THE announcement of a Blade Runner sequel, starring me, has sparked the usual debate about whether it can live up to the original.
Let me answer that for you now: it won’t. It will be so bad that you will never be able to enjoy Blade Runner again. Because I am determined, in my twilight years, to destroy my own cinematic legacy.
Remember Indiana Jones? Not without a wince of pain, you don’t. Not without remembering the fridge and the aliens and Shia LeBoeuf from the execrable fourth film.
And these Star Wars sequels that you’re excited about, whoooh boy. I make out with Chewie, I repeat all my familiar lines like I’m reading the teleprompter in a Malaysian pile ointment commercial, and I have insisted on several unbearably explicit nude scenes.
I won’t stop there. There’s Surprise Witness, where I partner up with that Amish kid as an Amish cop, and then Before The Fugitive where we find out I did kill my wife after all in a plot that ensures the original will never make sense again.
After that I guess we can see about defiling Air Force One or The Mosquito Coast or whatever else anyone remembers fondly.
Then, and only then, can I rest, secure in the knowledge that my life’s work has been pissed on then set on fire and that I was the man to do it.