Review: "Tenet"

 

Christopher Nolan’s Tenet. Made me think, it did—and thinking usually leads to talking. So what the hell do I say about this movie? Damned if I know. But I better get started ...

Okey-doke.

Based on trailer and track record, I was expecting a whiz-bang, timey-whimey movie. Like Inception. Except it’s time, not dreams. You figure some Big Bad in the future is screwing with decent folks like you and me in the present. The Protagonist will stop him. But there’s a twist, natch. (Heck, maybe the Protagonist IS the Big Bad!) Or something like that.

Yep. Something like that. 

But not that fun.

Tenet reminds me of the flaws in my own writing. That’s not a bad thing. It actually gives me hope.

Aside from his Scrooge McDuck levels of personal wealth and amazing creative accomplishments, director Christopher Nolan and I have a great deal in common. I’m a science fiction writer. He’s a science fiction writer. I’m fascinated with time. So is Nolan. And we’re both also fascinated with complicated, paradoxical plots.

My typical SF story is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, shrouded in an enigma, inside a tiny Russian doll with wheels-within-wheels spinning in its pointy little head. (There’s also a tasty hard candy center.) In a short story you can get away with it—all you have room for is one PhilDickian surprise. (Christ! I am the robot! Auggh!) In a novel, it’s like driving a ten-ton dynamite truck over a tattered rope bridge.

Late in life, I’ve discovered that Joe Reader has limited patience with this Nabokovian nonsense. Especially when it necessitates mind-numbing passages of expository dialog.

“The Cosmic Egg. That’s the key—but they’ve got it all wrong.”

“You mean the Cosmic Chicken came first?”

“No—it’s deeper than that. It’s … Before the Cosmic Chicken … Before that …”

“Take a breath baby.”

“… there was the Cosmic Chicken Ranch. Before that …”

“The Cosmic Colonel Sanders?”

“Yeah. But who’s he working for? Who’s he selling his “buckets” to?”

After ten pages of this, Joe’s eyes roll back in his skull. He immediately pitches backwards in his chair, gouges the back of his skull on a stainless-steel Ikea coffeetable, and has to go to the Emergency Room.

Joe, like the middlebrow non-English-Major slob he is, gives less than a shit for brainy, paradoxical puzzles. This mouthbreather cares more about the mysteries of the human heart. Characters he can relate to and all that shit. 

Knowing this painful truth, I fight to keep the yattayatta to a minimum. To that end, I ask myself a series of painful questions: Is this scene going on too long? What can I cut? What Darlings can I bury in unmarked graves? How can I shake this dull passage up with some left-field surprise? Is Joe getting bored? How can I keep that sumbitch entertained?

Nolan, unwashed phenomenon that he is, has stopped asking himself these questions. 

The scenes go on too long. And then they keep going. 

INT. APPRAISAL ROOM. Protagonist chats with Young Woman. There’s a Goya drawing in a Harrod’s shopping bag. It’s a fake. The Young Woman sold it to her husband the evil Russian something something lover didn’t know something something Plutonium 231 backwards time something.

Sorry, what?

Don’t get me wrong. The movie’s problem is boredom, not a lack of clarity. If you pay close attention, you'll know exactly what’s going on. Nolan is very clear. From premise to conclusion, he builds his logical artifice like an OCD kid with a new set of Legos.

For all its temporal paradox, this is a very linear movie. 

That’s a weakness, not a strength.

Imagine what Quentin Tarantino could do with this material. His hypothetical film opens in the middle—Reservoir Dogs-style. No warning! The Protagonist (yeah, that’s what he is in the script) is waist-deep in some life-threatening shit. Whoa! That car is driving backwards! You have no clue what’s going on—then find out in economical flashbacks. 

This material could also work with the approach Martin Scorsese used in After Hours. Send the character on a pell-mell trip like Alice down the rabbit hole. What the f**k is going on? You’re on the run. There’s no time to answer that question.

Yeah. Two cinematic possibilities, free of charge. But that’s not what you get.

Nolan's movie, for all its puzzle-master, egghead brainyness, is too damn predictable. No misdirection, no swerves. The film’s rhythm creates an expectation—and never violates it.

The fight scenes and action sequences are cleverly choreographed … and fail to grab you by the heart and gonads. The Protagonist is so ultra-cool-competent, he never breaks a sweat. Never lets on: Shit, this could all go wrong. Nah. The man doesn’t worry. You don’t either. 

What’s left is a puzzle. An insanely brilliant puzzle. It's a great idea—entirely self-consistent. I’m in awe of Nolan’s mind. 

But the trailer was better. Hell, if they’d hired me as a script-doctor, I could’ve made this movie better.

And that gives me hope.