Dadich, Nolan, and Emma Thomas at the Interstellar premiere. Alex J. Berliner/ABImages for Paramount Pictures
It should come as no surprise that the WIRED office is full of rabid Christopher Nolan fans. Over the years, we’ve hosted viewing parties for Dark Knight trailers, run an entire magazine section dissecting the timelines and influences of Inception, and maniacally discussed just about every shot and line from the man’s oeuvre. So last year, upon hearing that Nolan was taking on Interstellar as his first post–Dark Knight directing effort, we were ecstatic. The staff immediately started fantasizing about what we might do. A McConaughey-Hathaway-Chastain cover! An essay about the new, Nolan-inspired golden age of sci-fi! A behind-the-scenes look at the film’s creation! Alas, as is so often the case with magazine-making, the real world conspired to foil many of our plans. We assigned a short feature about one of Nolan’s collaborators and left it at that.
But late this summer, a single yellow Post-it note waiting on my desk rekindled our hopes. The message was simple but full of promise: “Chris Nolan called.” Below those three words was a number. I picked up the phone and learned, to my amazement and delight, that Nolan is as much a fan of WIRED as WIRED is of him. By the next morning, we had agreed on a path: The December issue would be his to guest-edit. Days later, a team from WIRED was sitting in the Syncopy production facilities, waist-deep in ideas and notes, scribbles for the stories that now fill these pages. That would be the first of many work sessions, brainstorms, and story reviews for our very own Christopher Nolan project.
For me, this was a fantasy come to life. In the summer of 2001, I went to a tiny indie cinema in downtown Austin to check out Memento. I was astonished by what I saw on the screen—a film that didn’t just entertain me but twisted my brain. In the decade-plus since, Nolan has proven himself a singular voice in filmmaking, a soulful and imaginative artist who layers labyrinthine story structures between head-exploding plot twists and spectacular visuals. The things that so affected me in Memento—the shifting perspectives, the cerebral ambition—have grown to become signature elements of his work. Nolan respects his audience. He doesn’t spell out his ideas; he makes us think, concentrate—maybe even watch the film repeatedly—to discover what he’s up to. He combines intellectual rigor with a sense of drama, adventure, and pure pop pleasure. Nolan and his collaborators, both his wife and producer, Emma Thomas, and brother, Jonathan, have managed to merge science and storytelling in ways that defy expectation and fire our imaginations.
For those of us at WIRED, making this issue has felt like the collaboration of a lifetime, a chance to play in a universe-sized sandbox. The stories inside come from Chris and Emma and their world. They impressed us in so many ways these past few months, and not the least with their generosity, both in time and spirit. We’ve come to understand their creative process, their appetite for discovery and for invention, and perhaps most important, their endless ambition. I’ll refrain from spoiling the fun, but I will tell you this: Like all Christopher Nolan projects, this one will reward scrutiny and attention to detail. We hope you enjoy it.
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