Dystopian future: a still from Bladerunner (1982)
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The Bladerunner book: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep on Radio 4

Jonathan Holloway’s adaptation rightly cherished many things that the film ultimately minimised, in particular the novel’s mourning of the extinction of various animal species.

Dangerous Visions: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
Radio 4

A season of dramas about future dystopias on Radio 4 featured a nicely depressed dramatisation of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (15 and 22 June, 3pm), Philip K Dick’s best-known science-fiction novel. James Purefoy played Deckard, the bounty hunter charged to “retire” advance-model humanoids manufactured by genetic engineers in a congested, polluted, postwar 1992. Purefoy got that Dickian sense of inward scrutiny – his voice a scar of suffering, quivering with impatience and humiliation.

So often, radio adaptations of stories that have already been made into blockbusting movies (in this case, Blade Runner) ooze with self-consciousness; you’re terribly aware that you’re listening to something suspended between the page and the screen. Not here. I was half an hour into the show when I noticed they were using the word “android”, which appears in the book, rather than the iconic “replicant”. (In 1982, Ridley Scott felt that “android” represented the kind of B-movie lingo that the world was heartily sick of.)

Jonathan Holloway’s adaptation rightly cherished many things that the film ultimately minimised, in particular the novel’s mourning of the extinction of various animal species. On the page, Deckard recalls the days when the owls “fell out of the sky” and people did nothing but sit about, numbly reading animal obituaries. On the radio, he has a simple, gnawing desire for a pet monkey – a real pet monkey, not one that smells of electricity, a sure sign the creature is artificial. (A brilliant suggestion in the early drafts of the movie screenplay was a menagerie of mythic animals – including a unicorn – created to replace real ones. But it proved too expensive and the animal idea became less pivotal generally.)

Philip K Dick’s sense of a world reduced to an electronic slum was marvellously captured in the production – often with just the vague sound of static, or the swish of doors sliding so smoothly open and shut that after a while it began to feel like barbed wire in your head. And always there was Purefoy’s Bogartian, mumbled, perished voice, longing for a glimpse of his non-electric monkey, or even a slither of real sky, poor son of a bitch.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Who was Franz Ferdinand?

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Why do we refuse to accept that a Kardashian could also be a victim?

Something is wrong when violent and intrusive crimes are seen as quirks of a life lived in the public sphere.

By now, we’re used to the regular appearance of the Kardashians in the news cycle. This morning, two new stories have made headlines. First, Kim Kardashian West dropped a lawsuit against a publication that claimed she faked her own armed robbery, after the website published a retraction. Second, a man was cleared of stalking her younger sister Kendall Jenner outside her home (instead, he was convicted of trespassing and could face up to six months in jail).

Both these incidents – Kardashian West’s robbery and Jenner’s discovery of a stranger at her home – are intensely traumatic experiences, the kind that can leave victims with lifelong post-traumatic stress disorder.

When testifying against the accused, Jenner told the court, “I’ve never been so scared in my life.” Kardashian West, usually happy to share her emotions with her fans, has receded into silence – she has posted nothing on her social media channels, and has said nothing to the public since the robbery on 3 October.

But, institutionally, these incidents haven’t been treated as such. Instead, they’ve been seen as quirks of a life lived in the public sphere. Why?

One strand of public opinion has been quick to blame the Kardashians themselves for such incidents. The family have been accused of sharing too much of their lives, flaunting their wealth, revealing too many details of their whereabouts, and showcasing their extravagant possessions.

The tenants of modern fame are seen as the root cause of the actions of other irresponsible and/or malicious individuals. Put simply, the public, the media and the law are still struggling to understand fame in the 21st century, and how to respond to it.

As some of the biggest celebrities in the world, the Kardashians have been dehumanised – we’ve seen their pixelated faces so many times that it’s hard to envisage the vulnerable human behind it. Sadly, life for many people cannot be free of violation and humiliation – particularly those less financially and socially privileged than the Kardashians. But Kim and Kendall are real, breathing people. They still deserve protection.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.