Describing this movie, despite its lofty ambitions, can feel like an exercise in number crunching, and watching it is a bit like doing a series of math problems in your head. How do three directors parcel six plots into 172 minutes? (And how much might that cost?) Which actor — most of them inhabit several roles, in some cases changing gender or skin color as well as costume, accent and hairstyle — tackles the widest range of characters? What is the correlation between a musical phrase and a comet-shaped birthmark? How many times does Hugo Weaving sneer?

Maybe the achievement of “Cloud Atlas” should be quantified rather than judged in more conventional, qualitative ways. This is by no means the best movie of the year, but it may be the most movie you can get for the price of a single ticket. It blends farce, suspense, science fiction, melodrama and quite a bit more, not into an approximation of Mr. Mitchell’s graceful and virtuosic pastiche, but rather into an unruly grab bag of styles, effects and emotions held together, just barely, by a combination of outlandish daring and humble sincerity. Together the filmmakers try so hard to give you everything — the secrets of the universe and the human heart; action, laughs and romance; tragedy and mystery — that you may wind up feeling both grateful and disappointed.

Though the six sections flow together more or less seamlessly, it is also possible to divide the movie into Wachowski and Tykwer halves. Mr. Tykwer’s contributions are those that take place closer to the present — they concern the composer, the journalist and the publisher — whereas the Wachowskis leap back to the past and forward into the future. They are less concerned with efficient storytelling than with the maximization of spectacular and intellectual impact, with blowing your mind and explaining the cosmos. The Wachowski chapters are bigger, grander and noisier, while Mr. Tykwer’s are tighter, funnier and more emotionally resonant. The tale of Frobisher is perhaps the only piece that could stand alone, a perfect novella of artistic rivalry, sexual misbehavior and poetic despair.