Blu-ray + DVD

Cloud Atlas Blu-ray Review

"Our lives are not our own..."

Reviewed by Kenneth Brown, May 4, 2013

Well you certainly can't fault filmmakers Tom Tykwer and Lana and Andy Wachowski for lack of ambition. Based on the supposedly unfilmable David Mitchell novel of the same name, in production for more than four years, and independently financed to the tune of $100 million,is a sprawling, initially impenetrable, five-century epic involving no less than six interconnected storylines, six distinct time periods, and more than sixty characters played by a dozen actors, some of whom undergo dramatic changes to tackle as many as six different roles. The fact that it all comes together in the end is both a testament to Tykwer and the Wachowskis' overwhelming but skillful adaptation and the deft craftsmanship of Mitchell's award-winning book. That said,is as flawed as it is ambitious. Even after multiple viewings begin -- just-- to reveal the secrets of its at-times bewildering, occasionally staggering philosophical and metaphysical labyrinth, its flaws remain wholly intact, and only become more and more of a distraction as the film's method and meanings at long last step into the light.At first glance,' six storylines are connected by little more than prosthetics and not-always-so-familiar faces, while following the endless array of characters that inhabit each time period requires, at the very least, a series of hurried, hand-scrawled flow charts. Delve deeper, though, and you'll find that' six storylines... erm... are connected by little more than prosthetics and not-always-so-familiar faces, while... let's see here... following the endless array of characters that inhabit each time period requires... hm... a series of hurried, hand-scrawled flow charts. It isn't often that a movie loses me. I miss my share of small details and nuances like everyone, but my second viewing of a film is almost always a purelyexperience and rarely, if ever, remains a purelyexperience. Even now, watching Tykwer and the Wachowskis' densely packed, intentionally abstruse world of lawless reincarnation and dizzying pretension again, I'm on the outside looking in. The film's third act naturally continues to be the film's most illuminating asset; serving as both cypher and key in every subsequent viewing. But as uncrackable cinematic codes go, I'm not surewill ever be fully cracked. If previous interviews with Tykwer and the Wachowskis are any indication, I'm not even sure the filmmakers could fully crack their own spiraling mosaic.Make no mistake, though, it's not that the filmbe understood. It's far more accessible and singular in interpretation than the likes of. It's that it doesn't reallyto be understood.Imagine a cliff, towering and sheer. Picture it. See it in your mind's eye. Try as you might, you find your equipment to be useless, unable to pierce the rockface. You search for a branch, an anchor point, anything. You look higher, searching for a foothold. Nothing. You look still higher and finally, after straining your eyes, spot a small, inch-wide gap. Your heart sinks. The only foothold, the only anchor point is more than a hundred feet away. The first viewing ofis a grueling search for that gap; one that only presents itself two hours into the three-hour film. The second viewing is a desperate search for another, this one closer but still dangerously distant. It's an exhilarating climb, I'll admit; a bold, lofty ascent toward comprehension that promises a rush of satisfaction with every concrete revelation. But it's also an exhausting exercise in patience, perseverance and focus. Whereas Mitchell's novel presented the six stories in measured progression followed by measured regression (1-2-3-4-5-6-5-4-3-2-1), the filmmakers hyper-leap from one time period to the next as often, suddenly and jarringly as they can stomach, without any concession, warning or, now and again, intuitive rhyme or reason. You're not in the filmmakers' car, you're being dragged behind it. The Wachowskis don't frequent the freeway either. The car hangs a sharp left, careens off-road and drags its "passengers" through a rocky, brambly forest. Doesn't sound very pleasant? For too long a time, it isn't.Visually,tends to be the delirious, untamed stuff of confounding dreams and lucid nightmares, and the co-directors' style and tone vaults from one genre to the next as distinctly as Mitchell's novel. Here, though, cutting so rapidly between the various storylines and time periods, the film suffers from a telegraphed viscerality and manufactured unwieldiness the filmmakers are eager to exploit but have trouble controlling. The resulting aesthetic is as inconsistent as it is unforgettable, which poses something of a problem. That problem extends to the fractured screenplay itself -- which lurches between poetic narration, prim prose, streetwise slang, modern English, humorless future speak, and a quaint, post-apocalyptic dialect reminiscent of Jamaican Patois -- as well as the visual effects, which are a smidge hit or miss. For all of the gorgeous CG cityscapes, gunships and sci-fi trickery, Tykwer and the Wachowskis rely on some of the worst makeup and prosthetic applications in recent memory. Some are outstanding: Tom Hanks fares better than anyone (minus his turn as gangster Isaac Sachs), Ben Whishaw and Jim Broadbent's appearances are the most reliable, and Hugo Weaving has a few notable looks, chief among them devilish Georgie. Some are downright distracting: Halle Berry's 1930s socialite and 24th century grandmother, James D'Arcy, Jim Sturgess and Weaver's 22nd century Korean officials, and Susan Sarandon's ever-evolving nose pieces. And some are laughably bad: the stiff, wrinkly Halloween mask that is Hugh Grant's old man Cavendish, Doona Bae's 19th century newlywed and puffy '70s Mexican worker, and, most ridiculous and laughable of all, poor Hugo Weaving's overweight, gender-bent, falsettoed Nurse Noakes.The performances rise and fall too. Hanks is the best of the best, with the most dramatic, intriguing and unpredictable performances. (His mothball-mouthed gangster is a ham-fisted exception, but his cartoon character of a thug-turned-author is redeemed by a darkly hilarious encounter with a critic.) Broadbent is strong and compelling, often to surprising ends. Sturgess is excellent, the result of his quiet but passionate resolve and raw but careful choices. Winshaw and D'Arcy follow suit, delivering the film's most subtle and serious collection of performances. And Grant is, far more often than not, a joy to watch, stealing entire scenes as everything from a nuclear power plant owner to a 24th century post-apocalypse cannibalistic warlord. Berry, though, delivers one minute (Luisa Rey) and flails the next (Jocasta Ayrs), emerging as even more of a distraction than her not-so-believable age and race-defying makeup and prosthetics. Weaving often flounders, impressing with only two of his six roles (assassin Bill Smoke and Zachry's demonic hallucination, Old Georgie) and hitting a career low as Nurse Noakes. Bae is brilliant as a 23rd century "fabricant" (who's freed,-style, from servitude and shown the world as it really is) but comes undone elsewhere. And Sarandon, Keith David and Zhou Xun are largely wasted, albeit by no fault of their own.More disappointing than its inconsistencies? Its failure to deliver on your investment.is a film that hinges on grand ideas and profound revelations. Tykwer and the Wachowskis are actively, deliberately trying to blow your mind, and at all costs; even when it's to the detriment of the very fabric of the film. Butisn't mind-blowing. Mind-blending perhaps, headache-inducing most certainly, but not mind-blowing. It doesn't invite you in and treat you to its depths and wonders as the novel does, it assaults the intellectual senses and declares itself king. More to the point, as explored on screen, its ideas aren't that grand. Only its execution. Commendable? Yes. Brave? No doubt. Profound? All told, not really. It deals in endless universal and esoteric commodities, sure. But it doesn't offer much in the way of a return. While Tykwer and the Wachowskis succeeded in making Mitchell's unfilmable book filmable, even functional, theirs is a failure of translation, not conceptualization. It's not style over substance, it's style in the guise of substance, and it confounds far more than it enlightens.