The Art of the Confusing

What makes a great film, great?

It depends on the film – and who you might ask. To a Tarantino fan, the answer may lie in gripping action, memorable dialogue, and the cinematic technique of an evident cinephile. To a George Lucas fan, worldbuilding and adventure are key.

And then there are fans of Christopher Nolan. Right now, cinemas are screening the British-American filmmaker’s eleventh feature film: the US $200 million-budget Tenet. Even by Nolan’s standards, the work is a wild ride – and frequently incomprehensible. Thus, the creator of such mind-benders as Memento and Inception has once again affirmed his own interpretation of cinematic greatness: complexity.

But does Tenet offer greatness?

Unlike Nolan’s amnesia-centred Memento and his consciousness-themed Inception, Tenet’s subject is time itself. The film’s content is not confined to time ‘travel’, either: from the viewer’s perspective, the action in Tenet quite literally flows forwards and backwards at various points. The stakes are high: characters are fighting to save not only the world, but everything that has ever happened.

That makes for some dazzling cinematography. There is something thrilling about seeing gunfire and hand-to-hand combat in reverse, not to mention reverse car chases and explosions. The enormous amount of money poured into this film is continuously evident.

Yet, if Tenet’s storyline seems daunting to follow, that is because it is. Nolan quite patently believes in the philosophy that, in film, ‘showing is better than telling’. Dialogue is seldom used to explain what is happening. When characters do talk, they do not waste a word. That frequently leaves a lot to be desired.

This 150-minute film, therefore, unashamedly demands every second of the viewer’s attention. Those wishing to use the bathroom at the cinema and understand the plot will find themselves unable to do both. If asked to summarise the film for others, viewers may struggle.

It is true that some of that confusion is wrapped up intermittently, particularly at the film’s conclusion. Yet, moviegoers may find themselves grappling with Nolan’s Art of the Confusing for large stretches of viewing. That will be more satisfying for some onlookers than others.

For those considering this film, it would be unjust to solely comment on its complex plot. Tenet has more than its storyline adding to, and detracting from, its favour.

I’ll start with its merits. Notably, Tenet features outstanding acting from its entire cast. What is more, Tenet is the rare type of story that encourages viewers to consider complex themes – like time, war, and loss – from different perspectives. Nolan grappled with Tenet’s central ideas for more than a decade. Depending on their mental preparedness, viewers may reap the rewards.

Keener eyes have accused the film of further shortcomings. Brian Loyd of Entertainment.ie stated that poor sound mixing “often” rendered dialogue inaudible, though I did not perceive that issue. With cause, many reviewers perceive the film’s Russian villain as a ‘Bond-esque’ trope. In a scathing review, Mike McCahill of IndieWire labelled the film “humourless”. Evidently, humour is not a goal for which Nolan set out in this World-War-Three flick. Yet granted the film’s mental and emotional strain, I must agree that occasional relief would have added to his product.

All in all, I find myself recalling the words offered by Rotten Tomatoes for the Netflix series Midnight Gospel I also recently reviewed. Like that series, this “strange brew won’t be for all tastes, but those willing to drink deep will find a wealth of vibrant visuals and illuminating insights.” (That is, if they’re lucky.)

Confident. Already projecting into the wildness of the night, the looseness of moving to music that is too loud, in a throng of bodies that is packed too tight. Her highlighter will catch those strobe lights, her arms will reach out to friends, all of them unsteady on the ferocity of feeling so alive.

Alive,

Alive,

I look into the mirror at the reflection of first year me. She’s ready to leave, just as I’m ready to come in. She looks past me, uninterested in this seemingly tired, muted being. Her eyebrows are raised, she’s disappointed at what she sees. Where did this grandma come from? she wonders.

I want to tell her, dude, I’m a third year now, fuck, nearly a fourth year, the years of student politics, last minute 2000-word essays and shit CBE tutorials have worn me down. Don’t give me that look. I’ve tried to remain upbeat, to want to go party after an entire week of uni, work and student activism, but what I need is rest, not downstairs Moose tequila shots. Debauchery is a thing of the past, red lipstick has been replaced with Vaseline, knee high boots with Uggs and pretty dresses with flannel pyjamas.

Do I bore you, I want to ask her? You must think me terribly, terribly mundane, home at 10 pm on a Thursday night. What happened to the ready for anything girl, the one who stumbled into a bush for a quick tac-vom before downing that cheap Aldi vodka?

I’ll tell you what. She grew out of it all.

Maybe it was the too many mornings waking up hours after sunrise, clutching her head to contain the aches. Or perhaps the change in responsibilities, the shifting of priorities so that liver health became more important than a raging night out.

But it doesn’t matter who she is now, who she has become. Go have your fun, you energised and wild youth. Let this third year rest. She’s fucking tired. I look at my phone again - the third time in the last 30 minutes. I know it’s rude, but it’s so late - my eyes were droopy two hours ago, and the siren call of my bed has only gotten louder. Someone goes to order another round of drinks. Dammit!

There goes my window to make an exit without seeming like the grandma that I am.

I can’t resist. I look at my phone again.

9:39 pm! At this rate, I’ll never make it to bed by 10 pm. Sigh.

It’s a team bonding event for a group of us involved on campus happenings and the damn first years have the energy to turn this into an all-nighter.

How are they so fucking perky? I’m one of the few third years on the team and feel outnumbered— the fourth and fifth years didn’t even bother to show up. They know the drill.

Finally, finally, it starts to wrap up. The first years are antsy, ready to make the walk to Civic whilst sharing a bottle of the Little Fat Lamb stored in a nearby bush. I lock eyes with a fellow third year. We’re ready to get out of here.

I can’t walk to my car fast enough, racing down Northbourne as the minutes tick closer to 10.

9:54 pm. I’m on Adelaide Avenue.

9:56 pm. I turn sharply onto my street.

9:58 pm. I’m in the bathroom, electric toothbrush in hand, smearing lines of white, red and blue toothpaste across the bristles.

I quickly scrub at my face, not having to worry about wearing makeup. No jewellery today. I slip off my baggy crew neck, leaving it on the floor, too tired to even hang it over the laundry basket.

Just as I’m about to turn the lights off in the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of someone’s face in the mirror.

She’s buoyant despite the dimness in the room and late hour, floating on the high of feeling ready for a night out.

Ready for a night of debauchery. You can tell by the way she checks herself out in the mirror.