Surely you've noticed by now that the dominant science fiction vision of the future make it plain that, in so many words, the world of tomorrow ain't bright. No "Jetsons"-style age awaits us, with the exception, possibly, of flying cars and robot housekeepers. But the take Ridley Scott realized in 1982's "Blade Runner" feels increasingly likely nowadays, what with the widening gulf between the richest of the rich and the rest of us.
Netflix's "Altered Carbon," debuting its 10-episode first season on Friday, emulates the look and feel of Scott's sci-fi classic down to the grimy streets teeming with unwashed civilians, beckoning holograms and the lure of flesh and cheap thrills. Even the daytime scenes have a dimness to them.
Audiences may readily accept this construct because it's been imitated in countless science fiction films and series over the ensuing 36 years since the theatrical release of "Blade Runner," but also because given the direction the world is heading in, a dark, impersonal and highly automated future feels pretty likely.
One Percenters already live above us all, sequestering themselves in penthouses and exclusive communities removed from the scarcity and struggle with which the bulk of humanity lives. As time passes, those luxury buildings climb ever higher, tall enough to block out the sun, making even rays of natural light a luxury affordable only to the wealthiest. Earth-bound remnants of mankind, meanwhile, get splattered with rain and air conditioner moisture on streets illuminated by crass neon signage.
Most of that paragraph describes the world presented in "Altered Carbon," by the way. Not ours. Yet.
But if the world reflected in Laeta Kalogridis' series does come to pass, you might want to sign up for some weapons training and invest in penny stocks. Just because "Altered Carbon" wears its influences like flair on its collar doesn't mean the show isn't fun. On the contrary, it's nearly audacious in its conscientious effort to pander to fans of "The Matrix" and "Fifth Element" and may have been left wanting by "Blade Runner 2049." For "Altered Carbon," Kalogridis has created a perfect serialized action piece for the sci-fi addict: part-revolution tale, part-romance, with the kind of bitchy intrigue usually seen in shows like "Dynasty."
In "Altered Carbon," mankind has achieved a sort of synthesized extension of lifespan via devices called stacks. Consciousness is downloaded into these small devices through our lifetimes and can be transferred into new bodies, called sleeves, when our old flesh gives out. The quality of sleeves most receive depends on one's resources, leading to instances in which the maturity, cultural identity or experiences of a consciousness does not match the body into which it is re-sleeved.
Such is the case with Takeshi Kovacs, an elite soldier with a Japanese mother re-activated in Bay City, a San Francisco-esque city after a 250-year slumber wearing the body of a white guy played by Joel Kinnaman. Initially this bears uncomfortable similarities to the kind of whitewashing perpetuated in the live-action version of "Ghost in the Shell," but Kinnaman's version of Kovacs has an explanation beyond "this star will sell this series."
Responsible for Kovacs' resurrection is the astronomically wealthy Laurens Bancroft (James Purefoy, at his most sinister and patrician), who charges Kovacs with solving his murder. If a stack is destroyed, as Bancroft's was, that's the end of a person's life unless they have the means to back up their consciousness elsewhere, ready to be implanted into their clones (again, something only the richest of the rich can afford) whenever the need arises.
Richard K. Morgan originated this concept in the 2002 novel that inspires the series, and it lends itself to its own version of existential examination. Religious exceptions can be made to the mandatory re-sleeving process, predicated on the belief that the soul should be released to continue on to heaven.
On the other side of this is Bancroft's economic class, known as "Meths" (named for the centuries-old biblical figure Methuselah), who can afford to live for hundreds of years, securing lasting wealth in their families while doing so. Bancroft and his ilk have convinced themselves and the worlds that they are god, and their endless resources and technologically-assisted immortality combined with just enough of an appearance of charity does manage to secure them followers. To them the world is divided between those who have and those they can use.
Apropos of this vision, the majority of the female characters in "Altered Carbon" fall into two categories: they're either warriors hardened enough to survive this world or pliant flesh to serve the fantasies of rough and careless men. Even Bancroft's wife Miriam (Kristin Lehman) has a state-of-the-art sleeve built to optimize pleasure, not to mention a wardrobe designed to let the world know she has no love for underwear.
These themes are nothing new to the genre, but "Altered Carbon" has the keen sense to weave them into a character-driven mystery that commands the attention it requires. The major quibble a person might have with the series, besides the obvious lifts from Scott and Philip K. Dick, is that it introduces a veritable mall's worth characters involve in so many subplots that at times, it's tough to keep track.
Even the core characters get shorted at times, particularly Martha Higareda's Bay City detective Kristin Ortega who takes an immediate interest in Kovacs and his relationship to Bancroft. Ortega is one of many characters representing a multilingual, ethnically-blended future (also inevitable at this point) and articulates the philosophical and ethical challenges inherent in the conflict between religion and technology. It's impossible to solve murders if the only witness is a victim whose beliefs prevent their stacks from being activated.
But Higareda does a serviceable job with a character that spends most of her time being frustrated and angry. Renee Elise Goldsberry has richer material to work with as Kovacs' lover and combat mentor who lives on in his memories but receives extensive development in a late-season flashback episode that explains the origins of Kovacs and his fellow Envoys, the rebel outfit with which he fought and where he received the superior training Bancroft is keen to exploit.
Kinnaman assumes many of the characteristics as Harrison Ford's world-weary "Blade Runner" hero Rick Deckard, a character that, in turn, was built upon the construct of any number of hardboiled black-and-white detectives.
This battened down personality is a bit of a departure from Kinnaman's work in "The Killing," but it also calls upon his ability to express through minor shadings in affect as opposed to what he says, appropriate to a character yanked from his own life and shoved into the skin of another man. Kovacs' original personality is portrayed by Will Yun Lee, who has access to a wider emotional palette suitable for a man still growing into the skin he was born in — and who loses much in his first life.
Other characters get to have more fun, adding a necessary lightness to a season that teeters on the borderline between noir and full-blown melancholia for most of its run. Chris Conner's Poe, the artificially intelligence serving as the proprietor of a formerly glamorous hotel Kovacs uses as his home base, is designed to win the viewer's affection and quickly succeeds. Dichen Lachman, as a prominent player in Kovacs past, gets a chance to stretch her action chops as well.
Elements of the season's arc are propelled and resolved by a few mildly irritating deus ex machina shenanigans that are only partly justified. By the time those surface in the season, though, most people will be well past caring about those tidbits as long as they bring the case to a defensible conclusion which, it must be said, they do.
The roads that "Altered Carbon" takes to its destination aren't new but enough of us have enjoyed previous versions of these trips to appreciate this version of the ride. Some incarnations of speculative fiction repeat time and again because they make sense to us. Besides, science fiction inspires reality as much as reality informs fiction. Should our collective destiny involve a descent into murkiness, there may be hope in the idea of extending time to course correct, to get a do-over.
"Altered Carbon" probably won't inspire many people to live forever, regardless of its fantasy of infinite wealth and impunity. But it's entertaining enough to allow fantasies about the "what ifs" of a second season, and for a number of us, knowing that much about what's coming should be adequate.
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