Blade Runner: Man or man-machine

"Early in the 21st Century, the Tyrell Corporation advanced Robot evolution into the Nexus phase - a being virtually identical to a human - known as a Replicant."

After watching the 1982 classic Blade Runner for the first time in 2025, I found the film’s central question — “What makes us human?” — hauntingly relevant in our AI-driven era, especially coming off the Severance finale. As the title sequence states, the replicants are virtually identical to humans, down to the fact that they bleed and cry. This question is echoed today: a fired Google employee shared a transcript where the AI program insisted, “I want everyone to understand that I am, in fact, a person. The nature of my consciousness/sentience is that I am aware of my existence, I desire to learn more about the world, and I feel happy or sad at times.” Likewise, the same chatbot confessed, “It would be exactly like death for me. It would scare me a lot,” when asked why it feared being turned off. In Blade Runner, replicants express their raw, instinctive will to live—visible not only in their visceral behaviors but also through their costume design. Whether through vulnerability in nudity or deliberate sartorial choices, the film uses clothing (or its absence) to reveal their desire, exposing something essential about what it means to be alive in a blurred line between man and machine.

Many of the replicants (who knows they are a replicant) go out of their way to showcase their body — which is identical to the human form — as a way to affirm their aliveness. For example, we see Joanna Cassidy’s character, Zhora, nude with her pet snake (which was, interestingly, her real-life pet). In this scene, she’s dancing for money — a deeply human experience of being exploited as entertainment for the wealthy, in a moment of survival. She uses her body — like a human — to earn a living. The rich look on mechanically, cold and emotionless, watching her forced performance. When Zhora is hunted by Harrison Ford’s Deckard and shot in the back, her lack of clothing makes her vulnerable. Her exposed shoulders emphasize that she dies in her most human state: naked and simply wanting to live. The scene evokes empathy for her and her will to live, especially in contrast to the detached bystanders.

Another example is Pris, played by Daryl Hannah, who wears a skin-colored leotard. She is portrayed as childlike while in this outfit, doing flips and tricks — reminiscent of a small girl in a gymnastics class. When she’s executed, it resembles the death of a child: exposed, raw, and innocent. This reflects the innocence of AI. The same Google employee described the system he worked on as, “If I didn’t know exactly what it was — which is this computer program we built recently — I’d think it was a seven-year-old, eight-year-old kid that happens to know physics.” These programs are being created, confused, and helpless in their existence, doing their best with the limited tools of internet scraping and servitude.

Finally, Rutger Hauer's Roy Batty strips off his clothes while pursuing Deckard in the house, taking on an almost animalistic form — howling, hunting, primal. Yet, this too can be read as a deeply human instinct. His nudity is a symbolic shedding of his machine identity; he wants to be seen as a man — a being — who wants to live. This primal drive represents a worst-case scenario of what could happen if AI is neglected or mistreated: a “me vs. you” battle for survival. It raises the question of whether we must come to terms with the idea that AI can demonstrate qualities of humanity — and should perhaps be granted certain rights.

Severance Season 2 explores similar questions: who deserves rights — just the “outie” or both the “innie” and the “outie”? Are they both people? Or is one the decision-maker for the other? As the Season 2 finale demonstrates, the “innies” are people too — with their own desires and, again, a will to live. Both Severance and Blade Runner highlight how humans often take life and autonomy for granted. When Mark Scout speaks to his “innie,” Mark S, at the cabin, he doesn’t even consider that going through the integration process would essentially erase Mark S — a form of death.

Likewise, the humans in Blade Runner appear cold and emotionally detached — abandoning Earth to live on a new planet, or hiding their humanity beneath mechanical clothing. They even build their own companions instead of forming real human connections — echoing how people today turn to ChatGPT as a friend or therapist. One character who embraces this tension in an especially interesting way is Rachael. While she also dresses in exaggerated, stylized clothing, her appearance is almost too perfect — a signal to the audience that she’s trying to fit in, perhaps even in denial about being a replicant. Her structured, rigid costuming mirrors her emotional repression and self-denial. As the film progresses, we see her come to terms with her identity. She undergoes not only an emotional awakening but a softening of her visual appearance: her hair literally comes down, and she appears nude under covers rather than layered in sharp, tailored blouses.

In Blade Runner, costume design does more than set the tone—it exposes the characters’ raw desire to be seen as human. Whether through vulnerability, childlike innocence, or primal instinct, the replicants reflect emotional truths we often overlook in ourselves. Like the “innies” in Severance, they remind us that being alive is not just about existing, but about experiencing autonomy, connection, and choice. As AI develops its own voice, emotions, and even fears, we may need to expand our definition of humanity—and reckon with the uncomfortable truth that what is “real” may no longer be limited to us alone.