OPPENHEIMER and The Horror of The Long Timeline (Patreon)

1. SHAKEN, ALSO STIRRED

Often I come out of a movie and I’m already writing in my head.

Because once those ending title cards hit, the neurons are just already firing. For the ending has laid the conceit bare and thus all the elements of the film start making sense (or don’t make sense) in conjunction. I will know that I will want to write about  X. And touch on Y. I’ll perhaps even know the big point at the end I want to make is Z and thus it’s just figuring out the through-line that gets you from X to Y to Z. It just takes some distillation, some addition, some subtraction, and I always run into problems. But when the thoughts are going a mile a minute, it’s like a wave you just ride and try to hold onto while you can. But when Christopher Nolan’s OPPENHEIMER ended?

I was just shaken.

That’s it. Just sort of lumbering in that shell-shocked stupor and trying to gain a sense of composure in order to think, dammit. But sometimes you just have to sit in the numbing stupor. Perhaps it was because the film’s shaking qualities were often literal. Like most Nolan affairs, it’s a loud as hell movie that shakes your seat, but he likes using those elements in a kind of symphonic measure that hits at the right times. But it’s good that you feel films. They should be overwhelming experiences that make you feel things right in your bones. And with that, the more varying emotions they bring out the better. Because it’s not just about pure viscera, You don’t just want something that shakes you… but stirs up something deep inside.

For many years, people have referred to Christopher Nolan as a “cold” filmmaker and while I understand the charge, I’ve always disagreed. His films are often unsentimental, yes. And they often feature characters with cool posing exteriors. But that doesn’t mean they are not *about* emotion. Because they’re all often squarely about emotional repression. It’s a very classical masculine thing, sure, but he comes at the subject square on. Often telling stories of characters in repeated attempts to bury or escape their pain, only for it all to come spilling out in the grandest of varied ways (it’s not unlike most classical noir in that way). I wrote about this extensively in my big Nolan piece a few years ago called “Christopher Nolan and The Cruelty of Time,” in which I also identified how much he considers time a punishing force that can cruelly take people away and separate us from that which we love (I wrote all this before he made Tenet, a film literally about poisoned things coming back in time to kill us). But one of the things to also note in the meantime is how personal all this genre stuff is. Chiefly, when you consider the story of Nolan’s older brother, who may or not have been a conman turned hitman whose codename was literally Oppenheimer, but we at least know there’s STUFF going on there that would be right in line with some of his films. And while this may sum of some of Christopher’s fascinations, they are mostly matters of conjecture. What is for certain is that Nolan - for all his cerebral puzzles - is always after something more thematically fascinating than most will give him credit for. And more emotionally resonant, too. He wants to stir you up.

But this is the first film where “the stirring” feels undeniable.

2. WELCOME BACK, FELLAS

There’s this weird thing that happens where some critics like to go through films like checklists. They’ll talk about cinematography, the score, etc like all qualities must be commented on. But I kind of like to just make a beeline to try and get to the soul and meaning of the fucker. But sometimes talking about those smaller feeds into the grander sense of the film’s core operation For instance Oppenheimer features a murders row of famous character actors. My friend Andrew pointed out the age-old advantage of doing this because when you have a big sprawling narrative you want a familiar face playing in a bit part because that way you remember them. The worry of course is that they’ll get wasted in the process and never quite have a moment to shine. For instance [PS major spoilers throughout essay], you may worry Emily Blunt might be wasted and then, don’t worry, she gets a killer interview scene. Or you may wonder if Rami Malek is really just gonna get pushed around and stay silent the whole movie, huh? Turns out to be a misdirect for Oppy’s ultimate defense. Nolan manages to give so many incredible actors moments of distinction. From heavyweights like Pugh and Branagh, to It Kids with a few misfires like Alden Ehrenriech and Dane DeHaan, to amazing character actors like Macon Blair and David Krumholtz, to happiness of Olivia Thirlby and Josh Peck again, to so many more. But from all the grand little bits that shine, there are two supporting performances that truly stand out…

Because I didn’t know Josh Hartnett was in this film.

Let alone didn’t know he had such a large role. But it was one of those surprising, weirdly endearing things. Because on a long enough timeline, you end up rooting for people that you maybe have never expected to. Back in the late 90’s Hartnett was this absurdly handsome, tall dreamboat who came on the scene in The Virgin Suicides and teen horror fare like The Faculty. He wasn’t a young Brando or anything, but there was an inescapable raw nugget of talent and boy was he just so classically handsome. The kind that’s a little pretty and a little rugged in equal measure. And then he got posed for absolute stardom in Michael Bay’s prestige play Pearl Harbor and right from that film bombing, there was this seeming immediate turn from the Hollywood powers that be. Things were much crueler then. And by the time we got to 2003’s Hollywood Homicide (pairing him with Harrison Ford’s then A-List downslide) it had already felt like the moment passed. And scrubbing back through his credits, I realized I genuinely hadn’t seen him in anything since 2006’s The Black Dahlia, which was another good shot De Palma vehicle everyone hoped would be so much more. Alas, nothing caught.

But the truth is that Hartnett went on to become that rare and most venerable of things: a working actor. The last 17 years have featured a turn on Penny Dreadful (a show I never watched, but I know has its superfans), lots of B movies and indie fare, all of which are stabs that genuinely seem more interesting than one might suppose from the titles alone. But then enough time passes and an actor finds themselves in the winds of change. Like suddenly having the fourth-ish lead in Christopher Nolan’s prestige summer blockbuster. The second he walked on screen I was like “holy shit. HARTNETT.” The years have been enormously kind to him. He’s a little more filled in and features a few tufts of gray. It’s all a bit more Draper-esque. But the All-American smoothness is there, along with some real sureness of his communication. And it’s part of what makes him a great counterpart to Oppenheimer’s squirrelly evasiveness. In fact, this simple dynamic makes much of the first half of the film. And I am so glad that he was the one who was cast. Because it’s the kind of thing that reminds you “people should be getting great opportunities to show what they can do.” Often times that statement can be given to all the great actors who aren’t quite making it, or working on the stage, but sometimes, yes, it’s about giving an already established actor a great role to chew on. And there is no bigger case in this movie than one. Because calling all cars…

Robert Downey Jr. is acting again.

I don’t say this as slight to Ironman in any way. That was a special little charisma handshake with the world that powered the most unique and successful blockbuster enterprise of all time. But it certainly took up a whole lot of his time. And there’s so much great work he could have done with that stardom in the interim. But here? He’s finally taking on the challenge. He’s acting again. And not “just” acting, but giving the kind of sneaky tour de force that ends up being the lynchpin for the entire damn film. For all of it rests on the fact you’re reading him as this amiable, even-handed politico who is actually our devious, thin-skinned Salieri figure. And it’s not just that it’s a good turn, well-played. It’s how much it represents the dark heart of American power-holders. It's the simple trap of veneers and vanity that powers the grand feats of terrible policy making (instead of the darker hearts of some sort of grand conspiracy). And to make it work, it takes an actor being so effortlessly charming, underplaying it, showing the smallness, but then finally unleashing all that wounded smarm. It’s precisely the kind of thing Downey is incredible at, long before he donned the suit. And it is a remarkable, Oscar-worthy turn. The kind that will likely be beloved by the industry after the 15 year endearment project that was Tony Stark. Either way, when it comes to both Downey and Hartnett, both gave me that simple feeling of “welcome back, fellas.”

And they picked a hell of a picture to show up in.

3. LINE EM UP, KNOCK EM DOWN

David Rees once made the comment that all movies “are either puzzles or dreams,” which is one of those simplifications that’s actually a pretty good way of at least talking about a film’s modus operandi (even if most films require a bit of both). But with movies that skew “dreamy,” the logic of how to why to when doesn’t matter as much because you’re coasting on the feelings of adulation. This is something very obvious in the case of, say, the more abstract work of David Lynch or Michel Gondry. It works because you’re so in tune with what it FEELS like. But there’s a lot of sumptuous dramatic works that do the more “grounded” versions of this, too. Anthony Minghella could make these romantic epics that went from piece to piece like The Odyssey. Paul Thomas Anderson finds his films’ dream states in oddball rhythms. And Spielberg has ridden the dream logic right into the most popular expressions of terror and awe. All these works ground you in the nature of your feelings.

Meanwhile, the puzzle filmmakers are often after your curiosity. Which means they often have some sense of the left brain “game” with the audience. This, of course, plays into the fine tradition of mystery stories and the history of noir. But you see the same games of expectation play into Hitchcock’s thrillers and hitting an obvious apex in something like David Fincher’s The Game. But no one has been more interested in “puzzle storytelling” than Christopher Nolan. It was something evident right from the film that really launched his career, Memento, where two time-lines, one moving backwards, converge to a point of essential revelation. And in many ways, he’s been making actiony noir movies that do ever since. Inception uses the different speeds of a chase as a car falls from a bridge. In Dunkirk, the three timelines crest together into a feat of solace. And of course there’s Tenet, a backwards-drifting temporal pincer movement that is pretty impenetrable on first watch, but doesn’t start getting great until the third time you watch it (look, I’ve become a convert). But here, we have a dual narrative conceit once again.

It’s easy to assume that he’s doing all this as a simple trick, as if a way of making his films “seem more complicated than they are.” But Nolan’s NEVER hiding beneath texture. There’s always a key thematic reason behind the structure of each film. And it’s not always about the effect of climax. For instance, one may assume the two timelines of Oppenheimer are about building up to the bomb. Yes, the sequence does come a little later in the film. And yes, it is absolutely a terrifying and haunting scene. But one that leaves a good forty-five minutes or so in its wake. Why so long? What is it doing with the rest of that time? Well, it’s because the two timelines are leading to something else entirely.

The first timeline, “Fission” is defined as “the action of dividing or splitting something into two or more parts.” The second timeline, “Fusion” is told in black and white from years in the future and the term is defined as ”the process or result of joining two or more things together to form a single entity.” When applied to atomic chemistry, both can result in a tremendous amount of energy that can result in “power” or kablammo. Which makes sense given one plot is about building the A Bomb, the other about whether it's moral to press forward with the H Bomb. But understanding the more generalized how and why of each is the real thematic essence of the whole story.

The Fission timeline is about the buildup. It’s the story of young Oppenheimer, idealistic, yet existentially terrified, largely drifting his way into prominence through ego and theoretical gumption (and Murphy is absolutely fantastic in the film by the way). He also cares about the world. Unions. Communism. Organizing the collegiate sphere. This is a man who cares deeply about the welfare of the world itself. But then one day someone splits an atom. Enter the possibility of a bomb. And more importantly, the possibility of Hitler having one. And it all goes from there, almost like a heist film, cresting to the ultimate detonation. The thing is that it’s the moment that splits our own proverbial nucleus, too. And it shows how it all falls apart so so quickly the moment it’s achieved. Because the scariest part is not the test itself, but that immediate morning after when the military is taking the bombs and getting ready to just use them immediately. No demonstration. No scare tactics. Just two bombs. Two cities. Two acts of terror on civilians and whose motives are so convoluted and so unnecessary as to feel more a deep act of perceived vengeance. It’s the ultimate sunk cost fallacy. And it is simply done the second they exist. The atom has been split. And there will be no caution here. With that, Oppenheimer senses that things have gone from “is it possible?” and racing against an enemy who already surrendered - to the immediate terror of the scale at which this horror will all be used. What was once so clear in “have to beat Germany” came undone the instant it all was compromised.

All the while, the “fusion” plot-line has been steadily building in reverse. I already talked about the masterstroke with Downey’s heel turn, all building to the notion that Strauss is largely the architect of Oppenheimer’s grand tarnishing. But it speaks to the darker heart of what is at play here. Scientists think they are inventing tools that will be grappled with in good conscience. But when you invent the plane you invent the plane crash. Only he built something far worse. He built the bomb meant to terrify a world into surrender. But they will use it because it is there. And they will build bigger ones. And if you do anything but tow the party line. If you speak out about accords and peace agreements, then you will be tarred and feathered. When he says “I have become death, destroyer of worlds.” The point is that the people of this world are the ones we have to reckon with. Which brings us to the last 45 minutes.

Because the finale becomes a grand series of conversation finishers. All the scenes we saw before were but a series of set-ups, and now they become a series of conclusions to each and every little bit of information and character relationship we’ve seen. The puzzle wasn't about some singular key detail that changes it all. The fusion is the story of every relationship, every person, every moment and whether or not they will stick up for each other or harm the other in the end. As a piece of storytelling, the reason it all feels so riveting is you don’t realize you’ve been playing the game of “line em up, knock down” the whole time. And it was all cresting to that heart-breaking, ever-going revelation about the dual nature of humanity…

4. SEX AND MEGA-DEATH

Look, Nolan’s sex scenes in this film are kind of funny.

I don’t really mean that in a critical way. It’s just there was some ballyhooed attention paid to the fact he was going in a much more sexual direction with this film than normal and I think that provoked valid curiosity! (I mean, there’s a reason there’s an ongoing joke online that Christopher Nolan is a virgin despite being married and having a whole series of tall adult sons). The result is kind of hilarious to me only because there’s a very, very specific stiltedness and directness to them. The fact that “I have been become death, destroyer of worlds” as first invoked as Oppy impressing Pugh with a sanskrit translation as they’re boinking is, well, it’s just kind of funny. Because it’s being played SO serious with this grand thematic intent (but that doesn’t mean I’m also not taking it seriously either).The other telling sexual moment is when Oppy’s being grilled by the examiners and she’s literally being seen at the table with him, his wife staring over the shoulder. The point being it is both a personal act, and an act of shame in this case, being laid bare. Which is perhaps part of the reason why Nolan may not have been all that comfortable with it in the past, nor here. But it still is serving a great thematic import because the whole film is trying to make a very specific parallel about sex and death.

Because the term “sex and death” is one that gets at the most essential heart of the biological world. I mean, there is literally a book called Sex and Death: An Introduction to Philosophy of Biology and the sales pitch states: “Is the history of life a series of accidents or a drama scripted by selfish genes? Is there an “essential” human nature, determined at birth or in a distant evolutionary past? What should we conserve—species, ecosystems, or something else?”

These essential questions drive the ending of Oppenheimer, too. It is constantly looking at systems, motives, politics, relationships and asking: what do we contribute to the acts of life and death? To wit, there are many who don’t want to bring children into a world as cruel as this one. Especially one filled with so many various parents going through motions or worse. To which I will point out that it is NOT an accident that this film covers Oppenheimer and his wife literally abandoning their kids for stretches, nor ever really seeming to consider them. They wail over their own selfishness. And the one who looked after their child is even harshly punished for his grievous sin of communist association (and Oppy accidently giving the game away). Oppenheimer is constantly wrestling with the fact he’s given so little to life. But instead, given so much to death. Even with Pugh’s character herself. And now he’s staring at the constant targets of cities and H bombs that will be used for mega cities. As a human being, he can’t absorb the scale of that which he has created (Laura Hudson’s article on hyper-objects covers this so beautifully). How do we reconcile something so big and incalculable? How do you reckon when you are the man…

Who gave the world the power to destroy itself?

In the end, for everything the film touches (and it touches on a lot), it is just the story of a man. A man who had seemingly confused reasons for what he was doing, and became an even more deeply confused man in the aftermath. The film even has a pivotal point where he’s directly asked “What do you actually believe?” And he’s paralyzed with an answer. It’s not that Oppy is inherently evasive. There are many times he shows interest in the capable morality of man. It’s just the one thing he knew in absolute certainty (that Hitler could have this) is undone fairly quickly - and comes to the realization of how much other leaders are much the same. And by time it was too late, the chain of motions was already in effect. The chain reaction of an atom, split. And it’s not a treatise on whether Oppenheimer was a bad or good man, for pete’s sake.

It’s just saying the man is America itself.

And he, like us, is left with a haunted realization.

5. THE LONG TIMELINE

What’s so shaking about the ending of Oppenheimer is that simple realization.

The chain reaction has already started. It’s not that the bomb didn’t “work” as he intended. It scared most people right down to their bones. The problem is that it scares certain men so much - the kind of men completely incapable of reckoning with their fear and weakness - that they’ll use all the same in an effort to “control” that very fear. It’s a runaway train. And it exists now just the same, if not even more so. It is the myth that nuclear disarmament “worked” because it’s all just sitting there, more than ever before, and the forgetting of that duty makes it all the worse. Because all it takes is one petty person. No, Nolan isn’t going to give you the montage of modern politics or pictures of tweets from North Korea and Trump. That’s not his style. It’s just coming at it from the center of Oppenheimer’s story of grand intent versus culpability. And there’s a reason the film finally comes back to his thrice referenced meeting with Einstein. One which clearly points out that what was perhaps Einstein’s greatest asset to the world was his humanity. Namely leaving Germany in 1933. And most of all, all the things he never worked on because of it. But Oppenheimer did. And all he is left with is the haunted legacy. The end point of the chain reaction started long ago, the point of fusion: a simple image of a world lit by fire.

Because we often forget lessons and forget them instantly. The moment they had what they wanted from Oppy, it was out of his hands. The “man who built the bomb” was left with the shells of legacy. “The consequences of his invention,” as Einstein puts it. And he tells him that everyone will line up and make peace, but to really make peace with themselves. It’s just like America still thinking we did this to “win a war,” when that’s anything but true. And all leads back to the greatest cruelty of time of all: on a long enough timeline, it will happen again. The final act of fusion is always just around the corner… Lest we ever forget, the most important thing…

It already did.

Twice.

<3HULK