Blade Runner

 

 

Screenplay by       Hampton Fencher

          David Peoples

 

Produced by       Michael Deeley

 

Directed by       Ridley Scott

 

 

 

Cast List:

 

Harrison Ford      Rick Deckard

Rutger Hauer     Roy Batty

Sean Young      Rachael

Edward James Olmos   Gaff

M. Emmet Walsh    Bryant

William Sanderson    Sebastian

Brion James     Leon

 

 

 

 

INT. TYRELL CORPORATION LOCKER ROOM – DAY

 

THE EYE

 

It's magnified and deeply revealed. Flecks of green and yellow in a field of milky blue. Icy filaments surround the undulating center.

 

The eye is brown in a tiny screen. On the metallic surface below, the words VOIGHT-KAMPFF are finely etched. There's a touch-light panel across the top and on the side of the screen, a dial that registers fluctuations of the iris.

 

The instrument is no bigger than a music box and sits on a table between two men. The man talking is big, looks like an over-stuffed kid. "LEON" it says on his breast pocket. He's dressed in a warehouseman's uniform and his pudgy hands are folded expectantly in his lap. Despite the obvious heat, he looks very cool.

 

The man facing him is lean, hollow cheeked and dressed in gray. Detached and efficient, he looks like a cop or an accountant. His name is HOLDEN and he's all business, except for the sweat on his face.

 

The room is large and humid. Rows of salvaged junk are stacked neatly against the walls. Two large fans whir above their heads.

 

LEON

Okay if I talk?

 

Holden doesn't answer. He's centering Leon's eye on the machine.

 

LEON

I kinda get nervous when I take tests.

 

HOLDEN

Don't move.

 

LEON

Sorry.

 

He tries not to move but finally his lips can't help a sheepish smile.

 

LEON

Already had I.Q. test this year – but I don't think I never had a...

 

HOLDEN

(cutting in)

Reaction time is a factor in this, so please pay attention. Answer quickly as you can.

 

Leon compresses his lips and nods his big head eagerly. Holden's voice is cold, geared to intimidate and evoke response.

 

HOLDEN

You're in a desert, walking along in the sand when all of a sudden you look down and see a...

 

LEON

What one?

 

It was a timid interruption, hardly audible.

 

HOLDEN

What?

 

LEON

What desert?

 

HOLDEN

Doesn't make any difference what desert – it's completely hypothetical.

 

LEON

But how come I'd be there?

 

HOLDEN

Maybe you're fed up, maybe you want to be by yourself – who knows. So you look down and see a tortoise. It's crawling towards you...

 

LEON

A tortoise. What's that?

 

HOLDEN

Know what a turtle is?

 

LEON

Of course.

 

HOLDEN

Same thing.

 

LEON

I never seen a turtle.

 

He sees Holden's patience is wearing thin.

 

LEON

But I understand what you mean.

 

HOLDEN

You reach down and flip the tortoise over on its back, Leon.

 

Keeping an eye on his subject, Holden notes the dials in the Voight-Kampff. One of the needles quivers slightly.

 

LEON

You make these questions, Mr. Holden, or they write 'em down for you?

 

Disregarding the question, Holden continues, picking up the pace.

 

HOLDEN

The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over. But it can't. Not without your help. But you're not helping.

 

Leon's upper lip is quivering.

 

LEON

Whatcha mean, I'm not helping?

 

HOLDEN

I mean you're not helping! Why is that, Leon?

 

Leon looks shocked, surprised. But the needles in the computer barely move. Holden goes for the inside of his coat. But big Leon is faster. His LASER BURNS a hole the size of a nickel through Holden's stomach. Unlike a bullet, a laser causes no impact. It goes through Holden's spine and comes out his back, clean as a whistle. Like a rag doll he falls back off the bench from the waist up. By the time he hits the floor, big slow Leon is already walking away. But he stops, turns and with a little smile of satisfaction, FIRES at the machine on the table.

 

There's a flash and a puff of smoke. The Voight-Kampff is hit dead center, crippled but not destroyed; as Leon walks out of the room, one of its lights begins to blink, faint but steady.

 

 

EXT. DESERT – NIGHT

 

The horizon marked by a thin copper line that maybe the end, of the beginning of a day.

 

The train that follows, cuts through the night at 400 miles an hour.

 

 

INT. TRAIN – NIGHT

 

No clickitty-clack of track-bound noise, it's a long, insulated Pullman of contoured seats and low-keyed lighting, colored to soothe, and empty, except for the passenger half way down.

 

His eyes closed, head rested against the glass. Ten years ago, DECKARD might have been an athlete, a track man or a welter-weight. The body looks it, but the face has seen some time – not all of it good.

 

 

INT. TRAIN – REFRESHMENT DISPENSER – NIGHT

 

Deckard comes down the aisle, slips a coin into the mechanism, receives a beer and returns to his seat.

 

 

INT. TRAIN – NIGHT

 

Tired of the program, he takes off the headset and drops it next to three empty beer bottles and a sandwich wrapper, adjusts his position and winds up staring at his reflection in the window. Runs a hand over his face, it could use a shave. He leans closer and peers through the glass.

 

Out there in the black a sign flashes past: "SAN ANGELES, THREE MINUTES"

 

 

EXT. PLATFORM – NIGHT

 

The train slides in, smooth as an eel, and stops with-out a sound. Carrying a bag and umbrella, Deckard disembarks ahead of the other passengers and into the sweltering night.

 

 

INT. CORRIDOR – NIGHT

 

Deckard has got his coat swung over his shoulder, his shirt already damp, as he walks down the long, hollow passage under orbs of yellow light.

 

 

EXT. TERMINAL – NIGHT

 

Deckard unlocks his car and gets in. Turns the ignition and hits a sensor. The dash console glows and Deckard sits back waiting for the air unit to cool things off.

 

DECKARD (V.O.)

It was 97 degrees in the city and no hope of improvement. Not bad if you're a lizard. But two hours earlier I was drinking Acquavit with an Eskimo lady in North East Alaska. That's a tough change to make. It was so good, I didn't want to leave, so I left a day early.

 

A little detached, Deckard taps another sensor on the panel, lights up a cigarette and watches as his messages flash across the viewer stating date, time and caller. The last one is repeated five times. Deckard sighs, switches off the viewer and gets on the radio.

 

DECKARD

Contact. This is Blade Runner One calling Com-fast 27.

 

The SOUND OF A CHIME precedes the mechanical female voice that answers.

 

VOICE

Blade Runner One, stand by please.

 

A pause. Followed by a husky male voice.

 

VOICE

Deckard.

 

DECKARD

Yah, Gaff.

 

GAFF (VOICE)

Where the hell you been?

 

DECKARD

You know where I been. I been on vacation.

 

GAFF

Next time you go on vacation, do me a favor, let us know where it is.

 

DECKARD

What's up?

 

GAFF

Holden got hit.

 

There is a pause. That was bad news.

 

DECKARD

Bad?

 

GAFF

Severed spine. You'd better get in here. Bryant's waiting for you.

 

DECKARD

I'll see you in a minute.

 

The ENGINE REVS, the wipers rake two weeks of dust off the windshield and Deckard jams out of the lot.

 

 

INT. THE HALL OF JUSTICE – NIGHT

 

An enormous grey vault of a building. A businesslike Deckard strides down a long corridor with his briefcase and police ID pinned to his coat.

 

DECKARD (V.O.)

I-X-4-P-D referred to as a Nexus-6, The Tyrell Corporation's new pride and joy. Holden was administering the Voight-Kampff test when one nailed him.

 

The door in front of Deckard slides open and he walks through.

 

DECKARD (V.O.)

The Nexus-6 must be fast because Holden was as quick as they come. The report said there were six of them. Three males and three female. Led by a combat model called Roy Batty.

 

 

INT. INSPECTOR BRYANT'S OFFICE – NIGHT

 

The INSPECTOR is in his fifties. The deep creases in his face, the broken capillaries in his nose say brawler, spoiler, drinker, but the diplomas on the wall say something else. Bryant's kneeled at his safe trying to open it. Deckard it sitting on the edge of the desk reading the print-out.

 

DECKARD (V.O.)

They escaped from the colonies two weeks ago. Killed twenty-three people and jumped a shuttle. An aerial patrol found the ship in the desert. No crew.

 

Bryant gets the safe open and brings out a bottle of whiskey.

 

DECKARD (V.O.)

Bryant's got a liver problem. A couple years back he handed me a bottle and said have a drink for another man. I been drinking for him ever since.

 

Deckard sets down the report and takes the shot Bryant just poured for him.

 

DECKARD

Six, huh?

 

BRYANT

Five. Three nights ago one of them managed to break into the Tyrell Corporation. Killed two guards and got as far as the Genetic Sector before he got fried going through an electro-field.

 

DECKARD

What was he after?

 

BRYANT

There wasn't much left of him, so we can't be sure. But bio-chemical data and morphology records of the Nexus-6 were reported missing. Going on the possibility they might try to infiltrate we send Holden in to run Voight-Kampff tests on the new employees. Guess he found himself one.

 

A grim pause.

 

DECKARD

You got a machine on it yet?

 

BRYANT

We're using Esper – a 231 – that picked up Holden's alarm. Its guess is that all five are in the city.

 

DECKARD

Where do we start?

 

Bryant's back at the safe locking up his bottle.

 

BRYANT

The Tyrell Corporation has a demo model. Check it out on the Voight-Kampff. There's a chance the Nexus-6 is beyond out ability to detect. If that's the case, everybody's up shit creek.

 

DECKARD

What was the cover on the one that got Holden?

 

BRYANT

Industrial refuse.

 

DECKARD

Garbage man?

 

Bryant nods.

 

DECKARD

Did personnel have an address on him?

 

Bryant fishes a piece of paper out of his pocket, copies down a number and hands it over.

 

DECKARD

I'll go take a look.

 

Deckard stands and holds up his drink.

 

DECKARD

Thanks.

 

Like a sick boy looking out of the window, Bryant watches Deckard down the whiskey. Deckard puts down the glass and turns to leave.

 

DECKARD (V.O.)

The big incentive to emigrate was still free labor. If the public found out that their door-prizes might kill them, they might not be so hot to go up there. This was one of the worst one's we had and Bryant was worried. He wanted to tell me to be discrete or something. But I didn't give him a chance.

 

 

EXT. LEON'S HOTEL ENTRANCE – NIGHT

 

An electrical storm is brewing. Deckard stands outside the entrance to an old hotel holding an umbrella, as people scuttle into doorways to avoid the sudden downpour.

 

 

INT. LEON'S HOTEL LOBBY – NIGHT

 

A heavy metal maze of cubicles and perilous iron balconies, peopled with rejects from the surface world; Mato Grosso Indians in white man's clothes and other lower echelon welfare recipients. Drop city is crowded, cramped and darkly alive.

 

Deckard steps out of an elevator and moves through the crowd. A cloud of steam drifts up through a grating as two old men, clad in towels descend a flight of stairs under a neon sign that says bath house.

 

A musty subterranean wind ripples Deckard's clothes as he turns into an alcove. He stops in front of a door that says, MANAGER and pushes the buzzer. It's opened by an emphysema victim with an oxygen tank lashed to his hip. Deckard flashes his ID and speaks some words which are inaudible due to the TUBA MUSIC down the hall. The man grabs a key from his wall, hands it over and shuts the door.

 

 

INT. LEON'S HOTEL CORRIDOR – NIGHT

 

The companion ways below deck of a big ship are no more bewildering than the ups and downs and ins and outs of this establishment. But Deckard finds the door he's looking for. He pauses a moment, listens, then knocks. He inserts the key and with a hand on his gun opens it.

 

 

INT. LEON'S ROOM – NIGHT

 

An empty room. A cot and not much else. He steps in and stands quiet as a hunter sensing the signs. For a place surrounded by greasy hovels it is surprisingly clean. Spartan in fact. The towel by the spotless basin is perfectly folded.

 

Deckard runs two fingers over a shelf. No dust. He looks in the waste basket. Wadded up candy wrappers. The bed by the window is neatly made. Deckard looks under it, then runs his hands along both sides of the mattress.

 

The closet. There's one suit in it. He pats it down. Nothing. A show box on the floor. He stoops, takes out what looks like a pen from his pocket and carefully traces it over the box. Assured of its harmlessness, he lifts off the lid.

 

It contains a little stack of photos bound with a rubber band. Deckard removes them, goes to the lamp by the balcony window and turns it on.

 

A touching collection of family snapshots. The kind of anonymous stuff sold by the bunch in dusty junk shops. The family dog. Junior on the pony squinting in the sun. Uncle Ben clowning with the kids. The faded polaroid of Christmas morning. Simple pictures of simple folks celebrating the family bond. A curious collection for the likes of Leon and Deckard studies them with interest.

 

 

EXT. STREET BELOW – NIGHT

 

Oblivious to the cloudburst, a blue-eyed albino stands in the doorway, peddling candy and artificial flowers looking like he'd never been touched by the light of day.

 

Leon is standing behind him, staring up at his room, watching Deckard at the window. He's still wearing his coveralls, but he looks different. His face is more intent, smarter and angry.

 

 

EXT. STREET BELOW – NIGHT

 

For one seething moment it looks like Leon might mash something, but suddenly he swings away and disappears into the crowd.

 

 

INT. LEON'S ROOM – NIGHT

 

Deckard pockets the pictures and moves away from the window.

 

 

EXT. ALLEY – NIGHT

 

Leon's got a neck like a fire hydrant and legs to match, but he's a graceful runner. Looks like he could do it for days. And he could. He's put a lot of alley behind him and he's not out of breath.

 

 

EXT. CHINATOWN – NIGHT

 

Slowing down he cuts into an opening and comes out onto a narrow street. The Asian Quarter.

 

 

INT. CHOP SUEY HOUSE – NIGHT

 

A seamy as well as steamy little place. Counter and small tables. Old slant-eyed enders humped over their fuming bowls jabbering and slurping.

 

The only voice coming out clear is from the big three-D TV on the back wall. As the mellow-mouthed TV announcer delivers the message, a Latin-looking beauty in a well-fitted maids uniform does a twirl, flashes a beguiling smile and glides OUT OF FRAME.

 

ANNOUNCER'S VOICE

Choose from a variety of seventy-nine different personality types. Each and every one a loyal trouble-free companion given to you upon your arrival absolutely free...

 

The Latin beauty is replaced by an impeccable Ray Bolger type gentleman's gentleman who clicks his heels, snaps to attention and struts off to make room for the next.

 

ANNOUNCER'S VOICE

To use as personal body servant to tireless field hand – the custom tailored humanoid robot, designed especially for your needs.

 

The Chinese are paying no attention, but the man and the woman seated at the table by the window are.

 

The woman is pretty, a touch of gray in her hair, kind and blue-eyed. MARY looks like an American dream mom, right out of "Father Knows Best."

 

The man also resembles a tradition: the gym instructor, short cropped hair with the body of a drill sergeant, but the eyes are grey and chilling. ROY BATTY is a presence of force with a lazy, but acute sense of what goes on around him.

 

Leon has just come through the door behind them. Trying not to be the bull in a china shop, he approaches their table and kneels . Batty doesn't bother to look at him, which amplifies the note of sarcasm in his quiet voice.

 

BATTY

Did you get your precious 'things'?

 

LEON

Somebody was already there.

 

BATTY

Police.

 

LEON

Just a man.

 

BATTY

Police man.

 

Leon looks sullen.

 

BATTY

Why don't you have a seat.

 

There's one next to him. Leon pulls it over and sits.

 

BATTY

Enjoy the view.

 

From the pot on the table, Mary pours tea and they sit so quiet and still in this noisy place that they seem almost invisible. The view they're "enjoying" is through the window. Outside the neon side in the window directly across the street says: "HANNIBAL CHEW, MEMBERS"

 

 

INT. HANNIBAL CHEW'S SHOP – NIGHT

 

Chew is a spindly old man of precision, his veiled eyes are shrewd and Chinese, but the rest of him looks like a Charles Dickens invention.

 

He's got a jewelers' glass stuck in his eye, lurched over a lamp, squinting at something in his hand. After a moment his lips peal back into a sour, belligerent smile.

 

CHEW

Well, you're right. This little honey has a couple of defective cones.

 

He snaps off the lamp and swings round to face his client.

 

SEBASTIAN's face is almost young, but something has gone too far, too fast. Premature old age has made his bones brittle and his co-ordination slow. The house may be dark but there's a light on in it. Sebastian is a closet genius.

 

CHEW

You're a regular perfectionist, Sebastian.

 

Sebastian's apologetic, especially around the acerbic Mr. Chew.

 

SEBASTIAN

It's gotta be right for my customer.

 

CHEW

Your customer, eh?

 

Chew snickers and beckons. Sebastian follows his down a high narrow hall to a heavy insulated door. There's a moth-eaten full length fur coat hanging by it. Chew tugs it on and they go through. The big door slams shut behind them.

 

 

INT. COLD STORAGE ROOM – NIGHT

 

Except for the work table with its sharp gleaming instruments, the room is as barren and sterile as a morgue. The glass-doored compartments in the walls look like crypts. Some of them small as post office boxes. From one of the Chew removes a vacuum, packed box. Carefully separating the seal, he reaches into the purple jell and with a pair of tweezers extracts an eye.

 

Through the jeweler's glass, which he has not bothered to remove, Chew holds the eye up to the light and studies it a moment. His other hand searches through his pockets.

 

CHEW

You got a pocket-charger, boy?

 

Quick to accommodate, Sebastian removes a pencil-like device from a row of such things in his breast pocket and steps closer. The back of the eye is touched with the pencil and the pupil moves. Suddenly its staring back at them.

 

CHEW

Is that good enough for your customer?

 

Anxious to leave, Sebastian nods. Chew reseals the eye taking his time. He can afford to, he's wearing his coat.

 

CHEW

How much is he paying you?

 

In place of an answer, Sebastian clears his throat, stares at the bag like he didn't hear.

 

CHEW

Well, when do you get paid?

 

SEBASTIAN

Soon as I finish the job.

 

CHEW

When might that be?

 

SEBASTIAN

Day after tomorrow.

 

CHEW

Oh! Day after tomorrow.

 

Sebastian nods. Chew stares at the poor bastard, concerned in spite of himself.

 

CHEW

The rich hate to pay, Sebastian. A guy like Tyrell keeps you waiting. Pay the little guy last. You should charge twice as much. It'll make him feel better.

 

Sebastian nods his head like that's exactly what he'll do. Chew sees it's hopeless and hands him the bag.

 

SEBASTIAN

Thanks, Mr. Chew.

 

Chew pulls the door open for him and Sebastian goes through quick as a dog.

 

 

EXT. HANNIBAL CHEW'S STORE – STREET – NIGHT

 

Sebastian may lack co-ordination but he got what he came for and there's a hopeful spring to his walk as he heads for his truck.

 

 

INT. SEBASTIAN'S AMBULANCE – NIGHT

 

It's an old panel job with ambulance siren and lights. The lettering on the side reads "J.R. SEBASTIAN – ANIMOID EXPRESS". Sebastian gets in, starts up the engine and suddenly realizes he's not alone. It's a jolt that causes him to yelp.

 

PRIS is sprawled on the seat next to him, and wakes up with a yelp of her own. They stare at one another for a startled instant, and she jumps out and starts walking.

 

But she's forgotten her little beat-up overnight case. Sebastian puts the truck in gear, drives next to her and opens the door.

 

SEBASTIAN

Hey! You forgot your...

 

He holds up the bag. Hesitantly she reaches for it.

 

SEBASTIAN

How come you were in my truck?

 

PRIS

I was tired and didn't have any place to go.

 

She stares at him, hand on her case, looking lost. Sebastian isn't good at this, but he tries.

 

SEBASTIAN

You can get back in if you want...

 

She can't make up her mind.

 

SEBASTIAN

Don't worry, I won't hurt you.

 

She gets in. Both of them are silent. People are not Sebastian's medium – usually he's too shy, but this girl is shyer still, plus they're about the same age – it gives him courage.

 

SEBASTIAN

What's your name?

 

PRIS

Pris.

 

SEBASTIAN

Mine's J.F. Sebastian.

 

PRIS

Hi.

 

So pleased with the way that went, he forgets for a while what comes next.

 

SEBASTIAN

Oh! Where do you want to go?

 

She shrugs. That leaves him a lot of responsibility. He throws her side-long glances, but she's not helping.

 

SEBASTIAN

You want to go home?

 

PRIS

I don't have one.

 

SEBASTIAN

Oh.

 

What do you do with a teenage beauty who looks like she's lost out of some "Welcome to Sunny Arizona" poster?

 

SEBASTIAN

Where are your folks?

 

PRIS

They left.

 

SEBASTIAN

What about friends?

 

PRIS

I have some, but I have to find out where they are staying.

 

She leans forward and rests her elbows on the dash. Her body would win prizes, from any angle.

 

SEBASTIAN

Well, where should I take you?

 

She looks at him, a shadow of enticement in her clear blue eyes.

 

PRIS