Time is an absurdity. An abstraction. The only thing that matters is
this moment. This moment a million times over. You have to trust me. If this
moment is repeated enough, if you keep trying—and you have to keep
trying—eventually you will come across the next item on your list. – Jonathan
Nolan, “Memento Mori”
Jonathan Nolan’s short story “Memento Mori,”
published in Esquire in 2001, and Christopher Nolan’s Memento,
released in 2000, blend a black, jagged sense of humor with sobering thematic meditations
on time, memory, knowledge, and grief. Focusing on a man suffering from short
term memory loss, or anterograde amnesia, they present a character adrift in
space, time, and experience, whose life is a waking kaleidoscopic nightmare of
conflicting details, an endless repetition of first encounters and first
impressions. He describes it as waking up, experiencing the same confusion and
disorientation we all do when we get out of bed in the morning, but for him it
happens roughly every ten minutes. While “Memento Mori” is all internal,
capturing Earl’s setting, thoughts and actions without the introduction of any
other characters or dialogue, the movie Memento, an aggressively
nonlinear riddle tangled up in a dizzying, elegant spiral structure that moves
backwards, forwards, and sideways, sometimes at the same time, takes the basic idea of the story and
develops it into a feature length film, expanding and changing it to fit the
requirements of the medium while maintaining the same darkly comic tone and
general idea and backstory.
***This is a comparative essay and it contains spoilers.
“So where are you? You’re in some hotel room; you just wake up and you’re in a motel room. There’s the key. It feels like maybe it’s the first time you’ve been there but somehow perhaps you’ve been there for one week, three months. It’s kinda hard to say. It’s just an anonymous room.” These words open Nolan’s film, and perfectly describe Leonard Shelby’s (the name has been changed) condition. “I have no short term memories,” he tells people. “I know who I am; I know all about myself. Since my injury I can’t make new memories. Everything fades.If you talk for too long, I’ll forget how we started, and the next time I see you I’m not going to remember this conversation.” Because of the director’s brilliant idea to shoot the film from end to beginning, in forward moving increments of about five minutes, we are as lost as the character. We’re meant to be confused as we stumble back, learning the effect before the cause; telling the story in reverse order forces us to identify with Leonard (played movingly by Guy Pearce as a man who is at once utterly clueless and fanatically assured)—like him, we have no idea what happened five minutes ago and how he got to where he is. In the film as well as the short story, the character writes himself notes and takes pictures to remind himself of the death of his wife and his need to avenge her; he’s turned his body into a giant memo pad, covering himself in clues leading to the identity of the killer. As the movie lurches backwards, we see how he gleaned each piece of the puzzle, and we (and Leonard) assemble the psychic strands of his life, so, with each revelation, the picture changes dramatically, becoming an examination of shifting realities and self-serving motives.
***This is a comparative essay and it contains spoilers.
“So where are you? You’re in some hotel room; you just wake up and you’re in a motel room. There’s the key. It feels like maybe it’s the first time you’ve been there but somehow perhaps you’ve been there for one week, three months. It’s kinda hard to say. It’s just an anonymous room.” These words open Nolan’s film, and perfectly describe Leonard Shelby’s (the name has been changed) condition. “I have no short term memories,” he tells people. “I know who I am; I know all about myself. Since my injury I can’t make new memories. Everything fades.If you talk for too long, I’ll forget how we started, and the next time I see you I’m not going to remember this conversation.” Because of the director’s brilliant idea to shoot the film from end to beginning, in forward moving increments of about five minutes, we are as lost as the character. We’re meant to be confused as we stumble back, learning the effect before the cause; telling the story in reverse order forces us to identify with Leonard (played movingly by Guy Pearce as a man who is at once utterly clueless and fanatically assured)—like him, we have no idea what happened five minutes ago and how he got to where he is. In the film as well as the short story, the character writes himself notes and takes pictures to remind himself of the death of his wife and his need to avenge her; he’s turned his body into a giant memo pad, covering himself in clues leading to the identity of the killer. As the movie lurches backwards, we see how he gleaned each piece of the puzzle, and we (and Leonard) assemble the psychic strands of his life, so, with each revelation, the picture changes dramatically, becoming an examination of shifting realities and self-serving motives.
The story starts similarly out of
context, with one of its extended sections written in italics, which we assume
are the notes Earl has written to himself. It discusses the picture on his wall
of him at his wife’s funeral, of which, of course, he has no recollection; he has
to discover her death every ten minutes, making the pain new and fresh again.
“Give it five minutes, maybe
ten, Maybe you can even go a whole half hour before you forget.
But you will forget—I guarantee it (…)
How many times do you have to hear the news before some other part of your
body, other than that busted brain of yours, starts to remember? Never-ending
grief, never-ending anger. Useless without direction.” The character has no
life; how could he?
He is dead already, the only reason to keep on breathing
his quest for revenge. As in the film, Earl is introduced upon waking, as he
“opens one eye after another to a stretch of white ceiling tiles
interrupted by a hand-printed sign taped right above his head, large enough for
him to read from the bed.” This exact paragraph is repeated less than two pages
later, giving readers an idea of what it must be like to be unable to form
memories, to be caught in a continuous loop of repetition, performing the same
actions over and over, living the same moment again and again without any
recollection of it. The act of waking up, of opening his eyes, is also
important; it refers not to the act of ceasing to sleep necessarily, but to his
constant condition of forgetting what has gone on before and having to start
all over again. The story captures Earl waking up a total of six times, once on
nearly every page, and the description of the actions following his awakening
are always similar, except in the final section, which starts with, “Earl’s
eyes are wide open.” The first time he is presented as conscious and alert is
after he has killed who he believes is his wife’s murderer. In the film, the
screen fades to black after each section and then back, a perfect visual
representation of opening one’s eyes.
Every time he wakes up in “Memento
Mori,” Earl relies on the notes he has left himself to make sense of his
surroundings. The room in the beginning of the story, a hospital room, is
appropriately white, “overwhelmingly white, from the walls and the curtains to
the institutional furniture and the bedspread.” Like his mind, it is completely
blank, with no defining characteristics or color. In contrast, Jonathan’s
brother Christopher and cinematographer Wally Pfister bathe the film in bright,
super-saturated colors, perhaps to suggest the wealth of detail Leonard takes
in every second of his life, because he’s seeing everything for the first time,
or he might as well be.
Earl’s segmented existence comes in
increments—the products around him are single-serving; even his water comes in
spurts, just like his consciousness and memory: “The shelves are stocked with single-serving
packages of vitamins, aspirin, antidiuretics. The mouthwash is also
single-serving, about a shot-glass-worth of blue liquid in a sealed plastic
bottle,” and “the tap is of the
push-button variety—a dose of water with each nudge.” The anonymous hotel room
he wakes up in later in the story doesn’t have a note on the ceiling, but a
mirror. “Look to yourself for the answer,”
Earl tells himself. “After all, everybody else needs mirrors to remind
themselves who they are. You're no different.” But the mirror in the
cheap motel room is cracked, “the silver fading in creases”; his identity,
which he hopes to discover in the reflection, is fundamentally shattered and
defective. Earl—like Leonard—distorts reality as a broken mirror does. Mirrors,
as reproductions, repetitions of reality play a metaphorical role as well. As
Earl bends over to look at the picture of himself at his wife’s funeral, “for a
moment this looks like a hall of mirrors or the beginnings of a sketch of
infinity: the one man bent over, looking at the smaller man, bent over, reading
the headstone.” This image is a representation of the mise en abyme that is his
entire life—an infinite reproduction and repetition of the same moments.
The opening to Christopher Nolan’s
movie might be even more confusing. Over the opening credits, we see a Polaroid
picture of a murder scene fading instead of developing. The blood seeps up the
wall and into the wound, a bullet flies out of a man’s head and back up the
barrel of a gun, and the body comes back to life briefly. And if most of the
film is told in segments arranged in reverse order, there are also black and
white scenes taking place in a motel room told in chronological order that tell
the tragic, oddly parallel story of Sammy Jankis (Stephen Tobolowsky), a man
suffering from short term memory loss whom Leonard investigated when he used to
work for an insurance company. Of course leaving it at two parallel story lines
would have been all too simple, so the scenes in the motel room loop back on
themselves, the final black and white scene turning almost imperceptively to
color and becoming the first (in chronological order) section of the backwards
main story line. “Sammy’s story helps me understand my own situation,” Leonard
explains. Trying to figure out if Sammy is faking it, or if his condition is mental
of physical, Leonard paints a poignant picture of his own ailment and how it
might affect those around him. Sammy’s wife (Harriett Samson Harris) captures
the escalating desperation of someone trying to hold on to a normal life as the
floor is kicked out from under her, while her husband seems to have entered the
serenity of dementia; the lost, benign little smile on his face becomes more
heartrending as the movie goes on.
But Sammy didn’t have
Leonard/Earl’s system. “Sammy wrote himself endless amounts of notes, but he
got mixed up,” Pierce’s character explains. “I’m disciplined and organized. I
use habit and routine to make my life possible. Sammy had no drive, no reason
to make it work. Me?” he asks as the camera pans over the tattoo on his chest
reading “John G. raped and murdered my wife.” “Yeah, I got a reason.” The
process of planning and organizing is beautifully explained in the short story.
Each man, the author argues, “is broken into twenty-four-hour fractions, and
then again within those twenty-four hours. It's a daily pantomime, one man
yielding control to the next: a backstage crowded with old hacks clamoring for
their turn in the spotlight. Every week, every day. (…) Every man is a mob, a chain gang of idiots.” But every man,
for a brief moment, can become a genius; these are moments of clarity,
insights, revelations: “The clouds part, the planets get in a neat little
line, and everything becomes obvious. For a few moments, the secrets of the
universe are opened to us. Life is a cheap parlor trick. But then the genius,
the savant, has to hand over the controls to the next guy down the pike, (…)
and insight and brilliance and salvation are all entrusted to a moron or a hedonist
or a narcoleptic.” This happens to everyone, Nolan argues, not just Earl;
his situation is “a little more acute, maybe, but fundamentally the same
thing.” And it is in these moments of clarity that he must plan and
organize, leaving notes and lists to future versions of himself, to the idiots.
Lists become ways to control them, to lead them; they are “a master plan,
drafted by the guy who can see the light, made with steps simple enough for the
rest of the idiots to understand.”
“Must be tough living your life according to a few scraps of paper; you
mix your laundry list with your grocery list, you eat your underwear for
breakfast,” Natalie (Carrie-Anne Moss) comments in Memento. But the
lists have to be based on facts, and Leonard, as Earl, must trust them
completely. Surprisingly, the scenes that are called into question the most in
the film are not the jumbled ones taking place after the accident, but
everything that transpired before—the back story that is presented to us in
flashbacks, flashbacks from the memory of a man with brain damage. Even if
Leonard were a reliable narrator and the memories of his previous life were
indeed intact, they are not necessarily accurate. “Memory’s unreliable,” he
says. “Facts, not memories, that’s how you investigate (…) Memory can change
the shape of a room; it can change the color of a car. Memories can be
distorted. They’re just an interpretation, they’re not a record, they’re only
relevant if you have the facts.” His notes and scribbles, his Polaroids and
tattoos, according to his own logic, are more reliable than the remembrance of
his entire life before the incident. We believe everything that happens in the
main story line of the film because we are witnessing it alongside the
character, because we make the connections, revise them, and overturn them as
we learn more, and there is no reason to question what we see.
Some moments and images, however,
are so brief they are almost subliminal. As Leonard narrates the conclusion of
the Sammy Jankis story, we see a shot of the poor man in an insane asylum. A
figure walks across the shot in the foreground and suddenly, for a split second,
no more than a few frames, we see Leonard himself in Sammy’s chair. Similarly,
as Teddy (Joe Pantoliano) berates Leonard at the abandoned building, we see
shots of the main character administering insulin to his wife’s thigh. But a
split second later, we see him merely pinching
that same thigh. Which is the truth? Is the sequence of him administering
insulin just a distortion of the truth based on Teddy’s suggestion? If his wife
actually had diabetes, then Leonard must be able to from new memories to
transfer her death onto the story of Sammy. The movie asks more question than
it answers, and the subject matter calls for this ambiguity. The film’s
character changes and distorts his memories in order to make peace with
himself, because they are all he has left, as Jonathan Nolan suggests: “Live
in your finite collection of memories, carefully polishing each one. Half a
life set behind glass and pinned to cardboard like a collection of exotic
insects. You'd like to live behind that glass, wouldn't you? Preserved in
aspic.”
Memento,
like the short story it’s based on, is a film about memory, about the ways in
which it defines identity, how it’s necessary to determine moral behavior, how
terribly unreliable it is, and how it’s linked to grief. “How am I supposed to
heal if I can’t feel time?” Leonard asks. Because the passage of time can’t
heal his wounds, his hurt remains raw and unappeased. “Time is theft, isn't
that what they say? And time eventually convinces most of us that forgiveness
is a virtue. Conveniently, cowardice and forgiveness look identical at a
certain distance.” Most people can
forget and forgive, but Leonard and Earl, for all their forgetfulness, are
forever trapped in a state of anger, guilt, and grief. Only revenge can assuage
their wounds, or so they think. “The passage of time, well, that
doesn't really apply to you anymore, does it?” Jonathan asks. “Just the same ten minutes, over and
over again. So how can you forgive if you can't remember to forget?”
Time cannot heal Earl or Leonard’s wounds, because time has no meaning to them,
a fact symbolized in the story by the loss of Earl’s watch. “It's not so much that you've lost your
faith in time as that time has lost its faith in you. And who needs it, anyway?
Who wants to be one of those saps living in the safety of the future, in the
safety of the moment after the moment in which they felt something powerful?
Living in the next moment, in which they feel nothing. Crawling down the hands
of the clock, away from the people who did unspeakable things to them. (…)
Time is three things for most people, but for you, for us, just one. A singularity.
One moment. This moment. Like you're the center of the clock, the axis on which
the hands turn. Time moves about you but never moves you. It has lost its
ability to affect you.” And if he kills the man he’s after and can’t
remember it, then he can just do it all over again, “conjure up that necessary
emotion, fresh as roses.” He’s forgotten to move on to the next step on his
list, or, in the film, ignored that he had completed the previous ones, taking
pages out of the police file, jotting down Teddy’s license plate number to
incriminate him, lying to himself in order to be happy, to have a purpose.
Leonard’s residual code of honor pushes him through a fog of
amnesia toward what he feels is his moral duty. Like a neo-noir that takes
place mostly in the California sun, Memento
offers us a flawed, silk-suited hero trying to find some measure of justice in
an unjust world as other characters, seemingly friends, become foes and femmes
fatales. Leonard has no idea he’s become just an unwitting cog in a
manipulating machine, an Everyman caught in a potentially infinite purgatory,
blindly trying to revenge an act that has already been avenged. He thinks his
wife deserves vengeance regardless of whether or not he can remember having
administered it: “Just because there are things I don’t remember doesn’t make
my actions meaningless. The world doesn’t just disappear when you close your
eyes.” But what if it did? What if nothing were certain, factual, real? Is
Sammy’s story a hint that Leonard’s condition might not be real? Or is his
condition, like he thought Sammy’s was, psychological and not physical? Is
Leonard’s story real, or are the confusing final scenes just evidence of
Leonard’s brain synapses misfiring as he sits in the asylum? In the story, he
started in an asylum and escaped. Was he ever there in the movie?
“Your advantage in forgetting is that you'll forget to write
yourself off as a lost cause,” Jonathan writes in “Memento Mori,” and the same
idea goes for Christopher Nolan’s adaptation. The story, in a very limited
space, puts forth the basic idea and principles behind the movie, and its
unforgettable, no pun intended, main character. More internalized and
philosophical and less action filled, it is still thrilling to read, and
different enough from the movie so that both can stand side by side as
different works of comparable value. The film certainly lives up to the
expectations of the short story, and in certain moments of isolated brilliance
might even surpass it. More than a puzzle or an ingenious thriller, Memento is a philosophical tragedy that
demands the sort of attention and thought that Hollywood would never ask of
viewers. The Nolan brothers have used their cleverness and unmistakable
originality to stir up questions and feelings about the most basic issues of
how we experience reality.
No comments:
Post a Comment