MementoThose who forget the past are doomed to be prisoners of it. Memento is a psychological thriller about Leonard Shelby (Guy Pearce), a man who suffers from a condition that makes him unable to generate any short-term memories, afflicted since he received brain damage after being assaulted some time ago. Leonard is on a quest for revenge against an obscure and vague perpetrator named "John G.", who Leonard remembers as the man who raped and killed his wife, destroyed his life, and left him with this curse. But stricken with the inability to remember, how can Leonard know when his quest is complete?
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Released in 2000, Christopher Nolan's Memento became an sensation for its unique presentation of the plot--telling the story of Leonard's memory condition and his quest for vengeance by showing the scenes in reverse order. More than just a gimmick to entice audiences, Memento makes clever use of this stylistic flourish by exploiting the audience's expectations just as Leonard's are exploited in the story. Like other film noir classics, such as Sunset Boulevard, Memento takes advantage of dramatic irony by making it clear in the opening scene that a man calling himself "Teddy" (Joe Pantoliano) is killed by Leonard, who then takes a photograph to remember. But because that photograph doesn't "exist" in the rest of the story, we're left with the lingering knowledge that this event is "predestined", implicating that Leonard has no real agency in his life. The real tension that runs through Memento is not whether Leonard kills Teddy, but why. From the start (or rather, the conclusion), Leonard is convinced that Teddy is his "John G.", the suspect he has harried for who knows how long, even if somewhere deep down, he knows that this vengeance is a hollow victory. He is given incriminating information that Teddy is the man he seeks by the taciturn Natalie (Carrie-Anne Moss), a proprietor of a local watering hole. Each subsequent scene reveals some important detail that if only Leonard could remember it, his quest would no doubt have taken a very different turn, because each revelation for the audience offers new--often tragic--context. As the opening of Memento suggests, the story is like a polaroid, that only becomes clear in time, and in retrospect.
In between each of these scenes shot in color, are a series of scenes in black and white, showing the earliest memories in the chronology of Memento. Leonard converses with an unheard party on the phone in his motel room, and recalls the story of a man named Sammy Jankis (Stephen Tobolowsky), who Leonard remembers from his days as an insurance adjuster. He tells of how he disputed the veracity of Sammy's claim that injuries sustained in an accident left him without the ability to form new memories, claiming that Sammy's affliction was psychological, not physiological. Leonard explains that he reached his conclusion due to Sammy's inability to accept conditioning--his inability to develop a system. Leonard's "system" involves taking polaroids of people and things to remember them, jotting down details on the back for his personal reference later. Leonard also uses his own body as a notepad for crucial details about his wife's killer, marking his flesh with facts and creeds to make sure he never lets go of his vengeance. The tattoos are a reflection of his obsessive--even arrogant--quest to find some meaning in his life after the loss of both his wife and his own identity. Leonard is mourning himself as much as his wife, and is even punishing himself for failing to protect her. He puts himself in danger throughout almost all of Memento, floating like a revenant through the seedy parts of town, blending in with lowlifes in these forgotten badlands.
Leonard's damaged memory makes him the ultimate unreliable narrator; even from the objective eye of the camera, each scene only has context because of what we have seen before, and each subsequent scene reveals just how much of a victim Leonard really is, and less of the hunter he believes he is. In Memento, trust is not just something elusive, it is virtually nonexistent. The film exploits this by relying on the audience's natural inclination to take presented scenes for granted, and subconsciously fill in the blanks. Subtle characteristics in supporting characters like Natalie and Teddy force the audience to reach conclusions well before we really have all of the facts, a quality further manipulated by clever editing and directing. Leonard is made sympathetic by virtue of the reversing of scenes, and the film exploits this sympathy because we assume Leonard possesses the same virtues as we do. This speaks to our natural tendencies to prejudge a situation to feel that we are in control of an environment or an encounter, even when it is irrational. Teddy intimates to Leonard at one point that he should be careful who he trusts, as someone out there may just want to take advantage of his condition and have him try to off the wrong guy, making him a victim of someone else's conspiracy. In many ways, the audience is also made a "victim" of this psychologically complex narrative, constantly upending our expectations.
Leonard describes the condition he has--and his need for a system to cope with it--in the same way that people who experience post-traumatic stress disorder. This also means removing undesirable elements from one's life; isn't this a bit like "rewriting" memory, or actively ignoring details to serve one's interests? This becomes evident in Leonard as he continues to recite the same story about Sammy Jankis, or when he tells people about his condition over and over, as though he were trying to convince himself of something. For someone who should be reliant on his powers of observation to survive and realize his goal of revenge, Leonard is surprisingly obtuse about details. He sets the alarm on his Jaguar, even though the driver's side window is down (actually, it's broken); he pushes on a door labelled "pull", and he even kicks in the wrong door at a hotel, because he misreads the room number. This obliviousness puts a serious shadow of doubt on the reliability of everything in Memento, even Leonard himself. Leonard claims to follow "only facts" when it comes to his amateur sleuthing, telling Teddy that even police disregard memory in an investigation because it is fallible. But even the so-called facts are often based on circumstantial evidence...they even change during his phone call with the unknown informer. So the big question for Leonard--and our own memories and experiences--is about the reliability of what we remember, and what kind of impact that should have on how we lead our live...and why asking that question is more important than trying to live on instinct and revenge alone.
Recommended for: Fans of deftly clever and psychologically complex neo-noir thriller. Memento belong firmly in the camp of movies that should be seen more than once, as repeat viewings layer even more intriguing levels of dramatic irony onto the story.
In between each of these scenes shot in color, are a series of scenes in black and white, showing the earliest memories in the chronology of Memento. Leonard converses with an unheard party on the phone in his motel room, and recalls the story of a man named Sammy Jankis (Stephen Tobolowsky), who Leonard remembers from his days as an insurance adjuster. He tells of how he disputed the veracity of Sammy's claim that injuries sustained in an accident left him without the ability to form new memories, claiming that Sammy's affliction was psychological, not physiological. Leonard explains that he reached his conclusion due to Sammy's inability to accept conditioning--his inability to develop a system. Leonard's "system" involves taking polaroids of people and things to remember them, jotting down details on the back for his personal reference later. Leonard also uses his own body as a notepad for crucial details about his wife's killer, marking his flesh with facts and creeds to make sure he never lets go of his vengeance. The tattoos are a reflection of his obsessive--even arrogant--quest to find some meaning in his life after the loss of both his wife and his own identity. Leonard is mourning himself as much as his wife, and is even punishing himself for failing to protect her. He puts himself in danger throughout almost all of Memento, floating like a revenant through the seedy parts of town, blending in with lowlifes in these forgotten badlands.
Leonard's damaged memory makes him the ultimate unreliable narrator; even from the objective eye of the camera, each scene only has context because of what we have seen before, and each subsequent scene reveals just how much of a victim Leonard really is, and less of the hunter he believes he is. In Memento, trust is not just something elusive, it is virtually nonexistent. The film exploits this by relying on the audience's natural inclination to take presented scenes for granted, and subconsciously fill in the blanks. Subtle characteristics in supporting characters like Natalie and Teddy force the audience to reach conclusions well before we really have all of the facts, a quality further manipulated by clever editing and directing. Leonard is made sympathetic by virtue of the reversing of scenes, and the film exploits this sympathy because we assume Leonard possesses the same virtues as we do. This speaks to our natural tendencies to prejudge a situation to feel that we are in control of an environment or an encounter, even when it is irrational. Teddy intimates to Leonard at one point that he should be careful who he trusts, as someone out there may just want to take advantage of his condition and have him try to off the wrong guy, making him a victim of someone else's conspiracy. In many ways, the audience is also made a "victim" of this psychologically complex narrative, constantly upending our expectations.
Leonard describes the condition he has--and his need for a system to cope with it--in the same way that people who experience post-traumatic stress disorder. This also means removing undesirable elements from one's life; isn't this a bit like "rewriting" memory, or actively ignoring details to serve one's interests? This becomes evident in Leonard as he continues to recite the same story about Sammy Jankis, or when he tells people about his condition over and over, as though he were trying to convince himself of something. For someone who should be reliant on his powers of observation to survive and realize his goal of revenge, Leonard is surprisingly obtuse about details. He sets the alarm on his Jaguar, even though the driver's side window is down (actually, it's broken); he pushes on a door labelled "pull", and he even kicks in the wrong door at a hotel, because he misreads the room number. This obliviousness puts a serious shadow of doubt on the reliability of everything in Memento, even Leonard himself. Leonard claims to follow "only facts" when it comes to his amateur sleuthing, telling Teddy that even police disregard memory in an investigation because it is fallible. But even the so-called facts are often based on circumstantial evidence...they even change during his phone call with the unknown informer. So the big question for Leonard--and our own memories and experiences--is about the reliability of what we remember, and what kind of impact that should have on how we lead our live...and why asking that question is more important than trying to live on instinct and revenge alone.
Recommended for: Fans of deftly clever and psychologically complex neo-noir thriller. Memento belong firmly in the camp of movies that should be seen more than once, as repeat viewings layer even more intriguing levels of dramatic irony onto the story.