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MEMENTO

Aficionados of cerebral puzzle movies–I’m not talking here about your conventional whodunits, but real brain-teasers like “The Last of Sheila” (1973), with its extravagantly complicated script by Stephen Sondheim and Anthony Perkins, or the Coens’ wonderfully serpentine “Blood Simple” (1983), or Bryan Singer’s “The Usual Suspects” (1995), with its elaborate game of misdirection concocted by Christopher McQuarrie–should be in heaven watching Christopher Nolan’s stylishly labyrinthine “Memento.” The picture is at once a gorgeously-wrought homage to the delectable old film noirs based on works by writers like Fredric Brown and Cornell Woolrich, and a sophisticated reworking of the convoluted structural tricks that Quentin Tarantino played in “Pulp Fiction.” Fans of crude spring-break laughfests and explosive-laden actioners will undoubtedly find the film mystifying and frustrating (you’re advised to seek out a quiet, empty theatre where viewers around you won’t be gabbling “What’s going on?” endlessly to one another), but anybody with a taste for the bizarre and the challenging will embrace it.

The narrative involves Leonard Shelby (Guy Pearce), a tormented fellow who’s bent on discovering who murdered his wife; the twist is that in that assault that led to her death, Leonard was injured, leaving him with amnesia. Now I know what you’re thinking–the lost, troubled amnesiac perpetually in danger and only haltingly discovering the truth about himself has been a staple of pulp novels, B-movies and long-forgotten TV from time immemorial: one need only think of Roy William Neil’s underrated “Black Angel” (1946), based on a novel that Woolrich published under the name of William Irish, in which Dan Duryea, in a complete haze as a result of his alcoholism, is similarly driven to find his wife’s killer; or Wolfgang Petersen’s “Shattered” (1991), featuring Tom Berenger as an accident victim desperately searching for the truth about himself; or the short-lived CBS series “Coronet Blue” (1967), which featured Frank Converse as an amnesiac survivor of an assassination attempt looking for his own identity and the truth about his past while trying to avoid his would-be killers. The twist here is that the protagonist is suffering not from the usual run-of-the-mill amnesia, but from short-term memory loss–an affliction which allows him to recall everything that occurred up until his wife’s death, but nothing that’s happened afterwards for more than a few seconds; as a result his comprehension of reality is always fragmentary and distorted (as is ours along with him), and he has to rely on Polaroid photos and scribbled notes to inform him of where he’s living, what car he drives, and anything he’s previously learned in his search (whether right or wrong). (There’s one beautiful moment when he doesn’t even recall whether he’s chasing somebody or being pursued.) To make things even more complicated, Nolan tells the story backwards, thereby keeping us (as well as Shelby) constantly disoriented; and he repeats material and alters perspective to give the whole picture the air of a half-remembered, vaguely menacing nightmare. He also periodically intercuts Shelby’s recollections about a man (Stephen Tobolowsky) who suffered from the same condition he now endures (Shelby had investigated the case, we’re told, in his previous life as an insurance adjuster).

The result is a narrative that forces you to work hard to keep up with it and sort out the clues that point to the outcome of the hero’s search. A viewer must come to the picture alert and clear-headed in order to meet the challenge. And any brief distraction–a trip to the concession stand or the facilities, even a whispered comment that requires you to turn your eyes from the screen–can be disastrous. You have to be willing to shut up, watch intently, and think about the information you’re being given in scattered, sometimes misleading shards. f you can’t do that, “Memento” isn’t for you: it won’t appeal at all to the lazy or inattentive. But if you’re ready to go with it, you’ll be pleased to know that it plays fair. The denouement isn’t quite up to one’s hopes, as if often the case in such puzzle pictures; but in these cases, the journey is usually more satisfying than the destination.

“Memento” can be criticized for being entirely synthetic and artificial; its structure allows Nolan to take any tangent he chooses in shaping Shelby’s past, and the directions in which the plot goes are in fact quite arbitrary. It’s also well-nigh impossible to work up much emotional investment in Leonard, despite the fact that Pearce plays him with conviction and vigor (and a remarkably good American accent); he’s just the standard tormented pulp protagonist. The only other performers of much consequence are Joe Pantoliano, properly seedy as an acquaintance who keeps popping up in Leonard’s life and may be friend or foe, and Carrie-Anne Moss, nicely restrained as a bartender-waitress who’s either helping Shelby or using him for her own purposes–and they’re merely playing types that come right out of pulp fiction (the genre, not the flick) too, so it’s difficult to care about them, either. But if the picture lacks depth, it remains a fascinating curiosity, with a surface sufficiently intriguing to compensate; sharply written, ingeniously constructed, strikingly shot and fast-paced, “Memento” is at once a satisfying mental game and an exhilarating cinematic stunt.

THE PLEDGE

When a major studio decides to release a film with a starry cast and a distinguished pedigree in the doldrums of January and February, without benefit of even a limited December showing in New York and Los Angeles to allow for Oscar consideration, it’s obvious that the executives have serious reservations about its viability. Often, of course, the suits are right–the post-holiday period isn’t known as a cinematic graveyard for nothing. But sometimes they’re completely wrong. Last year, Warner Brothers, for some reason, held “Wonder Boys” back until late February, when they might have gotten strong buzz going with a December opening. And now the same studio has dumped Sean Penn’s third directorial effort, a Jack Nicholson vehicle no less, into a January 19 slot that practically begs audiences to ignore it. And that’s a shame, because while the bleak, brooding tone of “The Pledge” certainly won’t attract viewers looking for lighthearted fare to take their minds off terrible winter weather, it’s an outstanding film, easily the most accomplished thing Penn has yet done behind the camera, and it boasts Nicholson’s most subtle, nuanced performance in years.

What gives the picture a distinct advantage over Penn’s previous exercises–1991’s “The Indian Runner” and 1995’s “The Crossing Guard”–is that it’s based not upon a script written by the helmer himself, but on a marvelous short novel, “Der Versprechen,” by the late Swiss author Friedrich Durrenmatt. Durrenmatt will perhaps be best known to filmgoers as the author of a play, “The Visit,” which was made into an unfortunately mediocre movie starring Ingrid Bergman and Anthony Quinn in 1964; but he was in fact a remarkable writer, whose work concerned itself regularly–and often brilliantly–with the elusive, ambiguous character of justice. That notion–that the search for accountability in human affairs is often is often fallible and inconclusive–is the theme of the book which Jerzy Kromolowski and Mary Olson-Kromolowski have adapted (with astonishing fidelity, despite the modernization and Americanization) for their screenplay, and they’ve managed in large measure to retain the depth and shading of the original. This affords Penn a solid structure to work from which his own earlier scripts lacked–with the result that while he again achieves a striking sense of dread and foreboding, as he did in both his previous films, in this instance it’s joined with a narrative that’s both tight and thought-provoking.

The story is actually quite simple, focusing on recently-retired Reno police detective Jerry Black (Nicholson), who becomes obsessed with tracking down a young girl’s killer–something he’d promised the victim’s mother he would do–despite the fact that the cops are convinced they’ve already gotten the man (an Indian who committed suicide shortly after confessing) and closed the case. It wouldn’t be fair to reveal how the plot progresses from this premise, except to say that it goes in directions you probably won’t anticipate; it can also be noted that Black in many ways resembles Scottie Ferguson, the tormented protagonist of Hitchcock’s “Vertigo,” and that the final act of “The Pledge” has something in common with Scottie’s determination to remake his lost love, with equally devastating results.

Nicholson plunges into the lead role using his usual bag of tricks, but Penn exhibits his directorial finesse by getting the star, who has too often resorted to outrageous mugging of late, to add a commendable dose of restraint to the mix here. Penn also coaxes wonderfully natural turns from his wife Robin Wright Penn as a waitress with whom Black gets involved, Sam Shepard as his old boss (who’s the narrator in the book but much less central here) and Aaron Eckhart as his replacement. But perhaps the director’s greatest feat lies in securing superb short turns from a variety of performers in what amount to a series of cameos. Usually when a well-known face pops up for a minute or so, a viewer can’t get past the celebrity–the hilarious assault on the practice that Dwight MacDonald launched in his notorious 1965 review of George Stevens’ “The Greatest Story Ever Told” all too often proves dead-on. But here actors like Benicio Del Toro, Vanessa Redgrave, Harry Dean Stanton and Helen Mirren manage immediately to inhabit their brief roles so well that they barely intrude on the gritty, but still dreamlike, atmosphere that Penn has taken great pains to establish. (Okay, so Redgrave might remind you a bit too much of Ingrid Bergman in “Murder on the Orient Express,” but that’s the only weakness.) Probably the best proof of Penn’s skill in using such names is that Mickey Rourke, in about thirty seconds as a bereaved father (and quite a few of those from behind) does his finest, most affecting work in years. The contributions of all the actors, along with the delicate work of cinematographer Chris Menges and the fluid editing of Jay Cassidy, help to keep the picture engrossing throughout.

This isn’t the first time, incidentally, that Durrenmatt’s book has been filmed. I can’t speak about a 1994 version titled “In the Cold Light of Day” (and starring Richard E. Grant), since I’ve not been able to see it. But the little-known “Es Geschah im hellichten Tag” (1958), directed by Ladislas Vajda and starring Heinz Ruhmann (with the pre-Bond Gert Frobe in a brief but pivotal role), which was briefly released in the U.S. under the title “It Happened in Broad Daylight,” was so haunting that it lingers in the memory of those few who saw it even after forty years. (Curiously, though the novelist himself had a hand in its screenplay, it took far more liberties with the book than the present version does.) “The Pledge” doesn’t quite match it, in part because stories involving child homicide have become much more prevalent on the big and small screens in the intervening years, diluting the impact, but also because Penn still occasionally indulges in insistently arty moves (overhead camera angles, long shots of flying birds, overlapping “memory” montages) that impede the narrative flow like little cinematic stumbles. But together with his cast and collaborators, he’s fashioned a moody, satisfyingly oblique tale that reaches a truly shattering conclusion. The grim, hallucinatory quality he’s achieved calls to mind those twin recent masterpieces of desolation, David Cronenberg’s “Dead Ringers” (1988) and Atom Egoyan’s “The Sweet Hereafter” (1997), and while “The Pledge” isn’t quite their equal, the fact that it’s worthy to be mentioned in their company is accomplishment enough. It represents the rare instance in which a brilliant book has been turned into a superb film not once, but twice.