Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s Memoria is an absolutely masterful and stunning work of cinema – and surprisingly it’s the most accessible of Weerasethakul’s films (though it certainly isn’t the easiest to see). This is a film that begs multiple viewings in order to keep exploring its many layers and subtleties, the mysteries and enchantments, the elegance of the craft on display.
Like so much of Weerasethakul’s filmography, this is deeply rooted in Buddhist thought and philosophy, in the notion of the connectedness of all things. It’s a film about what draws us toward empathy, as well as the toll interconnection and empathy takes – the personal cost and the deep pain it can cause. Whether it’s Karen’s early conversation about the dog she tries and fails to care for, or old Hernán’s assertion that every experience he has causes him pain, all of the characters in Memoria go about attempting to alleviate or understand the suffering of others – and at times suffering themselves. The film folds back on itself to explore the very nature of cinema as an art form that can generate empathy and connectedness. “Why are you crying?” One character asks another. “These memories aren’t your own.” Isn’t that what cinema does – evoke an emotional response within us by presenting us with the memories of others? Weerasethakul uses the very real condition of exploding head syndrome and pushes the cinematic depiction toward the surreal – asking his protagonist, Jessica, and his audience to listen, truly listen to the world and the people around us.
The sound design is rich and immersive – sound has a tactical, almost physical presence throughout the film, even causing car alarms to go off in the middle of the night. It fills the contours of the city’s architecture and makes its mark on the countryside so that the rocks and rivers and trees can become vessels for memory and story – sound as an instrument for connection and empathy. And because Weerasethakul holds his gorgeously composed frames for such a long duration, we’re allowed to not only soak in the rich visual details within the frame, but the dense sonic textures as well. Sound becomes an awakening, an invitation into deeper empathy and connection, a call to join with the film’s characters in listening to and remembering the stories of others.
Like all of Weerasethakul’s films, there’s more to uncover, more to explore, more to tease out upon further thought and reflection – the fluidity of identity, the excavation of the dead, the way characters appear and vanish, and of course, more about the way the land remembers the past in ways that we humans never will. But what I’m left with after this first viewing, is the urge to listen.
I do feel the need to address the film’s US release strategy – I wish I didn’t need to, as the film is gorgeous and should have stood apart from any conversation about how it was being released and marketed. However, the film is being made inaccessible in the US to anyone with a disability that prevents them from attending theaters and those of us with medical conditions that put us at higher risk for COVID.
I suffered a leg injury at the end of 2020 and was misdiagnosed and mistreated for three months, putting my life and danger and eventually causing my lungs to be compromised to the point that I still have to remain in isolation, even though I’m vaccinated and boosted. So the only way I was able to see this film was through a press screener because of my podcast work. Very few people in my situation will have that privilege.
The film is gorgeous, but any comparisons to installation screenings or site-specific work is spurious. This is a work of narrative cinema that can just as easily be appreciated at home as in the cinema. The experience may be different, but it isn’t so different that it requires the film to only live in theaters, forever preventing accessibility for those who may never be able to be present in physical spaces.
