An Appreciation of Memento

WARNING: SPOILERS FOLLOW

Have you ever heard of a movie that plays backwards? Chances are you might have run across this already with at least two unique movies. One is Gaspar Noé's Irréversible, which is hardly a pleasant experience. The other: Christopher Nolan's Memento, and it's a dang good film.

Show me your tats.

I had first heard about Memento via word-of-mouth around 2002. It just came up in a casual conversation while I attended college class--a girl and a few other dudes were talking about weird, mind-bending movies they liked, and me being a film fan, I mentally took note of them and saw them all in my own good time (this was also where I first heard about 12 Monkeys and perhaps a few other flicks). I can't remember exactly when I actually first saw Memento, but I'm pretty sure it was between 2006 and 2007, when I had a fairly beefy DVD collection. I had blind-bought the two-disc special edition that came in a notebook-style package--this and the notebook-style edition of Se7en made a pretty mean double-feature. Once I saw the movie on my parents' plasma TV, I was thoroughly enamored by the film's style, and more importantly, its narrative. It's remains an essential part of my collection ever since, and in 2010, I've gone on to upgrade it with the 10th anniversary Blu-Ray.

Remember Sammy Jankis

Memento begins at the story's end, with Leonard murdering Teddy. At this point, we don't even know who either of these people are, why the murder happened, or how it was justified. It takes the course of the whole movie to answer all these questions, and it does so by showing the previous scene, then the previous scene, then the previous scene, all the way to the beginning. At that point, Teddy himself lays out all the answers in a very straightforward manner, and it suggests that Leonard's story really begins far beyond the immediate scope of the movie--those aspects are actually shown with additional flashbacks and tangents.

It may seem like a convoluted mess, but the film never feels messy, illogical, or incomplete by its end. Every story question is answered, and often in ways that are not what one would expect. A number of small details connect to the events and show consistency, despite the fact that the events are shown in reverse. What ultimately happens is that the movie dumps a bunch of puzzle pieces on the frame, and they're methodically put together by the end--it's not only a fascinating (and perhaps troubling) story, but it's also immensely satisfying to see how it all connects.

The bigger reason why this movie works is because there's clear attention to the chronological events of the story (which, according to Russian formalism, is the fabula, and in the movie this aspect is reversed) and the timing of how those events are shown in the narrative (the syuzhet, which plays forward in the movie). The syuzhet by nature requires certain things to happen in a typical three-act structure--characters, conflict, story all need to be introduced in a way that's clear to us. Even though Memento begins at its end, it still manages to achieve these goals. Additionally, the first few scenes also succeed in establishing key information (Leonard's "condition," what he believes his backstory is) and establishing the first line of questions that lead to deeper connections in the events of the past (how did Leonard get Teddy in this position, who was Teddy anyway, who's Natalie, etc). Through these basic set-ups, the rest of the syuzhet continues and succeeds in answering vital story questions, even though the events are mixed-up. The fact that this all works is something I find awe-inspiring.

To help keep things straight, some segments of the movie are shown in black-and-white. These include segments in which Leonard talks to somebody on the phone (whose identity comes into question later on, creating some short-lived tension in a space where tension is otherwise dry. Not to mention, this is another story question that is eventually answered). Scenes involving Sammy Jankis are also in black-and-white. Done this way, it's easy to interpret which scenes are part of the main narrative and which ones are mere asides. Curiously though, flashbacks showing Leonard's wife and the night they were attacked are all in color--I suspect all the color scenes in the film are meant to reflect everything that feels the most real to Leonard, while all the black-and-white scenes represent memories that have faded.

At the very least, we can take most of the color scenes as the objective reality of the movie--we see for ourselves how truths shift in between the moments in which Leonard's memory lapses. One minute, Natalie seems like a compassionate ally--when we see what happens fifteen minutes earlier, we find out she's really manipulative, scheming, and spiteful. For long stretches of time, we speculate on Teddy's identity, believing he could be a criminal or a snitch with ties to Jimmy Grantz, but we eventually learn he's really a cop who helped Leonard for over a year. As for Leonard, we see for ourselves that he's a tragic figure stuck on a perpetual quest to take revenge on a man who may not even exist, for a death that was ultimately Leonard's fault and nobody else's.

What makes all the truth so fickle is that the flashbacks and black-and-white scenes are subjective. As flashes of Leonard's memory, they are prone to mistakes and failure. The biggest lapse is how Leonard conflates himself with Sammy Jankis--a detail that Teddy, standing in as an objective third party, confirms for the audience. Up to that moment, however, our perception of Sammy's story is thrown into question a few times when the film makes it a point to mirror Leonard's and Sammy's use of the insulin syringe. There is also one point in the film (about 90 minutes in) where Sammy is shown sitting in an institution, but for a few frames we actually see Leonard instead (and here's the screenshot to prove it).

Sammy Jankis, I presume?

The narrative itself assumes its twisty, unpredictable form because many aspects are unreliable by nature, and they all come into play in Leonard's story.

• The written word--notes can be fabricated, censored, and burned.
• Incomplete information--John G could be anybody, including Teddy.
• Trust in people--once Leonard's condition is known, Natalie, Teddy, and the guy at the hotel all take advantage of it in their own ways.
• Perception--there is one point where Leonard holds a note upside-down and mistakes a 9 for a 6, and he busts down the wrong hotel room door.

Not even Leonard's tattoos are 100% reliable, even though they supposedly contain the core information he needs to find vengeance, and are thus made permanent. His tats are ultimately derived from notes on index cards, and those cards can be fabricated and changed just as easily as any other note (and we see this happen when Leonard decides to tattoo Teddy's license plate on himself).

The only reliable sources of truth stem from the following aspects:

• Knowledge of oneself--Leonard can see through certain deception as he recognizes his own handwriting.
• Human behavior--Leonard points out in one monologue that he can tell when people are lying. His work as an insurance investigator gifted him with an ability to read people (it's also worth noting that, as an insurance guy, he's not so much interested in truth as he is in constructing narratives to justify withholding payment--therefore, he spends the movie looking for reasons, not truth).
  
• Physical evidence--Leonard had certain things that belonged to his wife, and we see them all in use in the flashbacks. On top of that, when things happen (such as the shoot-out with Dodd), there is evidence left over (the Jaguar's window shatters, which is something Teddy notices towards the film's beginning).

The film's last lines is a voice-over in which Leonard talks about believing in an objective reality beyond his own mind. However, I can't help but to reflect on how ironic, if not hypocritical, this is coming from a guy who willingly set Teddy up to be killed by his own faulty memory, guided by just a few key notes. Just a moment earlier, Leonard even said "We all lie to ourselves to be happy."

Leonard's Life In Ruins

Most of the film takes place in an undefined American town somewhere in the west (this was filmed in Los Angeles). Leonard spends his whole time living and working from his hotel room. He had a home at one point, but we don't know what became of it. We can only assume that while he's on the hunt for his wife's killer, his residence is temporary. And yet, this could describe his state of being as well--as his memory fades every fifteen minutes, every moment becomes temporary. In this respect, the setting becomes symbolic of the character--things are always transient, on-the-move, and never permanent.

When Leonard kills Jimmy Grantz, and later Teddy, he does so in a crummy, ruined house amidst some kind of industrial zone (this was all filmed near an oil refinery). This is also where he burns the last few things that belonged to his dead wife. It seems as though any time somebody is killed or something is destroyed, it happens here--in a place of decay and desolation. Aside from adding grit and atmosphere to these scenes, it is an apt reflection of the damage that Leonard causes.

A literal Blue Ruin.

Mirror Games

Mirrors occur in movies all the time, usually to represent themes of self-reflection, or duality. In Kubrick's The Shining, mirrors appear in just about any scene where Jack Nicholson encounters the supernatural--it was a subtle way to suggest that the ghosts he saw might have all been in his own head.

In Memento, there are no actual ghosts, but Leonard remains haunted by his own past, and he spends an ample amount of screen time staring into mirrors. He does so alone, he does so with Natalie, and even during the flashback scenes, it's shown that his head is bashed into a mirror. What I take away from all of this is that there are two sides to Leonard, and every time he faces a mirror, he's facing his own dark history, and he's forced to face his own dark self.

Leonard split himself up in a few different ways. On one hand, there is the confusion between himself and Sammy Jankis. Although Sammy is probably a real client he had, his case and the way he murdered his wife is Leonard's story--all pieces of the past he had forgotten because of his condition, but even when the truth is revealed he refuses to accept it.

There is dialogue scattered around the movie, largely from Teddy, which commands Leonard to face himself and see the person he had become--thus, it is explicitly suggested that Leonard has multiple sides. In fact, he seems to embody any persona he wants. When he kills Jimmy Grantz, he literally becomes a new person by taking Jimmy's clothes and car (and some attention is drawn to these aspects, becoming story questions that are eventually answered). The man is like a shapeshifter, and part of the "puzzle" of the film is seeing all the different sides of him in so many different forms. I tend to think that the moment his head hit the mirror in the bathroom is the moment his self was shattered--it not only made his memory faulty, it literally shattered his persona and changed him.

Other characters have multiple sides too. Teddy is a cop, but he often exploits Leonard's memory lapses to change his identity depending on the situation (he presents himself as a snitch to Jimmy Grantz in one scene, but Leonard sees through it). The fact that he has two names--Teddy, or John G--further suggests that he's shifty. But even though the film makes it clear that Leonard doesn't trust him, he winds up becoming the most trustworthy character, since he's helped Leonard out of numerous jams and is the only one who slams the truth in Leonard's face. Natalie most blatantly shows her dual-nature thanks to the way the film shows her deception with back-to-back scenes--just when it looks like she helps Leonard out of mere kindness, we see shortly afterwards that she actually insults Leonard until he punches her, waits until his memory lapses, then spins a new story that sics him on Dodd.

Even the way scenes are presented have a mirroring effect. Most major sequences in the main plot are shown back-to-back, with one scene that presents a story question or some kind of information, then the next showing the basis or cause of such effects (and it's often a cause we can't predict, thus changing our perception of the story as it unfolds). When we first see Natalie, it's in two parts. When Leonard is in her house, it's also in two parts. When he meets her in the bar, that's two parts. The sequence with Leonard and the prostitute is split in two parts. And so on.

One Bare Spot

Look ma, no heart.

At a few points in the film, attention is drawn to one part of Leonard's body that's devoid of tattoos. It's his left breast, where his heart would be. First, when Natalie sees his tattoos in front of a mirror, she makes it a point to stroke that area. Later on, when Teddy shows off the year-old photo of Leonard actually achieving his revenge, it's a picture of Leonard pointing to that same spot on his chest, and he's smiling.

Towards the end of the film we also see very brief flashes of Leonard and his wife together--she's stroking that spot where his heart is, but now there is a tattoo there (and though it's obscured somewhat, it appears to say "...I've done"). This can't be a flashback, because there is no point in which Leonard and his wife were together when he had tattoos--this can only be taken as an artistic representation of what's going on in his mind and heart. Especially since he has that extra tattoo on his chest that didn't exist before. It seems to suggest a state of mind in which he is done killing and can find peace with his dearly departed spouse. On the other hand, this could also be taken as she's always on his mind, and this image will stick with him even if his vengeance never ends.

The fact that Leonard's bare spot is showcased can also suggest that there's literally nothing on his heart, or that his heart is empty.

Don't Believe His Lies

Leonard is as unreliable of a narrator as they come, and it takes all of the methods listed above to show what the truth actually is and how far displaced his beliefs are from it. What makes Leonard exceptionally slimy, perhaps even villainous, is that he willingly sabotages himself so that his quest for vengeance may never end. And yet, the film still paints him as a tragic figure, showcasing his trauma that fuels his rage and makes it impossible for him to let go. Though the techniques of Memento are impressive on many levels, it's the simple payoff of reaching the core of a character's heart that makes this experience worthwhile and thought-provoking.

Chances are that there are other aspects to the film that I'm neglecting or skimping out on. Every time I see the film, it seems much more nuanced and complicated than I first believed. Of the film's many qualities, these are the other things I admire, which cements this as a personal favorite:

• This film is not exactly a low-budget affair, but it's not overblown or over-the-top either. It amounts to simply a handful of characters in common, unassuming places. And yet, all the cast and crew needed was the script to make this movie as strong as it is.
  
• Just about all of the performances are top-notch. This might be my favorite performance from Guy Pierce. Carrie-Anne Moss and Joe Pantoliano are no slouches either (it's also no coincidence that both also co-starred in The Matrix, Nolan had seen Moss in that movie and cast her based on that performance--Pantoliano came onboard with Moss' recommendation). I also love that Stephen Tobolowsky and Jorja Fox are given small roles, and they're both standouts (and since I was a CSI fan at the time, I was happy to see Fox in a film).
  
• The film's photography doesn't exactly beat you over the head with style, but it still manages to stand out with the way it frames characters, the use of close-ups, and the way light, shadow, and textures are captured. It stands out in an understated way. As a film noir, all of this helps to add atmosphere and symbolism to the story.
• Regardless of how the photography is, it's the editing that makes the film even more punchy. Flashbacks and visual images are spliced into the film in very short, punchy bursts, which will either reinforce what's seen or said on-screen, or reveal new information. At times, it seems to replicate the shattered nature of Leonard's memories or thoughts. But even with mundane scenes, the snappy way scenes begin and end make them continuously interesting.
• Despite the detached nature of Nolan's films, Memento struck me as showing more personality than I remembered. Even though the film does resort to some straightfroward exposition at key points, the actors (especially Pierce and Pantoliano) find ways to relay their dialogue with levity and attitude. It not only matches the cool, hard-boiled nature of the neo-noir genre, it also keeps the film from becoming too stiff or droll. I could probably listen to Leonard narrating his life forever (and it's worth noting that this is one of the very few films where the voice-over actually works).
• David Julyan's music score is pretty nice. He had wanted to capture a sense of yearning and loss for certain parts of the movie, and I feel it's aptly felt in the melancholic way the synths and strings drone and subtly rise.
  

Memento is an interesting, puzzling, gut-wrenching story pieced together with nuanced editing and a polished, detailed script. Even after all these years, its twists and insight on the character remain on my mind, reminding me that a good story is built from a fundamental focus on details, points-of-view, mysteries, and characterization. I am still in awe over how meticulous and well-crafted the whole film is. Thanks to the care put into it, I may always remember Sammy Jankis.

I see he also remembers 10-and-2.

An Appreciation of Following

WARNING: SPOILERS FOLLOW

In another month or so, Tenet will hit theaters. What better time is there to revisit Christopher Nolan's filmography, starting with his first-ever feature film?

What's in the booooooox?

Even though Following came out in 1998, I didn't see it until 2012 when the Blu-Ray was released from the Criterion Collection. Even though it's not nearly as big-scale or epic of a film as the Dark Knight trilogy or Inception, I liked the film just fine for what it was. Its black-and-white photography had a stark and gritty quality that reminded me of Darren Aronofsky's Pi, but the story carried trademarks and a structure that would carry over to many of his future works (most especially Memento and Inception). Considering how limited the budget and production was for Following, it is exceptionally impressive how well-shot, well-acted, and well-written the film actually is--it could stand toe-to-toe with similar neo-noir pictures like 1997's Insomnia, or 1996's Bound. It wouldn't be too out-of-place among the myriad of Hitchcock thrillers either.

Thus, the film has remained in my collection as one of many understated gems. I never really revisited it as much as the other Nolan films, but after a recent rewatch my memory was refreshed and I remembered what it actually was that made me like the guy's work in the first place. I still think the film is good, plain and simple, and well worth a watch for anybody with 70 minutes to spare.

The Fellow Who Follows

A film about a guy who just stalks random people could have been dry and boring on its own. Following manages to keep things moving from frame one. It starts exactly where any good story should--by introducing the character and their motivation. This is actually presented in a very explicit, straightforward manner by having the main character speak to someone who's interviewing him. We may not know at the time who this other person is, but the scene is revisited in the last shot and we find out that this is a police interrogation, and the main character is framed for murder. In the course of these interviews, we find out right away that:

• The main character has this habit of "following" people.
• The character does this because he was lonely.
• The character doesn't discriminate between following men or women, which shows that he has no voyeuristic or perverted intention.
• The reason he gives is that he just wants to see where people go and what they do.

Even though this is very direct dialogue, and maybe a little on-the-nose, it is successful at setting up the story and establishing the character as a loner with this peculiar hobby. The dialogue is still presented with care to the characters' voices. They are also trim and economical.

Who to follow next?

In the next few scenes, the dialogue becomes a voice-over that complements the scenes we see--this same technique is something Nolan would employ in many of his future films, including all the Batman ones. We learn next that the protagonist has certain rules he follows, but the one time he fails to follow them invites trouble into his life. When this happens, the story kicks off.

All of this happens within the first few minutes of the movie. By the time the character's life is turned around, we already know who he is, what he does for a living, and what his obsession is. This is the bare minimum needed before conflict is introduced. What's really admirable is that the film achieves the groundwork of the story (via introducing the character and providing exposition) as close to the story's starting point as possible. This makes the movie very lean, efficient, and it maintains interest right from the start.

Who Follows The Follower?

In short order, we're introduced to a character named Cobb, who outright challenges the protagonist and leads him into a deeper level of obsession. Thus, the main character moves from following people to breaking into houses and upending the place.

Cobb is the villain of the story, but judging him as an "antagonist" is a little tricky. It's not the usual case where an antagonist gets in the way of the protagonist's goals--the main character has no "goal" in this film. What winds up happening is that Cobb gives him a goal, but this sets him on a path of destruction through deception and treachery. Like Satan, Cobb uses temptation and appeals to the character's ego and desires to push him into deeper and more dangerous levels of corruption.

The devilish parallels don't end there though. Also like Satan, Cobb gets a thrill out of messing with people's stuff, with the intention of causing mischief and sowing doubt or conflict in the households he invades. And he justifies this with a certain rebellious bravado, insisting that by taking away something a person will appreciate what he has more (and this could be a little similar to how Tyler Durden's motivations in Fight Club, in which he wanted to shake people out of apathy and materialism and live their lives in a fuller way).

Cobb ultimately finds an ally with the Blonde--the very same woman that the protagonist burgles, but remains unaware that she and Cobb are conspiring against him. These secrets, as well as Blonde's connection to the Bald Guy, become reveals that redirect our understanding of the story. We experience these shifts at the same times the main character does, so when he's surprised, we are too. Even though the film begins and ends with the character in police custody, we really can't see where this story is going--there's nothing in the opening to suggest the main character is actually in trouble, but by the end we watch as he is framed for murder. And it all happens because of Cobb's cold scheming.

Everyone Has A Box

The main character initially follows people out of curiosity. It shows a human interest in other people--he simply wants to know what makes them tick, and possible connect to others on a more personal level. He maintains rigid distance because it's respectful and lawful. Cobb, however, invades people's lives forcibly. He even squats in people's houses when he knows they'll be gone for a long period of time. It's not only unlawful, but also a violation of privacy, and perhaps violation in other forms (such as psychological).

Oh look, he found the Joker's card.

It's probably best understood with the concept of boxes--when the characters engage in their burglary, Cobb makes the comment that "everyone has a box," where people supposedly hide their most intimate secrets and belongings. On one level, this becomes a major plot point, since the main character takes on the mission to steal the Bald Guy's "box" to take back Blonde's incriminating photos. On the other hand, the use of boxes is also a stand-in for the very thing the character wants--intimate knowledge and connection with other people.

What's really creepy then is that Cobb succeeds by having a box faked, which in turn tricks the protagonist into falling for an identity that doesn't really exist. In turn, this alters the protagonists' reality, until the truth becomes known. You can even see Cobb arranging the box in the film's opening titles--we just don't comprehend this at first because, out of context, it's just hands putting stuff in a box. Once you know how this plays out, you realize you're actually watching Cobb arrange his devious plan, and it creates a kind of foreshadowing. Thus, the brief montage holds up even on repeat viewings.

The box is more than a McGuffin here--it's also a thing that curses the main character (it just occurred to me that there could be a parallel to the myth of Pandora's Box with this). More importantly, it's a symbol that embodies what the film is about thematically--the search and intrusion of other people's secrets.

Stop--Hammer Time

Boxes aren't the only thing that plays a role in the story. The main character is ultimately implicated in Blonde's murder via a hammer--the protagonist used it to kill the Bald Guy, but Cobb uses it to kill Blonde. Inevitably, with the main character's fingerprints still on the handle, the police wind up pinning her death on him.

All of this didn't need much of a set-up. About halfway through the film, we see the hammer introduced when gangsters use it "take care" of someone. Aside from introducing threat and characterizing the Bald Guy as a cold-blooded villain, the scene serves to associate the hammer as a tool for murder. When it changes hands across other scenes, including the flashback showing Cobb murdering the Blonde, we can see the weapon's path across the story and understand visually how the main character became the prime suspect. Through all this, we also see how Cobb's devious schemes play out.

If the hammer was never introduced the way it was, it wouldn't have as much weight as it does in the story. It might even seem like just a convenient thing the characters find and use. But when it's established that organized criminals do bludgeon others regularly with hammers, it seems as though that same threat and violence transfers to Cobb and the main character when they wind up using it. It's all a connection, almost like the opposite of Chekhov's Gun.

Birth Of An Idea

Chances are by now that you may see many similarities between Following and another Nolan film made on a much bigger budget--2010's Inception. Not only is the name Cobb repurposed, but the idea of boxes is harped on again. In Inception, the formula winds up being flipped so that it's not about thieves stealing other people's intimate secrets--they put things into said boxes to change a person from the inside. In one twist, a box is even used to trick the character into losing track of his own life. I have a feeling Inception brewed in Nolan's head for a while, ultimately recycling the "box" motif, the names, and the core psychological ideas into a more ambitious spectacle.

On its own though, Following holds up just fine as a short, competent neo-noir. There are many things to admire about it, including these aspects:

• This film hardly had a budget. It was pieced together with very candid photography, often capturing the crowds of English streets without anybody being aware they were being filmed. For a film that focuses on just a handful of characters, a few simple props, and real locations, the film makes the most of what it has thanks to its script, rehearsals to reduce the number of takes needed, and concise editing.
• Like many Nolan pictures, the timeline of the story is chopped up to some degree. It's not nearly as convoluted as his other movies, but notably, the final scene is split and shown at the beginning and end, and some events that happened earlier are shown as fleeting flashbacks to visually reinforce a given reveal or twist.
• What's a film noir without a femme fatale? Lucy Russell plays the Blonde in a way that makes her feel like a grounded, real character, and less like a stereotype. And yet, the way she colludes with Cobb and her tragic death still fits the archetype.
• Nolan's films present themselves in a rather stiff and formal way--it's some combination of the films' visual styles, cutting, acting, dialogue, and music. Following notably feels dry and has pretty stiff dialogue, but it's not entirely without personality. The naturalistic performances from all the leads make them creditable as characters, and it helps them stand out even when the dialogue becomes flat exposition. But it helps that the characters do manage to talk about their ideals, desires, and feelings in a frank way--even though it might seem on-the-nose, it's a fast way for the film to layer its story so that the characters and their actions make sense.
• This isn't so much a movie to watch for voice, levity, or catharsis--it's best taken as something to think and ponder over.
• The music score is decent.
• Main character is a writer. Yay!

If there's anything to admonish about the film, it's just that it's rough around the edges and maybe a little slow and quiet. It has more strengths than weaknesses though--I've always been intrigued by the story and its presentation, but on a rewatch I am genuinely impressed by the script and the way the story flows. Although Nolan's future films will embody more complex stories, stronger characters, stronger emotions, and a lot more action, Following still showcases his trademarks and it remains quite a chilling tale.

A writer in his natural habitat.

An Appreciation of Christopher Nolan

Few filmmakers produce a consistently good filmography, much less one that bears distinctive artistic voice, style, and trademarks. I know many film-goers won't agree, but I believe Christopher Nolan has achieved an admirable consistency--of the ten (soon to be eleven) feature-length films under his belt, I liked them all. Not only are they entertaining, but most of them have puzzling narrative structures that keeps you guessing and thinking until a whopper of a revelation happens. And he manages to achieve this while telling fascinating stories full of fascinating characters, and some of them bear an iconography that's become meme-worthy at the least.

That is not to say his work is perfect. I've seen my fair share of heated debates concerning plot holes, sloppy editing, and stupid artistic decisions. Some would say his films are overrated--given the sheer hype they produce, fans do tend to hold the man and his works on a pedestal that undoubtedly irritates his haters. Though I try to abstain from holding Nolan's works above reproach, I do admire all of them anyway, and I'd even say that their imperfections are part of their charm.

Christopher Nolan is a native of London who started dabbling with film-making as early as seven years old. Though he proceeded to make short films throughout his early years, he opted not to attend a traditional film school, and instead received his degree in English literature. Together with Emma Thomson (now his wife), he went on to work in a variety of film-related jobs and make more short films. 1998's Following was his first feature-length picture, which was impressively crafted on a minuscule budget. However, his real breakthrough occurred with 2001's Memento.

Around 2002, I had caught wind of Memento's existence and always heard it was a good, must-see thriller. I didn't see it until some years later (2005 maybe?) from a distinctively-packaged two-disc DVD set. This was the time in which I explored a lot of classics and well-regarded modern films, and watching Memento in such close proximity to David Fincher's Se7en and Fight Club all for the first time is quite a memorable experience. It was films like these that opened up my appreciation of the neo-noir genre, but Memento was the first film that genuinely knocked my socks off with merely its plot structure.

As the years went on, the hits just kept coming. I didn't catch onto 2002's Insomnia until much later, but Batman Begins was one of the best surprises of 2005 and it quickly became one of my favorite Batman films. I found myself rewatching and admiring The Prestige throughout 2006 and 2007, thoroughly hooked to its twisty plot, characters, and style.

Naturally, by 2008 I was onboard with anything this guy would make, and I was looking forward to his next big picture. Nothing actually prepared me for The Dark Knight though--one memorable evening, I saw this on an advanced screening in Leeds with my dad, and I left feeling awed. So many scenes in the movie left a mark, to the point where I regard it as a modern classic and still hold it in high regard. For a time, this was my fourth-favorite movie of all time, and I felt as though Batman and Nolan could do no wrong (especially together).

In 2010, Nolan delivered a wonderfully surprising spectacle with Inception, the one movie of his that feels the most like a big-scale passion project brought to life. Though I skipped it in theaters for some reason, I blind-bought the Blu-Ray and I watched it the day it arrived--it didn't disappoint me. In fact, my appreciation for it only goes up as the years pass, and I consider it an essential among modern sci-fi.

With the success of all the Batman movies, I went into The Dark Knight Rises believing it could do no wrong and was a perfect endcap to the trilogy. In time, I'd realize that calling it "perfect" was a stretch--this is probably his worst film for many reasons, but I still value and enjoy it for its more iconic moments. A couple of years later, Interstellar hit the big screen with seemingly less fanfare, but I was thoroughly impressed by it (I might never forget how, when the credits rolled, the guy next to me said "holy moly!"). In 2017, Dunkirk was released and I appreciated the experience it represented.

Here it is, 2020, and in another month (hopefully) Tenet will release, promising a trippy new spin on the spy movie genre. I have a feeling I'll love it.

Anatomy of a Nolan Picture

Chances are good you'll know a Nolan film when you see it. Most of them are filmed in very drab, steely colors (it just so happens that Nolan is color blind). Most of his films use handheld cameras and very fast editing--you'd think this would look garish, but the effect is actually more eye-popping with the way he ends some scenes very suddenly. Many of his action scenes are shown with pretty ugly camera shake, but over the years I think he ditched that effect in favor of capturing big-scale action with steadier quality (with IMAX cameras nonetheless). Most of his films focus on certain archetypes--usually involving thieves, spies, crooks, businessmen, cops. Ladies in his films are either dangerous femme fatales, tragic lost loves, tough heroines, or some combination of all three. His earliest movies boasted some pretty classy music, but since Batman Begins he's relied more on Hans Zimmer, which gives his films a more synthetic, droning industrial quality (and yet I still think it's fitting).

What really draws me into his films are the stories and their plot structures. Just about all of his films revolve around a secret, and in the course of the film layers are peeled away through revelations and exposition that help piece a larger puzzle together. By the end, you're usually given a revelatory scene or detail that puts the rest of the movie in context, which will either change your perception of what you've just seen, or explain what makes a certain character tick. Heck, Memento does both. The big twists are not always that big or awe-inspiring, but they don't need to be. The first two Batman films don't even have twists per se, they maintain intrigue purely through conventional plotting (although The Dark Knight is a pretty winding cat-and-mouse chase). The Dark Knight Rises, however, pulled an interesting sleight-of-hand regarding the backstory behind Bane and Talia.

Over time, Nolan's focus seemed to sway from steely, intellectual twists towards catharsis and emotion. Though I find parts of Inception and the Dark Knight trilogy chilling, it doesn't quite compare to the raw tears we see shed in Interstellar, or the uplifting monologue that caps Dunkirk. Whether he makes movies with feeling or thought, I'm confident his future works will be interesting to behold.

Other Things To Admire

• Christopher Nolan always wears a suit. Always. In most photos and interviews I see him in, he always looks slick and sounds professional.
• His brother Jonathan Nolan seems to be quite the capable writer. I figure he likely contributed to the successful complexity of movies like Memento and The Dark Knight. The two together seem to be a perfect match.
• That being said, Christopher has writing credit in all his movies, plus Man of Steel and something called Ghajini. He was the sole writer for Inception. I think it's a good yardstick against his writing chops--it likely shows a greater penchant for exposition and spectacle, like most other blockbusters, but it's a film to admire for its structure and ideas more than voice and characterization.

Al's Rankings

• 10: The Dark Knight Rises (2012) 7/10
• 9: Insomnia (2002) 7/10
• 8: Following (1998) 8/10
• 7: Dunkirk (2017) 8/10
• 6: Inception (2010) 9/10
• 5: Batman Begins (2005) 9/10
• 4: Interstellar (2014) 9/10 
• 3: The Prestige (2006) 9/10
• 2: The Dark Knight (2008) 10/10
• 1: Memento (2000) 10/10

Nolan's Short Films

Film Review: Jaws (1975)

Is there a scarier living creature than a shark? All muscle and teeth, they prowl the oceans with precision senses to hunt and devour just about any sea creature. Though they rarely target people, one can't help but to fear them when they do attack. With rows of teeth that constantly regenerate, the jaws of a shark can leave a person deformed and mangled in a best-case scenario. At worst, you're dead meat.

1975's Jaws is a fictitious yarn about a Great White shark that attacks an unassuming girl, leaving only a mangled corpse that makes police chief Martin Brody (Roy Scheider) raise the alarm to close Amity Island's beaches. When the mayor (Murray Hamilton) and his cronies refuse to shut down the beaches during tourist season, the shark continues to wreak havoc. Even a local bounty hunt fails to catch the maneater, causing Brody to team up with oceanographer Matt Hooper (Richard Dreyfus) and salty boat captain Quint (Robert Shaw) to hunt and kill the monstrous shark once and for all.

Before you come out and scream that books are always better than their movie counterparts, I'd like to point out that Peter Benchley's novel Jaws was wisely adapted by Spielberg to keep all the cool parts and ditch the bad, resulting in one genuinely solid movie that surpasses the book. Care was given to make the characters relate-able and likable--indeed, the actors help as they juggle levity and emotion that paints their characters as fully-dimensional human beings. It really helps that some subplots, including one where Hooper sleeps with Brody's wife, is excised completely (seriously, that stuff really killed the novel for me, good riddance).

The film banks on the threat of the shark to drive its story--even in the first half, set amidst the mundane bustle of a small seaside town, the tension is cranked up thanks to the political pressure Body faces. It's amplified in interesting ways, thanks largely to Spielberg's penchant for always having characters talk over each other and splitting their attention--I can't say I like this technique in other films he's made, but it works in Jaws as our own attention becomes split between all the mundane babble and the overarching threats Brody always eyeballs. The film proceeds to string the audience along with its tension, using little more than shots of a single dorsal fin skimming the ocean--this leads to one or two fake-outs, but the inevitable payoff may elicit a startling scream all the same. This ultimately builds up to a nearly hour-long finale where the leads board the Orca and face the shark head-on--the film still finds time to wedge in chemistry and character-building, but the final hunt remains captivating as the boat falls apart and the three heroes face constant problems, before "Bruce" makes his final lunge. Suffice to say, all of the film's thrills work phenomenally thanks to its content and style.

A simple story, but one told well thanks to its dedicated performances, creditable location shooting, and quality of production. The cinematography is often pleasing, using postcard-like composition to bring out the rugged charm of the town and the sea--it really helps that the crew built rigs and watertight camera boxes to film at sea as well as they did. Even with such gear, however, the production went 100 days over schedule and millions of dollars over budget--the cast and crew alike pulled long hours across this strenuous shoot, having to face challenges with the ocean and malfunctions with the mechanical shark. Limitations ultimately forced Spielberg to cut the film with less of the shark shown, but the film is all the better for it since it achieves a "less is more" effect. Like a Hitchcock film, Jaws builds tension through suggestion and the careful reveal of details (and this is an effect that would further influence Gareth Edwards with Monsters and 2014's Godzilla). Part of Jaws' success stems from John Williams' score, which further emphasizes threat with the simple, minimalist use of strings. To this day, you'll likely hear the theme's gradual build and feel chills as if you are indeed being hunted by a shark.

Spielberg might have been in over his head regarding the production--this being his third feature-length film, his ego and inexperience probably made this a bigger pain in the butt than it needed to be, but it is refreshing to read his current reflections, in which he humbly admits to his faults. It was a creative learning experience that nearly ruined the guy's career. And yet, the film came out as a smash success full of iconography--with a lean script, solid style, and wonderful performances, it remains a modern-day classic. It really says something that, even in my generation, the film is instantly recognized by just its music and a few good memes. The cast and crew are champs for bringing this all to life. The film seems to bite deeper each time I see it.

9/10

Film Review: Cats (2019)

Dear reader--forgive me if I seem out of sorts. My recent bout of madness began when I finished watching Cats. Even though I viewed this on my television set, I can affirm that this is not a film. It can only be described as a thing that should not be.

The tale of Cats is a curious oddity for theater circuits, although it might fare best on the stage where the camp bears charm. On film, we are thrust into a horrifying world where cats and human beings have merged into one--all abominations made possible with the undisciplined science of CGI. To watch the film is to watch a monstrous hoard of cat/human hybrids prancing about a neon-lit reality where the shape and size of things constantly fluxes scene-to-scene. Even the reality within the film breaks as the CGI fails to cover every blemish of the performers and costumes. With terrifying veracity and a daunting runtime, the film whisks its viewers into a damnable hellscape where the hybrids sensually flex and sway their bodies amidst cheese-coated serenades and jazz numbers. It's perhaps at its most terrifying when a decidedly miscast Rebel Wilson enslaves some subraces of rat/child hybrids and cockroach people, and devours some of them with uncaring glee.

Such is the horror that Tom Hooper conjured out of Andrew Lloyd Weber's stageplay (in turn, a whimsical adaptation of TS Elliot's stories). By nature of its origins, Cats is constructed in a formless fashion, amounting to little more than a string of musical setpieces that spotlights specific "Jellicle" cats--the definition of which is left mysterious, but suggests a form of grace and redemption for a few chosen characters. For the film, however, these origins are bastardized into a script, where cinematic conflict and act structure are forced upon this plotless tale. Within this malformed structure, the characters remain one-dimensional specters that prance in and out of each scene with little consequence. Any semblance of romance and adventure is abandoned in favor of contrived structure, and ghastly spectacle and song. I can't deny that the music is fairly catchy--the sheer cathartic power of Jennifer Hudson's solos may be the film's most redeeming feature. I am largely smitten by Francesca Hayward's performance and Taylor Swift's brief appearance (curiously, she had collaborated with Weber on a new song, "Beautiful Ghosts," which Hayward sings quite well in the film's middle, even though it sacrifices pacing to do so). But such music is like a siren's song, luring film-goers into the depths of an empty abyss where the currents of a story are faint and inconsequential. Such is the damnable emptiness that's conjured when filmmakers fail (or don't bother) to comprehend that some elements of a stage musical make for poor cinema, and some elements of cinema make for a poor musical. Alas, the film's attempt to balance both mediums results in an aberration that could have only been summoned from the Necronomicon.

Who knows how much sweat, tears, and money was sacrificed to conjure this reality? Much care was given in elaborate props, sets, costumes, and lighting, but the film remains infamous for its garish, inconsistent (and upon its release, incomplete!) special effects. The cast is noteworthy, but it is perhaps sobering to watch distinguished thespians like Sir Ian McKellen and Dame Judi Dench devote their talents to such bizarre fare (transformed as monstrous cats nonetheless). All the cartoonish gloss and color does little to patch the imperfections, much less the vapid story or the unwise decision to bring this film into being in the first place.

Film and theater lovers take heed--I have ventured through the uncanny valley of madness and witnessed the unfathomable terrors of endlessly wavering tails, twitching ears, and fur-lined faces. In a time ravaged by a global pandemic, domestic rioting, and rampaging murder hornets, I can only conclude that Cats is the harbinger of mankind's doom. Every night, I behold the abyssal night sky and wonder on humanity's significance in a universe where Cats exists. Amidst the endless sea of multiverses, it may all be a literal reality where cat people truly perform ritualistic song to invoke immortality. What are we compared to such Jellicle abominations? I have gazed long into the void in search of an answer. Then, I heard a song whispered out of the darkness:

Meow meow meow meow

Meow meow meow meow

Meow meow meow meow

Meow meow meow meow

3/10