J. Robert Oppenheimer was one of the most significant scientific minds of World War II and, by extension, the history of humanity. Of course, by now, I don't need to tell you that, as every ounce of marketing for Christopher Nolan's latest odyssey has ensured that you know precisely where to attribute the archaically structured phrase "Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds." The film Oppenheimer itself aims to contextualize that phrase within the complicated history of the man who said it, and while that very phrase is never uttered with a hard cut on Ludwig Göransson's omnipresent, guttural score and a sharp look directly into the camera from Cillian Murphy's pale blue eyes, Nolan's persistently stylistic but distant-as-ever biopic never fails to grasp the world-shattering importance of who he's chosen to spotlight.

Being that Oppenheimer himself was a controversial intellectual crucial in the downfall of the Axis Powers, one can draw strong similarities with another such figure recently given the biopic treatment: Alan Turing, father of the modern computer. (Oppenheimer opens with its titular miscreant attempting to poison his tutor with a cyanide-infused apple, which can't help but parallel Turing's own eventual method of suicide.) As such, in briefly comparing Nolan's colossal Oppenheimer with Morten Tyldum's unabashedly Oscar-baity The Imitation Game, we are faced with two different approaches to depicting the withdrawn scientist/mathematician instrumental in the success of the Allies, whose personal life found them shunned by the very governments they gave that intellect to protect.

Both films jump around in time to emphasize the effect of this wanton use and abuse by figures of political power, but while The Imitation Game is quiet, focused on digging into the humanity of its recluse by more conventional means of penetrating the shell (a recluse according to the film, that is; in real life Turing was apparently very affable with his team from the start), Nolan instead chooses to reinforce the distance between Oppenheimer and those around him, painting him as a troubled prophet figure whose misgivings about the applications of his discoveries lie suppressed but unavoidable beneath a necessity to make those discoveries before someone even worse does the same. One film is laced with emotional monologues about peas and carrots, while the other has no qualms about relaying its physics jargon unrefined for the uninitiated. One is soundtracked by the tender piano keys of Alexandre Desplat, while the other finds Göransson blaring bass notes with the might of the very weapon whose birth his film chronicles.

In watching Oppenheimer's final form, one could easily see the appeal of the more conventional approach Tyldum and gang applied to their chosen figure; the humanity can verge on saccharine, but it's far more tangible and gives the viewer a more palatable conduit into understanding the personal and professional sacrifices that come with opening one's intellect to an apparatus with no qualms about digging further to destroy you down the line. Nolan, of course, doesn't get wrapped up too deeply into Oppenheimer's personal life—his communist leanings are, intentionally, displayed as little more than cursory stops in the quest to build a greater world, and his relationships with his two love interests collectively give just as much personal insight into the man. But in crafting an unapologetic example of an auteur's staple, Nolan arguably doesn't need to dig any deeper to get the point across at all.

In by far the most generous reading, you can attribute Oppenheimer's blasé treatment of its female characters to Nolan's unrestrained subjective viewpoint into the man's life, reflecting Oppenheimer's own sidestepping of the women who loved him in the film's choice to cast them aside as well. You can argue whether or not that choice is to the film's benefit (or an entirely intentional one rather than further proof of the director's underwhelming development of female characters). Certain scenes do in fact attempt to show the internal ramifications of these relationships to little avail, but for the most part, Oppenheimer soars as a depiction of process whose consequences remain a lurking force of horror akin to the device that would carry this calamitous call of death from theory into practice.

A technical marvel on every front, Oppenheimer acts as a rumination on frigid dedication to a singular goal while itself being an example of Christopher Nolan applying that very logic himself. Easy as it would be to scoff at the film's perceived delusions of grandeur, what with its free-floating time-jumps and extensive cast given little more than nibbles of the film's self-satisfied dialogue and gargantuan (by modern Hollywood standards) screen time, one can't deny that such ambitions are the very things that made JFK Oliver Stone's most interesting film and The Thin Red Line Terrence Malick's best. At its centre of gravity, Cillian Murphy's skeletal figure stands as the lightning rod that focuses all this energy on the stakes at hand, the character actor's first meaty lead role being the perfect mixture of aloofness and dedication to embody the intricacies of a man with vision enough to see the devastating results of his most important contributions a mile away, and more than enough to solemnly despair at the inevitability of his role therein.

2023 Ranked.

Nolan Ranked.