total Recall 2070’s reputation has grown over the years, principally because its detective-of-the-future format, android characters, and dense production design are far more reminiscent of Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner than Paul Verhoeven’s Total Recall.

3. Gregg Rickman, Philip K. Dick: In His Own Words (1984; Long Beach: Fragments West/Valentine Press, 1988), 219.

4. See the sixteenth chapter of Robb’s book, pages 286–93, for additional information about pending Dick options and productions. The announcement of Giamatti’s untitled biopic can be found on PhilipKDick.com, the author’s official Web site, at http://www.philipkdick.com/media_pr-060808.html. As of August 8, 2006, Tony Grisoni had been hired to write the film’s screenplay, while Giamatti’s production company (Touchy Feely Films) was scheduled to collaborate with Anonymous Content to produce the movie.

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Films Cited

Abre los ojos (Open Your Eyes). Directed by Alejandro Amena´bar. Screenplay by Alejandro Amena´bar and Mateo Gil. 117 min. Canal+Espan

˜a, 1997.

Alien. Directed by Ridley Scott. Screenplay by Dan O’Bannon. Story by Dan O’Bannon and Ronald Shusett. 117 min. 20th Century Fox, 1979.

Aliens. Directed by James Cameron. Screenplay by James Cameron. Story by James Cameron, David Giler, and Walter Hill, based on characters created by Dan O’Bannon and Ronald Shusett. 137 min. 20th Century Fox, 1986.

All Quiet on the Western Front. Directed by Lewis Milestone. Screenplay by Maxwell Anderson and George Abbott, from the novel Im Westen nichts Neues (All Quiet on the Western Front). 138 min. Universal Pictures, 1930.

Being John Malkovich. Directed by Spike Jonze. Screenplay by Charlie Kaufman.

112 min. Gramercy Pictures, 1999.

Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey. Directed by Peter Hewitt. Screenplay by Chris Matheson and Ed Solomon. 92 min. Orion Pictures Corporation, 1991.

Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Directed by Stephen Herek. Screenplay by Chris Matheson and Ed Solomon. 90 min. De Laurentiis Entertainment Group, 1989.

Blade Runner: The Director’s Cut. Directed by Ridley Scott. Screenplay by Hampton Fancher and David Peoples, from the novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

by Philip K. Dick.

Blow. Directed by Ted Demme. Screenplay by David McKenna and Nick Cassavetes, from the book Blow: How a Smalltown Boy Made $100 Million with the Medellin Cocaine Cartel and Lost It All by Bruce Porter. 124 min. New Line Cinema, 2001.

Born on the Fourth of July. Directed by Oliver Stone. Screenplay by Oliver Stone and Ron Kovic, from the book Born on the Fourth of July by Ron Kovic. 145 min. Ixtlan Corporation, 1989.

Changing Lanes. Directed by Roger Michell. Screenplay by Chap Taylor and Michael Tolin. Story by Chap Taylor. 99 min. Paramount Pictures, 2002.

204

FILMS CITED

Clockwork Orange, A. Directed by Stanley Kubrick. Screenplay by Stanley Kubrick, from the novel A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. 136 min. Warner Bros.

Pictures, 1971.

Commando. Directed by Mark L. Lester. Screenplay by Steven E. de Souza. Story by Joseph Loeb III, Matthew Weisman, and Steven E. de Souza. 90 min. 20th Century Fox, 1985.

Conan the Barbarian. Directed by John Milius. Screenplay by John Milius and Oliver Stone, from the character created by Robert E. Howard. 129 min. Dino De Laurentiis Productions and Universal Pictures, 1982.

Conan the Destroyer. Directed by Richard Fleischer. Screenplay by Stanley Mann.

Story by Roy Thomas and Gerry Conway, from the character created by Robert E. Howard. 103 min. De Laurentiis Productions, 1984.

Confessions d’un Barjo. Directed by Jeŕoˆme Boivin. Screenplay by Jeŕoˆme Boivin and Jacques Audiard. 85 min. France 3 Cine´ma, 1992.

Dark City. Directed by Alex Proyas. Screenplay by Alex Proyas, Lem Dobbs, and David S. Goyer. 100 min. New Line Cinema, 1998.

The Day the Earth Stood Still. Directed by Robert Wise. Screenplay by Edmund H. North, from a story by Harry Bates. 92 minutes. 20th Century Fox, 1951.

Dazed and Confused. Directed by Richard Linklater. Screenplay by Richard Linklater.

103 min. Alphaville Films, 1993.

Dr. No. Directed by Terence Young. Screenplay by Richard Maibaum, Johanna Harwood, and Berkley Mather, from the novel Doctor No by Ian Fleming.

110 min. EON Productions, 1962.

EdTV. Directed by Ron Howard. Screenplay by Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Manel, from the screenplay Louis 19, le roi des ondes by E

´ mile Gaudreault and Sylvie

Bouchard. 122 min. Imagine Entertainment, 1999.

Escape from New York. Directed by John Carpenter. Screenplay by John Carpenter and Nick Castle. 99 min. AVCO Embassy Pictures, 1981.

E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. Directed by Steven Spielberg. Screenplay by Melissa Mathison. 115 min. Amblin Entertainment and Universal Pictures, 1982.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Directed by Michel Gondry. Screenplay by Charlie Kaufman. Story by Charlie Kaufman, Michel Gondry, and Pierre Bismuth. 108
min. Focus Features, 2004.

eXistenZ. Directed by David Cronenberg. Screenplay by David Cronenberg. 97 min.

Alliance Atlantis Communications, 1999.

Eyes Wide Shut. Directed by Stanley Kubrick. Screenplay by Stanley Kubrick and Frederic Raphael, from the novel Traumnovelle by Arthur Schnitzler. 159 min.

Warner Bros. Pictures, 1999.

Face/Off. Directed by John Woo. Screenplay by Mike Werb and Michael Colleary.

138 min. Paramount Pictures and Touchstone Pictures, 1997.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Screenplay by Terry Gilliam, Tony Grisoni, Tod Davies, and Alex Cox, from the book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson. 118 min. Universal Pictures, 1998.

Fight Club. Directed by David Fincher. Screenplay by Jim Uhls, from the novel Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. 139 min. Fox 2000 Pictures, 1999.

FILMS CITED

205

The Game. Directed by David Fincher. Screenplay by John D. Brancato and Michael Ferris. 128 min. Polygram Filmed Entertainment, 1997.

Gattaca. Directed by Andrew Niccol. Screenplay by Andrew Niccol. 101 min.

Columbia Pictures Corporation, 1997.

The Gift. Directed by Sam Raimi. Screenplay by Billy Bob Thornton and Tom Epperson. 112 min. Paramount Classics, 2000.

Hard-Boiled (Laat sau sen taan). Directed by John Woo. Screenplay by Barry Wong.

Story by John Woo. 126 min. Golden Princess Film Production Limited and Milestone Pictures, 1992.

Impostor: Director’s Cut. Directed by Gary Fleder. Adaptation by Scott Rosenberg.

Screenplay by Caroline Case and Ehren Kruger and David Twohy, from the short story ‘‘Impostor’’ by Philip K. Dick. 102 minutes. Dimension Films, 2002. Digital Video Disc.

Interview with the Vampire. Directed by Neil Jordan. Screenplay by Anne Rice, from the novel Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice. 123 min. Geffen Pictures, 1994.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Directed by Don Siegel. Screenplay by David Mainwar-ing, from the novel Body Snatchers by Jack Finney. 80 min. Allied Artists Pictures, 1956.

Jacob’s Ladder. Directed by Adrian Lyne. Screenplay by Bruce Joel Rubin. 115 min.

Carolco Pictures, 1990.

Jerry Maguire. Directed by Cameron Crowe. Screenplay by Cameron Crowe.

139 min. TriStar Pictures, 1996.

The Killer (Dip hyut shueng hung). Directed by John Woo. Screenplay by John Woo.

111 min. Golden Princess Film Production Limited, 1989.

The Lawnmower Man. Directed by Brett Leonard. Screenplay by Brett Leonard and Gimel Everett. 107 min. New Line Cinema, 1992.

Logan’s Run. Directed by Michael Anderson. Screenplay by David Zelig Goodman, from the novel Logan’s Run by William F. Nolan and George Clayton Johnson.

118 min. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1976.

Magnolia. Directed by Paul Thomas Anderson. Screenplay by Paul Thomas Anderson.

188 min. New Line Cinema, 1999.

The Man Who Fell to Earth. Directed by Nicholas Roeg. Screenplay by Paul Mayers-berg, from the novel The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis. 138 min. British Lion Film Corporation, 1976.

The Matrix. Directed by Larry and Andy Wachowski. Screenplay by Larry and Andy Wachowski. 136 min. Warner Bros. Pictures, 1999.

The Matrix Reloaded. Directed by Larry and Andy Wachowski. Screenplay by Larry and Andy Wachowski. 138 min. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2003.

The Matrix Revolutions. Directed by Larry and Andy Wachowski. Screenplay by Larry and Andy Wachowski. 129 min. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2003.

Minority Report. Directed by Steven Spielberg. Screenplay by Scott Frank and Jon Cohen, from the short story ‘‘The Minority Report’’ by Philip K. Dick.

146 min. DreamWorks SKG and 20th Century Fox, 2002.

Mission: Impossible II. Directed by John Woo. Screenplay by Robert Towne. Story by Brannan Braga and Ronald D. Moore, from the television series created by Bruce Geller. 123 min. Paramount Pictures, 2000.

206

FILMS CITED

My Own Private Idaho. Directed by Gus Van Sant. Screenplay by Gus Van Sant.

102 min. New Line Cinema, 1991.

North by Northwest. Directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Screenplay by Ernest Lehman.

136 min. MGM, 1959.

On the Edge of ‘‘Blade Runner.’’ Directed by Andrew Abbott. Written by Mark Kermode. 52 min. British Broadcasting Corporation, 2000. Television documentary.

Parenthood. Directed by Ron Howard. Screenplay by Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel. Story by Lowell Ganz, Babaloo Mandel, and Ron Howard. 124 min.

Imagine Entertainment, 1989.

Predator. Directed by John McTiernan. Screenplay by Jim Thomas and John Thomas.

107 min. 20th Century Fox, 1987.

Pumping Iron. Directed by George Butler and Robert Fiore. Screenplay by George Butler, from the book Pumping Iron: The Art and Sport of Bodybuilding by William R. Gaines and Charles Gaines. 85 min. White Mountain Films, 1977.

Rain Man. Directed by Barry Levinson. Screenplay by Ronald Bass and Barry Morrow. Story by Barry Morrow. 133 min. Guber-Peters Company, 1988.

Rambo: First Blood Part II. Directed by George P. Cosmatos. Screenplay by Sylvester Stallone and James Cameron. Story by Kevin Jarre, from the character created by David Morrell. 94 min. Carolco Pictures, 1985.

Raw Deal. Directed by John Irvin. Screenplay by Gary DeVore and Norman Wexler.

Story by Luciano Vincenzoni and Sergio Donati. 97 min. De Laurentiis Entertainment Group, 1986.

Read My Lips (Sur Mes Levres). Directed by Jacques Audiard. Screenplay by Jacques Audiard and Tonino Benacquista. 115 min. Se´dif Productions, 2001.

Rear Window. Directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Screenplay by John Michael Hayes, from the short story ‘‘It Had to Be Murder’’ by Cornell Woolrich. 112 min.

Paramount Pictures, 1954.

Requiem for a Dream. Directed by Darren Aronofsky. Screenplay by Darren Aronofsky and Hubert Selby, Jr., from the book Requiem for a Dream by Hubert Selby, Jr. 102 min. Artisan Entertainment, 2000.

Risky Business. Directed by Paul Brickman. Screenplay by Paul Brickman. 98 min.

Geffen Pictures, 1983.

RoboCop. Directed by Paul Verhoeven. Screenplay by Edward Neumeier and Michael Miner. 102 min. Orion Pictures, 1987.

A Scanner Darkly. Directed by Richard Linklater. Screenplay by Richard Linklater, from the novel A Scanner Darkly by Philip K. Dick. 100 min. Warner Independent Pictures, 2006.

Screamers. Directed by Christian Duguay. Screenplay by Dan O’Bannon and Miguel Tejada-Flores, from the short story ‘‘Second Variety’’ by Philip K. Dick.

108 min. Triumph Films, 1996. Digital Video Disc.

The Sixth Sense. Directed by M. Night Shyamalan. Screenplay by M. Night Shyamalan.

107 min. Spyglass Entertainment, 1999.

Slacker. Directed by Richard Linklater. Screenplay by Richard Linklater. 97 min.

Detour Filmproduction, 1991.

Soldier. Directed by Paul W.S. Anderson. Screenplay by David Webb Peoples. 99 min.

Warner Bros. Pictures, 1998.

FILMS CITED

207

Solo. Directed by Norberto Barba. Screenplay by David L. Corley, from the novel Weapon by Robert Mason. 94 min. Van Peebles Films, 1996.

Speed. Directed by Jan de Bont. Screenplay by Graham Yost. 116 min. 20th Century Fox, 1994.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Directed by Nicholas Meyer. Screenplay by Jack B. Sowards. Story by Jack B. Sowards and Harve Bennett, based on the television series Star Trek created by Gene Roddenberry. 113 min. Paramount Pictures, 1982.

Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace. Directed by George Lucas. Screenplay by George Lucas. 133 min. Lucasfilm, Ltd., 1999.

Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones. Directed by George Lucas. Screenplay by George Lucas and Jonathan Hales. Story by George Lucas. 142 min. Lucasfilm, Ltd., 2002.

Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. Directed by George Lucas. Screenplay by George Lucas. 140 min. Lucasfilm, Ltd., 2005.

Star Wars: Episode IV: A New Hope. Directed by George Lucas. Screenplay by George Lucas. 121 min. 20th Century Fox and Lucasfilm Ltd., 1977.

Star Wars: Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back. Directed by Irvin Kershner. Screenplay by Lawrence Kasdan and Leigh Brackett. Story by George Lucas. 124 min. Lucasfilm Ltd., 1980.

Star Wars: Episode VI: Return of the Jedi. Directed by Richard Marquand. Screenplay by Lawrence Kasdan and George Lucas. Story by George Lucas. 134 min. 20th Century Fox and Lucasfilm Ltd., 1983.

Stay Hungry. Directed by Bob Rafelson. Screenplay by Bob Rafelson and Charles Gaines, from the novel Stay Hungry by Charles Gaines. 102 min. Outov Productions, 1976.

Strange Days. Directed by Kathryn Bigelow. Screenplay by James Cameron and Jay Cocks. Story by James Cameron. 145 min. Lightstorm Entertainment, 1995.

Strangers on a Train. Directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Screenplay by Raymond Chan-dler and Czenzi Ormonde. Adaptation by Whitfield Cook, from the novel Strangers on a Train by Patricia Highsmith. 101 min. Warner Bros. Pictures, 1951.

SubUrbia. Directed by Richard Linklater. Screenplay by Eric Bogosian, from the play SubUrbia by Eric Bogosian. 121 min. Castle Rock Entertainment, 1996.

The Sum of All Fears. Directed by Phil Alden Robinson. Screenplay by Paul Attanasio and Daniel Pyne, from the novel The Sum of All Fears by Tom Clancy. 124 min.

Paramount Pictures and Mace Neufeld Productions, 2002.

The Terminator. Directed by James Cameron. Screenplay by James Cameron and Gale Anne Hurd. 108 min. Orion Pictures, 1984.

Terminator 2: Judgment Day. Directed by James Cameron. Screenplay by James Cameron and William Wisher, Jr. 137 min. Carolco Pictures, 1991.

Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. Directed by Jonathan Mostow. Screenplay by John Brancato and Michael Ferris. Story by John Brancato, Michael Ferris, and Tedi Sarafian, based on characters created by James Cameron and Gale Anne Hurd.

102 min. C-2 Pictures, 2003.

They Live. Directed by John Carpenter. Screenplay by John Carpenter, from the short story ‘‘Eight O’Clock in the Morning’’ by Ray Faraday Nelson. 93 min. Alive Films, 1988.

208

FILMS CITED

The Thing. Directed by John Carpenter. Screenplay by Bill Lancaster, from the short story ‘‘Who Goes There?’’ by John W. Campbell. 109 min. Universal Pictures, 1982.

The Thing from Another World. Directed by Christian Nyby. Screenplay by Charles Lederer, from the short story ‘‘Who Goes There?’’ by John W. Campbell.

87 min. RKO Radio Pictures, 1951.

Things to Come. Directed by William Cameron Menzies. Screenplay by H.G. Wells, from the novel The Shape of Things to Come by H.G. Wells. 100 min. London Film Productions, 1936.

The Thirteenth Floor. Directed by Josef Rusnak. Screenplay by Josef Rusnak and Ravel Centeno-Rodriguez, from the novel Simulacron 3 by Daniel F. Galouye. 100 min.

Centropolis Film Productions, 1999.

3 Women. Directed by Robert Altman. Screenplay by Robert Altman. 124 min. Lions Gate Films, 1977.

Total Recall: Special Edition. Directed by Paul Verhoeven. Screenplay by Ronald Shusett & Dan O’Bannon and Gary Goldman. Screen Story by Ronald Shusett & Dan O’Bannon and Jon Povill, from the short story ‘‘We Can Remember It for You Wholesale’’ by Philip K. Dick. 113 min. Carolco, 1990. Digital Video Disc.

The Truman Show. Directed by Peter Weir. Screenplay by Andrew Niccol. 103 min.

Paramount Pictures, 1998.

12 Monkeys. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Screenplay by David Webb Peoples and Janet Peoples, from the screenplay La Jeteé by Chris Marker. 129 min. Universal Pictures, 1995.

Universal Soldier. Directed by Roland Emmerich. Screenplay by Richard Rothstein, Christopher Leitch, and Dean Devlin. 103 min. Carolco Pictures, 1992.

Vanilla Sky. Directed by Cameron Crowe. Screenplay by Cameron Crowe, from the screenplay Abre Los Ojos by Alejandro Amena´bar and Mateo Gil. 136 min. Artisan Entertainment, 2001.

Videodrome. Directed by David Cronenberg. Screenplay by David Cronenberg.

89 min. Universal Pictures, 1983.

Virtuosity. Directed by Brett Leonard. Screenplay by Eric Bernt. 106 min. Paramount Pictures, 1995.

Waking Life. Directed by Richard Linklater. Screenplay by Richard Linklater. 99 min.

Fox Searchlight Pictures, 2001.

War of the Worlds. Directed by Steven Spielberg. Screenplay by Josh Friedman and David Koepp, from the novel The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells. 116 min.

DreamWorks SKG and Paramount Pictures, 2005.

X2: X-Men United. Directed by Bryan Singer. Screenplay by Michael Dougherty, Dan Harris, and David Hayter. Story by Zak Penn, David Hayter, and Bryan Singer.

133 min. 20th Century Fox, 2003.

Zardoz. Directed by John Boorman. Screenplay by John Boorman. 105 min.

20th Century Fox, 1974.

Index

Aames, David (Vanilla Sky), 140

Alpha Centauri, 97

Abendsen, Hawthorne, xvi

Alternate Americas: Science Fiction

Abrahams, Donald (A Scanner Darkly

Film and American Culture (Booker
film), 171
book), 11

Abre los ojos (Ameńabar film), 176

Altman, Robert, xv

‘‘Adjustment Team’’ (Dick short

Alu Leroy (Confessions d’un Barjo),
story), 179

65

Affleck, Ben, 144–46, 150, 152–53,

Amena´bar, Alejandro, 176

179

America: A Prophecy (Blake poem),

Agatha (Minority Report film), 117,

24

122–23, 128–29, 134–36, 139–40

Amis, Kingsley, 187 n.1

A.I.: Artificial Intelligence (Spielberg Anaheim Lions Club (A Scanner
film), 133

Darkly novel), 156

Alamogordo, New Mexico, 107

Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Frye Alien (Scott film), 44, 184 n.13
book), 4

Alien Love Trilogy (Impostor), 100. See Anders, Leif, 168
also Light Years Trilogy

Anderson, Michael, 110

Aliens (Cameron film), 44

Anderson, Paul W.S., 177

AllCom (Paycheck), 145–46, 148, 150,

Anderson, Thomas (The Matrix

152

Trilogy), 176

Alleva, Richard, 184 n.12

Anderton, John (Minority Report film),

The Alliance (Screamers), 80–88, 90–

112, 117, 118, 120–29, 132–40,

93

148, 152

All Movie Guide, 189 n.11

Anderton, John (‘‘The Minority

All Quiet on the Western Front

Report’’ short story), 118–22, 124,

(Milestone film), xv

129–31, 191 n.45, 192 n.46

All Quiet on the Western Front

Anderton, Lara (Minority Report film),

(Remarque novel), xv

122, 129, 134–35, 137, 152

210

INDEX

Anderton, Lisa (‘‘The Minority

Battlestar Galactica (Moore television

Report’’ short story), 119, 126,
series), 177

130–31

Batty, Roy (Blade Runner), 9, 12,

Anderton, Sean (Minority Report film),

22–26, 37, 93

122, 125, 129, 134–35, 138–39

Baty, Irmgard (Do Androids Dream of
androids, 5, 7, 10, 14–19, 25, 177,

Electric Sheep?), 16–18, 24

193 n.2

Baty, Roy (Do Androids Dream of

Anonymous Content, 193 n.4

Electric Sheep?), 16–18

Anteil, Gwen (Confessions of a Crap

Becker (Screamers), 81, 89–94

Artist), 63, 64, 71

Beckett, Dr. Sam (Quantum Leap),

Anteil, Nathan (Confessions of a Crap

54

Artist), 60, 61, 63, 64, 68, 69, 71

Being John Malkovich (Jonze film), 177
apartheid, 40

Bell, Marshall, 47
aphids, 158–60

Bellisario, Donald P., xiv

Apostolides, Kleo, xv, 64

Benny (Total Recall), 42, 43, 46, 47,

ARC Corporation (Paycheck), 152

50

Arctor, Bob (A Scanner Darkly film),

Beresford, Bruce, 48, 50

157, 160–69

Berlin Wall, 79

Arctor, Bob (A Scanner Darkly novel),

Berman, Bertram, xv, 16

155–56, 160–61, 164–66, 169–73

Berman, Pat, 2, 4, 182 n.2

‘‘Arnoldian Humanism, or Amnesia

Bernbaum, Paul, 178
and Autobiography in the

Berynium, 80–82, 84–85, 87–88

Schwarzenegger Action Film’’

Bible, 8, 23

(Grady article), 39

Bigelow, Kathryn, 176

Aronofsky, Darren, 156

Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey (Herek

Arthur (Minority Report), 123, 129
film), 161

Ashcroft, John, 133

Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure

As I Lay Dying (Faulkner novel), 58

(Hewitt film), 160

Audiard, Jacques, 57, 58, 61, 64, 73,

Binder, Mike, 122, 139–40

116, 158

Blade Runner (Scott film), xi–xii, xvi–

Axmaker, Sean, 172
xviii, 3–4, 7–8, 10–11, 13–18, 23–

24, 26–27, 29, 32–33, 37, 52, 58,

Babbitt, Charlie (Rain Man), 140

77–78, 80–81, 87, 93–97, 100,

‘‘Baby, the Rain Must Fall’’ (Kael film 104–5, 108, 110, 113, 115, 117–18,
review), 4

126–28, 143, 146, 148, 153, 157–

Bach, Johann Sebastian, 132

58, 170, 172–73, 177–80, 182 n.12,

Bakula, Scott, 54

193 n.2; budget, 2; depiction of

Balsam, Martin, 16
sexuality, 19–22; Director’s Cut, 5,

Baltimore, Maryland, 122, 137

12, 25; final gross, 2; initial gross, 2; Barba, Norberto, 177

Philip K. Dick’s initial reaction to,

Barjo (Confessions d’un Barjo), 58, 59, xv; premiere, xv; spiritual subtext, 9; 61–68, 71–73

Terry Rawlings’s first assembly of, 1;

Barksdale, Donnie (The Gift), 161
theatrical release, 6, 175

Barris, Jim (A Scanner Darkly film),

Blake, William, 24

159–60, 162–64, 167–68, 170, 172

Blake’s 7 (Nation television series),

Barris, Jim (A Scanner Darkly novel),

177

155–56

Blow (Demme film), 156

Basinger, Kim, 30

Boa, Bruce, 83

INDEX

211

Bohringer, Richard, 58, 59, 63–65, 69,

Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 192

70, 72
n.9

Boivin, Jeŕoˆme, 57–59, 61, 63–65, 67–

Chancellor (Impostor), 98, 101–3, 106,

69, 71–73, 144, 158

112

Bond, James, xii

Changing Lanes (Michell film), 144

Booker, M. Keith, 11, 76–77

Charles (Confessions d’un Barjo), 58–

‘‘Boom Boom’’ (Hooker song), 101

59, 61–73

Boorman, John, 110

Chase, Melody, 161

Born on the Fourth of July (Stone film), Cheers (Burrows, Charles, and Charles

140
television series), 168

Bounty hunter, 10, 14, 17

Chew (Blade Runner), 24, 26

Boutefeu, Nathalie, 58

‘‘Chickenhead’’ (Do Androids Dream

Boyd, Woody (Cheers), 168
of Electric Sheep?), 1

Bradshaw, Peter, 98, 105

Chip, Joe (Ubik), 136

Bray, Hiawatha, 4

Christ, Jesus, 8

Bridges, Jeff, 48

Christian Century, 134

Brochet, Anne, 58, 59, 61

Christianity, 25

Brocksmith, Roy, 99–100

Christianity Today, 4

Brooks, Golden, 110

Christie, Agatha, 123

Brown, Attorney General (Paycheck),

Church Committee, 192 n.9. See also

150

United States Senate Select

Bryant, Captain (Blade Runner), 10–

Committee to Study Governmental

12, 14, 17, 19, 22, 25–26

Operations with Respect to

Burgess, Lamar (Minority Report), 120,

Intelligence Activities

129, 131–35, 139, 140

Church, Frank, 192 n.9

Bush, George H.W., 79, 176, 186 n.33

CimCode (Impostor), 111, 113

Bush, George W., 134, 159, 176, 192

Cinefantastique, 50, 184 n.1, 186 n.32
n.9

Clancy, Tom, 144

Clarke, Dameon, 166

Cage, Nicolas, 178

Claws, 76–77, 80, 86, 89–90, 94

Calavicci, Al (Quantum Leap), 54

Clinton, Bill, 176

Cale (Impostor), 98, 108–13

A Clockwork Orange (Kubrick film),

Caloz, Michael, 89

137

Cameron, James, 44, 48, 177

Close Encounters of the Third Kind

Campus, Michael, 188 n.7

(Spielberg film), 184 n.13

Carolco Pictures, 184 n.1

Cobb, Ron, 184 n.13

Carone, Dr. (Impostor), 98, 107, 112

Cochrane, Rory, 158–59, 167–68,

Carpenter, John, 1, 110, 176

170

Carter, Chris, 177

Cohaagen, Vilos (Total Recall), 34, 36–

Carter, Jimmy, 176

44, 46–47, 50–53, 80

Case, Caroline, 100

Cohen, Jon, xii, 116, 118, 120, 122–

Cassidy, Joanna, 19

25, 133

Cavalier, Jason, 83

Cohen, Larry, xiv

Centauri, 98–103, 106–8, 110, 112–

Cold War, 75, 78–82, 94–95, 98–100,

13

104, 109

Centaurus X (‘‘The Minority Report’’),
colonialism, 31, 38, 40, 46

130

Commando (Lester film), 39

Centennial Olympic Park, 105

Commonweal, 184 n.12

212

INDEX

Communism, 39, 79, 107

Dazed and Confused (Linklater film),

Conan the Barbarian (Milius film), 48

160

Conan the Destroyer (Fleischer film), 48
de Large, Alex (A Clockwork Orange),

Confessions of a Crap Artist (Dick

137
novel), 57–61, 63–68, 71–73, 158

De Laurentiis, Dino, 48

Confessions d’un Barjo (Boivin film), xi, Dead Zone (Impostor), 108–13, 126–
xiv, xvi–xvii, 57–73, 96, 117, 144,

27, 191 n.45

153, 158, 179–80

Deckard, Iran (Do Androids Dream of

Congress, 79

Electric Sheep?), 11, 18, 24

Connie (A Scanner Darkly film), 164,

Deckard, Rick, 3–4, 7, 9, 10–14, 16–

169, 170

24, 27, 93, 127, 148; as replicant in

Connie (A Scanner Darkly novel), 164,

Blade Runner, 25–26, 183 n.48;

169
spiritual awakening in Blade Runner,

Connor, Sarah (The Terminator), 44

5; spiritual awakening in Do

Conservatism, 32, 39, 41

Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?,

‘‘The Contradictions of Minority

15; voiceover narration in Blade

Report’’ (Cooper article), 118

Runner, 5

Cooper, Mark Garrett, 118, 137

‘‘The Defenders’’ (Dick short story),

Cooper, Marshall Richard (Screamers),

176, 187 n.1

84–86, 93

Demme, Ted, 156

Corliss, Richard, 4, 10, 30, 115, 126,

Department of Containment (Minority

184 n.9

Report), 129, 132, 134–36

Cortez, Bernie, 67

‘‘Development hell,’’ xii

Costanzo, Robert, 34

Devine, Michael, 88

Counterfeit Worlds: Philip K. Dick on

Dick, Philip K., xi–xiv, xvii–xviii, 3, 5, Film (Robb book), xiv, 179, 181

8–11, 14, 18, 21, 24, 29, 31, 33, 38,
n.3, 186 n.32, 189 n.11, 193 n.2

41, 48, 49, 51–52, 54–55, 57–60,

Cox, Ronny, 34, 40, 43

62–65, 67–72, 75–77, 79–84, 86–

Creative Screenwriting, 122, 133

90, 92, 94–105, 108–9, 113, 115,

Cronenberg, David, 177

118–20, 122–23, 125–32, 134, 136,

Cronenweth, Jordan, 20, 26

140, 141, 143–48, 150–51, 153,

Crouse, Lindsay, 101

155–67, 170–73, 176–80, 181 n.3,

Crow, Ashley, 121

182 n.12, 187 n.1, 191 n.34, 193

Crow, Leo, 122–23, 129, 132, 134,
n.4; attitude toward Hollywood,

139
xvi; death, xv, 16, 25, 175; initial

Crowe, Cameron, 176
reaction to Blade Runner, xv; reads

Cruise, Tom, 112, 117–18, 120–22,

Blade Runner screenplays, 6; sexist

124–25, 133, 135–36, 138–40, 179
portrayal of women, 44; views

Cruise/Wagner Productions, 179
twenty minutes of Blade Runner

Cylons (Battlestar Galactica), 177
footage, 6, 175

Dickman, Matthew, 123

Danner, Renaud, 58

Dickman, Michael, 123

Dark City (Proyas film), 177

Dimension Films, 100. 188 n.1, 189

Dashiell (Minority Report), 123
n.11

David (Screamers), 89, 91, 96

Dimoff, Eleanor, 44, 61

David (‘‘Second Variety’’), 77

Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K.

The Day the Earth Stood Still (Wise

Dick (Sutin biography), xi–xii, 65,
film), 79

181 n.3, 185 n.29, 187 n.1

INDEX

213

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

Entertainment Weekly, 172

(Dick novel), 1, 3, 5–6, 8–10, 11,

Epstein, Klaus (‘‘Second Variety’’), 77, 14–19, 21–22, 24, 118, 158, 162,

89–91

172, 177

Ernie (Total Recall), 53

Doctor Who (Newman television series),

Escape from New York (Carpenter film),

105, 177

110

Dodge, FBI Agent (Paycheck), 144–45,

Estudios Chrubusco, 32

148–49

E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (Spielberg

Donna (‘‘The Minority Report’’), 122,
film), 1

130

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

D’Onofrio, Vincent, 98, 101, 191 n.45

(Gondry film), 177

Douglas, Jason, 170

Eye in the Sky (Dick novel), 176

Downey, Robert, Jr., 159, 163, 167,

Eyes Wide Shut (Kubrick film), 140

170
eXistenZ (Cronenberg film), 177

Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan, 123

Dr. No (Young film), xii

Fabin, Jerry (A Scanner Darkly novel),

Dreyfuss, Richard, 48

158–59

Dubin, Donald (Minority Report), 121,

Face/Off (Woo film), 152

126

Fancher, Hampton, 5, 58, 158

Ducsay, Bob, 107

Fanfan (Confessions d’un Barjo), 58–59, Duguay, Christian, 78–79, 81, 87, 90,

61–73

92, 95–96, 98, 100, 144

Farrell, Colin, 120–21

Dunne National Bank (‘‘Paycheck’’),

Fascism, 39, 123

149

Fatal Attraction (Lyne film), 44

Dunne, Rita (Paycheck), 152

Faulkner, William, 58

Dunsmore, Rosemary, 35

Favor, Scott (My Own Private Idaho),

Dupuis, Roy, 81, 89–92, 97

161

Dutch East India Company, 40

Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI),

144–45, 148–49, 192 n.9

Earth Security Agency (Impostor), 98,

Feminism, 45

101, 102, 110, 113

Feore, Colm, 145

Ebert, Roger, 2, 78, 87, 116–17

Ferguson, Chamblee, 162–63

Eckhart, Aaron, 145, 148

Ferrand, Deak, 88

Eddie, Dr. Solomon (Minority Report),

Fight Club (Fincher film), 177

134, 137–38

Film Adaptation (Naremore

Edelstein, David, 134–36
anthology), xvi

Edgemar, Dr. (Total Recall), 52–54

Film Comment, 11, 118, 185 n.21

EdTV (Howard film), 177
film noir, 10, 126

‘‘Ego Trip’’ (Total Recall), 52

Film Quarterly, 32

Einstein, Albert, 108

Fincher, David, 177

Eisenhower, Dwight D., 81–82, 109

Fleder, Gary, 97–98, 100, 104–5, 107–

Elbarak, Chuck (Screamers), 83–85,

11, 126, 144, 191 n.45

92–95

Fleming, Ian, xii

Emmerich, Roland, 177

Fletcher, Gordon (Minority Report),
empathy box (Do Androids Dream of

121, 138

Electric Sheep?), 7–10, 18

Florence, Bill, 32, 184 n.1, 186 n.32

The Empire Strikes Back (Kershner

Flow My Tears the Policeman Said (Dick
film), 126
novel), 179

214

INDEX

Flynn, John L., 182 n.2

Goldman, Gary, 178

Ford, Gerald, 176

Goldsmith, Jerry, 37

Ford, Harrison, 3–4, 11, 13–14, 19,

Gondry, Michel, 177

21, 25–26, 50

Goodsen, Joel (Risky Business), 140

The 4400 (Peters and Echevarria

Gorin, Jean-Pierre, xiv–xv
television series), 177

Gorrara, Perri, 78

The Fountainhead (Rand novel), 168

Grady, Frank, 39–42, 46, 48, 51, 53,

The 4th Man (Verhoeven film), 30

186 n.33

Frank, Scott, xiii, 116, 118, 120, 122–

Grant, Cary, 191 n.46

25, 133

Gravett, Sharon L., 23, 26

Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus

Green, Secretary (Screamers), 83–85,

(Shelley novel), xi

87

Freck, Charles (A Scanner Darkly film), Gretsch, Joel, 121

158–60, 163–64, 167–68, 170, 172

Grisoni, Tony, 193 n.4

Freck, Charles (A Scanner Darkly

Gross, Arye, 121
novel), 158, 168–69

Guinee, Tim, 98, 107

Friedman, Peter, 150

Gulf War, 79

Fries, Charles W., 77, 187 n.7

Gwen (Confessions d’un Barjo), 58, 62–

Frye, Northrop, 4

64, 68

Future Noir: The Making of ‘‘Blade

Runner’’ (Sammon book), 2, 5, 24–

Half-life (Ubik), 136

26, 183 n.48

Hall, Martin, 117

Hall, Michael C., 145

Gaff (Blade Runner), 11, 19, 25

‘‘Halo’’ (Minority Report), 129, 131,

Galen, Russell, 175

134, 136

The Game (Fincher film), 177

Hamilton, Linda, 44

Game of Ur, 88

Hammett, Dashiell, 123

Garland, Inspector (Do Androids

Hank (A Scanner Darkly film), 162,

Dream of Electric Sheep?), 14

166

Gattaca (Niccol film), 177

Hannah, Daryl, 9

Gazzara, Ben, 16

Hansen, Jessica (Screamers), 89–96

Geller, Bruce, xiv

Harcourt Brace & Company, 44, 61

Georgaris, Dean, 144, 146, 151–53

Hard-Boiled (Woo film), 152

George (Total Recall), 47

Hardboiled detective film, 10, 126

Giamatti, Paul, 144–45, 152, 179, 193

Harper, Jessica, 129
n.4

Harrelson, Woody, 160, 167–68, 170

Gibbons, Rodney, 78

Harris, Steve, 140

Gideon (Minority Report), 129, 132,

Harry (Total Recall), 34, 49

134–35

Harsh Realm (Carter television series), The Gift (Raimi film), 161

177

Gilliam, Terry, 156, 177

Hash pipe, 166

Girardot, Hippolyte, 58–59, 63

Hathaway, Major D.H. (Impostor), 98,

Gittes, Nelson (Impostor), 98, 101–3,

101–3, 106, 108–12, 191 n.45

106–7

Hauer, Rutger, 9, 23–25

Glass, Fred, 32, 104, 126, 178

Hauser (Total Recall), 34, 36–37, 40,

Gleiberman, Owen, 172

43, 45

‘‘The Golden Man’’ (Dick short story),

Hawthorne, Donna (A Scanner Darkly
xii
film), 160, 163–67, 169–70, 172

INDEX

215

Hawthorne, Donna (A Scanner Darkly

Internet Movie Database, 2, 184 n.1,
novel), 155–56, 165–66, 169

188 n.7, 190 n.8

Heat-ray gun, 91

Interplan Police Agency (‘‘We Can

Hendricks, Joseph (‘‘Second Variety’’), Remember It for You Wholesale’’),

76–78, 82–84, 86, 88, 90, 92, 94

36, 41, 49–51

Hendricksson, Joseph (Screamers), 78,
interpolated rotoscoping, 156–57,

80–96, 127

159, 161–62, 164

Hensleigh, Jonathan, 178

Interview with the Vampire (Jordan

Higgins, Tod (Parenthood), 161
film), 140

Highway to Heaven (Landon television

The Invaders (Cohen television series), series), xiv
xiv, 181 n.3

Hineman, Dr. Iris (Minority Report),

Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Siegel

123, 128, 131–34
film), 2, 3, 79

Hiroshima Mon Amour (Resnais film),

Ironside, Michael, 34

186 n.41

‘‘The Irony of Negative Reviews:

Hitchcock, Alfred, 138–39, 144, 191

Creating SF Cult Classics’’ (Flynn
n.45, 192 n.46
article), 182 n.2

Hoberman, J., 116, 128

Isidore, Jack (Confessions of a Crap

Holcomb, Mark, 143

Artist), 57–63, 67–68, 71

Holden (Blade Runner), 13

Isidore, John (Do Androids Dream
homogenization, 76
of Electric Sheep?), 6–11, 16,

Hong, James, 24

18

Hooker, John Lee, 101

‘‘It’s Morning Again in America,’’

House Un-American Activities Com-

39
mittee (HUAC), 82

Howard, Ron, 177

Jacob’s Ladder (Lyne film), 177

Hume, Charley (Confessions of a Crap

Jad (Minority Report), 140

Artist), 58–66, 68–72

James, Brion, 13

Hume, Fay (Confessions of a Crap

Jarry, Al (Do Androids Dream of

Artist), 58–66, 68–72

Electric Sheep?), 18

‘‘A Hunger Artist’’ (Kafka short story), Jefferson, Michael (Screamers), 85, 87–

11

91, 93

Hussein, Saddam, 79

Jeffords, Susan, 42

Jeffries, L.B. (Rear Window), 139

Illusion Entertainment, 179

Jennings, Michael (Paycheck), 144–46,
imperialism, 40, 51

148–53
implanted false memories, 12, 33, 105

Jennings, Michael (‘‘Paycheck’’), 147–

‘‘Impostor’’ (Dick short story), 97–99, 49

102, 104, 108–9, 113

Jerry (‘‘The Minority Report’’), 130

Impostor (Fleder film), xi, xiii, xvi–xvii, Jerry Maguire (Crowe film), 140

97–113, 117, 126–28, 134, 144,

‘‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’’ (Bach

153, 170, 179–80, 189 n.16, 191
composition), 132
n.45

Johnson, Lyndon B., 176

In His Own Words (Rickman book),

Jones, Tyler Patrick, 122
xiv, 182 n.12

Jonze, Spike, 177

In Search of Wonder: Essays in Modern

‘‘The Judgment’’ (Kafka short story),

Science Fiction (Knight book),

11

187 n.1

Jurassic Park (Spielberg film), 116

216

INDEX

Kaczynski, Theodore, 105. See also

Leone (Screamers), 83, 88

Unabomber

Lestat (Interview with the Vampire),

Kael, Pauline, 4

140

Kafka, Franz, 11–12

‘‘A Letter from Philip K. Dick February Kahn, Michael, 126

1, 1960,’’ 185 n.29

Kaminski, Janusz, 115–16, 128

Light Years Trilogy (Impostor), 100,

Kaplan, General Leopold (‘‘The

189 n.11. See also Alien Love Trilogy

Minority Report’’), 119, 129–31

Linklater, Richard, 144, 156–64, 166–

Kassar, Mario, 48

70, 172–73, 192 n.9

Kauffmann, Stanley, 2–4

‘‘Little people’’ (Blade Runner), 12

Kennedy, Harlan, 11

Lively, Anne (Minority Report), 129,

Kennedy, John F., 99, 176

132, 134

Kerman, Judith, 4–5

Logan, Ted (Bill and Ted’s Excellent

The Killer (Woo film), 152

Adventure), 160

Kimball, Jeffrey, 152

Logan’s Run (Anderson film), 105,

King, Stephen, xi

110

Kipple, 10, 162

Lolita (Nabokov novel), xi

Klawans, Stuart, 116

London, Daniel, 129

Klein, FBI Agent (Paycheck), 145, 149

London Guardian, 98, 105

Knell, David, 53

London Observer, 104

Knight, Damon, 187 n.1

‘‘Long 1950s,’’ 99

Komorowska, Liliana, 83

Lucas, George, 126, 178

Kovic, Ron, 140

Luckman, Ernie (A Scanner Darkly

Kroll, Jack, 4, 30
film), 160, 162, 167–68, 170

Kruger, Ehran, 100

Luckman, Ernie (A Scanner Darkly

Kuato (Total Recall), 30, 40, 42–43,
novel), 155–56

46–47

Luft, Luba (Do Androids Dream of

Kubrick, Stanley, 134, 137

Electric Sheep?), 15, 17–18

Kuljian, Anne, 128

Lull, Dr. (Total Recall), 35

Lycon (Minority Report), 124, 127

Lafarge, Anne, 61

Lyne, Adrian, 177

Lagerfelt, Caroline, 137

Landon, Michael, xiv

Mackey, Frank ‘‘T.J.’’ (Magnolia), 140

Landowska (Screamers), 83

Magnolia (Anderson film), 140

Lane, Anthony, 115, 126

Maguire, Jerry (Jerry Maguire), 140

Lang, Fritz, 4

The Man in the High Castle (Dick

LaSalle, Mick, 188 n.7
novel), xvi

The Last Resort (Total Recall), 42, 45, The Man Who Fell to Earth (Roeg film),

47
xv

Lauer, Andy, 85

Manhattan Project, 189 n.16

The Lawnmower Man (Leonard film),

Mariani, Louise-Laure, 67

177

Marin County, California, 61, 63

Lawrence, Bertell, 129

Marin County post office (Confessions of

‘‘Le Roi de L’Alu’’ (Confessions d’un
a Crap Artist), 63

Barjo), 65

Marks, Howard (Minority Report),

Lee, Gwen, xiv, 9

121, 126, 128

Leon (Blade Runner), 13, 19, 20, 26

Marks, Sarah (Minority Report), 121,

Leonard, Brett, 177

126

INDEX

217

Mars, 29, 32–37, 39, 41–44, 47, 50–

Minority Report (Spielberg film), xi–xii, 54, 80, 184 n.13, 185 n.13
xvi–xviii, 112, 115–41, 143–44,

Mars Hilton (Total Recall), 52

146, 148, 150, 152–53, 157–58,

Martian intelligence service (Total

170, 172–73, 178–80, 190 n.8, 191

Recall), 35
n.34

Martian resistance (Total Recall), 30,

Miramax, 100

38, 40, 42, 46

Misogyny, 33, 42, 45, 70

Masius, John, xiv

Mission: Impossible (Geller television

Maslin, Janet, 29–30, 42
series), xiv, 181 n.4

Masse´, Sylvain, 80

Mission: Impossible II (Woo film), 133, The Matrix Trilogy (Wachowski films),

148

161, 176

Mission Street Hall of Justice (Do

Maxer, Rudi (‘‘Second Variety’’), 77,

Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?),

89–91

14

Mayfair Market (Confessions of a Crap

Mizejewski, Linda, 40–41, 47–48

Artist), 64
molecular-core PET scan (Impostor),

McCarthyism, 98

110, 112

McClane (‘‘We Can Remember It for

Monsters, Mushroom Clouds, and the

You Wholesale’’), 33

Cold War: American Science Fiction

McDonough, Neal, 121
and the Roots of Postmodernism,

McDowell, Alex, 115, 128

1946–1964 (Booker book), 76, 99

McDowell, Malcolm, 137

‘‘More Human than Human’’ (Blade

McVane, Kelly (‘‘Paycheck’’), 149–50

Runner), 12, 26–27, 95

McVeigh, Timothy, 105

Morris, Ed (‘‘Sales Pitch’’), 191 n.34

Mead, Syd, 4

Morris, Kathryn, 122, 135, 140, 152

Melina (Total Recall), 30, 37, 42–45,

Morton, Joe, 144

47, 50, 54, 95

Morton, Samantha, 117, 122, 135, 140

Menzies, William Cameron, 126

Moses, 8

Mercer, Wilbur (Do Androids Dream of

Mulvey, Laura, 42

Electric Sheep?), 7–9, 18, 24

Murrah Federal Building (Oklahoma

Mercerism, 6, 8–10, 15, 18

City, Oklahoma), 105

The Metamorphosis (Kafka novella), 11–

My Own Private Idaho (Van Sant film),

12

161

Metropolis (Lang film), 4

Meyer, Nicholas, 1

Nabokov, Vladimir, xi

Michel (Confessions d’un Barjo), 58,

Naremore, James, xvi–xvii

60–64, 68–70

Nash, Vincent, 133

Michell, Roger, 144

Nation, 116

Milestone, Lewis, xv, 181 n.8

National Aeronautics and Space
military-industrial complex, 81

Administration (NASA), 184 n.13

Miller, Ron, 50

National Security Agency (NSA), 192

Milton, John, 23
n.9

Minasian, Armen, 107

Nelson (Impostor), 99–100, 102
minorities, ethnic and racial, 31, 41,

Nelson, Tim Blake, 129, 132, 140

46

Neo (The Matrix Trilogy), 161

‘‘The Minority Report’’ (Dick short

Neuroin (Minority Report), 122–24,
story), 115, 117–19, 121–32, 134,

129

136, 140

New Alamagordo (Screamers), 92–93

218

INDEX

‘‘New Bad Future,’’ 32, 104–5, 126–

Olham, Maya (Impostor), 98, 101–3,

27, 178

106–8, 110, 112–13, 189 n.16

‘‘New Bad Present,’’ 178

Olmos, Edward James, 11

New Brutalism, 32

Omnicillin (Impostor), 113

New Economic Block (Screamers), 80–

‘‘On Dangerous Ground’’

87, 89, 93, 127

(Wilmington article), 185 n.21

New Leader, 116

‘‘On the Edge of Blade Runner’’

New Maps of Hell: A Survey of Science

(documentary film), 183 n.48

Fiction (Amis book), 187 n.1

‘‘On Reading the Politics of Total

New-Path Corporation, 158, 160,

Recall’’ (Schmertz article), 43

166–67, 170–71

Oppenheimer, J. Robert, 107–8, 189

New Republic, 2
n.16

New York City, 98, 105, 128, 133,

Orange County Sheriff Department,

149

162, 172

New York Times, 29, 42, 100, 104

Orwell, George, 107

New Yorker, 4, 20, 115

Outspacers, 98, 99, 102–3, 109

‘‘New World Order,’’ 79

The Owl in Daylight (Dick novel), 179

Newmyer, Lisa Marie, 164

Newsweek, 4, 30

Paramount Pictures, 179

Nexim Corporation (Paycheck film),

Parenthood (Howard film), 161

152

Paull, Lawrence G., 4

Next (Tamahori film), xii, 178

Paull, Morgan, 13

Nexus 6 replicant (Blade Runner), 13,

‘‘Paycheck’’ (Dick short story), xii,

23, 25

143, 145–46, 148, 151

Niccol, Andrew, 177

Paycheck (Woo film), xi–xiii, xvi, xviii, Nietzsche, Friedrich, 62

117, 143–53, 157, 172, 178–80

9/11, 98, 105, 133–34. See also

Peck, Gregory, 16

September 11, 2001

Pen

˜a, Elizabeth, 111

1984 (Orwell novel), 107

The Penultimate Truth (Dick novel),

Nixon, Richard, 176

176

Norris, Dean, 47

Peoples, David, 5, 58, 158

North by Northwest (Hitchcock film),

Perella, Marco, 171

141, 144, 191 n.46, 192 n.46

Peters, Major (‘‘Impostor’’), 99–100,

‘‘Notes on Do Androids Dream of

102–3, 108–9

Electric Sheep?’’ (Dick essay), xv, 16, Petrakis, John, 134–36

18, 21

Pevere, Geoff, 100

Pfeiffer, Michelle, 30

O’Bannon, Dan, 78–80, 88, 95, 188

Phifer, Mekhi, 98, 109, 111–13
n.7

‘‘Plot Idea for Mission: Impossible’’

‘‘Oh, to Be a Blobel!’’ (Dick short

(Dick proposal), 181 n.4
story), 177

Porter, Bruce, 156

O’Hehir, Andrew, 104

Porter, Rachel (Paycheck), 144, 146,

Olham, Spencer (Impostor), 97–98,

148, 150–53

101–3, 106–13, 126–27, 189 n.16,

Powell, Charles, 89

191 n.45

Precogs (Minority Report), 121–24,

Olham, Spencer (‘‘Impostor’’), 99–

126, 129, 135–36, 139

100, 102–3, 107, 109

Precogs (‘‘The Minority Report’’),

Olham, Mary (‘‘Impostor’’), 99, 102–3

119–20, 122, 125, 130, 132

INDEX

219

Precrime (Minority Report), 120–27,

Rear Window (Hitchcock film), 138–

129, 131–40, 191 n.46

39, 144

Precrime (‘‘The Minority Report’’),

Reeves, Keanu, 157, 160–65, 170,

118–22, 126, 129–32

172, 176

Predator (McTiernan film), 39

Rekal, Incorporated (‘‘We Can

The Preserving Machine (Dick short

Remember It for You Wholesale’’),
story collection), 124

33, 36, 51

Prince, Stephen, 54, 186 n.41

Rekall, Inc. (Total Recall), 34–35, 43,

‘‘Progeny’’ (Dick short story), 177

49, 52–54

The Project (Impostor), 101–3, 106–8,

Remarque, Erich Maria, xv

113, 189 n.16
replicants, 9–13, 15, 18, 20–23, 25–26, The Project (‘‘Impostor’’), 99–100

33, 37, 95, 177, 183 n.48

Proyas, Alex, 177

Requiem for a Dream (Aronofsky film),

Pumping Iron (Butler and Fiore film),

156

48

Resch, Phil (Do Androids Dream of

Pyramid Mine (Total Recall), 42–43,

Electric Sheep?), 14–15, 17, 19

50

Resnais, Alain, 186 n.41

Rethrick Construction Company

Quaid, Douglas (Total Recall), 29, 31–

(‘‘Paycheck’’), 147, 149

40, 42–43, 45–48, 50–54, 185 n.20

Rethrick, Earl (‘‘Paycheck’’), 147–49

Quaid, Lori (Total Recall), 30, 32, 34–

Rethrick, Jimmy (Paycheck), 145–46,

37, 42–45, 49–50, 52, 95

148–50, 153

Quail, Douglas (‘‘We Can Remember

‘‘Retro Future,’’ 126–27

It for You Wholesale’’), 33, 36–37,

Retrofitting ‘‘Blade Runner’’: Issues in 41, 44, 49, 51, 54, 186 n.33

Ridley Scott’s ‘‘Blade Runner’’ and

Quail, Kirsten (‘‘We Can Remember It

Philip K. Dick’s ‘‘Do Androids
for You Wholesale’’), 36–37, 44–45,

Dream of Electric Sheep?’’ (Kerman

50
anthology), 5

Quantum Leap (Bellisario television

‘‘Revenge of the Dyna-Movies’’ (Cor-
series), xiv, 54
liss article), 184 n.9

Quayle, Dan, 49

Revolution Studios, 178

Richter (Total Recall), 34, 40, 43–44,

Radio Free Albemuth (Dick novel), 179

50–51

Rafelson, Bob, 48

Rickman, Gregg, xiv, 178, 187 n.1

Rafferty, Terrence, 30–31, 38, 184

Rionda, Sasha, 47
n.12

Ripley, Ellen (Alien), 44

Raider-Wexler, Victor, 133

Risky Business (Brickman film), 140

Raiders of the Lost Ark (Spielberg film), Robb, Brian J., xiv, 179, 181 n.3, 186

115
n.32, 189 n.11, 193 n.2

Rain Man (Levinson film), 140

Robinson, Phil Alden, 144

Rambo: First Blood Part II (Cosmatos

RoboCop (Verhoeven film), 40, 49, 105
film), 39

RoboCop 2 (Kershner film), 184 n.9

Rand, Ayn, 168

Roddenberry, Gene, 178

Raw Deal (Irvin film), 39

Roeg, Nicholas, xv

Rawlings, Terry, 1

Rolling Stone, 159

Rawna, Angela, 162–63

Rosen, Rachael (Do Androids Dream of

Read My Lips (Audiard film), 116

Electric Sheep?), 16–18

Reagan, Ronald, 32, 39, 179

Ross (Screamers), 89–91

220

INDEX

Rouse, Christopher, 152

27, 44, 78, 95, 105, 108, 115, 126,
routinization, 76, 99

128, 148, 158, 175, 183 n.48, 193

Rubin, Jennifer, 81, 89–90, 93
n.2

Rubinstein, Anne Williams, 64–65
scramble suit (A Scanner Darkly novel), Rubinstein, Richard, 64

16, 168, 172

Rudolph, Eric Robert, 105

Screamers (Duguay film), xi, xvi–xvii,

Runciter Associates (Ubik), 136

75–98, 100, 105, 108, 117, 127–28,

Rusnak, Josef, 177

144, 153, 179–80, 188 n.7

Rwandan genocide, 79
screamers, killing machines (Screamers), Ryder, Winona, 160, 165–67, 170

81, 83, 85, 87, 90–95

Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 172

‘‘The Sacred and the Profane:

Sebastian, J.F. (Blade Runner), 9, 22–

Examining the Religious Subtext of

23, 26

Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner’’

‘‘Second Variety’’ (Dick short story),

(Gravett article), 23

75, 77–78, 80, 82–84, 86–87, 89–

‘‘Sales Pitch’’ (Dick short story), 191

92, 95–96, 98, 100, 125, 177
n.34

Security Police (‘‘Paycheck’’), 147, 149

Salon.com, 104

Selby, Hubert, Jr., 156

Sammon, Paul M., 2, 5, 24, 26, 182

SelecTV Guide, xv
n.2, 183 n.48

September 11, 2001, 98, 105, 133–34.

Samsa, Gregor (The Metamorphosis), 12

See also 9/11

San Francisco Chronicle, 188 n.7

Shakespeare, William, xi, 91–92

San Francisco Examiner, 95

Shalhoub, Tony, 98, 101

Sandell, William, 49, 152

Shargel, Raphael, 116

Sanderson, William, 9

Shelley, Mary, xi

A Scanner Darkly (Dick novel), 155–

The Shifting Realities of Philip K. Dick: 57, 159–60, 162–68, 170–73, 192

Selected Literary and Philosophical
n.9

Writings (Dick anthology), 181 n.4

A Scanner Darkly (Linklater film), xi,

Shorty (Paycheck), 144–46, 150, 152,
xii, xvi–xviii, 144, 153, 155–73,

179

179–80, 192 n.9

Showtime Network, 177, 193 n.2
schizoid embolism (Total Recall), 35,

Shusett, Ronald, 48

38, 43

Shyamalan, M. Night, 177

Schmertz, Johanna, 43–45, 47

Simon, John Alan, 178–79

Schubert, Franz, 126

The Simulacra (Dick novel), 176

Schwarzenegger, Arnold, 29–31, 39,

Singer, Bryan, 177

42, 47, 51–52; performance as

Sinise, Gary, 97–98, 100–101, 106,

Douglas Quaid in Total Recall, 48–

108, 111, 189 n.16, 191 n.45

50

Sirius 6B (Screamers), 80–81, 84–90,

Sci-Fi Channel, 177

92–93, 96
science fiction (SF), xiv, 3–4, 27, 29, The Six Million Dollar Man (Bennett

32–33, 39, 46, 48, 57, 67–68, 73,
television series), 105

75–77, 79–81, 92, 95, 97, 99–100,

The Sixth Sense (Shyamalan film), 177

104–6, 118, 122, 127–28, 144, 151,

‘‘Skin job’’ (Blade Runner), 19

153, 176–79, 187 n.1, 189 n.11

Slacker (Linklater film), 160

Scientology, 140

Slate.com, 134

Scott, A.O., 104

Sloat, Hannibal (Do Androids Dream of

Scott, Ridley, 1, 3–5, 10–11, 20, 24–

Electric Sheep?), 7

INDEX

221

Smith, Lois, 123, 140

Tasso (‘‘Second Variety’’), 89–92, 94

Soldier (Anderson film), 177

Tejada-Flores, Miguel, 79–80, 88

Solo (Barba film), 177
terbinium ore (Total Recall), 32, 80

Soviet Union, 75–79, 82–84, 94, 98

The Terminator (Cameron film), 31,

Speed (de Bont film), 161

44, 48, 105, 177

Spielberg, Steven, xiii, 1, 112, 115–18, Terminator 2: Judgment Day (Cameron

120–24, 126, 128, 131–34, 136–37,
film), 44

139–41, 144, 148, 152, 172

Terrorism, 98, 104

‘‘The Sprawl’’ (Minority Report), 124,

Thalidomide, 122

127, 191 n.45

They Live (Carpenter film), 176

Spyders (Minority Report), 138, 191

The Thing (Carpenter film), 1
n.45

The Thing from Another World (Nyby

Star Trek (Roddenberry television
film), 79
series), 67, 177–78

Things to Come (Menzies film), 126

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (Meyer

The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth
film), 1

(Shakespeare play), 91

Star Trek: The Next Generation

Third World, 31, 40–41, 47

(Roddenberry television series), 105,

The Thirteenth Floor (Rusnak film), 177

177

Thompson, Hunter S., 156

Star Wars (Lucas film), 105, 126, 178,

Thornhill, Roger (North by Northwest),

184 n.13

191 n.46

State and Columbia Record, 2

3 Women (Altman film), xv

Stay Hungry (Rafelson film), 48

Thurman, Uma, 144, 146, 151, 153

Steuer, Monica, 47

Ticotin, Rachel, 30, 43, 45

Stevens, Eliza, 161

Time, 2, 30, 115, 126

Stewart, Jimmy, 139

‘‘Time and the Fragmented Subject in

Stifel, David, 124

Minority Report’’ (Hall article), 117

Stitt, Kevin, 152

Time Out of Joint (Dick novel), 176–78

Stockwell, Dean, 54
time scoop (‘‘Paycheck’’), 147–49

Stone, Oliver, 179
time window (Paycheck), 148–51

Stone, Sharon, 30, 45

To the High Castle: Philip K. Dick: A

Stormare, Peter, 134, 138

Life 1928–1962 (Rickman

Stowe, Madeleine, 98, 101, 106
biography), 187 n.1

Strange Days (Bigelow film), 176

Tokyo, Japan, 39

Strangers on a Train (Hitchcock film),

Tolstoy Colony (Impostor), 101, 106–7

144
tomb world (Do Androids Dream of

Stratton, Pris, 16–18, 22–24, 26

Electric Sheep?), 7

Substance D, 155–56, 158–59, 161,

Tony (Total Recall), 47

163, 166–67, 170–71

Toronto Sun, 98

SubUrbia (Linklater film), 160

Total Recall (Verhoeven film), xi–xii,

The Sum of All Fears (Robinson film),
xvi–xvii, 29–55, 97, 105, 108, 117,

144

135, 143, 152–53, 157, 177–80,

Sutin, Lawrence, xi–xii, 33, 65, 181

184 n.1, 185 n.20, 186 n.33, 193
n.3, 185 n.29, 187 n.7
n.2; and colonialism, 31, 38, 46–48;

Sutton Wood, 99, 101–2, 112–13
and misogyny, 42, 45, 77–78, 80,

Swayze, Patrick, 48

95–96; and violence, 38–40;
representation of minorities, 31, 45;

Tamahori, Lee, 178
representation of the Third World,

222

INDEX

31; representation of women, 31,

‘‘Universe Makers. . .and Breakers’’

38, 41–42

(Dick article), xv

Total Recall 2070 (Monterastelli

USA Network, 177
television series), 177, 193 n.2

USA PATRIOT Act, 133

‘‘Total Recoil: The Schwarzenegger

Body on Postmodern Mars’’

Vacano, Jost, 49

(Schmertz article), 40

Vajna, Andrew, 49

‘‘Totally Recalling Arnold: Sex and

Valdez, Natasha, 164

Violence in the New Bad Future’’

VALIS (Dick novel), 179

(Glass article), 32

Van Eyck, Greta, 137–38

Touchy Feely Films, 193 n.4

Vangelis, 20, 26

Traven, Jack (Speed), 161

Vanilla Sky (Crowe film), 140, 176

Travers, Peter, 159, 192 n.9

Van Ness Animal Hospital (Do

The Trial (Kafka novel), 11

Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?), 7

Triton Four (Screamers), 84–85, 87
van Scheers, Rob, 32, 38, 49, 185 n.20, Triumph Films, 77

186 n.32

The Truman Show (Weir film), 177
van Sydow, Max, 120, 140

Trumball, Douglas, 4
van Vogt, A.E., 33

Turkel, Joe, 12

Venusville (Total Recall), 39, 42, 46,

Turner, Mark, 162

50

‘‘TV Series Idea’’ (Dick proposal), xiv Verhoeven, Paul, 30–34, 38, 40–41,

12 Monkeys (Gilliam film), 177

44–45, 48–49, 53–55, 78, 95, 143,

The Twilight Zone (Serling television

152, 184 n.13, 185 n.20, 193 n.2
series), 177

Veterans Memorial Hospital

Twohy, David, 100

(Impostor), 107, 110, 112–13

Tyrell Corporation, 13, 24, 80

Videodrome (Cronenberg film), 177

Tyrell, Eldon (Blade Runner), 12–13,

Vietnam, 38–39, 41, 51

15, 18–20, 23, 26–27, 95

Viking interplanetary probes, 184 n.13

Tyrell, Rachael (Blade Runner), 10, 12, Village Voice, 116, 143

14–15, 18–20, 22, 25–26
virtual reality, 8

Virtuosity (Leonard film), 177

Ubik (Dick novel), xiv, 136, 176

Visions of Empire: Political Imagery in U-bomb (‘‘Impostor’’ short story), 98–

Contemporary American Film

99, 103

(Prince book), 54

Unabomber, 105. See also Kaczynski,
vivisector, 101

Theodore

Voight-Kampff test, 12–13, 15, 20,

‘‘Unfinished Symphony’’ (Schubert’s

172

Symphony No. 8 in B Minor), 126

Union Station (Seattle, Washington),

Wachowski, Larry and Andy, 176

146, 152

Waking Life (Linklater film), 156

United Artists, 179

Walsh, M. Emmet, 10

United Nations, 107

Walters, Barry, 95

United States Senate Select Committee

‘‘War on Terror,’’ 192 n.9
to Study Governmental Operations

War of the Worlds (Spielberg film),
with Respect to Intelligence

140

Activities, 192 n.9. See also Church

Warner Bros., 176, 178

Committee

Washington, D.C., 82, 98, 105, 116,

Universal Soldier (Emmerich film), 177

120, 124, 126–28, 133, 137

INDEX

223

Washington Monument, 127

Witwer, Ed (‘‘The Minority Report’’),

‘‘We Can Remember It for You

119–20, 122, 129–31

Wholesale’’ (Dick short story), 29,

Wolfe, John (Paycheck film), 148–49

31, 33–34, 36–38, 41, 44–45, 48,

Woo, John, xii, 143–46, 148–53, 172

50–52, 54–55, 125

Wood, Gaby, 104

Weaver, Sigourney, 44

The World Jones Made (Dick novel),

Weir, Peter, 177

177

Weller, Peter, 78, 80, 83–84, 86, 88–

‘‘A World of Talent’’ (Dick short

89, 93, 95–96
story), 177

Westaway, Mike (A Scanner Darkly

World War Terminus (Do Androids
film), 166, 170

Dream of Electric Sheep?), 6

Westinghouse Labs (‘‘Impostor’’),

World War II, 39, 60, 76

98

What If Our World Is Their Heaven?:

X2: X-Men United (Singer film), 177

The Final Conversations of Philip K.

xenophobia, 48

Dick (Lee and Sauter book), xiv

The X-Files (Carter television series), White, Ron, 83–84

177

Whitman, Walt, 121

Widmark, Richard, 16

Yakamoto, Mr. (Minority Report), 138

Williams, Karl, 189 n.11

Young, Sean, 9, 13, 20, 21

Wilmington, Michael, 185 n.21

Witwer, Danny (Minority Report),

Zardoz (Boorman film), 110

120–23, 129

Zhora (Blade Runner), 19

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JASON P. VEST is a lecturer at Washington University’s Department of English and American Literature. His articles on Blade Runner, The West Wing, Star Trek, Joanna Russ, James Baldwin, and Philip K. Dick have been printed in several publications.

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8