O P P E N H E I M E R

(Contains Spoilers)

J. Y. Gao

AS THE HOLTERMANN COLUMNS COMES TO THE END OF ITS ERA, it is fitting that I finish how I started: with an article that seems a mere film review but is, in fact, a not-so-subtle attempt to push an appreciation of art and it’s fundamental and eternal qualities. One might say it was the work of God that coincided the last publication of the Holtermann Columns with the opening of director Nolan’s most anticipated blockbuster, Oppenheimer; yet, taking into account the number of Nolan references in the publication in the past year, it becomes the most fitting of endings.

A first-person recount of one J. R. Oppenheimer’s (Cillian Murphy) burdened life as the father of the atom bomb is what drives the majority of the ambitious three hour run time. The other 15-20% of the film (in black and white) features the timeline of L. L. Strauss (Robert Downey Jr), that explores the ramifications of his decisions. 

From the get-go, with three inter-cutting timelines, the concept of linear storytelling is thrown out the window, but nothing less is expected from Nolan. As he continues to slice and dice the very concept of time as if it were a physical object malleable to his will, the narratives remain distinct, and the plot seems to rise and fall in tension smoothly. 

Nolan’s ability to manipulate time and story whilst ensuring a consistent and cohesive plot is nothing but a sign of the film medium’s immense power. Unlike a book, where a similar cutting between narratives can occur, the film medium lacks the inter-chapter mental reset – a momentary re-orientation of the topography of the narrative in preparation for the next section. Film’s movement between the timelines is instantaneous, yet because of its complete retainment of visual and auditory attention – the mind is almost forced into the next timeline. 

The result is an utter immersion into the four dimensional world of non-linear storytelling without a hint of disorientation.

Nolan’s superpowers don’t stop there. Perhaps one of the most underappreciated aspects of Nolan’s filmography is his love for realism. Anyone with a slight interest in film knows of his aversion to visual effects, yet few are aware of the implications of such a reputation. With the expectation of realism in mind, and having recognised the historical aspect of the film’s title, Oppenheimer’s audience would not have entered the cinema prepared for the non-realistic and abstract intrusions of Oppenheimer’s psychological moments. 

By creating a reputation for realism, Nolan elevates any inclusion of non-realism in his films to a highly visceral level. Almost immediately after the film begins, the film flashes through a montage of abstract images and noises all evoking a sense of doom. 

Later in the film, some of the abstract line filaments in this abstract montage break into the real world, reflecting the overwhelming violence of Oppenheimer’s psychological torments. A scene that epitomises this blending between the real and the abstract comes after the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings, when the triumphant cheers of Oppenheimer’s audience blend seamlessly with the screams of children, the foot stomps with the thunderous roar of nuclear explosion, the smiling faces with overexposed, contorted expressions of pain. 

This successful combination of realism and abstraction is a noticeable trend in current aesthetic styles (see Spider-man: Across the Spider-Verse), a step in heightening the emotional experience of cinema-goers.

Nolan’s degree in English Literature at UCL (not filmmaking) becomes an obvious influence in his work when one takes a slightly closer look. One of his most profusely used techniques is the encapsulating of an entire film’s narrative into a single metaphor. For The Prestige, it was the third act of a magic show – the prestige; for Interstellar, it was the ‘rage at the dying of the light’ in relation to love; for Inception, it was the spinning top; for the Batman series, it was fear, then chaos; for Memento, it was the polaroids. These metaphors become the reason for which the film is made and lie at the centre of each film’s message. 

For Oppenheimer, it was Prometheus. A Greek God (Titan), Prometheus is known to have given humanity fire, an act for which he was chained in hell and tortured for eternity. You may know him as the fallen angel in Paradise Lost and is eerily similar to the Bible’s serpent. In essence, the Prometheus myth, like the serpent of the bible, marked the moment humanity gained the power and knowledge to destroy themselves. 

It is with this dramatic (yet fitting) metaphor that Nolan approaches the Oppenheimer story. By framing Oppenheimer as the “American Prometheus”, Nolan legitimises his story in an irrefutable fashion. 

In a moment of dark comedy, when Oppenheimer reveals to General Groves (Matt Damon) that he and Einstein both realised the small chance that the bomb might ignite the Earth’s atmosphere, we the audience suddenly feel the weight of their task and the gravity of this story. 

From the perspective of this film, Oppenheimer is indeed the most important man who ever lived – he gave humanity the power to destroy itself. 

Herein lies the necessity of filmmaking: it brings to the forefront of cultural discussion the stories that are most fundamental to human existence, and Oppenheimer’s Promethean gift to the world that would forever change the course of history is, undoubtedly, such a story.

In light of Nolan’s masterpiece and the grim reminder of our fragility, we may have the tendency to question the innate morality of humanity. But if there is anything film and art has shown most clearly, it would be the unending tenacity of our resilience, and the colossal power of our will.

“I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

–– J. R. Oppenheimer