Albion, Art, Books, Film, Trickster

Wilderness…

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The changes made in the cross-over from book to film… Were all warranted… And they all worked… Brilliantly… But had they been in the book… It wouldn’t have been as good… The mood machine that the stranded earthlings rely on… Becomes for them… A sort of religion… The immortal Mercer… Like some perverted latter day Sisyphus… Forever toils up hill receiving blows from rocks thrown from above… No manna for these adherents… Just toil and pain… Whilst the initial purveyor of the end-game misery… The goggle-box… Attempts to bring down even this meagre source of solace.

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In the film… The corporate elite… Have already become god… And get their just desserts… Frankenstein-like… From returned golden boy… And prodigal son combined… Roy Baty… What is left after that fateful encounter… Are just the broken pieces of mankind… Many missing… Most chipped… Or eroded… And the futile attempt… To again piece them together… And construct some sort of whole… Neither Rachael… Nor Deckard… Are whole… As it turns out… But at least they are together… Albeit… On the run… From a rogue humanity.

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Machine brains can only work from patterns… And no matter how many imponderables are programmed in… They still follow a pattern… This becomes patently obvious… From any cursory resort to the history books… Where the self-same playbook… Is followed ‘religiously’… Time and again… Without deviation… This artless… Humourless trait… Is ultimately… An undoing… For it can easily be mocked… And laughed at… By those whose souls….. Still carry…. The spark of life… And when enough people twig… And start laughing… Well, really… There is no where left to go…