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I saw Blade Runner for the first time on the end-of-the-Summer Friday night of September 2, 1988. I remember it with such accuracy because, at a time where there were only two TV channels available, and I still had no VCR at home, the premiere on television of any movie was greeted as an event – and so did, on this occasion, the people I was having dinner with. Truth is, at my still somewhat tender age, I hadn’t heard of the film, but one of the main roles was played by the actor who had previously played Han Solo in Star Wars (the FILM; not ‘A New Hope’, not the Star Wars Universe or any of that mumbo-jumbo). So I sat in front of the TV, still some two years too young to truly enjoy it. Certainly, the film impressed me, although not in the way one would hope for. A couple of years before that I had fled from a morning projection of Blade Runner’s coetaneous Escape from the Bronx (1983), Enzo G. Castellari’s sequel to his own Escape From New York exploitation film 1990: The Bronx Warriors (1990: I guerrieri del Bronx, 1982), whose crudeness -incredibly tame for today’s standards, I’ll freely admit- proved to be too much for my youngster sensitivity. That experience had an echo that night, while watching Scott’s film, which granted me several disturbing moments. From that session I kept, engraved in my retina -and my brain- the indelible image of Zhora going through several layers of glass store windows in her plexiglass raincoat, which became less and less transparent as the blood escaping her body impregnated it. I also remember with a similar ambivalence the mixture of repulsion and morbid fascination that the grim porcelain doll look of a very young Sean Young caused on me; or the final scene with Rutger Hauer, majestic in full Norse god magnificence, reciting his semi-improvised monologue on a rainy roof surrounded by blue light.

None of this happened to me some -very few- years later when, also at night, but this time on my own  and with some more – although still meager – knowledge and maturity, I finally watched Scott’s previous film, Alien (or Alien, the eighth passenger, in my case , in one of those rare moments of brilliance of the usual ‘creative translation’ of original film titles for Spanish audiences). That is: the fascination was there, of course, but in this case, it was not a morbid mixture of attraction and repulsion, but the pure aesthetic delight of those who experience something for the first time with the growing awareness of being in front of a masterpiece. I must say that this did not happen to me with Blade Runner, not even some years later, when, in the somewhat more reasonable condition of having some previous knowledge of the film and being halfways -more towards the second half, really- of my architecture studies, I rewatched it in order to help a colleague with some coursework. Don’t get me wrong. Blade Runner is one of the films I have most extensively (and often) discussed, one of my favorite films, a milestone in the history of cinema -indisputable if we’re talking about science fiction cinema-, and an icon of postmodernism that has generated rivers of ink, with some minor branches fed by yours truly. I neither confirm nor deny I may have devoted a chapter to it in a PhD dissertation at some point in the past.

However, whilst Alien is a film that works with (Swiss) clockwork precision, Blade Runner is a more irregular effort. Scott’s second film -let’s not forget he had already directed the beautiful The Duellists, which provided him with the Best Debut Film in Cannes in 1977- was a prodigy in the control of cinematographic tempo and footage economy Blade Runner presents an uneven success in the handling of pace, and a clunkier narrative. Alien toyed with the spectator, presenting him with a morose pacing, slowly building tension and then throwing him into an adrenaline-boosted rollercoaster. Blade Runner, on the contrary, is burdened by an occasionally choppy montage and an erratic narrative, full with scenes that drag on screen, whose purpose is not always clear. When it first hit the theaters, viewers often complained about the difficulty to follow the otherwise ridiculously simple plot. Alien had been a filmic prodigy in many respects, ultimately upgrading what had begun as a B horror movie set in space to the category of small cinematic gem. Three years later, with a budget three times bigger, Blade Runner was conceived as a much more ambitious enterprise. Here, Ridley Scott left the megastructural but still somewhat modest inner architectural ecosystem of his second film, and took over the visual creation of a complete world: the megalopolitan continuum of Los Angeles in the -yet to be- future of 2019. However, this expansion in the scope did not lower its level of demand when it came down to the detail in which this fictional world had to be presented to the viewer. Blade Runner was built using the same layering1 method he had applied to the design of The Duelists (1976) and Alien (1979): an accumulation of data in which each frame of the film was crowded with layer upon layer of information. This diogenetic strategy of visual design overwhelmed a viewer unable to apprehend everything that on display, which ultimately resulted in an unbearable feeling of veracity. The images in the film did not look like a set, like a staged, but limited imitation of reality built for the eye of the camera. They looked like real environments whose complexity exceeded the viewer’s ability to apprehend them in their entirety. They were too full with information; they seemed to extend beyond the limits of the screen, equally detailed and complex everywhere the camera bothered to point at; like the real world.

This excessive ambition would also take its toll in the film. If Alien, despite its relative yet limited variety of sets, exuded coherence in his visual treatment, in Blade Runner the team led by Douglas Trumbull had no other option but use all the tricks in the book in order to address Scott’s growing demands, which ended up instilling the fictional reality of the film with a certain collage nature on2. Blade Runner/ Los Angeles 2019 is a film/ place made up of juxtaposed moments/ spaces whose connection, as in the Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, is left to the discretion of the viewer’s imagination.

And yet, it would be this multiple, oversaturated, fragmented condition that would ultimately result in the film’s seemingly inexhaustible ability to both represent postmodern reality, and fascinate audiences and the Academia alike. Back in 1982, Blade Runner shook the filmgoing world with a future-present (a 1980’s future) that was presented to the viewer with overwhelming physicality; a dark but palpable future, which would lead to paradoxes such as the curious Stockholm Syndrome described by Norman M. Klein in 1991, when he wrote that: “(i)n February, 1990, at a public lecture series on art in Los Angeles, three out of five leading urban planners agreed that they hoped someday Los Angeles would look like the film Blade Runner …It has become a paradigm for the future of cities, for artists across the disciplines3.” November 2019 is here, and the reality on the other side of my window is just as ominous as the one described by Scott, but much less fascinating. To make it worse, the same can be said of the one on the other side of the -now predominantly digital-silver screen.

See? See why I hate Blade Runner?

1 “Alien’s ‘environment’ was the popular filmgoing public’s first exposure to “layering”, Scott’s self-described technique of building up a dense, kaleidoscopic accretion of detail within every frame and set of a film. ‘To me (Scott Said) a film is like a seven-hundred-layer layer cake.” Paul M. Sammon, Future Noir: The Making of Blade Runner (New York: HarperPrism, 1996); 47.

 2 Norman M. Klein, “Building Blade Runner” in Social Text, 1990, no. 28; 147. Yes, I know I’ve quoted this text at least as many times as Rowe’s ‘Introduction with Five Architects’. Well, as Eric Idle, in full Michelangelo attire would say: ‘It works, mate!’

“Por qué Odio Blade Runner.” Arquine. Revista Internacional de Arquitectura. ‘Lo que Falta / Missing Pieces.’ Mexico DF: Editorial Arquine, Julio 2019. Nº 89, pp. 23-25.

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So, now that November 2019, the year Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (you know, the REAL one) is set, is over, I thought it might be worth remembering the film through this installment of my section ‘Arquinoir’ in Mexican architecture magazine Arquine. I haven’t translated the texts in the cartoon so far. Later, perhaps. The Spanish version can be found online here. Although I strongly suggest buying a physical copy.

 

 

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Another blast from the past. As I was going through a checklist of my cartoons for Uncube, I found out I hadn’t posted this one, either. Some backstory: back in January 2016, Uncube was planning to put together an entire issue on Zvi Hecker (and more: check AIN’T NO MOUNTAIN – ZVI HECKER’S HOUSING DREAM), one of those visionaries who toyed with non-Cartesian geometries back in the ’60s, and actually got to build his designs (along with fellow Israeli architect Moshe Safdie and a few others). Being the sucker I am for all things 1960s/70s, I was glad to contribute a piece. Also, December 2015 was the time where Star Wars was (somehow) brought back to life, via the incredibly mediocre The Force Awakens. Being the sucker I am for all things science fiction, I couldn’t let the opportunity to throw in lots of Star Wars references in. Bjarke Ingels then came in to add the necessary starchitectural element. Enjoy!

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The original cartoon can be found as originally published in the “Klaus Kube” section of Uncube Magazine #41: Zvi Hecker edited by Sophie Lovell, Florian Heilmeyer, Ron Wilson and Elvia Wilk et al. I’d check it right now, if I were you. Honest.

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Sir Peter Cook -the man, the myth, the ringmaster- points at Peter Cook, the comic book character during a dinner in Porto.

Anyone who’s thrown even a casual glance at this blog (or at my twitter feed) knows I have a thing both for science fiction and for the visionary architectural scene of the 1960s-70s -which, of course, have multiple overlaps. And, of course again, it is not particularly (as in ‘at all’) surprising that Archigram are a favorite (see below), which at some point even prompted me to go in a demented search through tens of thousands of comics from the 1940s to 1964, in order to find the sources of Warren Chalk’s ‘Space Probe!’, published in Archigram 4, May 1964 [INSERT: a couple of them can be seen here; some others are featured in this article; if you’re a curator and need help with this, send me a note. END OF INSERT].

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My hand and my comic book, but not my copy of Archigram 4, unfortunately…

Thus, when last year Alejandro Hernández and Pedro Hernández (not related) contacted me to give them a hand with a -then- upcoming issue of Arquine under the topic ‘Futures’, I couldn’t let that great opportunity slip away, and used my Arquinoir section (published in almost every issue since 2014 or so) to finally draw a story that had been waiting in my sketchbook for a while. In it, Peter Cook and the late but great Ron Herron met inside the Walking city and… well, you can read it below (if you’re not proficient in Spanish, Google Translate has improved quite a bit through the years).

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Two Archigrammers walk into a bar Walking City and…

And, of course again (again), when I learnt that we would be having dinner at the same table, I couldn’t help but give him a copy, which he read with a great dose of sense of humor. I’m not sure Yael Reisner found it that funny, but she smiled politely, and was kind enough to grant me with a great conversation about beauty and architecture on the way back to the hotel. A big thank you to Carlos Machado e Moura, Noémia Herdade Gomes, and Rui Neto, and the School of Architecture of the University of Porto for the invitation  to lecture and for their kindness.

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Glimpses of the future(s)

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So, yes, my dear(s). The basic gag is exactly the same as the one in the previous post, only reversed this time. Anyone who’s been following this blog, read a few of my texts or just within a few kilometer-radius of me knows what I think about the late-90s-2000s fever with starchitecture and the effects it has had on the urban scene around the globe. Mostly, the post-Guggenheim re-discovery of architecture as a marketing device, fueled by politicians and entrepeneurs alike, and invaluably helped by (star)chitect’s egos has resulted into the transformation of much -not a grammatical error- of our cities into Architectural Theme Parks. Even Bilbao, which stands as the epytome of success in urban renewal, has performed its renovation in a bleak post-industrial scenario with some casualties: namely, a big chunk of its own personality.

So, when Sophie Lovell e-mailed me to remind me that I had completely forgotten I had a deadline for their issue on Universal Exhibitions, I did the obvious and wondered what flashy architecture would look like in a few decades’ time. In retrospect, this was maybe not the funniest out of the different ideas I considered for this issue, but, hey, it looks kinda cute, doesn’t it?

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The original cartoon can be found as originally published in the “Klaus Kube” section of Uncube Magazine #32: Expotecture, edited by Sophie Lovell, Florian Heilmeyer, Ron Wilson and Elvia Wilk et al.

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I used to have a blog, didn’t I?

Ok, so, now I got my life back, I’ll possibly be updating the blog with all the stuff which, forcefully, has kept being produced throughout all these months. And, for starters, a couple of takes on the cartoon produced for Uncube #25, ”Soft Machines’ (yes, we’re that behind), within the ‘Numerus Klausus series. A no-prize to anyone who finds all the nods to Ridley Scott’s Alien, Frank Miller’s Ronin, Tsutomu Nihei’s Blame!, Dave Taylor’s Big Robots (a great Judge Dredd story, by the way), Luc Schuiten, Neri Oxman, et al, which can be seen in the ‘cinemascope’ version below:

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The original cartoon can be found as originally published in the “Klaus Kube” section of Uncube Magazine #25: Soft Machines, edited by Sophie Lovell, Florian Heilmeyer, Ron Wilson and Elvia Wilk et al., which is full with bio-cities, microbial homes, micotecture, interactive edible products, etc.

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“On our third week, we arrived in the city of Amaphonia. Some centuries earlier, the inhabitants of the city had filed a formal complaint, claiming that their architects did not pay attention to the acoustic needs of buildings. They should have known better. As architects’ minds go, this call for attention ultimately led into a fascination for the shapes of sound devices that soon translated into the urban form. Two hundread years later, the city showed the result of a formalistic fever that had turned the urban scene into a mechanical forest of gigantic microphones, loudspeakers and musical instruments that turned the amaphonians into Liliputians visiting a music store.(…)”

Rago Michaelis: Chronicles of the Pneumatic passage – A Scientific Approach. Tome III. Etterbeek: Erdna Éditions ; 267-74

– So, what’s the problem? …If a building has to work like a machine, it should look like a machine, right?

– Oh, shut up, Charles-Edouard… [*]

[*] If you don’t think it’s a joke, then you’re part of the problem.

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The original cartoon can be found as originally published in the “Klaus Kube” section of Uncube Magazine #21: Acoustics, edited by Sophie Lovell, Florian Heilmeyer, Jessica Bridger, Elvia Wilk et al., and even features a rare recording of Pink Floyd’s Intro to “Obscured by Clouds”, played to an article. The Pneumatic Passage is a project located somewhere between Les Cités Obscures, The Airtight Garage, and Le réveil du Z, which has been in the pipeline for a long time -and will be till I find some funding. More on that later.

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