Duke Johnson’s *The Actor* captivates visually but lacks substance. Featuring André Holland as an amnesiac theatre artist trying to reconstruct his history, the film intertwines themes of thriller and romance yet ultimately struggles to unify its numerous artistic embellishments, resulting in a superficial core.

Based on Donald Westlake’s 1963 novel *Memory*—which saw publication in 2010—Johnson’s sophomore directorial attempt presents moments of brilliance that never come together completely. Much like its central character, the film meanders aimlessly when it should resonate with intent. Although it hints at issues of identity and the challenges of losing oneself in the ordinary, these concepts remain insufficiently explored. The film also draws parallels to more profound examinations of memory and surreal midlife dilemmas—some of which involve Johnson himself, such as *Anomalisa*.

These unavoidable comparisons serve only to illuminate *The Actor*’s deficiencies. Moreover, its race-neutral casting leads to a significant dissonance within the film’s narrative, rendering it a visually ambitious yet ultimately misguided viewing experience.

### What is *The Actor* about?

Presented in a manner akin to an episode of *The Twilight Zone*—well-suited to its 1950s backdrop—the film begins with touring thespian Paul Cole (Holland) enduring a head injury following an altercation with a jealous husband of a woman he is involved with. He awakens, stripped of long-term memory, only remembering his name and Manhattan address from his identification. Urged by local authorities—who seek retribution for the affair—to vacate the area, Paul finds himself stranded in an unknown small town with no finances or path.

As Paul strives to reconstruct his existence, the film employs a theatrical technique where supporting cast members portray multiple characters—featuring performers like Toby Jones, Simon McBurney, Olwen Fouéré, and Tracey Ullman. This choice, however, serves more as a stylistic flourish rather than a significant narrative device. Paul seems oblivious to these familiar faces, and the film never clarifies whether this is intended to mirror his fragmented memory. The editing implies that time advances in erratic segments, yet since Paul retains only specific details, these repetitions appear as hollow gimmicks rather than deliberate storytelling.

While employed at a tanning facility to accumulate funds for a bus fare back to New York, Paul encounters Edna (Gemma Chan), a local woman with whom he gradually falls in love. He conceals his memory loss from her, even as he begins to retrieve fragments of his past. However, the more he uncovers, the less he appreciates what he learns—his former acquaintances characterize him as a deeply unpleasant individual. Yet, rather than confronting this discovery, he merely transitions to the subsequent plot point, failing to truly engage with his past. This absence of soul-searching deprives Paul of any genuine motivation or depth, rendering him a passive spectator in his own narrative.

The film initially establishes a conflict between Paul’s newfound life with Edna and his pursuit to reveal his past, yet these two narratives never seem to be in meaningful contention. He shifts between them without ramifications, and time—seemingly abundant in his view—never feels urgent. Paul remains a passive participant in a film that ought to center around reclaiming autonomy, resulting in an ultimately tedious experience.

### *The Actor* is visually exquisite yet calls to mind superior films.

Despite its narrative flaws, *The Actor* is undeniably striking. Johnson and cinematographer Joe Passarelli create a visually enchanting experience, utilizing light in compelling ways. Stage illumination interacts with both the performers and the lens, producing ethereal flares that amplify the film’s dreamlike essence.

The film’s transitions—where lighting fades in and out to signify the passage of time or disguise changes in sets—generate a fluid yet disorienting effect. These techniques reflect Paul’s fractured memory, reminiscent of Christopher Nolan’s *Memento*, particularly when Paul starts leaving himself hastily scribbled reminders. However, in contrast to *Memento*, where the protagonist’s motivations and relationship with his environment are apparent, *The Actor* is devoid of a strong emotional or narrative foundation. Holland gives a commendable performance, yet the film fails to provide him with sufficient material to work with.

Other films, such as *The Father*, come to mind for using reconfigured sets and recurring actors to evoke feelings of paranoia and disorientation. In *The Actor*, these choices feel more like stylistic embellishments than substantial storytelling devices. Likewise, Johnson’s previous venture with *Anomalisa*—co-directed alongside Charlie Kaufman—utilized perspective to uncover deep psychological truths about its protagonist. In contrast, *The Actor* does not capitalize on its surreal aspects in a way that enhances character or thematic depth.

The film also inadvertently invites unfavorable comparisons to Kaufman’s *I’m Thinking of Ending Things*, another surreal exploration of memory and nostalgia. If *Anomalisa* were divided into two creative avenues, one might parallel Kaufman’s individual endeavors, while the other would be