All Is Lost

In J.C. Chandor's fascinating film All Is Lost, Robert Redford is the only cast member and he speaks only a handful of lines. Even though the film contains very little dialogue (or, I guess, technically it would be monologue), Chandor's structure and pace make the film a gripping spectacle--so gripping my 9-year-old son watched it and said afterward, "That was a really good movie." The film begins with Redford's character reading what we assume is a letter to his family, explaining that "all is lost" and repeating that he is sorry. Then we flash back to the beginning of his troubles.

I was surprised to read on Slate that the ending is considered ambiguous. According to Slate, after screening the film at Telluride the moderator asked how people interpreted the film. Half interpreted it one way and half the other. I won't say what happens, but I was surprised at the supposed ambiguity because I thought the film made it very clear how things ended. I saw no ambiguity. I never even thought of another possibility. It's reassuring to know that film and literature open up endless possibilities for readers and viewers. There is no single truth or single perspective. My viewing of what I believed literally happened at the end reiterates my limitations on how I (and, by extension, everyone) see the world.

While I enjoyed the film itself and Redford's performance is mostly stellar, I did think there were a few places where he seemed a bit stiff and unnatural. And while I enjoyed the snapshots of what he did to survive without any explanation at all (I'm sure someone familiar with sailing would understand much more than I did how he tracks his position without any electronic equipment or how he figures out how to produce drinking water), I felt the film could have been a bit longer and shown even more of his daily, monotonous and mundane tasks: eating, thinking, and even sleeping. Ten minutes of Redford attempting to catch fish or fifteen minutes of Redford writing something down. These details would probably be boring to some people, but I think they would have given the film more philosophical and naturalistic weight. A great film could still be made that combines All Is Lost with Chantal Akerman's Jeanne Dielman.

 



I'm sure an interesting essay could be written that compares All Is Lost with Gravity. I'm also sure I'm not the only one to make the comparison: lost at sea in the first, lost in space in the second. A man in one, a woman in the other. One begins and ends alone, the other begins with a crew and ends alone. But fundamentally both films are about the struggle to survive, the struggle to live against all odds.

The Great Beauty

I watched Paolo Sorrentino's The Great Beauty a few months ago, and it has lingered with me in bits and pieces ever since. From its achingly lyrical and fluid opening crane shot to its pulsing Roman night-life scene, the film itself epitomizes its title. With echoes of Fellini, it tells the story of an aging journalist who years earlier wrote the great Italian novel, but, unable or unwilling to write a new novel, he now interviews pretentious artists for magazine articles that seem to bore him. Searching for those fleeting moments of beauty and truth that were a more regular part of his lost youth, he spends his life going to parties, sleeping with beautiful women, and watching a very old nun climb impossibly long stairs. He realizes that his youth can never be relived. But he still tries. I just wish I was cool enough to dress like him.

Best Films of 2013

As always there are still a few films I haven't seen yet: Nebraska, The Great Beauty, The Counselor, Leviathan, This Is the End, Frozen, All Is Lost, Dallas Buyer's Club, and Before Midnight. I also tend to avoid films I know I just won't like: action flicks like Olympus Has Fallen or Hansel and Gretel or chick flicks like Safe Haven. But I've seen quite a few this year, and this represents the best of those. Also, Amour was the best film I saw this year, but it technically came out in 2012, so I didn't include it in my list. If you haven't seen Amour yet, you should. It's not easy to watch, but it is a powerful statement about love, death and the inevitability of aging.

1. Inside Llewyn Davis. I can only think of two instances when the Coen brothers were off their mark. How many contemporary directors can lay claim to more than a couple of masterpieces? The Coens have Barton Fink, The Big Lebowski, Fargo, No Country for Old Men, and now Inside Llewyn Davis. Their latest testifies to their genius. A great story, excellent performances, and beautifully cinematography. I loved the music, and it was funnier than I expected. The opening and closing scenes suggest Llewyn is fated to his destiny. There isn't anything he can do to change who he is or where he is going--and those cyclical moments where Llewyn's pain is laid bare give impetus to his art. Great art is born from pain, but it's not always work that the public or even music producers can or will appreciate. It's true that Llewyn's a total bastard, a jerk, a cynic, and a bum. But Oscar Isaac's performance never takes his character into the realm of the unsympathetic. I was still rooting for him even when he wasn't rooting for himself.

2. Something in the Air. Here is IFC's description: "In the months after the heady weeks of May ’68, a group of young people search for a way to continue the revolution believed to be just beginning. For Gilles (newcomer Clément Mettayer), this means having to balance his political commitments with his desire to explore painting and filmmaking; for his girlfriend Christine (Goodbye, First Love star Lola Créton), this means throwing herself wholeheartedly into the task of organizing. Olivier Assayas (Carlos,Summer Hours) here describes the sentimental education of a generation that was too young to have been on the barricades; he brilliantly captures its explorations of new lifestyles, the arguments about strategies and tactics, and above all its music, a constant presence that becomes something like the artistic unconscious of an era. The period details are perfect, but what makes this film so special is the sense it conveys of history as lived experience." I did feel like I needed to read a primer of the late '60s political movements to really understand everything that was going on, but I was able to follow the story well enough. And I liked that Assayas doesn't spell everything out in what always amounts to boring explication. In French. Available on Netflix streaming.

3. The Hunt. A gripping story of a kindergarten teacher, played by the brilliant Mads Mikkelsen (the villain in the James Bond film Casino Royale), who is falsely accused of pedophilia by a friend's five-year-old daughter. With no evidence other than the young girl's impulsive and childishly vindictive story, the teacher's entire town turns against him, including his ex, colleagues at school, and life-long friends. I think the film is about how easily we accept things and then hold onto to them in our minds--we convince ourselves that something is true when we don't really know anything for certain. I think I can speak for most teachers by saying that this film is our worst nightmare. In Danish. Available on Netflix streaming.

4. 12 Years a Slave. An unflinching, brutal examination of the great shame of the 18th and 19th centuries as experienced through the eyes of an educated man and musician named Solomon, a free black man living in the north who was kidnapped and taken into slavery. This is a moving, important film that everyone should see.

5. Spring Breakers. I know. I know. Why is this on my list? If you look at the poster or the image below, it seems like the film is something most adults over 25 would doggedly avoid. And it's true that there are plenty of girls in bikinis and lots of partying. The story is about a group of  broke college girls who rob convenience stores to raise money for an epic spring break that they like totally deserve. They hook up with a white gangster rapper, adorned with a massive bejeweled grill, who opens up their eyes to a whole new crime-spree lifestyle. But this is only the surface story. Spring Breakers is a satire, a savage criticism of youth culture and its lazy, selfish entitlement attitude. This is a smart, funny, and interesting film.

6. Upstream Color. I can't say I initially enjoyed watching this film, but I couldn't get it out of my mind for months after I had seen it, and the more I thought about it, the more brilliant and interesting the movie became. Having said that, of the handful of people who read this blog, most will probably hate Upstream Color because it is pretentious, incredibly ambiguous, and self-consciously arty, for lack of a better word, but I would argue that those aren't always bad monikers. The other poetic and arty film last year was Terrence Malick's beautiful but stale To the Wonder, his first film I didn't like much; Malick is continuing down the non narrative road where he thinks beautiful images and classical music make a great film. Upstream Color is difficult to summarize, but essentially it tells a love story about two characters who were victims of mind control. Worms were placed inside their bodies and somehow the placer of the worms was able to tell the victim exactly what to do. A pig farmer is somehow involved. I'm not sure what the film is really about, but I've been working on a theory since I saw it. I think it is an allegory for the lack of control human beings have in their lives. Most scientist today think--because of our genetic make up, environment, and irrational urges that we can't control--that free will is an illusion. However, one way to read the ending of the film is that possibly we can have some control. But that possibility is one that most people do not act on I would guess. We would rather live our passive lives, watching television, doing our mundane routines, like Plato's prisoners watching shadows on the wall. For the record, several of my seniors watched the film and hated it. One reason you might like it--because you are cooler than a high school senior! Loving this movie will prove it. Available on Netflix streaming.

7. The Act of Killing. One of the most disturbing yet thought-provoking films I have ever seen. This documentary follows a small group of self-proclaimed gangsters, members of a killing squad-- operating under the authority of the Indonesian government--who brutally murdered thousands of communists in the late 1960s. The gangsters express no remorse, gleefully retelling details of the murders. They also reenact the murders and torture, with the gangsters sometimes playing versions of themselves, sometimes playing the victims. These reenactments are filmed in various low budget styles: musical, film noir, and surrealist nightmare. I couldn't help think that this is probably what most mass murderers are like (from Nazis to those perpetrating genocide in Africa): sociopaths who seem to have lost any empathy for human life. Another shocker is the acknowledgment and approval of current members of the Indonesian government. Everyone except the victims (from whom we do not hear) approves of these acts. I'm not completely sure what to make of the scene at the very end. Do the gangsters feel remorse but simply hide it or bottle it up? Available on Netflix streaming.

8. Frances Ha. A quirky comedy about a young woman who dreams to perform for a dance company but doesn't recognize her own limited skills. Struggling to survive in New York City, Frances ekes out an existence with a little help from some wealthy wanna-be artists. The ever-dedicated Frances refuses opportunities (like dance company secretary) more germane to her talent than the ever elusive dancing-star status she dreams about but will probably never achieve. While her best friend grows up and plans on getting married, Frances seems to be experiencing arrested development--an eternal adolescence filled with drinking, smoking, looking at herself in the mirror, talking about books she wants to read but probably never will, and play fighting. I suppose she is a 27-year-old female Holden Caulfield--except Frances wants to grow up but doesn't seem to have the capacity to do so whereas Holden just doesn't want to grow up and wants to prevent others from doing so as well. The film is an insightful commentary on American youth today. We live in a society filled with overconfident and entitled college graduates and youth who think they can do anything they want but don't have the talent or the dedication to actually accomplish their goals--or so I come to believe by watching television. Directed by the brilliant Noah Baumbach (Kicking and Screaming, The Squid and the Whale and Greenberg--he also co-wrote The Fantastic Mr. Fox and The Life Aquatic) and co-written by Baumbach and Greta Gerwig (who also stars). It's in black and white and is available on Netflix streaming.

9. Gravity. Sandra Bullock is excellent in this "triumph-of-the-human-spirit" film. An amazing technical achievement and a completely gripping story from the first minute of its 20-minute long opening shot.

10. You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet. I can't claim I fully understood nonagenarian Alain Resnais's latest film. I think I need to watch it at least one more time to absorb everything. But the very premise of the film was so unique that I had to include it on my list for that reason alone. It's the story of  a recently deceased theater director who as a last request invites actors he has previously work with to his home to watch the latest version of an Orpheus and Eurydice play he produced. The actors had also performed in the play and while the watch the video, they immediately begin interacting with it as if they are also performing. We essentially see three different generations of actors performing the play simultaneously. It's a fascinating and moving film about aging, love, life, and death. And, more importantly, it's about the permanence of the film image and the idea that characters, and I guess actors also, live on through the film despite the limitations of human existence. At least that's what I got from it.

11. Much Ado about Nothing. I love Shakespeare and I love the cinema. But there have only been a handful of good Shakespeare adaptations into film. This low-budget Joss Whedon adaptation ranks among the best. Filmed in and around Whedon's Los Angeles home, Much Ado feels as fresh and alive as I have ever seen it. Whedon made the film with a group of friends and people who had previously worked with him--some with Shakespearean training and others not. Watch out for Nathan Fillion. He's not one with Shakespearean training,  but he steals the show.

12. Her. I didn't enjoy Her as much as I thought I would--based on my love of Spike Jonze's previous films (Adaptation and Being John Malkovich), but I'm putting Her on this list not so much for its entertainment value but for its commentary on modern life. I suppose I expected a straight satire from Jonze in which he excoriated our needless dependency on technology--it makes us dumber, lazier, etc. Instead, what we get is a much more nuanced realization of our relationship with machines. Falling in love with an operating system is not the argument-free and idealized love some tech nerds are hoping for--at least not in this movie. Theodore and Samantha have deeper, more interesting conversations than most human couples. His relationship with Samantha makes him truly happy, and he is genuinely heartbroken when she moves on. So what are we supposed to make of that? Is this something to look forward to or a horrific nightmare that will probably come true?

13. Post Tenebras Lux. Critics were divided over Mexican director Carlos Reygadas's most recent film. Many found it pretentious and overly experimental, but I found it beautiful and moving and simply strange--the good kind of strange. Shot in traditional 4:3 aspect ratio (not widescreen), Post Tenebras Lux is imbued with such aching expressionistic beauty that every shot carries great artistic weight. I liked his previous film Silent Light better because it had more of a cohesive story and was beautifully shot whereas Post Tenebras is more of a poem than a story, bit I still think this is one of the best films of the year. Warning for those who care: it does have a fairly explicit orgy scene. Available on Netflix streaming. In Spanish.

14. "Slumber Party Alien Abduction" from V/H/S/2. Most of V/H/S/2 was pretty bad and had neither the originality nor the creepiness of the first V/H/S. But two segments were strong and this one was really good. The other segment I liked was a zombie-themed video about a bicyclist wearing a camera helmet who gets attacked by fast moving zombies and then attacks some other hikers. The title of "Slumber Party" sort of speaks for itself. It was seriously scary.



Other 2013 films I saw, listed in alphabetical order. I gave each a ranking, five stars is the best, one is the worst.

bomb-21 & Over (I only watched about 10 minutes of this it was so bad)
*****56 Up
****Ain't Them Body Saints
**American Hustle
*****Amour
**As I Lay Dying
****Behind the Candelabra
***Berberian Sound Studio
****Blancanieves
****Blue Is the Warmest Color
****Blue Jasmine
****Bullet to the Head
****Captain Phillips
*****Cutie and the Boxer
***Despicable Me 2
***Dirty Wars
****Drug War
*Gangster Squad
*****The Gatekeepers
****The Grandmaster
**The Great Gatsby
***The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug
*****The House I Live In
***Iron Man 3
*Kiss of the Damned
****Lore
**Lovelace
**Mama
*Man of Steel
***Monsters University
****Mud
*Only God Forgives
***Pacific Rim
****Paranormal Activity 4
****Passion
***Philomena
****The Place Beyond the Pines
***Prisoners
**Promised Land
***Renoir
*****Room 237
****A Royal Affair
***Salinger
*Sharknado
***Simon Killer
**The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
***The Silence
*****The Square
****Star Trek: Into Darkness
***Stoker
***This Is 40
*Thor: The Dark World
**To the Wonder
***Touchy Feely
**V/H/S/2
****The Wall
****We Steal Secrets
****What Maisie Knew
**The Wolverine
**World War Z
****The Wolf of Wall Street

Superlame

My post title is slightly hyperbolic, but, in general, Man of Steel was a pretty terrible movie. I was disappointed because if anything was ripe for a 2013 remake it was those Christopher Reeve movies from the '70s and '80s. This version combines the storyline from Christopher Reeve's Superman and Superman II, in which Krypton criminals escape their eternal punishment to wreck havoc on planet Earth. So in Man of Steel we get Superman's back story and then some.

My list of complaints is long and it would be tiresome to lay them all out, but here are a few highlights: The film spends far too much time on Krypton. The filmmakers would probably justify this because they would say it's a way to provide a back story for General Zod, but who really cares about him? We needed to begin with Superman. The other main problem is really a stylistic preference. Man of Steel is shot in a modern hyper-kinetic style with constantly moving camera, rapid editing, and lots and lots of close-ups--this last trademark was most annoying. It also utilizes non-linear editing almost randomly. I mean, if you are going to tell a back story/bildungsroman, you kind of defeat the purpose of building the character and story to a climax by shifting back and forth.



The film's executive producer was Christopher Nolan, and I assume that he contributed the one element that I thought was pretty interesting. In this version we get a new philosophical dilemma that Superman is faced with. He has great power but when or if should he use it? Clark is bullied at school and later as an adult and his most difficult choices lie in not seeking vengeance. He learns to be peaceful and harness his power. He learns not to be Superman.

I heard a short piece on NPR describing how the film was marketed to a Christian audience, and, despite the fact that Superman's original creators were Jewish, this version clearly emphasizes the Superman-as-Christ-Figure elements. He turns the other cheek many times, thinks of others before himself, flies like a god, speaks to his omniscient father, and willingly sacrifices himself for the good of the planet.

This Is Not a Review

I've only watched one other film by Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi and that was The Circle (2000), but I've heard that his other films are excellent. I watched The Circle with a group of students for something we call focus week, where we take students out of the classroom for a week. The Circle tells the story of a group of Iranian women oppressed by their patriarchal Islamic regime. The film was banned in Iran and was one of the reasons Panahi was sentenced to six years of house arrest and banned for 20 years from writing or directing films--surely a harsh punishment for a man who is considered by Martin Scorsese and others one of the world's great directors. I remember discussing the film with my students and an Iranian girl said she thought it exaggerated the difficulties for women in Iran; she said that she went there often and never encountered any problems. I remember doubting what she said at the time, and now when I look back I'm sure she was either wrong or just coincidentally never experienced what most other women do experience in Iran.



This Is Not a Film is a documentary starring Panahi that was smuggled out of Iran to play at the Cannes Film Festival. It was hidden inside a birthday cake. In the film, as Panahi awaits the decision on an appeal, the film gives us a window into his imprisoned daily life. He has a new script and has even selected a cast, but, of course, he is forbidden from actually making the film. Instead, he reads the script himself and acts out the character's parts--or he starts too, anyway.


The film is fascinating for a couple of reasons. One, it makes us aware of the freedoms people lack in countries like Iran. While I may not always agree with political satirists (like John Stewart and Stephen Colbert--though I do agree with them more often than not) or other commentators, at least in this country they can essentially say what they want to say without being imprisoned or captured and tortured. Also, as a cinephile  I was struck by how difficult it is for Panahi not to make a film. Filmmaking is his life entire. And if he can't make films, what point is there to life?

Of course, the film's ironic title questions what filmmaking is and what it isn't. While Panahi is not able to make the film he wants to and becomes quite emotional when he realizes this is the case, we are left with something that is possibly more interesting than the film he would have made had he not been imprisoned and had he not lived in such an oppressive country. This Is Not a Film is a film after all.

A Brave New Apocalypse: Justin Cronin's The Twelve

I just finished reading Justin Cronin’s relatively disappointing The Twelve, the sequel to his epic vampire novel The Passage (2010).  The last 50 (or, if I’m being generous maybe 100) pages were gripping page-turners, and the story as a whole is interesting and original—as these things go. But there were other issues I had with the book that made it difficult to love. I’ll get to those in a minute.

The Passage tells the story of a quasi-scientifically plausible vampire outbreak wherein all of America descends into a bleak vampire apocalypse. Cronin’s vampires are not the suave and seductive Draculas (in his later television and film iterations, anyway) or the Anne-Rice-or-True-Blood variety, nor are they brooding and conflicted Edwards from the Twilight series.  Surely the most frightening vampires to appear on paper, Cronin’s monsters exude near godly power coupled with the fiercest ferociousness of a ruthless predator.  They move with lightening speed, leap into the air with ease, manipulate weak human minds, hunger for human blood, amass armies of followers, and literally rip people to shreds. Covered in a nearly impenetrable armor, the red-eyed beasts are close to impossible to kill. And all the main vampires but patient Zero, a research scientist infected on a trip to Bolivia, are former death-row inmates. (The military has the brilliant idea to test the virus out on murderers and rapists. They escape.) Scary indeed.

I admit that The Passage wasn’t perfect either, but I would still highly recommend it. I loved the shear breadth of the story, the grandness of the tale (it’s almost 800 pages long).  I loved that two women (girls, actually) are the heroes of the story. In fact, Cronin has said that he wrote the novel with his daughter’s assistance; she inspired him to write a story about a girl saving the world. Even in 2013, we still don’t see badass or powerful or even interesting women as often as we should. And these girls are rich characters who are fully human, not some clichéd sex object-Lara-Croft knockoffs. Considering that the book has several characters, I thought Cronin did a good job fleshing them out, giving them back stories and individual identities. Also, on a plot level, the book certainly builds to an exciting climax and has lots of twists and turns along the way—and lots of exciting “oh-man, he-is-going-to-die!” scenes. But most of all, I loved the writing. Cronin’s The Passage is very literary in the best possible way; it has a beautiful poetry that as I recall was free from clichés and free from wordiness.

The small issue I had with The Passage was that it was really two books in one, and I never understood why they weren’t published separately. The first part describes the pre-vampire apocalypse, mostly following a young clairvoyant who holds telepathic powers named Amy, who is kidnapped by the government and infected with a new strain of the virus. She develops a loving relationship with what will become her father in the trilogy, an FBI agent named Brad Wolgast, the man who helped kidnap her. The book then suddenly shifts 93 years in the future and mostly focuses on a colony of survivors living in California. They have barricaded themselves from the vampires and fend off the beast nearly every night.

While I mostly enjoyed the story in The Twelve and Cronin certainly thought of interesting variations on the genre, the problems I had with it probably outweighed what I liked about it. It’s a bit shorter than the previous book (about pages), but Cronin introduces several more characters and spreads them fairly thin. I like what he did with the two main female characters but another character named Peter, who is much more interesting in the first, falls a bit flat here. The same can be said of several others. Cronin also annoyingly jumps around quite a bit, a couple of pages here, then there, then there, and so on. This structure made the book not only less fluid but it was also a bit manipulative at times. He was clearly trying to create some cliffhanger scenes and leave the reader on the lurch. Perhaps the most unforgivable sin, though, was the huge amount of cheesy clichés he employed throughout the book. The writing just seemed rushed and somewhat lazy to me.

Ridley Scott purchased the rights to The Passage a few years ago and Matt Reeves (Cloverfield) has just wrapped shooting. The film version is set for release later this year. It has potential to be an excellent film, but I wish HBO would have optioned it; it would make a better mini series.

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Memories

I created a close-analysis assignment for my film students and decided to do the assignment myself so that they would have a sample. I think it turned out pretty well, so I'm posting it. The assignment asks students to take a one- or two-minute scene; describe the background information needed to understand the scene; use a snipping tool to capture every shot in the scene; describe each shot, angle, transition, and duration of the shot; and write a 1-2 page analysis of the scene, discussing how the cinematography, mise-en-scene and editing impact the meaning. I chose Christopher Nolan's Memento (2000), based on a short story by his brother Jonathan. You'll notice that I don't have images for the shots. For some reason I couldn't copy and paste the images from the film from my Word doc.

Set up/Background Information:

Memento tells the story of a man named Leonard who suffers from short-term memory loss. Leonard believes his wife has been raped and murdered, and he, as a self-appointed vigilante, spends his days and nights tracking down the murderer. Because of his condition—his inability to remember incidents after the murder for more than a few moments—he writes basic information like “my car” on Polaroids, tattoos “facts” all over his body, and leaves post-it notes for himself everywhere. This is the first scene in the film, and it is shot in reverse. What follows the short opening scene is the first of many black-and-white scenes scattered throughout the film that occur in chronological order. These scenes are juxtaposed with the color scenes edited in reverse chronological order. The color and black and white eventually merge towards the end. Thus, the film ends at the chronological beginning of the story.

Summary of Scene:

 In this scene Leonard shoots and kills a man at point blank. He then takes  a Polaroid of the dead man. But because the scene goes in reverse, we first see the completed Polaroid picture, which then disappears.  The picture re-enters the camera, the gun flies from the ground and into Leonard’s hand, the man screams, the shell bounces upward into the gun, the bullet enters the gun.

 Analysis of Scene:

Intentionally jarring and confusing on its first viewing, this scene presents a microcosm of the ideas in the film as a whole. The Polaroid picture’s disappearance and the bullet’s re-entering the gun both serve as metaphors for Leonard’s condition. For him, memories are as ephemeral as the gratification of vengeance he receives in killing whom he believes to be his wife’s rapists and murderer. That is, memories and gratification disappear just like the picture. Because the scene is shot in reverse, for Leonard it is as if this murder never occurs—the bullet was never shot and the picture never taken.  Even though he takes a picture of the dead man, we know from other events later in the film that he will likely destroy this picture so that he can continue to hunt down and kill whomever he believes to be the true murderer. The picture will disappear when Leonard burns it. In doing so, Leonard sadistically exploits his condition to enjoy the pleasure of the pursuit and the fleeting moment of doing what he has convinced himself is right. He has supposedly avenged his wife.

One of the interesting features of the scene is Nolan’s use of close-ups and extreme close-ups. Only three of the 16 shots are not close-ups, but even these three are medium close-ups. With the lack of establishing shots or a traditional master shot, we don’t know where we are; we don’t see long shots of both of the men in the same frame; we don’t know why Leonard is murdering this man; we don’t even know who Leonard is at this point. Close-ups are traditionally used sparingly for emotional impact or to enhance a particular performance. But Nolan emphasizes and uses the close-ups to place the viewer in Leonard’s incredibly limited point of view.  We see what Leonard sees, and Nolan wants the audience as confused as his character. The scene epitomizes subjectivity.

What the close-ups show, however, might be even more significant that the use of the close-up. We see blood running on the floor, bloodied eye glasses, a shell casing, and the back of a man’s head.We only see the murdered man’s face for just a moment, a fraction of a second as he turns away to avoid the bullet. Thus, Teddy is not really a man. He is a collection of disembodied body parts and objects. He is an object himself, an object whose sole purpose is to fulfill some kind of fantasy in Leonard. A fantasy that Leonard knows is not the truth. The objectification of Teddy makes it easier for Leonard to kill him, and, shockingly, easier for the audience to approve of the murder. We are made participants in the heinous act.

Not only does Nolan employ primarily close-ups but he also edits them in rapid progression to further emphasize the ephemeral nature of the scene itself. After the initial six- then eleven-second shots, the rest of the shots last only one or two seconds. And the final shot last less than one second. The fact that the photograph shots last longer than the actual murder proves significant. By shortening the murder scene to mere moments of time and a few scattered shots, Nolan ironically downplays the seriousness of the murder. The viewer watches Leonard’s hand for a longer amount of time than we see the dead body, just as Leonard would. Also, if we were to blink we would miss the murder scene. It comes and goes just like Leonard’s memories. Murder is forgotten. It is not a big deal.

One important feature of the mise-en-scène is the color palette, color which is echoed throughout and serves as a metaphor for Leonard’s condition and the subjectivity of human nature.  Leonard’s tan suit compliments the brownish grey of the floor and walls. These earth tones might evoke the metaphorical grey area that Leonard has entered, an ambiguous place where in the moment he feels what he is doing is right only because he has lied to himself to get there. Possibly the grey might represent grey matter in Leonard’s diseased brain. The browns and greys contrast with the prevalent blues: from the bright blue title letters to the dark blue of the dead man’s denim jacket to the blue of Leonard’s shirt to the blue of Leonard’s eyes. Blue is the color of the sky and the ocean; it represents vastness and power. Leonard holds the gun, pulls the trigger, and has the power to take away life, whether that life deserves to be taken away or not. He is a god among men.

The use of fade-from- and to-black at the beginning and end of the scene parallels the image of the blank, undeveloped picture at the end of the first shot. With these transitions Nolan reinforces the idea that Leonard’s memories are wiped away—they also fade to black—just as the picture is wiped away. But beyond Leonard’s specific condition, Nolan implies here and throughout that that memories and, indeed, reality are subjective for all human beings, not just those with short-term memory loss. We, too, can never really know the truth, and we justify our routines and habits because they are truth to us.

With the use of close-ups, rapid editing, reverse filming, and an emphasis on the colors blue and grey, Christopher Nolan has set up the major themes and philosophy of the film as a whole. While these film elements specifically comment on the unreliability of memories, Nolan is after something much deeper and profound. The film becomes a kind of thought experiment that not only questions the reliability of truth but questions reality as a whole. It asks the ultimate question: In a world where memories and reality are as ephemeral as a few seconds of film, how can we truly know anything? We may be able to convince ourselves that we think we are right about our religion, our life philosophy, and our morality. But how do we really know?