Memento the Movie

 

Memento

Memento is intense, entertaining, and confusing. The color scenes, run in reverse order, were longer than the B&W scenes run in chronological order. We know the ending because it is the beginning and we don’t know what really happened (I emphasize the past tense) until we get to the beginning which occurs at the end except for the B&W segments, which end in the middle.

I think one aspect that draws so many positive reviews to this film is that it is not structured in the orthodox manner of filmmaking. The viewer must deconstruct each scene from the following scene in the previous segment of time. The newness of this structure makes one think, perhaps even somewhat mathematically. It is revolutionary and worked as, I presume, a first time method but I think it would become tiresome if done again, at least, to anyone who has experienced it in Memento even if they liked it. I liked the film but I won’t be saving it to watch again because I think it will lose its magnetism the second time around.

I was reminded of putting all the scenes on the board and then mixing them up but with two plans of reverse order at the same time.

Brian

What Others Don’t Know About Distracting a Writer

void

In your story, your mind is infused into your character, but you are also guiding other characters. The images are there, the action, the colors, the smells, tastes, touch, and feel. You are in the moment of your own words but running ahead, creating only seconds in the future of that moment. The moment is tense; you are making it that way for a reason, for your readers.

Something rips you out of it. You try to hold on, but the colors fade, the smells evaporate, the action stops, emotions freeze, and the last fragments of the image are sucked away, lost. You wonder if it can ever be the same. You know it can’t.

It doesn’t matter what ‘something’ shattered your world; you will never have that moment back, never know if the next one you make will be as good. Maybe the next one will be better, but you’ll never know—it’s gone.

Have you ever watched an exceptionally good, edge-of-your-seat movie that made you crunch the cushions and urge your heroes on? Imagine watching this movie for the first time while recording it so you can share it with someone. You’re gripped in an intense scene, and the power goes out. Wow, that would suck. To be in the middle of creating when your scene is ripped away is much more profound.

The phone ringing or a dog barking may make your world fade a moment, a mild annoyance, a distraction, but not one to do more than make the mind skip a step. When someone comments or, worse, speaks directly to you, your mind leaps to the words and analyzes the message. It yanks your mind out of the world you were making.

I think only writers and poets and maybe composers of music know where I’m coming from—maybe not. The craft cannot be discarded anymore than eating, breathing, or taking a leak but denying it is every bit as detrimental to the psyche of an artist. To struggle with distractions is almost as bad as denying your craft.

The best solution is to have an office, even if you must build a box or convert a closet into a private place for you and your word processor. This beats sitting in the same room with loved ones unless you don’t mind biting their head off. They will still knock on your door whenever a question that can’t wait a few hours arises—it’s surprising how many times this can occur in a day, but the interruptions are considerably reduced.

Without a means of seclusion, the only other option is to write when others sleep. Changing a sleep cycle is far from easy, and you should be prepared for complaints about snoozing when loved ones want your attention. Writing isn’t like a nine-to-five job; it’s far more demanding in many ways. You have to do it when you can, and you must be able, but just as importantly, be sure to devote time to the one(s) you love as well.

Burned Books, from the Ashes Comes Shackles

kindred

Burned Books, from the Ashes Comes Shackles in Octavia E. Butler’s “Kindred”

“The Fight”, in Kindred, by Octavia E. Butler, had many little plots and twists, but the thing or things that kept sending up flags was the written word and how it was controlled and used for leverage in the story. First there was the book about slavery that Dana brought back-in-time with her, with dates and routes escaping slaves used, and the map of Maryland it contained. There was also the letter that Dana wrote to Kevin, which Rufus offered to post for her. The knowledge in that book gave Dana confidence and control, albeit small, over her life should she feel the need to escape to the free North.

Due to the seditious content of the book it was dangerous for Dana to have in her possession and should she be caught with it this would not go well for her. Rufus pointed this out to her and insisted she burn the book. When she hesitated, knowing she would be destroying what little tenuous control she had on her life, it made her think of the book burning of Nazi Germany and the fascist control of knowledge that kept the people fettered to the will of the government. Burning her book symbolized not only a loss of freedom for her but also a means of escaping the fetters of slavery.

Dana needed to let Kevin know she was back. The letter, like the book, was a way to freedom from someone, her husband, who would help her for love and without expectation. It was the only way she could contact Kevin and when Rufus threatened not to send her letter unless she burned the book, he was forcing her to give up control and place it in his own hands. Rufus was handing Dana a collar and asking for the key.

The map, torn from the book before committed to flames, was the last shred of written knowledge Dana tried to hold onto—the last scrap of comfort to give her confidence that she may have a chance if she had to leave—but Rufus demanded even that. “He threatened to keep me from my husband if I did not submit to his whim and destroy a paper that might help me get free” (155). It left her no option but to give up the means to get to Kevin and hope that Kevin would get her letter and come rescue her, and she had to entrust the letter to her blackmailer, Rufus.

I took the map from Rufus’s desk and dropped it into the fireplace. It darkened, then burst into flame.

“I can manage without it, you know,” I said quietly.

“No need for you to,” said Rufus. “You’ll be all right here. You’re home.” (156)

Rufus’ last line in that passage is a subtle hint that he had no intention of sending the letter and alerting Kevin that his wife was here so he could take here away. He had effectively made Dana his slave.

Excerpt from the Octagon Key

Here is an excerpt from The Octagon Key:

Imar handed Dalla a shield and motioned her to go first. While they were waiting for Andrew to depart up the hill, Imar put on his mail shirt, but this time he put on a dark brown sleeveless tabard over it with an emblem of a hawk outlined by an octagon embroidered in tan. Next came his helm, followed by his short sword, and then he placed his claymore across his back. He fastened metal grieves to his boots and stood tall in his battle finery. Imar looked good and felt good. The weight of his accruements put him in his battle glory and his adrenaline soared. Dalla led the horses down to the ferry while Imar strode to the side between the inn and her. The weight of his shield felt good on his arm and he drew his sword which felt good in his hand. Dalla sensed his mood and began to move the horses faster, well aware of his rising bloodlust, so common to northern warriors. The ferryman was aboard his vessel untying the lines.

Imar stopped and turned toward the inn.

Dalla said, “Oh no, please don’t.”

Imar shouted at the top of his lungs, “Sigurd! I have your answer! You can kiss my arse and taste my steel!”

The guard on the porch leapt to his feet as did the one at the back of the inn. They were confused, but to their credit, they didn’t just charge to their deaths when they joined each other at the front of the inn. They locked shields and slowly approached this formidable warrior with the wolfish grin on his face and the fire in his eyes. Sounds were coming from the inn and Dalla was tugging on the horses with all her might, loading them onto the barge.

The ferryman helped her. “Is he out of his bloody mind?” he asked as he tugged fiercely on the reins. “I thought the man had some sense about him.”

Dalla kept her mouth shut, but her sarcastic thoughts rolled on. A sword in hand and blood flowing from brain to crotch, a man will do the most foolish things.

Imar charged with his shield out front and his sword held high. The men braced themselves against the impact, but Imar’s momentum could not be stopped. As he broke between them he sliced low to the right under the man’s shield, his blade finding flesh below the chain mail skirt—it cut into the man’s knee. A scream rent the air as he turned and caught a sword from the left on his shield. He faked a low thrust then spun an arc and came over his opponents shield and sunk the point into the man’s neck. Imar roared with battle lust.

 

I hope you enjoyed the appetizer.