This year has been a very good one for the kind of films I'm naturally drawn to, films without much flash or special effects but with real, authentic stories about this flawed human experiment we're all trying to survive. Among my favorites in 2023 was Nicole Holofcener's You Hurt My Feelings about the little insults and lies we tell even those we love most; Showing Up, Kelly Reichardt's all-too-relatable take on suffering for our art, even if it's suffering we've made up in our own heads; and of course, the incredibly powerful All of Us Strangers, Andrew Haigh's meditation on loss, grief and finding our way through it all. Add to that list of accomplishments Michael Franco's Memory, about a man and woman facing their own midlife crises whose worlds intersect in ways neither could expect.
Starring Jessica Chastain as Sylvia and Peter Sarsgaard as Saul, Memory introduces us to its characters slowly. The former is a single mother to Anna (Brooke Timber), a teen who does her best to understand that the structure and rules Sylvia implements in their lives is for their own good. Sylvia always wants to know her daughter's whereabouts; there's an extra security system on their New York City apartment. A social worker for adults with developmental delays, Sylvia is a gentle person, but it's obvious she has her guard up. She reluctantly agrees to go to a high school reunion with her more outgoing (and socially adept) sister, Olivia (the great Merritt Wever), where she sits quietly at a table while Olivia catches up with former classmates.
Saul is also at the reunion, looking a bit checked out and lost by his surroundings. He silently follows Sylvia home after the event, inexplicably sleeping in the rain outside her building overnight, where she finds him when she leaves for work the next morning. Thus begins an odd and multi-layered connection between Sylvia and Saul, one that will stir up unresolved trauma in both of them and send ripples through their immediate families as well. After this morning encounter, Sylvia finds herself more and more involved in Saul's life, as his primary caretakers, his brother, Isaac (Josh Charles) and teenage niece, Sara (Elsie Fisher), ask her to come care for him in-home, full time. After much consideration, Sylvia agrees. If the first half of Memory is a mystery that slowly reveals past experiences and connections, the second half becomes a journey through discovery as Sylvia and Saul, who suffers from early-onset dementia, allow each other to be entirely, vulnerably themselves.
Franco crafts a multi-generational world here, as we learn that Sylvia and Olivia are also each navigating their relationship with their emotionally distant mother, and soon Anna is drawn into the dynamic as she attempts to forge her own relationship with the grandmother she hardly knows. It all serves to build a deeply relatable narrative as Sylvia attempts to keep several emotional, personal and professional plates spinning at once, something anyone "doing the work" today can empathize with. Chastain's performance is reserved when appropriate (Sylvia has learned to keep what she's going through internally close to the vest) but heartbreakingly vulnerable more often than not, especially as Saul's sensitivity and presence begin to break down her defenses.
Sarsgaard approaches Saul, a man out of control of so much in his own life, even his own mind, with a tenderness he so capably often brings to the screen. A relatively young man to be confronted with this type of neurological issue, he navigates his frustrations and confusion with a surprising (and commendable) amount of patience most of the time. The chemistry between these two broken souls, however fragile and uncertain they may think it is, is nevertheless real and obvious to those of us watching.
Memory, like so many of its ilk, does well what I believe film does best, putting its audience in the lived experience of those involved. With exceptional performances from Chastain and Sarsgaard at its center, Franco's relationship drama elicits empathy and recognition, a reminder that even as imperfect as we may be (or will become), we are worthy of love and connection wherever it is offered.
Memory is now in theaters.
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