Rear Window & Memento

One of the most obvious differences between novels and short stories is length; this certainly true in page number, but most novels contain more content as well. During class discussion, we noted that novels are adapted into film much more frequently than short stories, possibly because novels give the filmmakers and screenwriters much more to go off of when putting together their movies. There is generally more plot, more backstory, and better developed characters. This is what readers love about novels, and it is what they are expecting to see when they watch the film. Yet certain filmmakers have found that short stories allow for much, much more creative freedom on the filmmaker’s part, without risking too much backlash from audiences (who most likely were unaware of the source text’s existence).

Two great examples of this are Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window (1954) and Christopher Nolan’s Memento (2000). Both are puzzle-picture, mystery-thrillers with dubious points-of-view, and both clearly bear the indelible stamp of their auteur-minded creators. In its first shot alone, that slow pan around the courtyard, Rear Window is technically and logistically impressive even by today’s standards, and Memento is a brilliant showcase for Nolan’s gift of meticulously plotted storytelling. And interestingly enough, both are based on short stories—albeit very loosely.

Though the films were made almost 50 years apart, their method of adaptation is quite similar. Each borrows the concept of their source (a house-bound man spying on his neighbors, a man with short-term memory loss trying to track down his wife’s killer) and expands upon it, taking the concept in directions entirely absent from the source text.

Therein lies the brilliance of adapting a short story. The directions taken by our auteurs seem like natural expansions to the concept, rather than imposed contrivances. For example, Hitchcock adds an ethical dimension to the story, questioning whether it is morally right to look inside the window of an oblivious homeowner, to spy on people without their knowledge. In the short story, the narrator brushes the issue aside, to be forgotten in the wake of the immediate plot. It makes little difference in the short story, because it has an entirely different focus. A film, however, needs to beef up its storytelling with such thought-provoking ideas to keep the audience engaged. They serve to make the story relatable, too; the film’s eerie social commentary (“We’ve become a nation of peeping Toms”) has become even more relevant with time. (What would Hitchcock’s film look like today, given our culture’s consumption by social media?) The film finds so much more to say about the paradoxical disconnection we have with people we “follow” so closely than the short story ever did.

"You don't know the meaning of the word neighbor..."

Memento follows much the same pattern, though perhaps shares even less with its source than Rear Window does. They share the concept of the 10 minute man, his driving obsession, and the distinctly segmented nature of the narrative. And really, that is about it. Whereas the Jonathan Nolan’s story is intriguing, ultimately the reader can glean little from it in terms of actual story or plot. In this regard, it effectively communicates the lost, disjointed, “something’s missing” feeling that the protagonist lives with daily. When adapting it to the screen, Christopher and Jonathan kept and expanded that theme into the much broader: “What is truth? How do I know what is true or real?” The open-ended nature of the question is another trait that is uniquely Christopher Nolan, yet its organic and seamless application made me wonder why I never picked up on it in the story. Since everyone has been deceived, misguided, lost or confused more than one in their life, the audience can relate to it as well. We feel for Leonard. We relate to his search for truth and his desire for justice. I found this not be the case in the short story; there was sympathy for his plight, but there just is not enough provided about the character for us to root for him, to care whether he succeeds or not. The nonlinear nature of the film helps too; it forces us to become more involved, more invested, than the short story does. While the film and the story both arrive at the chilling notion that he will not remember when he has completed his mission, the realization is especially horrifying in the film because of the added plot and the added time we have had to grow close to the character. If we relate to him—and his mission reflects our search for truth—then what does his blatant self-deception at the end of film say about us? Do we lie to ourselves to be happy? It is perhaps less social commentary than a rumination on human nature, but it hits close to home in way that the detached, limited viewpoint of the story is not able to.

"Do I lie to myself to be happy?...I have to believe that my actions still have meaning, even if I can't remember them."

Let it never be said that the film is never as good as the book—I would argue that these two films are even better than their source texts. The directors dug deeper, finding more insights and significance to the concepts than was mentioned in the stories. Fidelity was not their primary concern; rather, “How can I make a film worth making?” They deserve credit for seeing the untapped potential in these concepts and inspiring us to look for new, imaginative ways of thinking about the stories we read.