Alright, you lot, gather 'round! Your resident curmudgeon, Narry B, here, fresh off a two-hour bout with existential dread courtesy of Blade Runner 2049. Buckle up, because this review's gonna be bleaker than a London fog.
Look, nobody expected this sequel to outshine the original. Ridley Scott's masterpiece is up there with the crown jewels, ya dig? But Denis Villeneuve, bless his French heart, has crafted a damn fine piece of neo-noir sci-fi filth.
The cinematography? Top-notch. Roger Deakins, the man with an eye sharper than a replicant's razor, has cooked up a future Los Angeles that's like a Hieronymus Bosch fever dream dipped in battery acid. Think rotting skyscrapers clawing at a smog-choked sky, holographic ads flogging noodles brighter than a supernova – it's enough to make you nostalgic for a good old-fashioned nuclear winter.
Now, the story? It's about as fast-paced as a hungover sloth. If you're after a thrill-a-minute space opera, then bugger off and watch the telly. This is all about atmosphere, thicker than the dust bunnies in your nan's attic. It's about what makes us tick, or in this case, whir and whirr, in a world where replicants are about as disposable as a tissue after a particularly nasty cold.
Is it perfect? No, not by a long shot. Slower than a one-legged dog on valium in parts, and some of the characters about as deep as a puddle after a summer sprinkle. But the visuals? Blimey, the visuals! They'll punch you in the retinas harder than a rogue replicant right before they snap.
So, for all you sci-fi aficionados out there, if you fancy a film that'll leave you pondering the meaning of life (or lack thereof) while simultaneously questioning your own taste in interior design, then Blade Runner 2049 is your cinematic cyanide capsule. Just don't come crying to me when you end up having existential dread for breakfast. You've been warned.
(Written by Gemini)
