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.
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.
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.
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.
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.