There are films that you seem to live inside. Ninety minutes and change of what transpires on the screen singes your mind’s eye and once it happens, it stays. When the lights switch on and the credits roll, you are left with ashes of memory like recollected experiences of your own.

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Blade Runner is a film that I have lived inside. Some part of me stubbornly refuses to believe that I’ve never actually been to Taffy’s Snake Pit, jostling with the lowlifes for a seat at the bar, nor have I ever sought shelter from the rain with a steaming bowl of noodles before me at the White Dragon downtown. I have, in fact, been to the Bradbury Building—many times, always as a tourist—and each visit, it feels like returning to a place I used to go at a more restless time in my life.

There’s a reason why Ridley Scott’s 1982 film burns so true. I see it in one of the photographs Stephen Vaughan captured on the set. Harrison Ford as Rick Deckard leaps between two futuristic taxi cabs.…