The Most Pause-Worthy Scenes In Blade Runner

Directed by Ridley Scott, 1982's "Blade Runner" is one of the most influential science fiction films of all time. That might sound like hyperbole, but we've been put to a Voight-Kampff test, so you can trust us.

The film takes place in a futuristic Los Angeles where the cramped streets are a mishmash of globalization and film noir tropes. Speaking of which, our gruff hero is Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford), a blade runner who has to "retire" a small group of advanced replicants — purpose-built androids that are basically indistinguishable from real people. Pulled back in for one last job, Deckard soon finds himself wrestling with the very idea of what it means to be human (while also wrestling with killer androids who can't feel pain).

With Lawrence G. Paull's rich, tactile production design and Jordan Cronenweth's striking cinematography, "Blade Runner" is a sensory feast where every frame feels like a neon-tinged painting. You'd be forgiven for hitting the pause button to bask in the film's captivating vision of 2019. "Blade Runner" is a tour de force in show don't tell ... assuming you're watching the version of the film free from Harrison Ford's studio-mandated voice over. With all that said, let's take a look at the moments in "Blade Runner" that have us reaching for the pause button, whether it's to snag a screenshot, replay a striking moment, or contemplate the possibility that we all might actually be life-like robots with tragically short life spans. Beware spoilers below.

With our heads still reeling from those gorgeous opening shots (and the expositive summary of mankind's complex relationship with our android creations), we're introduced to a key piece of the machinery of "Blade Runner" — the Voight-Kampff test.

In a cigarette smoke-choked interrogation room, a slack-jawed man is submitted to questioning to determine if he's really human. Sweaty and suspicious, Leon Kowalski (Brion James) enters his interrogator's cubical where a mechanical armature proceeds to focus on its subject's eye. Reaction time is a factor, he's told. And that's bad news for the slow-witted Kowalski. How is this hypothetical question about a tortoise in a desert relevant to the test? Kowalski doesn't even know what a tortoise is. These questions are designed to provoke him, and it's working. Before the second question can fully form, Kowalski's gun is smoking, and his interrogator slouches lifelessly in his office chair.

A terse and unforgettable scene that serves multiple purposes, Leon's Voight-Kampff test is a tense and tonally assured introduction to the threat posed by the Nexus 6 replicants. They are desperate, angry, and cornered — animals in a trap that will do anything to survive.

In our first true scene with the steely Roy Batty, the Nexus 6 replicants pay a visit to the eye doctor. In this memorable moment, the replicants interrogate Hannibal Chew (James Hong), the man who designs artificial eyes for the Tyrell Corporation. Looking more like an Arctic explorer than a scientist, Chew is outfitted in a bulky fur coat, his scraggy beard tinged with frost. He quickly notices that his intruders appear unaffected by the harsh chilly conditions of his lab, a dead giveaway of their replicant status. 

"Yes. Questions?" Batty replies icily to Chew's horrified gaze. "I just do eyes," he pleads. "I designed your eyes," he continues, unable to contain a glimmer of self-satisfaction in his quivering voice. "Chew, if only you could see what I've seen with your eyes," responds Batty. While Chew shivers and pleads for his life, he offers up a name: J.F. Sebastian, the man who can get the rogue replicants to Tyrell.

It's always a pleasure to see James Hong on screen (the man has over 450 credits, so pleasure abounds), and the veteran character actor does a fantastic job at conveying the pride and sorrow innate in this "Frankenstein"-like tale. He pities and fears the replicants. Rightfully so, it turns out. Additionally, the scene serves the purpose of breaking up the dour, neon-lit metropolis with a noticeably different setting. Why must Chew's eyeball lab be freezing? Maybe because it looks cool, get it?

When J.F. Sebastian brings Pris up to his apartment, he informs the fawning android that he lives "pretty much alone," which is kind of burying the lede. In the next breath, he clarifies that he's good at "making friends," failing to mention he means that quite literally. See, where Tyrell builds androids, Sebastian builds toys. "It's my hobby, I'm a genetic designer," Sebastian continues, as if that makes things anything less creepy. 

Alarmingly spacious and antiquated, Sebastian's apartment is a relic of a bygone era — a rotting architectural carcass full of cast-out mechanical prototypes. In truth, Pris doesn't feel all that out of place in this island of misfit toys. Sebastian is an oddity himself, prone to accelerated aging that makes him appear wizened beyond his years. There's so much detail in Sebastian's apartment that it can be tempting to freeze the frame and pick away at the set dressings. And luckily for those of us who like that kind of maximalism, there are plenty of opportunities to hit pause, as Sebastian's spacious apartment proves the perfect arena for the climactic finale.

It's not clear when Zhora clues into the fact that Deckard was a Blade Runner, but when her elbow makes contact with his gut, she seems to get the overall picture — this dude means her harm. And now, Zhora has two options ahead of her: fight or flight. While her attempts to strangle Deckard initially look promising, the intrusion of other dancers at the club pushes Zhora into plan B. 

What follows is a blood-pumping chase scene through the soaking wet streets of futuristic Los Angeles. As the film's soundtrack fades into the background, the chaos of the street lurches forward, heightening Deckard's panic as he scans his surroundings for the runaway replicant. The cat-and-mouse chase continues as Zhora attempts to lose herself in the crowd. 

But when Deckard draws his gun, Zhora stops being stealthy. She sprints across car hoods. Deckard shoots and misses. And then, as Vangelis' score steadily creeps back, Zhora plummets through multiple sheets of glass in a storefront. Playing out in slow-motion, Zhora's death feels downright melancholic. If these replicants are so evil, why does Zhora's death feel so sad? In addition to being a gripping action sequence, this is also our first hint that there might be something deeper going on with the replicant rebellion.

Under the pretense of a late-night chess match, J.F. Sebastian innocently shepherds Roy Batty into Tyrell's apartment. Immediately wise to the nature of the visit, a Shakespearean tete-a-tete ensues. "Can the maker repair what he makes?" Roy asks, venom and pleading couched in every word. Roy wants to be a real boy. He wants more life — an extension on the artificial stopgap implemented to curb any uppity replicant that wants more out of life. The confrontation is electric, full of tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. 

There are always religious intonations when creations meet their maker. The shadow of Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" looms large too. "You were made as well as we could make you," Tyrell soothes. "But not to last," Roy adds. For a brief moment, the scene turns tender. Tyrell runs his hand over Roy's brow and through his hair. Like a guilty child, Roy confesses that he has done "questionable" things (a cute way to describe multiple homicides). Then, a dark turn tips the scene into iconic status: Roy bestows a kiss of death. Then, as cracking bones fill our ears, it becomes clear that Roy intends to murder his "father" with his own bare hands. And with all hope of extending his time in this universe gone, Roy begins his descent into madness.

In a film full of incredible moments, none come close to Roy Batty's final monologue — a fact that's all the more impressive when you consider that Rutger Hauer improvised parts of it. 

Just when it looks like Deckard is about to plummet to his death (it's hard to hold onto a rain-slick building when your fingers are all busted), Roy catches his would-be enemy and saves his life. Exhausted and on the precipice of his artificially mandated death, all the fight has gone out of Roy. In his final moments, he has no hatred for humanity, only awe for the short life he's lived and a melancholic desire that he could've seen more of what the universe has to offer. In his last breaths, Roy muses that all his memories will die with him. Life and the things that make it worth living are transitory and fleeting: "Lost in time ... like tears in the rain."

After Rachael's first visit to Deckard's apartment, the melancholic blade runner sits at his piano in a half-drunk daze plinking away at the keys. As his gaze drifts into space, he begins to day dream. Or at least, we have to assume he's day dreaming as we share his vision of a bone-white unicorn galloping through a foggy forest. 

At the end of the film, Deckard shepherds Rachael out of his apartment instead of retiring her. When he steps outside, he finds an aluminum origami unicorn on the floor. It's the work of Gaff. On the one hand, the calling card could be no more than that — a physical reminder that the cops have Deckard's number, and his betrayal has not gone unnoticed. On the other hand, the synchronicity between Deckard's dream unicorn and Gaff's origami gift feels uncanny and ominous. Is Gaff pushing Deckard to flee? Does his knowledge of Deckard's dream mean that Deckard is a replicant with implanted memories, just like Rachael? Ultimately, the real meaning behind Deckard's unicorns is left up to our interpretation. (But did anyone else spot the unicorn in J.F. Sebastian's apartment? Surely that can't be a coincidence).