White Dog

Film audiences are currently being inundated with a glut of dazzling special-effects movies crammed with expensively wondrous visual invention and glossily framed shots. Watching them can approximate the feeling of running head-on into the deep space of an Atari video game. When viewed strictly as catalogues of techno-esthetic prowess they may reward us with a kind of narrow utopia of visual pleasure; unfortunately directors find it necessary to get literary—hence the usual establishment of a leaden, stereotypical narrative premise. These movies sport blazing beginnings which soon crumble into tired soap operas oozing with “human” sentiment, and, in the case of Blade Runner, directed by Ridley Scott, end up suspiciously like demi-androidal steals from Claude Lelouch. Like disappointing one-night stands, they are gorgeous and stupid; they are seldom ambitious, complex, or even silly.


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