Hampton Fancher occupies a distinct niche in film history, as he (along with screenwriter David Peoples) is credited with writing the script for one of the touchstones of modern science fiction, Blade Runner.   His work not only preserved the powerful themes contained within Philip K. Dick's original novel, but is a brilliant departure from the book, and successfully brought the story into the realm of film's visual medium -- the hallmark of a great adaptation.

During our discussion, Fancher revealed behind-the-scenes details about how his involvement with Blade Runner was an emotional rollercoaster that culminated in personal anguish and repeated arguments with director Ridley Scott.

Hampton Fancher: It is. I don't think about it very much, because how can you think about that? But sometimes I try to think about it, and I manage to do it, and I'm a lucky guy. Because I'm kind of a guy who doesn't fit in too well, and no one would know anything I was doing, and all that, so there's that little entrée that I have, it's a calling card in a way, I guess.

HF: Well, it helped my career a lot – that's why I did it, actually. My career was very invisible, I think, in a lot of ways; things I was writing, things I was trying to direct. The Blade Runner experience from its origin was an attempt to try to get above ground, and kind of get in the club. And I didn't know it, but I guess I was approaching it on my own obscure level, thinking that I was making something commercial. You know, "Oh, this is science fiction, people will flock to see this." Of course I had themes that I was working with that I loved and I was intrigued with enough to continue to write it and make it happen, but still I thought of it as a commercial venture, and it wasn't. It was another thing, it was—not a slap in the face, but it was a letdown, even because [though] I liked what happened—but it was a flop. And it didn't work, and people didn't like it, and it made no money. At one point during the pre-production, and right in the beginning, it was when Filmways went bust; we lost all our money, and the film was gonna go down the tubes. And they hustled—I don't remember what draft—the fifth or sixth draft I'd written, out to all the studios in Hollywood. And so everybody read it. I mean important people read it, in terms of studio honchos. So they all of a sudden [said about] Hampton Fancher, "Oh, this guy's a great writer—I thought he was just a bad actor." So it worked. I was flavor of the month for about two years. So it was great for confidence-building, because you don't know you're incompetent, or you don't know you're insecure, you just do things to compensate for it—like become an alcoholic, or fight people in the street. But then all of a sudden, "Hmm, life isn't so bad." You make a little money, and people like you, and they want you to come and meet them in rooms, and offer you things, and that started that for me. And I liked it. I still like it. Not that it happens very much.

I finally came to the last and best conclusion about the ending of the movie, which was that Rachael is gonna die, and they're in love, and [Deckard's] become kind of human through this. He was less human than the people he was after, because they're machines—he was more of a machine. And he becomes less of a machine through the ordeal of falling in love with her. And she's smarter than he is, she's better than he is, and then at the end, he kills her. And it's not an outright execution—it's elliptical—but you hear the shot, and you see where it took place, and you saw her face, and she wanted it, and it was an act of love, and it was really moving in an old 40's kind of doomful way—it was hot, and deep romance. And boom—he's in that car, and you hear him say something in voiceover—by the way, those voiceovers that exist in the film aren't mine, nor were they David Peoples's—but he said something sitting at the piano again, like she sat at the piano, surrounded by his photographs and his memories and all that, and then he starts to say that she understood something that he didn't get, and I don't remember what that was that he said, and then he starts to play. I thought of Shoot the Piano Player, where at the end Charles Aznavour says, "Hey man, music is all there is," or something, you know—after all this treachery. And [Deckard] starts to come down on the keys, and it freeze-frames on his hand, and his hand doesn't quite hit the keys, but the music does begin, and we see his hand over end credits, and it looks like Batty's hand because it froze in that claw-like thing—he was paralytic. So you say "Well, either this is a freeze-frame, a tricky thing for titles, or—wait a minute—is he a Nexus Seven?" And so there was that.

And Ridley doesn't take credit for it, because he thinks it's bad—maybe he does say he did it—but they did some opticals with the eyes on Deckard at one point, and I thought it was hokey. Hokey looks good to me now. Even the old voiceover in the first version I sort of like better than all the rest of them.

You know, films can be different things on different days—even to the people who made them. And it seemed like that Marlowe-esque 40's, hokey almost thing—you acquire an affection for that. It's almost satirical, the way [Deckard] talks. But when I first heard it, I went nuts. I thought, "'She called me sushi'?! God…that's gonna age badly." But actually, it doesn't age badly, it became an institution, that film.

But that film—one thing about filmmaking that's interesting, and that's beautiful, and the best thing about it for those who make ‘em, I guess, if it's not a horrible experience—but again, Blade Runner was a horrible experience for the people who made it, I think; it was hell. I mean, not for me, but the actual shooting. But especially when you look at Blade Runner, it's a great example of…everybody is responsible for that movie.  Because everybody made that movie; it's not just one of us.

[With] The Minus Man, everybody made it even more. I don't think the teamsters were very interested in Blade Runner, who were sitting around waiting to drive people home. In our film, Minus Man, everybody was involved. There was sense of camaraderie, a sense of complicity. I mean, the caterers would watch, would come up, would hold you, would speak love; everybody was deeply involved. They were all a part of it—there was no hierarchy. If there was a hierarchy, it was completely unspoken. Everyone felt autonomous and independent, and yet completely integrated.