Oddly intriguing, and sometimes fascinating, but,
ultimately, quite frustrating, CLOUD ATLAS was directed by Tom Tykwer (Run Lola Run), with Lana - formerly
Larry - and Andy Wachowski forming a separate crew. Based upon the novel (that
I still have not read) by David Mitchell, it reaches from the hidden mind to
the outré limits, while it explores the chronoplex destinies of individuals -
all bearing the same comet-shaped birthmark - via six stories set in different
eras. Revealed in fragments, these include a comedic 1970s conspiracy with
Tarantinoesque blaxploitation gags, a post-holocaust island of tribal
cannibalism and technocratic survivalists, a farce about escapees from a
British old folks’ home, and the fate of a 22nd century Korean ‘disposable’ waitress
rescued from enslavement.
Cloud Atlas
cobbles together vanilla sci-fi thrills with philosophical banalities about how
an invisible touch of crimes and kindness lingers, to gain weight affecting
unpredictably dark futures, where obedience to corporate emblems on bright
soaring towers, has entirely replaced nationalistic enthusiasm for multi-coloured
rags up the flagpole of patriotism. Under the dogmatic rules of social
Darwinism, cannibalism is the last taboo; and Cloud Atlas deploys, quite repetitively, the dilemma of unethical
recycling, as if copied from the infamous final revelations of Soylent Green, and A Boy And His Dog, with a grisly sincerity about that amoral
mentality.
Yet it gathers portentous blathering: on spontaneous
creative sparks, finding a reliable muse, some bleak introspection or nostalgic
reverie, inspiration derived from limitless hope, and quaint little fables
about how truth can wreck beliefs. There’s a lot going on here, but the glass
is not half full, or half empty; it is cracked and leaking. At its heart is a
musical composition, a ‘Cloud Atlas’ symphony, that somehow resonates across/
transcends time periods - from historical to futuristic - that provide
multiple/ po-mo roles for the main cast (Jim Broadbent is the best of them in
repertory theatre mode), in a quirkily novelistic quantum reality concocted by
trippy grey convolutions of imaginative thinking round narrative corners. Can
you cog the true-true of it now?
It’s an epic but rambling effort and, this being a
Wachowskis opus, the makers cannot resist inserting some gratuitous cyberpunk
action scenes (very much like Casshern
or Natural City), with a rebel hero
on the loose in the spectacular Asian megalopolis. You might love bits of it,
but I doubt many viewers will agree on exactly which bits are great and which
are not. Perhaps, as befitting its myth of irregularities, Cloud Atlas is most genuinely ‘entertaining’ (in anticipation)
before seeing it, then again (overall, in contemplation) after viewing. Such is
the indie blockbuster conceit of this ambitiously cross-genre TykWacho
formulation that its trick also works a second time round, and will possibly
repeat its engrossing, curiously adultescent ADHD, appeal for a third, or
fourth play, too. It does not offer enlightenment, but it is an uplifting
movie.
The most profound influence upon Cloud Atlas is Terry Gilliam. Although rejecting his oeuvre’s
delightful flights of whimsy, a greater sense of realism in Cloud Atlas is woven tightly around a
core of urgent romanticism that’s very Gilliamesque in tone. Think of his Time Bandits, Brazil,
and especially The Adventures Of Baron Munchausen,
in particular (but also 12 Monkeys,
and The Fisher King), and the
cumulative impact of Gilliam’s story-teller idiom and ironic humour, on this paradigm of acutely cinematic expression, becomes clear. Whatever positive/
negative comments you may have read/ heard about Cloud Atlas, I strongly suggest that you give it a try. You have
nothing to lose... except three precious hours of your life.
