What’s life, if not memories? And if memories are indeed subjective, even deceptive, isn’t life then merely the stories we tell ourselves—about ourselves? That’s precisely the point of this film. Or, for that matter, Julian Barnes’s 2011 book by the same name that this film is based on.
Speaking of books and movies, they tend to share a fairly odd relationship. While both, on the face of it, deal with stories; there is absolutely no correlation between a critically acclaimed book, and its filmic adaptation. It can go either way. Some pulp-literature has resulted in the greatest movies—Mario Puzo’s The Godfather, for instance; or Chetan Bhagat’s Five Point Someone (3 Idiots), closer home.
Literary fiction, on the other hand, like Barnes’s Booker winning slim volume, that is full of depth, tend to be more about thoughts and characters, rather than action and plot—making them reasonably hard to faithfully translate into film. The unwatchable movie version of Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness Of Being is a case in point. The Sense Of An Ending is a notable exception.