Memoria · essays & theory

A reading · through the lens of theory

A car alarm goes off on a street in Bogotá at night. Then a second one, further down the block. Then a third. The camera doesn't move and the shot doesn't cut. Everything that is happening is happening in the air, and the picture just stands there like a witness who has been asked not to interfere. Keep that shot. Memoria is built out of it: the image supplies a steady, unemphatic container, and sound supplies the drama.

The film's first event is a sound with no picture attached. Jessica Holland, a Scottish orchid grower living in Medellín, wakes before dawn to a low concussive bang that nobody else hears. She spends the movie trying to describe it. A ball of concrete, she says, dropped into a metal well surrounded by seawater. The bang comes back at unpredictable intervals, in a restaurant, on a street, and every time the image is caught flat-footed, unable to account for it. You flinch when she flinches.

Gilles Deleuze, writing about cinema in the 1980s, had two terms for whatever lies past the edge of a frame. Most off-screen space is relative: the room next door, the person about to walk in, a space you could reach by panning. Films use it constantly and it costs them nothing, because what's out there could always be shown. Then there is the absolute out-of-field, something present to the film that cannot be located anywhere in its space at all. Not hidden. Unplaceable. Apichatpong Weerasethakul builds two hours on a single instance of it, and that's why the movie can't be solved. Jessica's bang was never a clue being withheld. Film sound theory calls this an acousmatic sound: present, with its cause structurally absent. The detective armature Apichatpong borrows, an inexplicable event and an investigator and a series of expert consultations, exists to be declined one expert at a time.

Deleuze's great division runs between films where a character perceives a situation and acts to change it, and films where that circuit snaps and the character can only watch. He called the watchers voyants, seers, and their images opsigns and sonsigns: pure optical and sound situations, where nothing can be done and so time itself comes forward. He named the pair but wrote almost entirely about the eye. Apichatpong's specific invention is to hand the time-image to the ear. Tilda Swinton plays Jessica almost wholly out of listening, angularity dialed to nearly zero, her defining gesture a small startle and a head turned toward something off-frame. The doctor offers pathology and refuses her a sedative. The engineer offers acoustics. The archaeologist offers deep time. None of it discharges into action. What changes over the film isn't her situation but her function: she stops seeking a cure and becomes a receiver.

The studio scene is where this turns miraculous. Jessica coaches a young sound engineer through revision after revision of her bang, rounder, more earthy, until the file on his timeline matches the sound in her head. We hear both. We cannot tell which is which. Deleuze's most demanding concept is the crystal-image, a point where an actual thing and its virtual double, the present and its memory, become impossible to separate; he found it in mirrors and glass, in Welles and Ophüls. Apichatpong builds one out of a waveform. And the reflexivity goes all the way down, because the sound the character fabricates on screen is the sound the film's own team had to fabricate in post.

None of this arrived from nowhere. Duras's India Song had already built a sound track as a fully post-synced autonomous body, voices permanently severed from any visible source; Memoria narrows that acousmatic principle to one percussive event and lets it detonate through a whole film. Antonioni's Red Desert handed the score's job to processed industrial noise so that environmental sound became the rendering of a woman's sensory illness, which is precisely the equation here. The studio sequences lift the apparatus of The Conversation wholesale, a man re-auditioning a fragment through successive filters, except that Murch's revisions eventually invert the meaning and Apichatpong's never resolve anything. The frontal grammar comes from Jeanne Dielman: tripod-locked framing at doorways, no reframing, no cutting in, which is why Swinton's face becomes an event when it finally fills the screen. The Passenger supplied both the drift away from the protagonist so the decisive event reaches us only as sound, and the foreigner dissolving into a landscape whose history is not hers. Even the name is a debt. Jessica Holland is the sleepwalking wife of Tourneur's I Walked with a Zombie, whose cane-field walk stages threat as off-screen sound the film never grants an image. Apichatpong keeps the template and flips its politics. The landscape's knowledge here isn't menacing. It's just larger than she is.

Then the film leaves the city. Lee Chatametikool sustains shots long past the end of their dramatic business, what Deleuze called dead time, stretches where nothing advances and the everyday is simply held. In a river valley an old man, also called Hernán, says he remembers everything that has ever happened to him and has never left. He lies down beside the stream and goes completely inert while Jessica watches. It reads as death, then as sleep, then as transmission, and the film declines to adjudicate. That's a cinema of the body: no acting, just a posture held long enough to carry duration by itself.

What Hernán has is what Deleuze called sheets of past. Not a flashback, which is a dated slice of some former present, but the past as a whole layered territory you move around inside. He doesn't remember in scenes. He is a stratum. The film sets others beside him: a six-thousand-year-old skull with a hole drilled in it, read in the lab as storage for a belief about spirits; bones exhumed from a tunnel bored through the Andes; a final audio field of storm, machinery and distant violence delivered straight into Jessica. Deleuze's name for this is the stratigraphic image, the earth as archive, ground holding a past no document holds. The context is not decorative. This was shot in a Colombia conducting literal exhumations after the 2016 peace accord, where bones turned up by infrastructure work are never only archaeological. History here isn't narrated. It's overheard.

The last movement earns its rupture. A craft rises from the hillside, with no emphasis and no reaction shot, in the same flat register as a passing truck, and it lands because nothing before it has been digitally enhanced. Critics split immediately: genuine science fiction, dream, joke, figure for cinema itself. The film supplies no way to settle it. Deleuze would call that an encounter with the unthought, an image that blocks thought rather than feeding it, where the undecidability is the content rather than a coyness about it.

For most of film history the image carries the evidence and sound carries the mood. Memoria moves the evidence into the sound track and leaves the image as a witness that cannot corroborate. Causality goes with it: a character can simply stop existing between sequences, as the young Hernán does when Jessica returns to the studio and is told nobody by that name works there. NEON's release made the same argument by other means, touring the film one theater at a time with no home format on the grounds that it collapses outside a calibrated room. Reasonable people called that curation and reasonable people called it a stunt, and the fight itself became a fixed reference point in every subsequent argument about theatrical exclusivity. The longer canonical verdict is genuinely too young to call. Something smaller is already true: after this film, an unexplained sound off-screen stops feeling like a promise the picture intends to keep.

So don't go in waiting for the cause. Notice instead when you flinch, and whether the person next to you flinched at the same instant. The film's own question is better than the one it pretends to ask: what kind of receiver do you have to become before a place will tell you anything?