- READER REVIEWS
(No longer in theaters)
Grant Hill, Stefan Arndt, Lana Wachowski, Tom Tykwer, Andy Wachowski
Warner Bros. Pictures
Oct 26, 2012
Do you want the true-true? I think the film of David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas is dumb-dumb. Andy and Lana Wachowski (the latter once Larry, and his transformation into Lana might well tie into the notion expressed in this film that physical boundaries are made to be transcended) and Tom Tykwer have seized hold of Mitchell’s literary tour de force, passed it through the Benihana chopper, and extruded the most jaw-droppingly woo-woo piece of sci-fi romantic drivel since The Fountain.
One thing I loved about the novel was that each of its six subplots—the “Pacific Journal” slave melodrama of the nineteenth century, the epistolary section from the early twentieth, the paranoid-conspiracy seventies thriller, the present-day totalitarian old-age Kafkaesque yarn, the clone-war adventure of the near future, and the postapocalyptic jungle saga of the distant one—had its own integrity, its own style, its own present tense. From the start of the movie, we get a hash of crisscrossing plots tied together with music (in a desperate attempt at fluidity) and featuring the same actors with laughably egregious makeup jobs. Our dawning awareness in the book of all the echoes and crosscurrents becomes fast-food metaphysics on a cartoony canvas.
The cinematography is indifferent, and the editing too on the nose, but it’s the acting that’s the shocker. The cast comes off like a third-rate stock company on the matinee after the night on which everyone got bombed on mescal (and possibly mescaline). Will viewers who haven’t read the book will know what’s going on (assuming they can understand the dialogue, much of which the soundtrack garbles)? It’s all flash cards until the last movement, when such lines as “My life exists far beyond the limitations of me” are like Buddhist placards.
You can tell watching Cloud Atlas why the Wachowskis responded to the material—not only for its notion of a cosmic commingling but its racial themes. The siblings have a yen for miscegenation, both literally and spiritually. The strain of gnosticism in The Matrix has here become a full-fledged transmigration of souls, the body but a weak and temporary vessel. And for the Wachowskis, the Powers That Be are those who preserve artificial boundaries—racial, sexual, economic, and spiritual. Free will in their films is a matter of learning to “free your mind,” as Morpheus tells Neo. And once you’ve freed your mind, there is but one possibility: revolution. Social and economic justice for all!
I’ll concede that the thirties section is smooth, the music lovely, and the performances of Jim Broadbent and Ben Whishaw better than good. The seventies action plot—car crashes, shoot-outs—is standard stuff but hits its marks. Put it all together, though, and you’ve still got multiple B-movies bicycle-pumped into something supposedly momentous.