The Drum Beats Out of Time (An Edge of Tomorrow review)

Poster by Simon Delart.

Disclaimer: I, Jackson Alphonse Connell, being of sound mind and body, do solemnly swear to never mention the 1996 science fiction comedy film Groundhog Day while discussing the 2014 science fiction action film Edge of Tomorrow. The premise is already destined to invite more comparisons from other film critics, and I do not desire to add to those. This paragraph shall therefore be the first and only time I refer to Groundhog Day, and if I deviate from this, then may I be strapped to a chair and forced to watch Project X until my mind folds like a red-hot Mars bar.

Got all that? Good.

Based on the light novel All You Need is Kill by Hiroshi Sakurazaka, Tom Cruise IS Major William Cage, and despite having a name picked straight out of the Jar of Action Hero Noms de Guerre, he's a smug ad man working for the United Defense Force who's made a comfy job out of convincing brave men and women to strap on a mech-suit and die fighting a bunch of tentacled beasties called "Mimics". His cushy lifestyle runs out when General Brendan Gleeson sends him to the front line for a last stand against the alien/robot/Cthulhu(?) menace. You'd think sending a PR guy frightened of the sight of blood into battle would be a stupid idea, but it hardly matters since the operation is doomed from the start and everyone, including Cage, dies horribly.

Then he wakes up. The day's begun again. He's given grunt boots, Sergeant Bill Paxton gives a rousing speech about how combat makes everything equal and how we're the masters of our own fate, he makes himself unpopular with the international squaddies he'll be fighting with. Cage goes through the battle again, lives slightly longer, dies, then wakes up in the same place he started from. He's caught in a time loop, constantly fighting the same battle, and with the help of Rita Vrtarski (Emily Blunt), the so-called Angel of Verdun, he learns how to use this to end the war.

What Edge of Tomorrow resembles most is a 2000AD comic strip, that classic staple of British science fiction based around high concept ideas, hard-edged violence, attention to world-building and a streak of morbid humour running through it. Certainly, the decision to set most of it on a French coast and open with a battle strongly reminiscent of Saving Private Ryan adds to that impression. Then again, what other SF action flick would have a scene set in a dead caravan park? A movie that hinges around repetition would get stale quickly, and it's to Liman and the writers' credit that every new scenario feels fresh and offers some new development, even with the clunky exposition courtesy of Noah Taylor's moustachioed doctor. Quite a few scenes play out with the sense that Cage knows what's already happened, with an air of ambiguity over how many lives he's gone through to reach that point. Like a 2000AD story, it zips along at a brisk pace, with director Doug Liman using fake BBC/CNN news footage to set up the world from the start, then settling into the meat of the story.

And that story is Tom Cruise, one of the biggest stars in Hollywood, dying a whole lot. Liman mines some laughs out of the silly, often amazingly quick ways Cage bites it - sometimes he's run over, sometimes he's squashed, but more often than not it's Vrataski shooting him in the head to reset the timeline. See, Cage's alien-infected blood gives him that power, and if he loses too much of it or gets it replaced, he loses the gift, so every time he suffers a big injury (which is quite often), Vrataski elects to start over by killing him and picking up where they left off the next time around. Having gotten used to the idea of Tom Cruise as an ageless robot man not affected by the elements, watching him die over and over and over again is surprisingly cathartic and enjoyable. I don't think Sean Bean has died more times in his entire career than Cruise does in Edge of Tomorrow.

Ghoulish satisfaction aside, I like how Cage has an arc throughout the film. He starts as an oily coward, more suited to selling an image and counting the money while countless people die horribly in battle, and constantly tries to get out of actually having to do a goddamn thing. His first deployment has him shivering, pale, a film of snot running to his mouth, a rare look for Cruise and one that reminds you that, yes, beneath all the Scientology craziness there is a good actor somewhere there. Cage learns to adapt, to change, to plan, and he becomes a hero in a way that feels earned.

This isn't to overlook his co-star. On the contrary, I came out in love with Rita Vrataski, and not just because she's the only character in the movie taking on the Mimics with a giant helicopter blade as a sword. (Not completely, anyway.) The "Full Metal Bitch", as she's charmingly dubbed, has been through the time loop before, and her cold behaviour is the result of dying thousands and thousands of times fighting a pointless battle, watching comrades die the same way over and over, earning a title she doesn't feel she warrants. This never undermines her as an action hero, however; there's no frail bird waiting to be nursed back to health. Blunt gets just as many opportunities to be badass, maybe even more so than Cruise.

There's a pleasing weight to the mechanised battlesuits the protagonists wear into battle. I maintain that the best visions of the future in SF films are ones that look lived-in. Spare me your chrome skyscrapers and sleek cars that look like they've been designed by Apple, and give me dirty grimy machines held together with duct tape. I can imagine actual humans using them, repairing them by hand, struggling to turn the safety off. That's what gives CG actual presence. Less successful are the Mimics themselves, an ungainly cross between the Sentinels from The Matrix and the bugs of Starship Troopers. They move at an unsettling gait, but they lack the sense of crushing dread provided by the former or the gruesome murderiness of the latter. They just seem to punch people to death with their tentacles, because we got to keep that PG-13 rating.

Edge of Tomorrow might be the best video game movie made so far, and you can take that as a positive or a negative, but it really reminds me of cult dungeon-crawler Dark Souls, the closest gaming has gotten to recreating a trip to the village dominatrix. Like Edge, the game is built around a protagonist going up against an unfairly large opponent, being reduced to jelly, picking themselves up and figuring out how not to be reduced to jelly. Cage and Vrataski map out their plan to win step-by-step, which direction to turn and when a Mimic is going to appear, and it's satisfying to watch characters we're invested in get smarter and get closer to victory.

That's the heart of what makes Edge of Tomorrow work. It isn't too interested in the philosophical aspects of its story, but it mines the most out of its gimmick and centres it around two solid characters and has just enough smart to distinguish it amongst other popcorn films. Liman doesn't quite land the ending, but it's still a taut muscular action romp that feels like a return to form not just for Cruise, but for his director. Sometimes that's all you need.

Now if it had just retained the original title.

Art of the Invisible (A Wolf of Wall Street review)

Poster by Daniel Devoy, sourced from designers of tumblr. 

With this money comes problems, and with these problems come solutions.

The Weeknd, "Coming Down" 

Money is just one of things I've never really understood. I get its purpose as a way of getting things, but how it actually works, the mechanisms of the stock market and the exchange rate, that's some arcane science you need to spend six months consulting Old Moore's Almanac before you properly grasp it. All I know is that when I decide I want something to drink, I hand over the little papery thing in exchange because the Bank of England has promised the guy behind the till he's actually getting five English pounds for his trouble. It's a £5 note because someone told us.

Jordan Belfort, at least the smooth charismatic one played by Leonardo DiCaprio, seems to get this, explaining to the audience the inner workings of his schemes before noticing the glazed look and moving on to the juicy details. So too does his mentor Mark Hanna (Matthew McConaughey), a deranged Wall Street broker going through life in a constant narcotic haze. It's all about faking it, you see, if you want to get ahead. "Nobody knows if a stock is going up, down or fucking sideways, least of all stockbrokers. But we have to pretend that we know." He dispenses valuable advice to his protegé all the while snorting coke and getting Martinis delivered to the table every five minutes and doing some weird chest-beating chant that only makes sense to him and that the young Belfort will later turn into a war cry, all while emphasising that a stockbroker's only goal is to move the client's money to his pocket in such a way that the customer won't even notice.

So monetary exchange becomes an act of magic. Or, more accurately, an addiction, a drug. Hanna outright states that clients end up suckered in because they're hooked on the idea of getting even richer, and Belfort describes it as his favourite for how it makes you feel invincible. After all, with enough money, you can make anything happen. Save endangered animals, keep children and runaways off the street, buy your dear old mum the house of her dreams. Belfort would have you believe that the green stuff makes you a better person.

Not that he's a testament to that ideal. The Wolf of Wall Street's greatest strength is making Jordan Belfort, the author of the memoir the film is based on, an unreliable narrator. His frequent addresses to the audience are taken from Richard III, where the amoral protagonist takes the viewer under their wing and explains their actions, making them complacent in their deeds. A lot of criticism has been thrown at the film for glamorising the various partners and brokers of Stratton Oakmont, and all the bacchanalian shit they got up to. It doesn't help that quite a few places have been throwing "Wolf of Wall Street Parties".

They were probably watching a different film. The hedonism of Stratton Oakmont isn't stylised and aspirational, it's sweaty and writhing and covered in bodily fluids. An early celebration involving a nude marching band and a seemingly infinite supply of strippers quickly descends into a strobe-lit frenzy as women are tossed to the floor, underwear discarded by a bunch of men in braces and ties with their tongues hanging out, all set to the nightmarish blues of Howlin' Wolf. Martin Scorsese has dealt with this "portrayal = endorsement" mindset before in the likes of Goodfellas, and he isn't letting up here.

This is where Belfort as an unreliable narrator comes in. It's easy to accuse the film of sexism, what with every female character who's of legal age being hit on at the very least, and every other woman being part of an endless wallpaper of tits and Brazilian waxes. With the exception of the confident and calculating Naomi (a superb Margot Robbie, playing her as the only woman who can render Belfort a whinging puppy), they're not a major part of the story. But that story is Belfort's, and it's a story he edits on the fly to make himself look good. Scorsese and his Boardwalk Empire partner Terence Winter open with the title character driving a red Ferrari, which then changes to white mid-shot at his insistence. He glosses over the bloody suicide of one of his employees. He thinks his car is pristine after driving it home while whacked out of his skull, only to realise in the morning it looks like he drove it through a hurricane. You can't trust him.

And even if you did, he's not someone you really want to be like. He takes expired Quaaludes by the dozen with his deranged right-hand man Donnie (Jonah Hill) just to get a hit. The result is both men turning into drooling imbeciles who nearly kill themselves and destroy their business in an utterly hilarious scene that approaches Mr Bean levels of slapstick brilliance. Hanna makes the point that to work on Wall Street, you need to snort coke and wank in the office toilet at least twice a day. To be a stockbroker is to become a horny jagoff who literally can't get through the day without furious masturbation and doing enough yayo to fell a bison. Dare to dream, kids!

It's weird how, in 2013, DiCaprio appeared in two films about the dark side of the American Dream: this and Baz Luhrmann's adaptation of The Great Gatsby. While Luhrmann was too swept up in the glamour of the Roaring Twenties to really get to the heart of the source material, Scorsese is under no illusions, and it's fantastic to see an elder statesman of cinema make a film as fearless and powerful as this. Starting from humble beginnings, shedding your old skin and becoming a demon in the process is what the American Dream is now. And it's not like any of us haven't thought of it. We all have lists of What I'll Do When I'm Rich. Men like Belfort are grown in that environment. It's fitting the film ends with him delivering a Get Rich Quick seminar (introduced by the real Jordan Belfort no less) trying to get a bunch of stammering yokels to "sell me this pen". The exact phrase he used to get the original founders of Stratton Oakmont together.

Another wave of wolves pretending to be lions, then. Another congregation in a dark church seeking to become better people. Another hundred Jordan Belforts in the waiting.

I come from a world where even the signposts are fictional. Follow the white rabbit. Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning. And a more recent one, from forty years ago, the fictional direction given by a mysterious man to an eager journalist: follow the money. Economics is an artform. It's the art of the invisible. Money is fictional.

Warren Ellis 

Why Don't We Do It in the Road? (A Shame review)

Sometimes things go better in pairs. It helped Noah organise the passengers for his Ark, it's mostly prevented us from wearing odd shoes, and it's often the basis of fruitful collaborations: Bert & Ernie, Abbott & Costello, Alcohol & Regret. This extends to art as well; Dalí couldn't have functioned without the aid of his muse Gala. John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote some of the most renowned pop songs of all time, and neither produced as good work separately.

And, of course, there's the world of film. Given how prevalent the auteur theory is in film criticism, and the importance we place on directors, we can't help but pay special attention to the interplay between them and certain collaborators. Would Werner Herzog be cinema's lovable crazy uncle without Klaus Kinski driving him on? Probably not. Martin Scorsese would never have made Raging Bull were it not for De Niro visiting him in hospital with a copy of Jake La Motta's autobiography. Sometimes a creative partner just brings out the best in a director, and we're seeing something similar in the relationship between Michael Fassbender and Steve McQueen.

No, not that one.

That one.

(Normally I'd put an alternative poster up, but the one I've chosen is pretty NSFW, you'll see why after the jump.)

Phonomancy: The Christmas Single

Yeah, it's been a while since the last tour of my iPod. Real life intervened, as it's wont to do, and I didn't have time to do it every Friday. But, on this 24th of December, Phonomancy returns for a noble Yuletide tradition: The Alternative Christmas Playlist.

December sends all manner of chills down our spines, and not just physical. There's the chill of having to set up the decorations, untangling lights from Gordian knots, and buying plastic Christmas trees (and if you bought a real one, have fun cleaning up all those pine needles). There's the chill of asking your loved ones what they want this year, fighting beleaguered parents and partners to the death to claim one for your own, and desperately beating the traffic to wrap it up. There's the weather, there's setting up dinner, there's making sure you're within postage dates, and there's the dread horror of the neverending unchanging music that is absolutely everywhere even in your dreams.

Some people like cheery goodtime holiday music, and I would never begrudge them their joy, but no type of music is more stagnant than Christmas tunes. Very little is new, and even less has a chance of getting big and becoming another standard. What was the most recent song to truly make it big in the last twenty or so years? "All I Want for Christmas is You", undeniably. "Christmas Time (Don't Let the Bells End) by The Darkness, possibly. I haven't heard that one get played to death, but it does get a lot of playtime. We here in the UK didn't have to suffer Mannheim Steamroller like they do across the Atlantic, and we're mostly safe from awful Christian rock like "Christmas Shoes", but we also have the annual tradition of the Christmas Number One.

I'm a bit surprised how big a deal it is over here than other countries. Record sales usually hit their peak in the weeks leading up to Christmas in the UK, so getting number one around this time earns the musician (or, more likely, the record company) a little crown for most units shifted. The easiest way to get that is a song about the holiday, but not always; The Beatles have more Christmas number ones than anyone else, and they're all decidedly un-wintery affairs like "Day Tripper", "I Want to Hold Your Hand" and "Hello, Goodbye".

With the unstoppable rise of Simon Cowell and his evil reality-TV empire, the Christmas number one has the very dangerous chance of going to the winner of Pop Idol or The X Factor, who notches that one hit single and then sinks without a trace. Looking over the data, however, that trend gets bucked; Girls Aloud won Popstars: The Rivals and the Number One spot with "Sound of the Underground", but they continued to achieve success and avoided being a flash in the pan. In fact, it was only last week an X Factor winner got the Number One, with Sam Bailey. But the stretch of time from 2005 to 2008 was a dark one indeed, with Shayne Ward, Leona Lewis, Leon Jackson and Alexandra Burke taking it like bland vapid Vikings and making lots of money for SyCo. It was so bad that a successful counter-protest was launched in 2009 to get "Killing In The Name" by Rage Against the Machine at the top. SyCo may not have had the Number One the most, but oh God was it depressing seeing it on top for what felt like forever.

So fuck it. I'm joining in with all the hipsters and putting together my own alternative Christmas playlist. No Wham!, no Pogues, no Michael fucking Bublé. I set myself some rules while curating this:

1. No Christmas Number Ones. This meant ruling out songs I really liked, including the Pet Shop Boys' cover of "Always on My Mind" and The Darkness. The point of this playlist is that they're meant to be songs not heard by everyone. I'm highlighting overlooked gems or classics here.
2. Very little cynicism or "funny" choices. Bad Religion's Christmas records are good for a laugh, but it's fleeting. Also, 'tis the season for peace on Earth and goodwill to all men, and I want that emphasised. Christmas is the one time of year when we shouldn't be cocks to each other. The only two songs I have here that are close to cynicism are by Tom Waits and Lou Reed, a) because they're really good at this shit; b) they're excellent storytellers in their music; and c) there's a loneliness to Christmas as well. Not everyone finds themselves celebrating with their families, and joy means more if there's sorrow beforehand. As the recently-late Mr Reed said, "there's a bit of magic in everything, and a little loss to even it out".
3. Must relate to Christmas or winter in some way, lyrically or musically. Anything that doesn't mention Christmas, or has it in the title, I chose because it has a certain "feel" to it that evokes the season. "The Devil is in the Details" by Hanna is the soundtrack for a film set in Finland, and has a very fairy tale vibe to it; the whistles and fairground carnival music in "Devil" matches that, while also feeling kinda Christmassy in its own right.

With that in mind, I managed to find 15 odd, underrated, or otherwise overlooked Christmas ditties for you to enjoy. Low's Christmas is here by hipster law, "Gaudete" is a choral number most people probably aren't aware of, and "Only You" was pushing it because, while a cover of it reached the Christmas Number One, I imagine more people are familiar with the not-actually-acapella version than the original by Yazoo. Also, I couldn't not include it; it felt properly wintery.

From all of us here at The Airtight Garage to all of you: have a very Merry Christmas/Holidays/Saturnalia/whatever you celebrate. Get drunk, feel your waistline expand comfortably while watching The Great Escape, and keep safe. See you in 2014.

A Life in Six Stars (A Cloud Atlas review)

Poster by Tumblr user WatsonPrime.

"The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, you speck of dust!"

Friedrich Nietszche, The Gay Science

The universe begins to look more like a great thought than a great machine.

James Hopwood Jeans 

I. Dogs of Diogenes

Most of the people who know me, or who just take a glance at my Facebook timeline, would tell you I'm cynical. I question what's presented, tear it open, and try to divine the truth from its entrails. In truth, it's a side of me I'm actively trying to fight, or at least keep on a leash. To be a cynic nowadays means to be jaded, to have little to no faith in humanity. This isn't, of course, how it used to be. The philosophy of Cynicism, the kind espoused by Antisthenes and Diogenes and the like, espoused virtue above all else, prizing a free happy life as the greatest thing one could possibly have.

I wouldn't say being a Cynic, rather than a small-c cynic, appeals much more to me. Being a Cynic sounds like going straight-edge, or like following a warrior's code; nothing is more important than virtue. Not money, not power, not hygiene, not reputation, not society. The name itself comes from the Ancient Greek "kynikos", meaning "dog-like", and initially lent itself to insults; Cynics were frequently called dogs for rejecting societal norms and living in the streets, though Diogenes took it as a compliment: other dogs bite their enemies, I bite my friends to save them. To be a dog meant being free and loyal to your cause.

At some point down the line, Cynicism lost the privilege of a capital letter, moving from evangelical crusader for happiness to bitter loner on the outer fringes of society. And while small-c cynics can certainly have an eye for improving life and human interaction - that's probably what fuels our most well-known grumpy bastards - all too often, that noble goal gets lost in favour of being perpetually disillusioned and getting a sense of grim satisfaction when things go tits-up. It's trendy to be cynical. It's even bled through into our entertainment, with the heroes of Western fiction - films, video games, TV, comics - becoming increasingly harder and sociopathic, to better appeal to our power fantasies. Even when they "win", it's a Pyrrhic victory. Man of Steel ends with Superman killing the last survivors of Krypton. John McClane is no longer an Everyman cop who can get hurt, he's a Category 5 hurricane made of bullets.

Too many of us are cynics.

II. From Heaven to the Gutter

Talking about Cloud Atlas really is like dancing about architecture. The original novel by David Mitchell has a narrative structure like a Chinese puzzle box, with six different stories in six different styles nestled within each other, interrupting one another before reaching the middle, with each one being wrapped up in succession. These stories are, in order:

1. American lawyer Adam Ewing (Jim Sturgess) travelling across the Pacific Ocean in 1849, saving a runaway Polynesian slave (David Gyasi) from death even as he slowly succumbs to illness from a parasite. His adventures are chronicled in a journal, read by...
2. English musician Robert Frobisher (Ben Whishaw), disgraced son of a wealthy family, as he flees to Edinburgh (Belgium in the book), to become the apprentice of renowned composer Vyvyan Ayrs (Jim Broadbent) and prove himself as a musician. He writes about his experiences to his lover Sixsmith (James D'Arcy), who retains the letters well in to old age, which eventually fall into the hands of...
3. Investigative journalist Luisa Rey (Halle Berry), who is tipped off by an aged Sixsmith about foul play involving a new nuclear reactor being developed in San Francisco during the 1970s. Key figures in the reactor's development turn up dead, and time's running out on Rey to figure out the mystery. Her story becomes the basis of a manuscript, Half-Lives: The Mystery of Luisa Rey, read by...
4. Vanity-press publisher Timothy Cavendish (Broadbent) in 2012, experiencing quite a windfall when his Irish gangster client throws a well-known critic out a window. Eventually, his client's family come knocking for their share, and in an attempt to flee London ends up being tricked by his elder brother (Hugh Grant) into incarceration at a brutal nursing home. He soon turns this into a screenplay called The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish, a film watched by...
5. Somni~451 (Doona Bae), a clone waitress living in a futuristic Korea, forced into servitude by the caste system. After her friend is killed for disobeying orders, she's taken under the wing of a revolutionary movement and falls in love with one of their leaders, Hae-Joo Chang (Sturgess). The movement fails, and before her execution, she makes one last recorded statement to the world, which centuries later becomes the holy text of a religion followed by...
6. Zachry (Tom Hanks), a shepherd who lives on the island formally known as Hawaii, 106 winters after "The Fall". After his tribe is beset by the cannibalistic Kona tribe, he allies with Meronym (Berry), the ambassador of the last remnants of futuristic society, to preserve what's left of "The Smarts"; the technology their ancestors left behind.

The structure looks something like this.

What's particularly clever is how they all link. Each story is a text being read by the protagonist in the next narrative; the transcription of a revolutionary's last words in Story E becomes the basis for a religion in Story F, for example. And then there's the very real possibility that these stories may not be completely true. Frobisher notes how Ewing's journal seems too neatly structured to be the real thing, yet his own composition, the Cloud Atlas Sextet, is structured exactly like the novel, a sextet with overlapping stories, and a character in his story reappears in Half-Lives, which is a manuscript for a novel. It's metafictional, stories within tales buried in narratives.

It's this unique structure that led many to declare the book unfilmable, but people should really know by now that particular label will only dare filmmakers to try even harder. Tom Tykwer managed to get a decent adaptation out of Patrick Susskind's Perfume: Story of a Murderer, another daunting task for bibliophilic screenwriters. But he couldn't do this alone; he needed the help of Andy and Lana Wachowski, massive fans of the book, and who have never shied from the task of trying to carry big ideas to a mainstream audience. The Matrix was a distillation of Baudrillard and Plato and Gnosticism, after all, wrapped up in a kung-fu superhero action movie. Hell, Tykwer's own Run Lola Run dabbled in talks of free will versus determinism and chaos theory, giving a philosophical bent to a hard and fast action film scored to pulsing techno.

In short, these three specialised in the mixture of high and low culture. In that sense, they were the perfect people to adapt Cloud Atlas.

III. "The Weak Are Meat..."

Mitchell described the story as being about "predacity, the way individuals prey on individuals"; cannibalism and greed are recurring features in all the stories. Dr Goose (Hanks) remarks to Ewing that the Pacific beach they're standing on was once "a cannibal's banquetting hall"; Ayrs intends to screw Frobisher out of the royalties earned from The Cloud Atlas Sextet; the greed of an energy company causes Rey to start sniffing around; Cavendish flees to Aurora House, unable to pay his client's murderous family, and jokingly wails about how "Soylent Green is made of people!" to the confused residents; fabricants who've served their purpose are a cheap source of protein in Neo-Seoul; Zachry's tribe are routinely at danger of becoming the Kona tribe's dinner. As Goose puts it, "the weak are meat, and the strong do eat."

The Wachowskis are fond of this as a trope. All of their works are about free-spirited individuals fighting against a faceless System, the tide forever bashing against the rocks until it's shaped for the better. Speed Racer sees the title character and his family continuing to race in defiance of a decades-long conspiracy to fix competitions for corporate interests. The Matrix has the faceless Caucasian government agents as servants for a collective of machines leeching humanity of power, while the free people of Zion are multi-racial and full of life. Their script for V for Vendetta has the System in its most primal form - a tyrannical government who rule over every aspect of life, using the outsiders (the blacks, the gays, the foreigners) as lab rats.

Such is the case with Cloud Atlas. Every story has the protagonist fighting against their fate, in bitter refusal that this is how things are meant to be. The most obvious is Somni waking up from a life of drugged ignorance, living as a slave with the hopes of one day reaching the end of her contract, and bringing down the corporate government. It manifests in other ways, however. Frobisher wants to prove to his "Pater" that he can make it on his own, and his attempts to retain the rights to his Sextet lead to him going on the run from the law yet again. Aurora House is a prison, but Cavendish and his motley crew attempt to break out regardless. Ewing's actions lead to Autua becoming a freeman, and he and his wife later announce their intentions to join the abolitionists, a decision that riles his father-in-law: "there is a natural order to this world, and those who try to upend it do not fare well".

This natural order, then, is where those with power prey on those who are weak. Hugo Weaving, in all of his roles, represents this idea in various aspects: an assassin hired by a greedy power company, a sadistic nurse, a bureaucrat, a Nazi (albeit a sympathetic one, characterised more by his unrequited love, though still a representative of assholes with power), a demonic trickster. All of his appearances, from Haskell Moore to the fiendish Ol' Georgie, mark The Way Things Are; even his Nazi commander is resigned to the fact his love for the Jewish Jocasta can never be, because that is the order of things.

IV. Psychography

At its core, Cloud Atlas is the story of one individual as they fight against the establishment to varying degrees of success. This one individual is male and female, old and young, of various classes and races and nationalities and sexualities. This individual is denoted by the presence of a birthmark on their person, in the shape of a comet; it appears on Ewing's chest, Frobisher's lower back, Rey's shoulder, Cavendish's leg, Somni's neck, Zachry's head. There's something very Buddhist about this; the idea of a single soul returning to the mortal coil over and over again evokes samsara, a repeating cycle of reincarnation (across six realms, fittingly enough; six is somewhat important to the narrative).

With that, Mitchell, Tykwer and the Wachowskis manage to have their cake and eat it, crafting a story that's human and intimate, while also being epic on an unprecedented scale - not just in terms of setting, hopping back and forth from post-apocalyptic Hawaii to Edinburgh at the turn of war, but the characters. Cloud Atlas has a large principal cast of thirteen actors (American, British, South Korean, Chinese and Australian) playing multiple roles across all of its six stories, spanning gender and, controversially, race. Tom Hanks is a Scottish hotel manager, an Irish gangster and an American scientist; Halle Berry is a black journalist, a white Jewish socialite, an Indian partygoer, a male Korean doctor; Doona Bae is an American and a Mexican; Hugo Weaving is a woman and a demon; Hugh Grant is a decaying English millionaire and a proud cannibal chieftain.

On a surface level, this racebending is uncomfortable. The film industry does have a reputation for casting white actors in roles meant to be played by non-whites (just look at The Last Airbender, with white kids playing unmistakably Inuit and Tibetan parts, or Johnny Depp and his barely-there Cherokee ancestry as Tonto in The Lone Ranger), and while Cloud Atlas is a German production, it looks guilty of that particular charge. Jim Sturgess as Hae-Joo Chang comes off the worst, though not for lack of effort on the actor's part. He's trying, but stifled by Korean make-up that's just flat-out unconvincing. To be fair, Bae's Caucasian prosthetics and very noticeable contacts are similarly dodgy. In any other film, I would call bullshit, but Cloud Atlas feels genuinely progressive in some ways. Halle Berry can appear in a period movie as someone other than a slave, and Ben Whishaw can play a neglected wife. Given that the film is about eternal recurrence, the idea that all of this has happened before and shall happen again, it makes sense. It's post-racial casting, and is decades - if not centuries - ahead of its time. The day will come when we can legitimately cast actors in roles regardless of race, but sadly that day is not today.

Speaking in terms of acting, this can get distracting; while Hanks is clearly having fun playing a Cockney-Irish brute, you can't escape the fact he's playing a cartoon, and the film will probably earn several rewatches just through games of "Spot-The-Actor". This may be intentional. It's quite jarring seeing Hanks as a kindly scientist and heroic shepherd one minute, then a giggling obsequious doctor and greedy hotel manager the next, and Jim Broadbent going from fun-cantankerous (as Cavendish) to hateful-cantankerous (as Ayrs) (could we call this switch "putting on Ayrs"?), as though the film is blurring the lines between heroism and villainy. Other times, it creates parallels; Sturgess and Bae, when on-screen, play couples, one doomed (Somni and Chang), one saved (Adam and Tilda Ewing). It's gauging your attention, forcing you to look for links. It's the difference between viewing a story as a single thread, and viewing all the stories as forming a tapestry.

The dodgier elements are, thankfully, minor, and rarely the focus of the stories. The central characters are superbly cast: Hanks's Zachry is wonderful even while speaking in a futuristic Creole, a man haunted by the devil on his shoulder but prepared to swallow his fear regardless. As Luisa Rey, Berry is the best she's ever been, tough and warm and sympathetic. Broadbent gets to showcase his skills as a dramatic actor as the scaborous Ayrs, and his comedic side as Cavendish; it probably helps that Cavendish is delightfully pompous and bumbling, rather than the bigoted jerk he is in the book. The stand-out by far, though, has to be Ben Whishaw. He plays Frobisher as arrogant and bullheaded, but thoughtful and bright and full of love: for music, and for his beloved Sixsmith. Whishaw's been one to watch for a while - his lithe build, androgynous beauty and knife-like tongue have seen him play Shakespeare's Ariel, angelic killer Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, and MI6's snide gadgeteer Q, but Cloud Atlas sees him firing on all cylinders, burning with youthful pride and ambition, and is the perfect fit for the most romantic of the six stories.

V. In Concerto

The novel's Matryoshka doll-like structure would have never worked on film, so Tykwer and the Wachowskis went with a different way of presenting the stories. Mitchell referred to it as a "mosaic"; Wikipedia calls it "hyperlink cinema". Examples of the latter description include Paul Thomas Anderson's Magnolia, Fernando Meirelles's City of God, or (more popularly) Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction. It's a type of cinematic storytelling where whole plotlines interlock with each other, often in a nonlinear fashion, where connections between these often disparate stories are gradually revealed.

Cloud Atlas the film operates on the same principle. The audience is given a brief introduction to the status quos of each story, in order, and then cuts between each of them. The main narrative flow is rapidly diverted time and time again, with transitions often handled on-screen; a car in 1975 can turn the corner and the scene would cut to a hovercar in 2144, for instance. Eventually, you begin to see links between them; Somni and Chang consummating their relationship is juxtaposed with Frobisher's dream where he and Sixsmith destroy a china shop in slow-motion. How much is intentional, and how much is us seeing patterns that aren't there, like looking for familiar shapes amidst the clouds? It's the cinematic equivalent of spinning multiple plates; or, maybe more accurately, like a sextet. Each story is a soloist, or a musical phrase, playing in concert with the other stories, adding up to one big symphony.

This is nothing new, fundamentally. Cinematic language has included the Soviet montage technique of intercutting different scenes with each other for quite some time now, and Cloud Atlas isn't even the first to apply Soviet montage to whole storylines, but nothing of this ambition has been seen for a while now. Certainly, very few works transcend time, location, genre, and social categories like race and gender. And there's no sense of Tykwer or the Wachowskis half-arsing it. They believe completely in what they're doing. That's probably what makes it so endearing.

VI. The Great Thought

I mentioned, way back at the start, that cynicism is increasingly prevalent in our society and culture. This isn't to completely disparage it as an outlook. There are times when we need a trickster looking outward at the world and pointing out what's wrong with it, someone with no illusions. The problem is there are so goddamn many of these people in the world. It can give way to a general sense of misanthropy quite easily. And where does that leave you? With the likes of Bret Easton Ellis or Dave Sim, who find it easy to turn their bile onto something, and that's not good company to keep.

I went down that road once. I never want to go down there again. Cynicism and a jaded perspective are cool and all, it's fun to act superior to something (and also why writing a negative review is easier and often more enjoyable than a glowing one), but man, that can be seriously draining. It's like living on absinthe. I've made no secret about the fact that All-Star Superman by Grant Morrison, Frank Quitely and Jamie Grant shaped my belief system, and myself, for the better. In a world that's mostly cruel and chaotic, why would you want more fiction that emphasises that above all else? Not to shun everything dark and serious and weighty altogether, but add a bit more stuff about how good it is to be, well, good.

Cloud Atlas is not a complex thematic work, whatever form the structure takes. The message is very simple: "Doing good is good, doing bad is bad". Some will think it's trite and simplistic, an overtly grandiose, pretentious way of delivering a simple moral lesson. What gives it more weight is that, by mapping out all of human existence over such a broad canvas, Cloud Atlas shows how important altruism and kindness ultimately are. The world is one where power is abused, where those who are weak are routinely preyed upon and devoured. This is true of the natural world, of the concept of "survival of the fittest". So, in a life full of cruelty, the most important thing is to try and be noble.

I can't speak for Tykwer's filmography, but the Wachowskis are very positive filmmakers. The underrated Speed Racer is a big ode to the joys of family, and is shot as a pure kaleidoscope of Technicolor energy intended to get the viewer giddy. The Matrix films are about rejecting a comforting lie in favour of truth, however painful that might be. Even their 1996 effort Bound is about embracing your own identity, and had close involvement from sex-positive feminist Susie Bright, who signed on upon finding the script was full of women enjoying sex without apologising for it. So Cloud Atlas feels right at home with their brand of silly high-concept idealistic filmmaking.

There are moments, yes, when it doesn't completely work, where it falls into camp and is too overstuffed. But an honourable failure is better than a successful mediocrity, and you'll rarely see films as brave and as beautiful as Cloud Atlas.

Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies - "God damn it, you've got to be kind."

Kurt Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater

Drugs, Alcohol or Lies (A 24 Hour Party People review)

Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort. 

Jean Cocteau, "On Invisibility", Diary of an Unknown 

You know your trouble, Tony? You don't know what you are. I fucking know what you are, but you don't know who you are.

Well, my curiosity's got the better of me, Rob. Tell me, what am I?

You're a cunt.

Well, you see, I knew that, you see. That was something I did know. 

Anthony Howard Wilson can be viewed as the patron saint of Manchester, or as the biggest prick to ever crawl out of Salford. Often both. A Cambridge-educated journalist working for Granada Television, he had a reputation for being very intelligent and charismatic, but was also pompous and infuriating. Part of this was intentional - Wilson took delight in "wind(ing) up all the people in Manchester who think I'm a flash cunt", and set out to become the flashiest and the cuntiest of them all.

Wilson was growing bored with the music scene of the 70s when he attended a Sex Pistols gig at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in June 1976, organised by future Buzzcocks frontman Howard Devoto. Forty-two people watched Johnny Rotten stamp and sneer on stage amidst a squall of cheap guitar: Bernard Sumner and Peter Hook, then going by the name Stiff Kittens; Martin Hannett, the future architect of the Manchester sound; Jon the Postman, legendary for jumping on stage and treating all and sundry to his bellowed rendition of "Louie Louie"; Steven Morrissey, the poet laureate for angsty teens the world over. For them, the gig was revolutionary. Here was a new type of music, one anyone could do. If it was good enough for the red-haired tit on stage, it was good enough for them.

This lighting of the blue touch paper is captured in 24 Hour Party People - sort of. Tony Wilson, here played by Steve Coogan, points out all the important players (and Mick Hucknall) in the story, talking about their futures, like how Sumner and Hook go on to become Warsaw, later Joy Division, and how Hannett will try to kill him. He describes the gig to his producer as "history", comparing the small turnout at the Free Trade Hall to that of the guest list at Caesar's assassination. Wilson is obsessed with the idea of creating a new mythology. 24 Hour Party People chronicles how successful he was at that.

...Where Somebody Else Has Gone Before (A Star Trek Into Darkness review)

Poster by Matt Ferguson.

I don't go into films looking for problems. Really, I don't. When you go into a cinema, you're making a pact with whatever's on the silver screen - "I will suspend my disbelief, I will give you the time of day, but only if you give me something truly worthwhile". It's only fair. It's like deliberately looking for the moment when the magician slips something up his sleeve - where's the fun in that? It's better to enjoy the show.

So I went into Star Trek Into Darkness prepared to meet it halfway. I was beyond annoyed by the marketing constantly teasing the identity of Benedict Cumberbatch's villain, even though everyone and their mother and their mother's friend Jean knew who it was. But then I remembered how much I liked the previous film from 2009, which managed to soar despite a shoddy script, purely through the strength of its cast and JJ Abrams being a pretty damn fine action director. I wasn't expecting a masterpiece, I just wanted a fun little popcorn movie.

I got that movie only on the most superficial level. Star Trek Into Darkness is a film that just flat out doesn't work anywhere else.

(WARNING: This review will contain spoilers, so if you haven't seen the film, I'm sorry, but turn back now. There's no way of discussing all the bullshit that happens without doing so; it's vacuum-packed bullshit. They're clever like that.)