Many films have compelling narratives or interesting story structures, but it’s rare for the two to combine in perfect harmony. When I try to explain this concept, I often mention portions of Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life, where the slow, deliberate pace matches the long imprisonment of the main character and allows the audience to endure the weary monotony with him. Christopher Nolan takes this to another level with Memento, masterfully intertwining its narrative with its structure from start to finish to create a haunting, compelling film.
Memento’s structure, with a primary storyline moving backward and revealing the motivation for each chunk of narrative after we’ve seen the result, is uniquely disorienting. As viewers, we haven’t experienced anything like this–it doesn’t hit the familiar beats we’re used to encountering and we’re never sure what is coming next. This uncertainty places us in the same state of mind as Leonard, our protagonist. With him, we’re disoriented and nervous, unsure who we can trust and what led to the situation we’re witnessing. As the movie continues, we start to piece things together in a way Leonard can’t, but every new scene forces us to reorient ourselves as we try to figure out what’s happening.
And every time we think we understand what’s going on, a new revelation pulls the rug out from under our feet. We think Natalie is helping Leonard, but realize that she suspects him of being involved with her boyfriend’s disappearance and is manipulating him. We think Teddy is untrustworthy, but we learn that he is one of the only people who knows what’s going on and has tried to help. We think Leonard is pursuing justice for his dead wife, but discover that the guilty party was already found–and that the story he tells of his wife’s death is not the full truth. Even the things Leonard is most certain of, that he tattoos on his body so he won’t forget them, turn out to be less than trustworthy.
Leonard uses his system of tattoos, polaroids, and notes to function in a world that could quickly become overwhelming, but he also uses it to deceive himself. He builds a reality that gives him a purpose, destroying or twisting details to give himself mysteries to solve. He tells himself that he is doing all this for justice, that he’s on a noble quest to avenge his wife, and that, despite his amnesia, he’ll know in his heart when he’s finally accomplished his goal. But we find out that he and Teddy already found and punished the man responsible–and that Leonard chose to forget it. He burns the photo that recorded the moment of vengeance and erases that reality from his world. Then, when Teddy threatens his carefully constructed world with the truth, Leonard decides he’s an enemy and chooses to eliminate him.
All this exploration of meaning and memory occurs within a meticulously-scripted story, directed and performed to perfection. Though the film wrestles with big philosophical ideas, we never feel like we’re sitting in a lecture. We walk with Leonard through frustration and uncertainty, and we wonder what we would do in his situation, how we would make sense of the world. And those questions, more than anything, are what stick with us when the screen fades to black. Memento shocks and terrifies us–we could never be like Leonard, taking lives in order to feel like we have a purpose. But the film asks us to consider the ways in which we are deceiving ourselves to create a more comfortable world. What we’re choosing to forget because it’s convenient. And, ultimately, whether we can trust our past selves, our memories, or the truths that we build our lives around.