Searching for Forgiveness in Joe Wright's Atonement

Well made literary films are rare, if not impossible to come by. Sure there are a multitude of films that are based on novels, but these do not necessarily do much more than tell a story in a filmic way. True literary films harness the subtlety of the written word to create a strange hybrid - one that draws us into the process of storytelling and creation in an way that makes it seem as if these processes were never enacted in the first place, while always keeping us aware that this is 'story.' It invites the viewer into the work to be apart of the creation, as if they were intended to be a part of the story itself. No small feat.

Many films manage to pull this off to some degree. The Hours is a somewhat recent example, as well as Spike Jonze's Adaptation, where Charlie Kaufmann makes the entangled 'written word to film' process the crux of the film itself. Another entry into the literary foray is Joe Wright's Atonement.

While the literary aspects of Atonement are more obvious, the subtlety of storytelling is at the center of this film. We are thoroughly reminded that what we are seeing is simply a story unfolding, being written out, rethought, and revised as we watch and as we are also involved in the process of its creation. The clacking sound of the typewriter is ubiquitous throughout the film, blending effortlessly into the soundtrack, becoming the beat and rhythm that carries us along from one chapter to the next.

There is also a constant attention to words - their power to transfix and to change outcomes - as well as to describe events for which words offer so little. This does nothing but to elaborate further the absurd sense of being human, and how easily life can hinge upon something as simple as a single word or phrase.

Atonement centers around young Briony Tallis (Saoirse Ronan), a burgeoning writer who has a childhood crush on a young servant, Robbie (James McAvoy,) who is close to the family. When Briony finds out her sister Cecilia (Keira Knightly) and Robbie have become 'involved' she accuses Robbie of a horrendous crime that fractures the family and makes Robbie and Cecilia's relationship impossible. It is a highly romantic story in a transcendent and deeply human way, which is not out of league with other philosophical romantic films.

The power of Atonement, though, is not necessarily within the lover's story so much as within the character of Briony as the storyteller, who, near the end of the film, revels to us the true paradox of the intertwined stories.

Typically the multitude of films that are churned out by the industry either end happily or tragically, the former being the norm. Many films are simply a blend of the two together. What Atonement is doing within its ending is presenting the viewer with a dilemma: what if neither the happy ending, nor the tragic ending were favorable? What if the idea of 'fiction' or 'storytelling' offered no relief to the human condition, neither helping us to deal with the absurdity of life within happy illusions, nor to offer a sense of catharsis in the tragic? What Atonement seems to be getting at is that illusions either way, or the fictionalizing of life, can create wonderful and elaborate worlds to lose ourselves in, but that in the end they cannot replace reality, nor can they magically repair wounds or elevate us to bravery or forgiveness.

Briony says she needed to strip away everything and to simply tell the truth, but in this truth is the realization that even this act, as noble as it is may be, might change nothing after the fact. This is in sharp contrast to the single and most honest letter that Robbie mistakenly gives to Cecilia: “In my dreams I kiss your cunt, your sweet wet cunt." Behind all of the untruths and fantasies whirled about in the story itself, one moment of truth escapes, which brings the lovers together. This one act of Robbie presenting his true self allows him a freedom that is unknown to all else, especially the storyteller who's one lie all too quickly snuffs that flame.

Briony's wish to finish her book with a happy ending does nothing to absolve her of the guilt she carries, which is why she offers what really had happened:

"My sister and Robbie were never able to have the time together they both so longed for... and deserved. Which ever since I've always felt I prevented. But what sense of hope or satisfaction could a reader derive from an ending like that? So in the book, I wanted to give Robbie and Cecilia what they lost out on in life. I'd like to think this isn't weakness or... evasion... but a final act of kindness. I gave them their happiness."

In the end, though, she gives them nothing. It is her own forgiveness she is still looking for - to find a way back - a way to untell the lie - to have the world be as she imagined it should have been. What may seem like an empowering positive message is simply the realization that a single moment of selfish untruth, of assumption, or jealousy can have an impact that lasts a lifetime, and that no amount of rationalizing it or fantasizing about better outcomes can change this. Sometimes what we take on in light of our mistakes is the hard fact of their consequences. As much as one hungers for an escape into a happy resolve, or a masochistic tragedy, maybe in witnessing and honoring the truth without attempting in every way to escape it is our only answer, however painful this may be.

Atonement is a beautifully shot and composed film that succeeds in many ways, and which seems to be more simple than it is, but there are many profound questions just below the surface.