Memento
Written and directed
by Christopher Nolan
Returning to the scene of your crime is, generally speaking, not
the swiftest idea. So goes the lesson of one too many a half-mastermind
who ever lingered over a job well done. That said, it is possible
to get away with it, especially if you're young, audacious and British-born--like
director Christopher Nolan, who pulls off something perversely close
with his Memento, a
murder mystery told from back to front. That makes the first victim
the killer, right? Not so fast. Armed with a confidence just short
of stupefying--this is only his second feature--Nolan boldly shoots
first and asks questions later: We start on a point-blank mess,
the film's first blown mind (literally). Actually it's a Polaroid
snapshot of the corpse, but wait a moment and the image starts to
fade to gray; an impatient hand finally shakes it clean of all transgressions,
deep red or otherwise. Blood? What blood?
Nolan can't keep this camera trickery up forever (and you wouldn't
want him to, unless you were living in a black hole) but what he
quickly settles into is just as wicked: a reverse chronology with
each scene chasing the tail of the previous one. Memento may be
the first whodunit to dispose of the who, the done and the it; these
we already know (that is, if our eyes are to be trusted) en route
toward deeper pleasures of questionable motives, doubt and blurred
identity. It's diabolical stuff, the kind of art-noir designed to
beg the employ of entire filmclubs of amateur sleuths, as did its
crafty older cousins, Blow Up and Don't Look Now.
Puzzle-solving demands varying levels of faith, the merest being
a presumption of
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Spelling out the plot of
Memento.
DANNY ROTHENBERG
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some kind of logic in its god and maker. Nolan qualifies easily; his
screenplay is nothing if not rigorously thought-out. But film puzzles
would also seem to require the promise of a salvation more visionary
than a jigsaw puzzle's cute completion. It's on this score that Memento
has its ace, a central character at an even greater handicap than
we are. Leonard (Guy Pearce) suffers from a rare brain disorder--the
result of a violent home invasion that also left his wife dead--that
makes it impossible for him to create new memories. He's a walking
case of mental hiccups, and Nolan's receding storyline is the backslapper;
just when you begin to catch your breath in the time warp, Leonard
is explaining his "condition" to a motel desk clerk who may be bilking
the poor guy out of several rooms' rent.
Perhaps it's here that I felt my own condition coming on, but that's
largely the point; Memento would only be half as fun with
only one gimmick or the other. Instead, the backward storytelling
and the frozen man make for a wonderful pair, combining into something
far more redemptive than it sounds. You never know what's up next--except
for the fact that it actually came last--and suddenly we've become
lost Leonards ourselves. Moreover, Leonard may be busy avenging
his wife's murder (no small feat for someone who has to remind himself
to shave every morning), but since his quest appears fulfilled from
the start, we're free to work on solving him; and that's
going to take some scrutiny.
Primarily, there's his "system," an assiduous compilation of scribbled
notes, Polaroids and (most arrestingly) a troubled scrawl of tattoos
covering his entire torso. Leonard needs these just to pick up his
investigation day by day, but their boldface speaks beyond necessity
to a kind of consumption: "Yeah, I got a reason," he says, gazing
in a mirror at some conveniently inverted text running across his
chest that reads, "JOHN G. RAPED AND MURDERED MY WIFE." It's more
than a little spooky; Leonard's not your everyday Dirty Harry bent
on a revenge-fest but a disciplined masochist--a onetime insurance
investigator permanently inked with "The Facts" of his prey's identity.
(Hell hath no fury like the literal-minded.)
Guy Pearce modulates what might have been a one-note part with
just the right amount of bitterness: He's a bit of a prick, but
who can blame him? (Not that he'd remember anyway.) There's a clipped
menace to his whole conception: the electrified hair, the chirps
from his Jaguar's car alarm, the two vertical slashes running down
his left cheek. Leonard likes to bring up the story of one of his
old cases (he can still remember things from before the accident)--a
policy-holder named Sammy who once claimed the same debilitating
mental condition as his--and when he does, it's with the slightest
superiority of a former bullshit detector who can't unlearn old
habits.
But Nolan, with good humor, relishes in running blitzes on his
stubborn character, as he does with a brief montage of Leonard's
softer memories of his wife--so unlike the cold hard facts he swears
by--that lulls a diner conversation down to a buzz of lights. Memory
is treachery (this Leonard knows; it's written on his arm), though
not for the reason he claims--its fallibility--but in the way it
sandbags him with unbearable richness from across his oblivion.
Elsewhere his frustrations seem like inspired evocations of noir
conventions, like waking up next to a mysterious woman he can't
remember, or forgetting in mid-stride if he's chasing a thug or
being chased himself.
All this hot pursuit takes place in and around Los Angeles, site
of so many a noir nail-nibbler from D.O.A. to Blade Runner.
The city, though, is hardly the Chandleresque maze of smoky parlors
and deep shadows you might expect, but a washed-out prefab zone
of blue-doored motel rooms over whose transoms slide mysterious
letters. (Think the hyperrealism of David Lynch's Lost Highway
and you've got it.) As tour guides, Leonard is given an angel and
a devil for each shoulder, though I'll leave you to decide which
is which: the grinning Teddy (Joe Pantoliano) or the leonine Natalie
(Carrie-Anne Moss). Both performers played a similar advisory tagteam
on Keanu Reeves' plunge into The Matrix; like that film's
hero, Leonard grows uncertainly into knowledge and power, a loose
cannon attracting several handlers to help him with his aim.
By the time Memento blooms into its exciting beginnings,
its recoil has far less sting than this slippery psychology, and
one applauds Nolan's daring out of sheer respect. Not every vengeance
machine would merit the curiosity of a Leonard, whose future seems
far from certain: "How am I supposed to heal if I can't feel time?"
With damaged minds such as these, the speculation runs endless--until
there's no more room for tattoos. 
Joshua Rothkopf frequently reviews films for In
These Times. He can be reached at JoshRoth@aol.com.
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