Memory
Michel Franco directed and wrote a movie titled “Memory,” which is a slippery dementia drama. At first, the film feels too familiar and heavy handed that you would want to dismiss it straight away. It starts with an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting where participants are filmed in oblique close ups, each prolongs their memories with the phrase “I remember.” Sylvia (Jessica Chastain) sits next to Anna (Brooke Timber), her daughter who has never seen her mother drunk before because she got sober while Sylvia was pregnant with her. But there’s more she doesn’t know about her mom like what made her drink so much or when it started happening and these undisclosed details inform Franco’s preoccupation with how trauma and illness can disrupt our very selves.
Franco’s film goes on unfurling itself curiously, beginning when Saul (Peter Sarsgaard) literally enters the picture. During her high school reunion, Sylvia sits alone at a table, in the background, a crowd listens to some kind of rousing speech framed between streamers, just out of focus, is Saul. He’s looking at her through his blurry visage as if he were remembering someone else from long ago whom he once knew well enough but couldn’t quite see clearly until now, then he walks over and sits down beside her without saying anything. She stands up abruptly and leaves without speaking one word to him; still he follows behind until they reach home where he stands outside her bedroom window all night long like an abandoned lover waiting for his beloved return home even though rain starts pouring heavily down upon them both but still does not move away until morning comes after sleepless hours spent sitting there outside looking in on somebody else’s life through glass panes sheltering against cold winter air which covers everything around them with its freezing touch making everything seem even more distant than ever before.
The walls inside this dark narrative box have bumps and unique textures, mostly provided by Chastain and Sarsgaard, who also serve as guides for the viewer. Chastain’s Sylvia is stiff with herself; she turns every lock on her door and sets her security system like a prison guard. Around Saul, though she finds it difficult to figure out what to do with them clasping or fidgeting or digging into pockets while working hands-on as caregiver they’re just restless things searching for some kind of rest. Sarsgaard’s Saul has a loose walk that invites curiosity, but then why would this seemingly nice guy stalk Sylvia?
Franco’s plot hits you in the gut three times successively. Saul has early onset dementia; when she was 12 years old Ben raped Sylvia and at some point in time later on Isaac believes he did too but this last claim of memory becomes increasingly doubtful over duration of story due largely because these are two individuals whose memories have been impaired differently one by disease whereas another through passage along an axis where past meets present so violently called time. Olivia’s childrens’ father is actually Olivia’s second husband whom no one mentions until near end.
But about Anna? She wants more freedom than any other teenager or person really needs to be given space grow up without anyone telling her how or where. This demand from life requires greater specificity about what exactly it is that makes Anna tick which unfortunately we never find out because all we get shown are moments when Sylvia fails understanding either who Anna truly is as an individual separate from herself, let alone caring enough about finding out anything more concerning such matters, likewise should there be any mention whatsoever made regarding likes/dislikes etcetera attributed unto said character? I think not! Even if I was wrong then still nothing else ever happens along those lines anyway.
But their mechanics are so blatant, they almost disengage one from wanting to know more.
His Mexican dystopian thriller “New Order” and his English language meditation “Sundown” both are examples of Franco’s love for teasing impenetrable characters. However, in this film, he has slightly overdone his plotting. For example, we already understand that the longer he keeps Sylvia and her estranged mother (Jessica Harper) apart from each other in space is indicative of the extent of their rupture. The game the script plays at hiding things quickly becomes a chore to unravel. Fortunately, Franco grounds their separation in real feeling. Once Sylvia and her mother do collide during a stomach turning, cathartic argument that lays bare the repressed memories which have irrevocably fractured this family you get it.
This works because “Memory” isn’t a pure puzzle box, it tells its story through a humanist lens without ever lapsing into easy sentimentality. There have been many movies made about dementia over the past five years (good ones include “The Father” and “What They Had”), but those works tend to focus on characters in the later stages of the disease when the heartbreak is obvious and the toll taken on affected family members comes into full view. But Saul isn’t there yet. He still has agency; he still yearns for love and carries regret; his dementia does not pivot attention toward people around him but rather sets up questions about how he himself can seize control of slipping reality then capacity, permission, autonomy. Can someone fall in love even if day by day they become less themselves? How do you respect needs of somebody who will one day be unable to articulate them in words? When does one stop internalizing what happens next?
These gambits work because “Memory” isn’t a pure puzzle box. Told through a humanist lens, it never resorts to simple sentimentality. There have been plenty of films over the last five years about dementia (the good ones being “The Father” and “What They Had”). These works often take on characters in the latter stages of the disease, when the heartbreak is clear, and the toll is seen through the eyes of the affected family members. But Saul isn’t at that point yet. He still has agency, he still pines for love and carries regret. Saul’s dementia doesn’t pull focus toward the people around him; it centers how he is grasping his slipping reality. Thus, what arises are questions of capacity, of permission, and of autonomy. Can someone still fall in love, even if, day by day, they’re less and less like themselves? How do we respect the wishes of someone, who, one day, will not be capable of verbalizing their demands? What is the moment when one ceases to internalize their experiences?
“Memory” doesn’t necessarily have direct answers to those questions. But it does well enough to know that even if a person is damaged, whether emotionally or psychologically, that shouldn’t negate them from receiving the kind of support that doesn’t belittle them but treats them with a dignity that goes beyond their trauma.
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