My perspective on Christopher Nolan has changed drastically in the past few years. Once upon a time, Nolan was a struggling literature student in England, writing and directing narrative puzzles such as The Following and Memento. In retrospect, these films functioned less like dramatic stories and more like literary and visual jigsaws to be examined, constructed, and deconstructed. But they were novel attempts at storytelling; and they simply begged to be dissected over and over again.
Then Nolan ventured into what I argue was his most interesting and courageous phase -- the noir thriller Insomnia, the brooding franchise reboot Batman Begins, the stylish period drama The Prestige, and the creative and financial juggernaut The Dark Knight. Each of these films was crafted with unflinching attention, imbued with a level of devotion that enriched each movie with a unique texture, a narrative purpose that flexed Nolan’s various storytelling muscles.
Then seemingly, Nolan began giving in to the Texan mindset of bigger is better. Inception stumbled and bwaaaamed its way through a semi-functional story. The Dark Knight Rises indulged in widespread chaos over narrative functionality. And now Interstellar arrives as Nolan’s magnum opus space epic. Except it’s only occasionally functional, wildly uneven at others, and unnecessarily self-indulgent throughout.
In the future, Earth has grown inhospitable. Desperate to save humanity, a team of astronauts, led by salt-of-the-earth Cooper, must travel into a distant wormhole and find a habitable planet to ensure humanity’s future. In order to do so, Cooper abandons his daughter, Murphy, and proceeds to spend countless years attempting to reconcile their relationship.
Someone should tell Nolan there is such a thing as too big. For numerous sequences in the movie, I gazed upon hypnotic images of outer space, of stars twinkling in the distance only to feel a tinge of emptiness, as if asking “What’s the point of all this?” Interstellar veers light-years away from Earth with nary a finger raised or breath exhaled. It all seems so effortless. It all seems so nonchalant. Repeatedly, I was reminded of last year’s Gravity, a movie that by most measures, is actually quite small in scope. It focused on one single character, bouncing around a couple locations in order to survive. And yet, I remember sequences in which I wanted to yell in horror as much as smile in delight. It was primal, urgent, and unflinchingly human -- none of which describes Interstellar.
Nolan, the writer, seems to be slumping in his post-Batman days. Interstellar argues that love will conquer all. Repeatedly, love is described as “observable”; it “means something more”; and it “transcends dimensions of time and space.” It’s an absurdly hokey sentiment, one that just doesn't mesh with a technical wizard like Nolan. And there is good reason for this -- love, as a vaguely defined notion of humankind, requires a deft touch. But Nolan constantly hammers home the difficult choices we must all make for our children, for family, for humankind. People’s faces distort in anguish as they argue the merits of emotion vs. science. In case there was any doubt in the importance of the subject matter here, characters repeat (by my count, at least four times) the Dylan Thomas poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” a piece of writing that applies more towards the unavoidable death of one individual and not so much towards the death of the entire human race. It’s unnecessary and awkward, tonally obtuse and narratively clumsy, like trying to craft an opera with a synthesizer on repeat.
Perhaps the criticism I’ve most commonly heard levied against Nolan is that he is a technician first and a storyteller second. This distinction, in my opinion, has grown more noticeable in the last few years. On his way to becoming a Protean director with unfettered power in Hollywood, Nolan has repeatedly relied on old storytelling gimmicks that elicit more ambiguous questions than emotions. Let’s just say, a film shouldn’t require infographics to tell its story. In many respects, Interstellar echos the same narrative structure as Inception -- both films feature a single father's quest to return to his children; both revolve around a vaguely defined problem (dying planet vs. subconscious thievery); both dive through various layers of visual textures and metaphorical obstacles (distant planets vs. dream states); and both films’ overlong narrative shenanigans build to a singular moment between a parent’s regret and a child’s future (Murphy’s goodbye vs. Robert Fischer’s pinwheel).
Interstellar neither amazes nor fascinates in anything beyond its visual scope. Narratively, it is overly complicated and clumsy, feeling both underwritten and overanalyzed. There is simply no sense of wonder, no euphoric release of fun. It simply unfolds. And worst of all, it only reaffirms Nolan’s penchant for visually evocative but dramatically stale storytelling. It seems that Nolan, unlike his astronaut heroes in Interstellar, doesn’t actually care to venture into the unknown.
Then Nolan ventured into what I argue was his most interesting and courageous phase -- the noir thriller Insomnia, the brooding franchise reboot Batman Begins, the stylish period drama The Prestige, and the creative and financial juggernaut The Dark Knight. Each of these films was crafted with unflinching attention, imbued with a level of devotion that enriched each movie with a unique texture, a narrative purpose that flexed Nolan’s various storytelling muscles.
Then seemingly, Nolan began giving in to the Texan mindset of bigger is better. Inception stumbled and bwaaaamed its way through a semi-functional story. The Dark Knight Rises indulged in widespread chaos over narrative functionality. And now Interstellar arrives as Nolan’s magnum opus space epic. Except it’s only occasionally functional, wildly uneven at others, and unnecessarily self-indulgent throughout.
In the future, Earth has grown inhospitable. Desperate to save humanity, a team of astronauts, led by salt-of-the-earth Cooper, must travel into a distant wormhole and find a habitable planet to ensure humanity’s future. In order to do so, Cooper abandons his daughter, Murphy, and proceeds to spend countless years attempting to reconcile their relationship.
Someone should tell Nolan there is such a thing as too big. For numerous sequences in the movie, I gazed upon hypnotic images of outer space, of stars twinkling in the distance only to feel a tinge of emptiness, as if asking “What’s the point of all this?” Interstellar veers light-years away from Earth with nary a finger raised or breath exhaled. It all seems so effortless. It all seems so nonchalant. Repeatedly, I was reminded of last year’s Gravity, a movie that by most measures, is actually quite small in scope. It focused on one single character, bouncing around a couple locations in order to survive. And yet, I remember sequences in which I wanted to yell in horror as much as smile in delight. It was primal, urgent, and unflinchingly human -- none of which describes Interstellar.
Nolan, the writer, seems to be slumping in his post-Batman days. Interstellar argues that love will conquer all. Repeatedly, love is described as “observable”; it “means something more”; and it “transcends dimensions of time and space.” It’s an absurdly hokey sentiment, one that just doesn't mesh with a technical wizard like Nolan. And there is good reason for this -- love, as a vaguely defined notion of humankind, requires a deft touch. But Nolan constantly hammers home the difficult choices we must all make for our children, for family, for humankind. People’s faces distort in anguish as they argue the merits of emotion vs. science. In case there was any doubt in the importance of the subject matter here, characters repeat (by my count, at least four times) the Dylan Thomas poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” a piece of writing that applies more towards the unavoidable death of one individual and not so much towards the death of the entire human race. It’s unnecessary and awkward, tonally obtuse and narratively clumsy, like trying to craft an opera with a synthesizer on repeat.
Perhaps the criticism I’ve most commonly heard levied against Nolan is that he is a technician first and a storyteller second. This distinction, in my opinion, has grown more noticeable in the last few years. On his way to becoming a Protean director with unfettered power in Hollywood, Nolan has repeatedly relied on old storytelling gimmicks that elicit more ambiguous questions than emotions. Let’s just say, a film shouldn’t require infographics to tell its story. In many respects, Interstellar echos the same narrative structure as Inception -- both films feature a single father's quest to return to his children; both revolve around a vaguely defined problem (dying planet vs. subconscious thievery); both dive through various layers of visual textures and metaphorical obstacles (distant planets vs. dream states); and both films’ overlong narrative shenanigans build to a singular moment between a parent’s regret and a child’s future (Murphy’s goodbye vs. Robert Fischer’s pinwheel).
Interstellar neither amazes nor fascinates in anything beyond its visual scope. Narratively, it is overly complicated and clumsy, feeling both underwritten and overanalyzed. There is simply no sense of wonder, no euphoric release of fun. It simply unfolds. And worst of all, it only reaffirms Nolan’s penchant for visually evocative but dramatically stale storytelling. It seems that Nolan, unlike his astronaut heroes in Interstellar, doesn’t actually care to venture into the unknown.
