No Memory an Island
By James Bowman
There are at least
two good reasons why Hollywood is so fond of movies about memory loss. One is
that the movies are always and inevitably tempted by voyeurism, and exotic
illnesses or injuries, including psychological ones, promise voyeuristic
thrills aplenty. The other reason has to do with visual paradox. The movies are
supremely realistic — surrealistic, you might almost say — in their capacity to
look more like life than life does. Human life is always writ large on the big
screen. But life as most of us experience it depends utterly on knowing who and
where we are on earth, on placing ourselves in relation to the rest of the
world. The central task of the mise en scèneis to place people in
some context. But what if the people themselves don’t recognize their context?
This is interesting to moviegoers who know what the characters don’t, which is
the case in most such movies, or moviegoers who have to figure out the context
just as the characters do, as in Memento or Mulholland
Drive.
But memory is also
shorthand for identity: we are our memories in a way that everyone instantly
understands and that the movies have been happily exploiting at least since the
classic 1942 amnesia flick, Random Harvest. We all
instinctively feel that to lose our memory is to lose ourselves, a prospect
that stirs audiences with mixed feelings. On the one hand, America is the land
of second chances. We like to believe that history is bunk because we don’t
like being bound by it. Where fresh starts are a kind of national religion, and
assuming that our other faculties remain more or less intact, memory-lessness
is the ultimate fresh start. To those for whom the past is a burden there is
bound to be something attractive about simply shedding it — though ethical
questions may also arise, as in the case of Eternal
Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, where something
like “brain-washing” is going on. On the other hand, we are terrified by the
prospect of Alzheimer’s disease or permanent amnesia. It is naturally
horrifying to think of ourselves as unable to recognize our loved ones or to
remember the things that are most important to us.
Happiness and
Revenge
Alzheimer’s itself
makes a moving appearance in such films as Iris, about the
English novelist and philosopher Iris Murdoch, the Argentinean film Son
of the Bride (El Hijo de la Novia), and the adaptation by Nick Cassavetes of a Nicholas Sparks novel, The
Notebook.
But it is hard to
do very much with such a theme except to show, with the help of flashbacks to
better times, the pathos of what the disease can do to destroy a person with a
vibrant presence — especially, as in all three of these cases, a woman — and
make her into a hollow shell of a human being. There are also a number of movies
that explore the idea of people getting a “do-over” in life, the best of them
all being Groundhog
Day. A similar idea occurs in Sliding
Doors and Twice
Upon a Yesterday (also known as The
Man with Rain in His Shoes), both of 1998, and Me
Myself I of 1999. Except for Groundhog Day, these
all have a certain fanciful and merely speculative quality to them that makes
them seem insubstantial. All, however, are more or less alert to the moral
implications they raise, linking them to a school of films that explore the
ambiguity of our feelings toward our memories by using memory loss as metaphor.












