Cloud Atlas

It’s happened again. I’ve encountered a book that I can’t shake. Only this time, my reading of the novel was three years ago, and the troubles it caused me were dredged back to the surface of my mind after I watched the film adaptation.

Cloud Atlas

Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell features six connected though incomplete stories of people than span generations and locations. First, we are introduced to Adam Ewing, a lawyer in the 1850s overseeing his father-in-law’s potential slave acquisition. The second follows Robert Frobisher, an aspiring composer of the 1930s working as an amanuensis to the successful Vyvyan Ayrs. We then move to the 1970s as journalist Luisa Rey begins to uncover a story about a power plant. Then, to 2012 in which publishing guru Timothy Cavendish has to cope with the outlandish behavior of one of his authors. In the future, we meet Somni-451, a genetically-engineered clone living in a dystopia. Finally, Zachry from the very distant future comes into play.

I can’t give away the plot. This isn’t a spoilers thing; this is a Roz-is-not-competent=enough-to-even-begin-to-concisely-explain-this kind of thing. Let’s just say that it is delicately interwoven and a little confusing. But don’t let that scare you away. If I got through it, you can, too.

So, why am I haunted by the book after just having watched the movie? Well, the movie harkened back to my reading of the novel, which happened on a family road trip. As the film was playing, I was having flashbacks. I could have told you exactly which part of the flat, flat plains I was traveling on when certain events happened in the book. For some reason, it has really stuck with me. I have to imagine that has a lot to do with the message of the book. Again, this is one of those things I can’t explicate, not because I don’t want to but because I really can’t. I’m not sure what I took away exactly. I mean, sure, I got the major thematic elements, but I have a lingering feeling that Mitchell had more to say. That “more” was just a little better hidden than the surface messages were.

So, instead, I’ll just tell you what I enjoyed about the book. I enjoyed the six interweaving stories. There’s a tale in here for everyone. My favorite was Robert Frobisher – played by the incredible, uber-talented Ben Whishaw in the movie, by the way. Most of the stories are heavy for one reason or another. My second favorite, the story featuring Timothy Cavendish, is deliciously hilarious and relatively uncomplicated. It’s like reaching an oasis after days of desert travel.

I also appreciated the varied writing styles Mitchell used for the differing stories. The most prominent change was in the language. Each generation of characters had a distinct speech pattern. In Zachry’s story, the dialogue was so unique that it took me a while to even figure out what was being said – think Creole or pidgin.

Possibly the part of the novel that has me most confounded is the musical piece that gives the book its title. My favorite Robert Frobisher writes a piece called “Cloud Atlas,” and I find myself incapable of imagining exactly what that would sound like. The piece in the film is fine but not great. I wonder if you’ve read it, what kind of musical piece did you imagine?

Much Ado About Joss Whedon

Courtesy of IMDB

I love the thought behind Joss Whedon’s Much Ado About Nothing.

The black and white was a classic choice. The effort to make Shakespeare more appealing to modern audiences is noble. The fun story behind the secret, 12-day shoot at Whedon’s house with his friends and family sounds like the best time.

The reality of the movie, however, was a slightly different story.

It just fell a little flat – literally. There was so much awkward physical comedy sprinkled throughout the film that it began to feel more like a Buster Keaton short than a Shakespearean adaptation. As my friend and fellow audience member aptly stated, “It was like they were screaming, ‘This is Shakespeare! And it’s modern and enjoyable!'”

Whedon’s favorites were out to play, and some were at their best. Amy Acker was a particularly biting Beatrice, playing her scenes with great wit and tenderness. I don’t love Alexis Denisof, but he got the job done. Nathan Fillion played Dogberry as a parody of every over-dramatic cop, which was wonderfully entertaining though not as gut-bustingly funny as I’m sure he and Whedon hoped it would be. Clark Gregg can illicit very different responses from me; sometimes, I find him endearing, but just sometimes. Sean Maher was a particularly villainous Don John. He was dark, brooding, conniving and every once in a while looked like John Malkovich. I appreciated all four of those things.

For a 12 day shoot, the movie was well constructed. The black and white lent it a clean, polished look that was only interrupted by the realization that they were filming in Whedon’s actual house. (If you were to ask me how I feel about seeing his daughters’ stuffed animals in a shot, my response would include the words ‘weird,” “awkward” and “strange.”) I recall a few particularly artsy and dramatic camera angles, as well. The music was written by Joss and Jed Whedon. I was impressed by their pieces, particularly “Sigh No More,” which is not to be confused with the Mumford & Sons song of the same title.

This movie is what I hope Hollywood will soon become: passion projects that involve talented people doing their finest work in a fun atmosphere. From my seat in the theater, I could tell they had a great time creating the movie, even though it left a little to be desired.