Nope-enheimer

 

Well hello. Fancy meeting you here. 

Did you see Oppenheimer? The Christopher Nolan film, not the real life bloke. It seems likely that you did. It was one of those films that everyone sort of had to see, for some reason. Even people who couldn't be bothered with films went to see it. 

It was like in 1997 when my parents went to see The Full Monty, even though they hadn't been to the cinema since the dawn of the moving image. Such was the buzz about the Sheffield based strippers, they shook off their cobwebs and shambled down to the multiplex to stare at the big screen and marvel at how things had moved on since "Train Arriving at Station".

I didn't like Oppenheimer very much. Putting me in opposition (oppensition?) to most people, it seems. You all loved it, didn't you? You people! Loving things, as if that's cool or something. 

Anyway. It annoys me that I didn't like it. I want to like things, and I'm generally inclined to find the positive in things. So why didn't I like this thing? Let's find out together. Here's my reasons for not liking Oppenheimer. And yes, I'm quite likely wrong about all of it.

It was too long

Before the film had started, it had already annoyed me. Three hours? That's too long, for almost everything. Even something amazing will pall if you do it for three hours. Eating a Curly Wurly. Singing along to the chorus of 'Live it Up' by Mental as Anything. Watching the little glow run around the title in the opening credits of "Cheers". All great experiences that would be rendered terrible by going on too long.

Some films do justify a hefty run time, of course. Blade Runner 2049 is nearly three hours, and I bloody love that. Nolan's own Inception is fairly long - also great. And one of my favourite films - Paul Thomas Anderson's Magnolia - is over three hours. Over!

So it was possible for Oppenheimer to surprise me, and pull off the same magic trick. "Ta daa! I was worth the run time!" But it didn't. It started to tell its story, then wandered off to tell a whole bunch of different stories. Then it had some new characters talk about the story we'd just been told, except now in black and white. And then it looked at its watch and went, "Well, that's three hours. Guess I'll arbitrarily stop now."

A longer film often betrays a lack of discipline in the writing. Focus, people. Focus.

A boy enjoys some falling frogs. 

Just one of many reasons to sit through three hours of Magnolia.

Nalon Rehpotsirhc.

Yeah, that was annoying to read wasn't it? Well that's because, rather than just writing Nolan's name out forwards, like a normal human being, I decided to put it backwards for no reason. 

Part of my irritation with this film is that I used to love Christopher Nolan films. My first viewing of his second film, Memento, remains one of my greatest ever cinema experiences. I can remember the thrill as I slowly started to see what he was doing with structure, and marvel at the complexity and brilliance of the way he was manipulating time. 

A few years ago I would have said that he was one of my favourite directors. I loved the way his films played with narrative, and made us reconsider concepts like motivation, causality and responsibility. He used cinematic storytelling in brilliant, exciting ways and there was a real thread running through his work that was distinctive and - to me - incredibly engaging. 

Recently, though, it's all started to feel like this narrative approach is less his signature and more like a sort of catchphrase. Like he can't tell a story without cutting it into chunks and throwing everything up in the air. What was once a powerful and integral part of his message is now a gimmick that everyone, including him, seems to expect.

Memento: Coherent. Focused. Under two hours. Tattoo that on your wrists, Nolan.

I, the Contrarian

As I mentioned above, I don't like not liking things. A self-reflexive concept that Nolan would probably enjoy. 

I'm often suspicious when people loudly claim that they don't like a popular thing. You know the kind of behaviour. You'll get something that there's a generally positive buzz about. Sherlock (the TV show). Coldplay (the popular music beat combo). Football (the horrible, boring activity). Stuff like that.

And there they are - the professional contrarian, preening themselves like a peacock and harrumphing to the world that, actually, they most certainly don't like it. Or never watch it. Or whatever is the opposite of what everyone else is doing. Because they, you see, are a dangerous, cool minded thinker. 

Don't get me wrong - it's fine not to like stuff.  As you may have gleaned from the above, I don't have much time for football. But it's not a personality trait, and I certainly don't need to leap in when other people are enjoying it and make sure they know how different and dangerous I am.

All of which is to say... I'm suspicious of my own dislike, here. I knew, before I went in, that everyone was coming out of this film saying it was amazing. Admiring it seemed like a foregone conclusion. What if my dislike is not based on a critical appraisal of the film at all, but rather a subconscious desire to stand apart - to be that iconoclast who sees things for how they really are?

You see, that's why Nolan's earlier films are so good. They present characters who seem to be noble and well motivated, and then undermine them through narrative revelations, challenging that most basic of human beliefs: that we know who we are and why we do things. 

I guess there's some of that in Oppenheimer too. Maybe if it wasn't so bloody muddied by all the extra pointless detail, then I'd have seen it. 

"Dear everyone who likes football. I won't be watching, because I don't like it. It is important that you know this for some reason."

Oh, so worthy

Not all my reasons for disliking this film are fair, as you'll have seen. And this last one is possibly the least fair of all: I don't like it because it's so very, very Awards Friendly. 

I'm writing this before both the BAFTAs and the Oscars - both events where Oppenheimer might sweep across the board, destroying everything that lay before it like... well, you know. And for some reason that annoys me. 

It's not that it's a film without cinematic merit. There are some amazing visual ideas in there, and only a fool would argue that Nolan is a bad director. The sequence of the bomb test is incredible, and there's real power to the scene where Oppenheimer visualises the flesh-shredding effects of his work on the faces of those he knows. 

But that's not what's going on with these nominations, I don't think. Plenty of films have demonstrated this kind of innovative, cinematic flair, and failed to get so much as a mention. No, what's being rewarded here is the importance of the subject matter. The atom bomb. The Destroyer Of Worlds.

And I sort of get that. This is a super important subject, and people should know more about it. And it's a timely tale, of how our actions are part of a wider tapestry, of accountability and consequences. I can see why that's a message that needs shouting out in the current political climate. 

But we're not rewarding essays here. This is about film. A visual, kinetic experience that engages us on a primal level. The message is part of that, yes, but it should arise from the storytelling, and that storytelling should be cinematic. The importance of the message is not an excuse for failings in those other areas. On the contrary - if your message is that profound, focus yourself in the bloody telling of it.

I am very here for the universe where this wins all the awards. But I bet it won't.

So there we go. Like I say, I'm probably wrong about everything. I might well watch the film a second time and go, "Hey, you know what - I missed so many things and actually this is ace. " But if I do, I'll leave this little rant as it is. 

One thing Christopher Nolan's films have made me think about - his earlier, funnier films - is the way we can never be fully sure of where we stand. Our beliefs and opinions don't spring from some pure, righteous source within us, born of rigorous logic and self knowledge. 

We're subject to past experiences, unconscious prejudices, the people around us and the things we read... millions of things that nibble away at us every day, altering our perspectives in ways we don't even see.

The people who are most dangerous are those who are sure of what they think, and won't be budged on that opinion. Maybe the real destroyer of worlds is not a bomb, but rather, that state of being where we are utterly certain of the rightness of our own opinion.

Yeah?

Yeah?

Nah. It was that bomb. Did you see it go off? Try arguing with that on social media.