It seems almost mandatory to begin any discussion of “Inception” with an acknowledgement of its scale of ambition – both aesthetic and intellectual – not least when set against the sights of most other $200 million summer studio pictures.
So yes, let’s acknowledge it. Christopher Nolan’s latest is an uncommonly heady and intricate tentpole blockbuster, taking on themes of memory, mortality and family that, in conventional Hollywood logic, don’t tend to mesh with noisy, rain-sodden car chases and 007-style explosions in remote Arctic fortresses. I saw it on Monday in pristine IMAX splendor, and took immense pleasure in watching something on that scale that demanded to be kept up with, puzzled out, mentally reassembled, and not merely looked at. And yes, in a season of few mainstream pleasures — and unsurprising ones at best – I’m glad it’s in theaters.
But it’s easy to praise “Inception” for not being the film it was never intended to be in the first place. Certainly, we can pat Nolan on the back for having crafted an immeasurably brainier and more beautiful summer blockbuster than “Transformers 2,” or even “Iron Man 2,” but to me, it feels glib and condescending to do so: handling with kid gloves a work that asks to be judged by more rigorous standards.