Blade Runner

66335 of 103000 copies.

That's what my Ultimate Collector's Edition says — a limited run of 103,000 copies. That's kind of a high number for a "limited edition," especially in this age of intangible media overthrowing the physical. I don't mind.

I heard in 2007 that Warner Bros. was re-releasing Blade Runner in deluxe packaging with five versions of the film plus gobs of special features. That was all I needed to know.

But then I learned they were releasing this in a limited edition, numbered replica Voight-Kampff briefcase with a die-cast replica of a flying car, a model origami unicorn, Syd Mead's conceptual art, and a still from the film. I nearly soiled myself.

My wife went out of her way to secure my copy at Borders in December 2007. Best. Christmas present. Ever.

As far as my DVD collection goes, and really, as far as any of my collections go, this is my most prized possession, even topping my framed Magnolia poster, my Jimi Hendrix Stages boxed set (long out of print), my autographed copy of Nick Hornby's High Fidelity, the books and posters Henry Rollins has autographed for me over the years, and my sealed vinyl copy of R.E.M.'s Automatic For The People, which I bought at Wuxtry Records in Athens, Georgia in 1999.

I would still love Blade Runner regardless of packaging, though. I loved the film when I only had the Director's Cut on VHS — the first "widescreen" film I ever bought. I love the alternate cuts because the nuances tell slightly different stories. Is there one truth about the story of Blade Runner? Why do we need just one?

I love the ambiguity. We're not told in the film whether Deckard is a Replicant. We're meant to debate that. Ridley Scott left in clues but few definitive answers. Blade Runner is film as art, meant for us to discuss. Ridley, please stop telling us Deckard is a Replicant. Let us debate.

Much has been written on the topic, but for me, all of Ridley Scott's insistence and intentions go out the window when I see the big, happy accident in the film — Harrison Ford's glowing retinas. All Replicants have eyes that glow orange at certain points in the film — a trick with the light that was Ridley Scott's intention. Harrison Ford's eyes glowed because he stepped into Sean Young's light at a moment when only Young's eyes were supposed to glow. Years on, that's the clue for me. But I'm not totally sure. Why do I need to be?

Blade Runner is an important film because we're confronted, however subtly or overtly, with themes of emotional evolution (Batty's howling and feral nature as he simultaneously develops emotions and approaches death), immortality vs. mortality ("retirement"), and the religious overtones (Batty as Lucifer, specifically, but more broadly all Replicants as fallen angels). These themes bombard the viewer, who can just as easily get lost in Syd Mead's visuals if he/she wants to ignore the story. Or, you know, we can all debate whether Deckard is human again.

I attribute much of the success of Blade Runner to the superior storytelling of Ridley Scott, Hampton Fancher, and Philip K. Dick, but also to the guiding hand of a higher power, whichever one might've been involved here. Films don't turn out this well and hold up so well without intervention of some sort. What I believe in is irrelevant. But Ridley had help.

What other film can delete all narration and improve so drastically? What other film can cause so much debate nearly 30 years after a brief run in theaters? What other one-shot science-fiction film leaves so many unanswered questions, yet leaves us so satisfied?

Is Deckard a Replicant? Why do we need to know all the answers?

That says more about us than we know.