Reviewed: To the Wonder and Cloud Atlas

We are the world.

To the Wonder (12A); Cloud Atlas (15)
dir: Terrence Malick; dir: Tom Tykwer
Andy Wachowski, Lana Wachowski

While watching To the Wonder, it’s important to determine whether the film is artistically and intellectually derelict or if its director, Terrence Malick, responsible for a handful of modern masterpieces, simply has further to fall than most. In the spirit of this wishy-washy movie, I’d say it’s a bit of both. The Malick ingredients are all here: soaring choral music with invocations of divinity, the emphasis on nature and light, lots of elliptical editing and fragmented narration. But when one discontented character observes wanly: “There’s something missing,” it’s as though the movie is giving itself a three-word review.

While the viewer grapples with a loss of faith in the director’s methods, the film touches on other kinds of crises. Marina (Olga Kurylenko) has left Paris to live in Oklahoma with her lover, Neil (Ben Affleck). Not that she has forsaken her inner Amélie; all the adults here are like children, gazing at the sky or engrossed in play – spinning one another around in the street, crawling through leaves, listening to each other’s heartbeats. No one expects characters in a Malick film to be shown unblocking the toilet but this insistence on the whimsical infantilises them.

Eventually Marina realises she has fallen out of love with love and seeks the counsel of Father Quintana (Javier Bardem), who is himself experiencing a crisis of faith. “How has hate come to take the place of love?” Marina sighs in one of the breathy voiceovers that replace dialogue so fully that no one ever exchanges more than an occasional word. In this context, we feel grateful for anything tangible, such as when Neil and Marina’s blissful courtship gives way to tantrums, or when Neil angrily smashes his jeep’s wing mirror. (It’s restored to its original state a second later – presumably divine intervention rather than a boring old continuity error.)

Malick’s storytelling style has often resembled a slideshow of snapshots held together by a cumulative emotional potency. But characterisation and meaning are so opaque in To the Wonder that the film never feels any deeper than a photo-strip love story, albeit one published in American Cinematographer magazine rather than Jackie or My Guy. It was to be expected that Malick and his cinematographer, Emmanuel Lubezki, would conjure up rhapsodic imagery: the sun flashing stroboscopically through the spoke-like legs of a cartwheeling child; a prisoner’s thick, tattooed forearms draped on the sill of his cell like dozing boa constrictors. Even here, though, Malick is not immune to the banal. The fingertips-trailing-through-wheatfields shot was already a cliché when Ridley Scott used it in Gladiator. The swooping Steadicam that felt fresh in Malick’s last film, The Tree of Life, has hardened into mannerism.

Something has happened to this director’s work since he lost interest in the friction between sound and image from his first three films (Badlands, Days of Heaven, The Thin Red Line), where the dislocated narration went against the grain of the lyrical photography. With it has gone the tautness of his vision. A film doesn’t necessarily need solidity but in the absence of momentum it does require philosophical weight, and To the Wonder is as ephemeral as dandelion spores.

What a rum state of affairs it is when a new Malick picture can be eclipsed in the audacity stakes by a movie from the siblings responsible for the Matrix trilogy. Andy and Lana (formerly Larry) Wachowski have divvied up the directing duties with Tom Tykwer (Run Lola Run) on their adaptation of David Mitchell’s sprawling novel Cloud Atlas. It’s far from perfect but then a certain amount of unevenness is to be expected from a three-hour film that intercuts six stories whose settings include the South Pacific in the mid-19th century, 1970s San Francisco and a savage island civilisation 106 winters after the Fall, possibly on a Thursday. Cloud Atlas spans genres, too, incorporating science fiction, espionage, farce and several love stories; the casting is no less elastic. Tom Hanks takes on six parts, including a nuclear-power whistleblower, an Irish thug-turned-novelist who hurls a critic off a rooftop and an actor starring as a fictionalised version of a professor played earlier in the movie by Jim Broadbent. (Do keep up at the back.) Hugh Grant’s roles include a curlyhaired, runny-eyed Cockney gangster and a futuristic warlord; Ben Whishaw and Hugo Weaving get to hop back and forth across the gender divide. The whole shebang is like fancy-dress day at Rada.

It isn’t clear that this mix-and-match casting adds up to anything more than a guessing game for the audience à la The List of Adrian Messenger (where Frank Sinatra, Tony Curtis and Robert Mitchum appeared in disguise). Certainly the intended message that these are the same souls at different phases of evolution gets obscured. The rapid movement between the different plot lines emphasises parallels between characters divided by oceans and millennia even as it risks turning Cloud Atlas into a restless trailer for itself. But the sweep of the film, its naive charm and compassion, is intoxicating. I wasn’t bored.

A still from "Cloud Atlas".

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 25 February 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The cheap food delusion

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Bohemian rhapsody: Jeanette Winterson’s “cover version” of The Winter’s Tale

 Jeanette Winterson's The Gap of Time is full of metaphorical riches.

Shakespeare – that magpie plunderer of other people’s plots and characters – would undoubtedly have approved. The Hogarth Shakespeare project invites prominent contemporary writers to rework his plays in novelistic form and this is Jeanette Winterson’s reimagining of The Winter’s Tale. Like the original, it shuttles disturbingly between worlds, cultures and emotional registers. It has never been an easy play, for all its apparent focus on reconciliation, and Winterson handles the gear-changes with skill, moving between the offices of Sicilia, a London-based asset-stripping company, and New Bohemia, a New Orleans-like American urban landscape (with interludes in both a virtual and a real Paris).

Her Leontes is a hedge-fund speculator, Polixenes a visionary designer of screen games (the presence of this world echoes the unsettling semi-magic of Shakespeare’s plot). They have a brief and uncomfortable history as teenage lovers at school and Polixenes – Xeno – has also slept with MiMi (Hermione), the French-American singer who eventually marries Leo.

The story unfolds very much as in the play (though Winterson cannot quite reproduce the effect of Shakespeare’s best-known deadpan stage direction), with Leo using advanced surveillance technology to spy on Xeno and MiMi, and Perdita being spirited away across the Atlantic to the US, where her guardian, Tony, is mugged and killed and she is left in the “baby hatch” of a local hospital – to be found by Shep and his son and brought up in their affectionate, chaotic African-American household. Perdita falls in love with Zel, the estranged son of Xeno, discovers her parentage, returns to London and meets Leo; Leo’s PA, Pauline, has kept in contact across the years with MiMi, a recluse in Paris, and persuades her to return secretly to give a surprise performance at the Roundhouse, when Leo is in the audience, and – well, as in the play, the ending is both definitive and enormously unsettling. “So we leave them now, in the theatre, with the music. I was sitting at the back, waiting to see what would happen.”

That last touch, bringing the author into the narrative in the same apparently arbitrary way we find in a text such as Dostoevsky’s Demons – as a “real” but imperfect witness – gently underlines the personal importance of the play to this particular author. Winterson is explicit about the resonance of this drama for an adopted child and one of the finest passages in the book is a two-page meditation on losing and finding: a process she speculates began with the primordial moment of the moon’s separation from the earth, a lost partner, “pale, lonely, watchful, present, unsocial, inspired. Earth’s autistic twin.”

It is the deep foundation of all the stories of lost paradises and voyages away from home. As the moon controls the tides, balances the earth’s motion by its gravitational pull, so the sense of what is lost pervades every serious, every heart-involving moment of our lives. It is a beautifully worked conceit, a fertile metaphor. The story of a child lost and found is a way of sounding the depths of human imagination, as if all our longing and emotional pain were a consequence of some buried sense of being separated from a home that we can’t ever ­remember. If tragedy is the attempt to tell the story of loss without collapse, all story­telling has some dimension of the tragic, reaching for what is for ever separated by the “gap of time”.

Winterson’s text is full of metaphorical riches. She writes with acute visual sensibility (from the first pages, with their description of a hailstorm in a city street) and this is one of the book’s best things. There are also plenty of incidental felicities: Xeno is designing a game in which time can be arrested, put on hold, accelerated, and so on, and the narrative exhibits something of this shuttling and mixing – most effectively in the 130-page pause between the moment when Milo (Shakespeare’s Mamilius, Leo’s and MiMi’s son) slips away from his father at an airport and the fatal accident that follows. In the play, Mamilius’s death is a disturbing silence behind the rest of the drama, never alluded to, never healed or reconciled; here, Milo’s absence in this long “gap of time” sustains a pedal of unease that has rather the same effect and the revelation of his death, picking up the narrative exactly where it had broken off, is both unsurprising and shocking.

Recurrent motifs are handled with subtlety, especially the theme of “falling”; a song of MiMi’s alludes to Gérard de Nerval’s image of an angel falling into the gap between houses in Paris, not being able to fly away without destroying the street and withering into death. The convergence and crucial difference between falling and failing, falling in love and the “fall” of the human race – all these are woven together hauntingly, reflecting, perhaps, Shakespeare’s exploration in the play of Leontes’s terror of the physical, of the final fall into time and flesh that unreserved love represents.

A book of considerable beauty, then, if not without its problems. MiMi somehow lacks the full angry dignity of Hermione and Leo is a bit too much of a caricature of the heartless, hyper-masculine City trader. His psychoanalyst is a cartoon figure and Pauline’s Yiddish folksiness – although flagged in the text as consciously exaggerated – is a bit overdone.

How a contemporary version can fully handle the pitch of the uncanny in Shakespeare’s final scene, with the “reanimation” of Hermione, is anyone’s guess (the Bible is not wrong to associate the earliest story of the resurrection with terror as much as joy). Winterson does a valiant job and passes seamlessly into a moving and intensely suggestive ending but I was not quite convinced on first reading that her reanimation had done justice to the original.

However, weigh against this the real success of the New Bohemia scenes as a thoroughly convincing modern “pastoral” and the equally successful use of Xeno’s creation of virtual worlds in his games as a way of underlining Shakespeare’s strong hints in the play that art, with its aura of transgression, excess, forbidden magic, and so on, may be our only route to nature. Dream, surprise and new creation are what tell us what is actually there, if only we could see. Winterson’s fiction is a fine invitation into this deeply Shakespearean vision of imagination as the best kind of truth-telling.

Rowan Williams is a New Statesman contributing writer. His most recent book is “The Edge of Words: God and the Habits of Language” (Bloomsbury). The Gap of Time by Jeanette Winterson is published by Vintage (320pp, £16.99)

Rowan Williams is an Anglican prelate, theologian and poet, who was Archbishop of Canterbury from 2002 to 2012. He writes on books for the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 01 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Tory tide