In the book and in the film, the Voigt-Kampff Altered Scale test is used to determine whether an individual is human or a "skin job," a replicant passing itself off as human. The individual is presented with a number of social situations, to which she must respond verbally. Her physiological reactions are observed, much like in a lie detector test, to determine whether she is human or replicant. But what is human? That’s the question at the core of Philip K. Dick’s novel, and of Ridley Scott’s now-classic movie.
Recently I gave myself the Voigt-Kampff test.
"It’s your birthday. Someone gives you a calfskin wallet."
(Note: Although calfskin wallets are illegal in the Blade Runner future, this test is being administered in the present, so present-day laws apply.) I would say thank you. Leather products make excellent gifts.
Yes, we are taught to be grateful for any gift because it’s the thought that counts, but leather is preferable to plastic.
"You’ve got a little boy. He shows you his butterfly collection plus the killing jar."
I would be pleased to find that the boy has an interest in the natural sciences and the world outside of PlayStation and MMORPG. Maybe he’ll be a naturalist like Charles Darwin, or an entomologist like the lead investigator in C.S.I.
True, collecting dead insects is creepy. One is reminded of the serial killer in The Silence of the Lambs who put insect pupa in his victims’ mouths. Also, children who take pleasure in killing small animals grow up into psychotic adults. So I would watch the boy closely after that.
"You’re watching television. Suddenly you realize there’s a wasp crawling on your arm."
I would flick it off my arm and squash it. Then I would figure out how it got into the house. For a few seconds I would worry that there was a wasp’s nest in the house, then I’d forget about it.
I’m not a great fan of insects; I know they’re essential to the ecological balance, but I don’t want them near me. Mosquitoes, in particular. For some reason mosquitoes adore me. If I am in a stadium, in a crowd of thousands, and there is one mosquito in the place, the mosquito will choose to bite me. At nighttime garden parties, people have remarked on the halo of mosquitoes flying over my head.
Cockroaches I loathe unquestioningly. Sometimes I contemplate an alternate career as a cockroach exterminator. I would not use bug sprays or chemicals, which I do not trust; only tsinelas. What was the question again?
"You’re in a desert walking along on the sand when all of a sudden you look down and you see a tortoise. It’s crawling towards you. You reach down, you flip the tortoise over on its back. The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over, but it can’t, not without your help. But you’re not helping. Why is that?"
I can’t imagine myself doing that. Why would I flip over a tortoise? Why would I torment the poor creature? For the purposes of this test, I will assume that walking in the desert has given me sunstroke. Perhaps I am not wearing the proper headgear or sunblock, and I am dehydrated. I am not in my right mind, so I torture a tortoise. Say that three times, fast.
"You’re reading a magazine. You come across a full-page nude photo of a girl. Your husband likes it so much he hangs it on your bedroom wall."
That would be inconsiderate of him. However if I complain about it I would be admitting to personal insecurity. I would never admit to being insecure, even if I were. It is not cool.
Instead of complaining, I would find a nude photograph of Daniel Craig, or that still photo from the latest Bond movie in which he’s rising out of the sea in tiny blue trunks. I would hang that on my bedroom wall.
The male ego is more fragile than the female ego. Take that.
"You’re watching a stage play. A banquet is in progress. The guests are enjoying an appetizer of raw oysters. The entrée consists of boiled dog."
I do not eat dog meat, but I am aware that in some cultures eating dog is a normal, acceptable practice. The French eat horse meat, the Swiss eat smoked cat. One must be open-minded about cultural differences.
This does not mean that I don’t feel like shooting people who eat dogs, cats and horses. I won’t do it, but I’ll imagine it. As for the play, I hope the dog entrée onstage is fake, like the real-looking plastic food in Japanese restaurants. Otherwise someone is going to get hurt.