3.5 stars. Rating: R, for violence, profanity, nudity, sexuality, drug use and often disturbing dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.26.12
Shirley MacLaine will adore this
film, and I’m sure she already has done her part to goose sales of David
Mitchell’s source novel.
Rarely has the interconnectivity
of past lives been conveyed so cleverly on screen, and certainly never before
with such audacious snap. Even if you snicker at the premise and the multiple
casting gimmick — about which, more later — it’s impossible to deny the skill
with which these half-dozen interlinked stories unfold.
Despite an indulgent length of
nearly three hours, directors Tom Tykwer, Andy Wachowski and Lana Wachowski
maintain an impressive degree of suspense and momentum, layering cliff-hanger
upon cliff-hanger. We can’t help being caught up in the vastness of this
sweeping fantasy, or the intimacy of its individual storylines.
And yet, when all is done and the
screen fades to black, it seems like a lot of fuss and bother about very
little. Just as Christopher Nolan’s Inception was an overcooked journey to
discover the identity of Rosebud, Cloud Atlas builds to its climax only as a
means of reflecting upon the endurance of true love, and the notion that —
historically, contemporarily or in a future yet to come — individuals can make
a difference, and always have.
As one character says, “What is
an ocean, but a multitude of drops?”
Not exactly an earth-shattering
revelation, but I suppose the thought is comforting.
The interlaced narratives are
driven, to a degree, by the shared memory of a piece of music: the Cloud Atlas
Sextet, a symphony written by young ne’er-do-well Robert Frobisher (Ben
Whishaw), during his 1936 stint as amanuensis to cranky old composer Vyvyan
Ayrs (Jim Broadbent), years beyond his prime. The spirit of this music —
actually composed by Tykwer and score collaborators Johnny Klimek and Reinhold
Heil — imbues these and all other characters, and the theme itself bridges
events from one time period to the next.
A century earlier, in 1849,
idealistic San Francisco attorney Adam Ewing (Jim Sturgess) has traveled to the
Pacific Islands on behalf of his wealthy father-in-law, to obtain a
slave-trading contract with a sanctimonious plantation owner (Hugh Grant). The
sea voyage home proves both perilous and enlightening: Ewing contracts a
tropical disease that requires the ministrations of the ship’s doctor (Tom
Hanks), and confinement to a cabin below decks ... where the young attorney
finds a stowaway slave (David Gyasi, as Autua).
With the intelligent and
resourceful Autua giving a face to the barbarism of slavery, Adam finds himself
caught between professional obligations and awakening moral clarity.
In 1973 San Francisco, crusading
journalist Luisa Rey (Halle Berry) gets briefly stuck in an elevator with
elderly physicist Rufus Sixsmith (James D’Arcy), who — as a young man — is the
lover to whom Robert Frobisher writes impassioned letters. The aging Sixsmith
is troubled, which Luisa can sense; she’s therefore not surprised when he
calls, late one night, and begs for an interview.
Just that quickly, Luisa begins
to unravel evidence of corporate corruption at a nuclear power plant: a level
of malfeasance on a horrific scale, orchestrated by shadowy figures willing to
silence potential whistle-blowers by any means necessary.
In 2012 England, small-time
publisher Timothy Cavendish (Broadbent again) achieves fleeting financial
success with the vanity biography of a Scottish gangster. Unfortunately,
Cavendish’s new-found wealth attracts the wrong sort of attention, which
prompts him to seek help from his brother. But relying on sibling devotion
proves ill-advised; Cavendish’s “secure” bolt-hole turns out to be a special
sort of nursing facility: an apparently benign old-folks home that’s actually a
maximum-security lockdown overseen by a sadistic staff.
As depicted with an exaggerated
level of whimsy straight out of an episode of the 1960s British TV series The
Avengers, Cavendish finds that his sanctuary is so secure that even he can’t
escape it.
In 2144 Neo Seoul, we’re
introduced to Sonmi-451 (Doona Bae), a “fabricant” genetically engineered as a
restaurant server to the jaded aristocrats who manage this Orwellian society.
Although designed to be compliant, Sonmi-451’s awareness and curiosity are
aroused, first by a sister fabricant, and then by a mysterious revolutionary
who orchestrates her escape from the bleak, brutal routine of her day-to-day
existence.
But then what? Although
hesitantly allowing herself to embrace love, devotion and the range of emotions
normally restricted to the aristocratic “purebloods,” Sonmi-451 eventually
learns that her freedom has been sought for a reason: a potentially noble
calling that she may not have the courage to embrace.
Finally, two centuries further
along, with civilization’s remnants clinging to life after some sort of
planetary cataclysm, we meet Zachry (Hanks again), a goatherd who spends each
day in mortal terror of the ravaging cannibals that inhabit the surrounding woods.
Zachry is troubled by dreams that are interpreted by the village Abbess (Susan
Sarandon); he’s equally plagued by doubts that take the human shape of a
taunting, Satanic spirit (Hugo Weaving).
The local routine is interrupted
by the arrival of Meronym (Berry again), an emissary of an advanced, surviving
human community elsewhere on the globe. She seeks something reputedly concealed
near Zachry’s village, in a mountainous region deemed forbidden. She also seeks
his trust, but that’s an uphill struggle; Zachry is a weak, superstitious man,
and he fears change almost more than the marauding cannibals.
Although each of these six
narratives is compelling, we’re drawn most to Berry’s resourceful journalist —
perhaps because her storyline resonates with current socio-political struggles
— and to Sonmi-451’s spiritual growth, because Bae is such a compelling
actress.
Sonmi-451 (Doona Bae), trying to escape agents of a repressive futuristic society, finds that she's being watched not only from the ground, but also from the sky. |
Neo-Seoul represents a human
future gone very, very bad: a cruel, even more corrupt and soulless society
than what was depicted in Blade Runner. Against this horrific backdrop, Bae’s
Sonmi-451 dazzles because of her initial innocence and eventual blossoming: a
modest little flower that becomes radiant as its unfolding petals sparkle
against an otherwise cold winter landscape.
Bae moves and gestures with a
dancer’s balletic grace, suggesting a not-quite-human oddness that evokes
pleasant memories of other classic cinematic simulacrums, from Jeff Bridges
(Starman) to Jude Law (A.I.). She’s utterly captivating, and she powers this
storyline.
That, and its James Bondian
overtones. This is, after all, a Wachowski brothers production; it wouldn’t be
complete without furious gunplay and aggressive chase scenes, all set against a
disturbing futuristic dystopia.
It could also be that we’re drawn
so thoroughly to Berry’s Luisa Rey because the actress can emote as her natural
self, absent heavy makeup. Luisa’s storyline also is stylized in the manner of
a 1970s blaxploitation thriller, which perhaps makes it the most accessible of
these various narratives.
Similarly, we identify strongly
with Sonmi-451’s plight because Bae also is free of the heavy makeup that
allows her to play other, smaller roles in the parallel narratives. The worst
decision: giving her freckles and “westernizing” her, as the 19th century
Ewing’s wife.
Then again, that’s probably no
different than “easternizing” Sturgess so he can play Hae-Joo Chang, the
revolutionary who comes to Sonmi-451’s rescue; or making Hanks the Scottish
thug whose book Cavendish publishes; or — and this really is a ludicrous
stretch — making Weaving the domineering Nurse Noakes.
The point: These multiple,
makeup-driven roles are distracting. I understand the point behind some of them
— as a means to depict the manner in which a spirit flows from one body to the
next — but the gimmick calls too much attention to itself, and pulls us out of
the story.
The technique also isn’t employed
consistently. In a few cases, karma is honored: Grant and Weaving — the latter
so memorably evil as Agent Smith, in the Matrix trilogy — are always various
shades of evil, while Berry is always virtuous, and Sturgess is always
idealistic.
But too many other additional
appearances are mere vanity turns, along the lines of, say, Eddie Murphy’s
multiple roles in The Nutty Professor. Hanks pops up as a seedy innkeeper;
Whishaw briefly appears as Cavendish’s brother’s wife (!); and Berry also
cross-dresses as Ovid, a 22nd century doctor. Needless to say, all such parts
could — and should — have been played by different actors.
That said, we do experience a
pang of melancholy when Whishaw briefly pops up as a record store clerk in
1973, who can’t get a tune out of his head: the Cloud Atlas Sextet, of course,
composed by the character Wishaw plays in 1936.
Various casual references and
events link these six narratives; the number 6 itself pops up repeatedly. Poor,
trapped Cavendish describes his odd incarceration in a book that eventually is
made into a film, a portion of which helps inspire Sonmi-451, a century later.
Rufus Sixsmith physically bridges the 1936 and 1973 events; and Sonmi-451’s
actions resonate in Zachry’s post-apocalyptic world.
Even a frantic warning by
Cavendish, recalling a notorious 1970s science-fiction film, has unsettling
implications.
Then again, Adam Ewing’s sea
voyage and Luisa Rey’s journalistic quest seem only weakly linked to the other
narratives.
The film’s production design is
excellent, keeping both Hugh Bateup and Uli Hanisch quite busy: Whether 19th
century slaver ship, Scottish estate, 20th century nuclear power facility or
eye-popping futuristic Neo Seoul, we’re thoroughly, persuasively immersed in
each setting. Editor Alexander Berner also does superb work, balancing all
these narratives, accelerating or stretching our “visits” to each timeline as
events approach or recede from one crisis to the next.
I find it both amusing and ironic
that the Wachowskis, responsible for some of Hollywood’s most bloated and
self-indulgent fantasies (Speed Racer, the second and third Matrix entries)
would team up with Tykwer, who brought us one of the most economical thrillers
ever made (the 81-minute Run Lola Run). Then again, this creative marriage
appears to have worked; although Cloud Atlas runs 172 minutes, our interest
rarely flags.
Even so, the outcome feels
anticlimactic: a shrugging “Oh, OK, that’s interesting,” as opposed to the sort
of breathtaking, gotta-watch-that-again exhilaration prompted by the audacious
final moments of, say, 2001: A Space Odyssey or The Sixth Sense.
Cloud Atlas is an investment,
and we trust the filmmakers to make the destination worth the ambitious
journey. Sadly, the emotional return is something of a letdown.
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