Which leads us to the conclusion: Memento (2000) is inarguably Christopher Nolan’s best non-blockbuster film. It reigns highly above the majority of his filmography as one of his most creative, thematically intriguing pictures to date. Although various rewatches have washed away any excitement the twists and turns used to invoke, the film is still a cutting thriller; projecting a perfect display of humanity’s innate selfish nature. It is intoxicatingly cynical and bears no biases regarding its characters. It is dark, dirty, and downright genius – a pure neo-noir. It is not something one easily forgets.

At this point, I should have it tattooed on my forehead. The reveal always comes, regardless of subject relevancy. Everyone who knows me learns of this truth and how deeply it is tied to my soul. Yet, the bombshell, the subsequent discussion, the looks of disgust, the pointing finger and the accursed label ‘contrarian’ have become a tiresome tirade. Once it is learned, a preplanned defence is deployed, which quickly morphs into a heated debate where I spit poison about a man neither party knows personally. The discourse itself doesn’t bother me. I don’t mind that people know; what gets to me are the furrowed brows, creasing together as the twinkles of respect dim in every pair of eyes privy to my fun fact. I tried to be fair, and I tried to be nice, but I grew up, I shifted from your side, and now I am here, an infamous hater.

Thus, when it grabs you, it becomes like a game, a puzzle, a personal case to solve. As a new scene unfolds you’re tasked to pay attention to the present sequence, keep close to mind the black-and-white instance just past, recall the last in-colour moment you saw, and figure out how this could lead to the point it ended prior. Now comes the recontextualisation; shifts in tone and character attitude alter the meaning and feeling of everything we’ve seen so far – now we have to change our memories to better fit the present state of the film. Answered questions reappear with different inflexions. When answered again they fall to the ground: decapitated. Two more emerge in its place, demanding a slot in your brain, quick to replace recently formed thoughts and corrupt your current perceptions. A linear film in comparison is a far more leisurely, passive experience. It would ask of only one thing: pay attention to the story's forward motion as it lays out the pieces in proper order for you to collect and comprehend. In contrast, this film is demanding. It is hard work. Multitasking is now compulsory. You must hold onto all new information! You must recollect details long since disregarded! You must remember everything! This is a labyrinth built from bricks baked in constantly shifting contexts; the halls are painted with the colours of dust and dirt; these carpets are woven with lies, malice and deceit. It can be a confusing space to traverse, especially on your first way round, but there is a way out if you remember your way in.

So, here is my confession, my worst-kept secret; my most explicit character trait: I do not like Christopher Nolan. I would say I hate the man. That British-American slime. Even if we were to ignore his newfound knighthood; a symbolic stand against the people, favouring proud, pompous prestige for his precious and pretentious billion-dollar business we’re forced to call art as he mingles with society’s royal scum at a mere sword’s length, I think he is a dreadful writer and much too overrated filmmaker. ‘Spectacle’ is easy when every score is designed like a trailer soundtrack. What is historical and scientific accuracy to a man devoted to the cult of practical effects? Nolan would let slide a defective detonation perpetrated by cheap petrol bombs in the climax of a movie built primarily around this explosion, rather than dare utilise the flexibility and faithfulness of digital imagery, an art form he once helped prove its artistic (and scientific) importance within the industry he loves so dearly. When his women are too often placed in harmful or lethal situations to boost the complexity of male minds, as they battle with blurry morals that are quickly contradicted by half-baked ambiguity, shoddy sequel-cohesion, and even the base character itself, I find it a simple act to throw shade upon his penmanship. However, it is mainly Nolan’s social biases that I hate. Greater value and moral passes are awarded to certain men who rank higher on the writer’s warped hierarchy of professions. He is a man who values power and the powerful, mainly in title and job description. Now being a noble himself, he has joined his people, the few above the rest of us. Free to assert his centrist rot to his adoring fans who gladly gobble it up beneath his feet, begging, gagging, screaming for more.

We must collectively dissuade the notion that the narrative structure is nothing but a gimmick; it is not just a neat party trick deployed by a young writer to sell himself greater than his worth. Labelling it so would be a disservice to the art of editing; doubly the tragedy considering it is the sole aspect unique to the art form, something that should be regarded higher than the other, commonly preferred derivative aspects of filmmaking, such as cinematography (stacked photography), acting and performance (stage and theatre), score and sound (music and Foley) – in fairness, it is their collaboration and fluid relationship that makes the medium, but it is editing that is the distinguishing feature of film. Its power over story, characters, and mood must never be understated, especially when it is the primary drive of these things. Unlike in Nolan’s other films, such as Following (1998), Batman Begins (2005), and Oppenheimer (2023), non-linear storytelling is not used solely as an engagement device, which compresses information to allow for a more even show of tension, nor is it designed to merely hide information, to extend the mystery and draw drama out until it’s time for a twist or a shock. This is different. The editing is a physical reflection of Leonard’s condition: it mimics his short-term memory loss. Showing us the condition and how it works, or doesn’t, is only the first step – its primary function is to make us feel exactly how Leonard feels. We’re allowed into his world, seeing things a few minutes at a time, forced to scramble in our brains for the past, as the mess of life speeds forward in front of us.

These are symptoms anyone could spot in any of his movies at any given time, talent, or level of knowledge on storytelling. Scientists and the police and so-called heroes are valued high above the lowly citizens of the world, despite the film saying the opposite – the Japanese victims of Oppenheimer’s greatest work are but an off-screen slideshow for a man struggling with ego and reputation – the millions of Gothamites and their civil liberties are suggestions; optional guidelines to the lawless symbol of Batman – scientists and engineers of NASA belittle farmers and forget the struggles of the working class that uphold and fund their interstellar projects – Every wife is a dead wife, or no better, as she is reduced to a victim of abuse, or neglect for the development of male characters. Convoluted exposition folds into itself until things suggest complexity, meaning there is no need for real intrigue, thematic flair, or dramatic tension to be written, as yet another cacophonous score will flood into every corner of the screenplay and fill out the gaps of these empty protagonists; his phantoms of neutral morality. It is endless and irritating and a sickness you would not expect a filmmaker so highly regarded, by audience and critics alike, to be suffering from. However, it was not always like this. Before it was different. Before the Batman films, the science-fiction hits, and the World War II movies, there was a brief period of clarity. Three films nuzzled away into the neo-noir subgenre that lightly explored the worst in people. This was when everyone was presented as equals; each character was a scoundrel, a sinner, a person with little moral standing. Whether it be a corrupt copper burdened with sleep deprivation, a failed writer following the devil into hell, or an undercover cop, worried partner, or weaselly motel owner, they all manipulated, lied, and cheated. There was no moral superiority in the world.

A climax revealed before the journey to it is a narrative device often employed. How this non-linear process stands out though, is through its gradual, step-by-step reverse. With the first few steps backwards, we become aware of the characters and the motivation behind the murder. Pale skin stretched over a lean frame covered in scribbles, cyphers, instructions, truths, a horror story. Quickly we understand Leonard; his condition and his mission. Sympathy grows. A connection is made. We make a moral judgement and jump to his side: murder for murder is fair; murder for murder and rape is justice. Revenge was a necessity. But then, more scenes unspool; context spills in, rushing and frothing into every crack and crevasse. The air becomes cold. Everything shifts: suddenly and violently. Our kind, sympathetic pity sours as Leonard stops existing with his condition. No longer idling along, at the mercy of it, or those who exploit it. Contorted by sin, he becomes another one of its manipulators, using it to satisfy his own twisted needs. A story about the exploitation of the disabled dies as the victim becomes his primary abuser. Now the sins of Teddy don’t seem so terrible – he was but a pig with a conscience, and the means to capture and kill criminals through some light suggestion. Natalie is no longer the selfish bitch twisting a lost soul around her finger, but a worried partner desperate to find, or at least avenge her lost lover. Burt and Dodd? They’ve just been caught in the wrong web; a confusing nest of spiders where every arachnid sees itself as the fly – there goes Leonard, sinning like the rest of us. No longer pure; tangled in his web of half-remembered lies.

Consequently, this grants the film a rare purity for Nolan, where its internal themes never contradict themselves. Unlike his other cinematic slop, there is no thematic paradox boiling at its centre – a point is made and the point sticks. Pessimistic as it may seem, we are selfish creatures. We are inconsistent and hypocritical. Everyone is trapped in a constant cycle of convincing ourselves that it’s okay that we hurt the people around us, and that we mustn’t worry about our self-destruction. Throw up a smile and our infinitely complex minds will swallow our excuses without struggle because we are so easily fooled, and we so crave to be the fool. We are malleable and gullible, and often our greatest deceivers are ourselves. Take a look at me. I like to believe I am Christopher Nolan’s biggest hater. It is easy to convince myself of this fact; reread some of the vile, venomous sentences I’ve spat upon this page; it could not be clearer. Yet, sit me down in front of a film of his, no matter how critical and cynical and hateful I may behave, I will enjoy the hell out of it. I claim–often believe the man writes horrible films, yet Memento (2000) is one of the most interesting, exciting, and impressive writing achievements I’ve come across in this medium. To say he is a bad filmmaker is a delusion born of hatred and bias, solely present to settle my prejudices and perjure reality. Although his immense command over cast and crew is most clear in his blockbusters, this film alone is more than an adequate example of his outstanding talent in filmmaking, his understanding of the art form, and its relationship with story, character, and theme. He directs an infuriating dual performance from Guy Pearce, who juggles naive innocence and knowing malice without giving anything away. Joe Pantoliano, an infinite joy to watch, explodes with grime and charisma. Carrie-Anne Moss, the best thing to happen to early 2000s cinema, steals every moment she is on-screen for: another double-performance; no, a triple performance as concerned partner, conniving snake, and just manipulator – fierce, wicked, cunning. And yet, be its visual grit, moody soundtrack, or brilliant cast, it is all nothing in comparison to the real star of the film – it is the thing we remember above all else, the skeleton that holds the flesh, the heart that pumps the blood, the Plutonium-239 within the gadget; everything interesting comes directly from the narrative structure. Although it may seem overwhelming, it is quite easy to understand. One half travels backwards, and the other half travels forwards. Scene by scene, they swap between, and firstly, it starts at the end.