Television Review: Altered Carbon (Season 1, 2018)

The golden age of television has brought audiences content they could previously only dream of, but has consequently presented its creators with equally unimaginable challenges. A prime example is Game of Thrones, undoubtedly the most popular TV series of 2010s, whose integration into contemporary popular culture—amplified by social media—has become an ideal that every creator of another series consciously or unconsciously strives to emulate. This is particularly true among science fiction enthusiasts, who regard series of this genre, not least due to the budgetary demands of crafting alternative realities, as the most credible challengers and successors to HBO’s mega-hit. How difficult this ideal is to achieve is perhaps best illustrated by The Expanse, once hailed as Game of Thrones’ most promising rival, which had to scramble for survival after merely three seasons. Another serious contender, though few currently acknowledge it as such, is Altered Carbon, produced by Netflix, whose first season premiered in 2018.

The series is based on Richard K. Morgan’s award-winning novel of the same name, published in Croatia under the title Digital Carbon. Set in the relatively distant future—specifically the year 2384—it depicts a humanity that has successfully colonised other planets. The most significant technological breakthrough, rooted in artefacts left by long-vanished extraterrestrials, is a device enabling literal immortality. A person’s consciousness can be stored in a “stack,” a specialised capsule implanted in the spine, which, upon bodily death, can be extracted and inserted into a new body known as a “sleeve.” The protagonist, portrayed by Joel Kinnaman, is Takeshi Kovacs, a professional assassin and former elite soldier whose “stack” was placed into permanent cold storage following his arrest. After a quarter of a century, he is revived in San Francisco—implanted into a new “sleeve”—a feat orchestrated by Laurence Bancroft (James Purefoy), a “Meth,” i.e., a member of the wealthy super-elite who can afford to purchase new “sleeves” and, effectively, eternal life. In return, Bancroft enlists Kovacs to investigate his own murder, the permanent consequences of which were averted only by a hidden backup copy of his “stack.” Kovacs accepts the task, even as San Francisco and the wider world have become unrecognisable over the intervening centuries. His investigation unfolds alongside police detective Kristin Ortega’s (Martha Higareda) efforts to solve an unsolved murder case involving a girl she suspects is linked to the legally untouchable “Meths,” while Kovacs himself confronts his traumatic past tied to a revolutionary movement led by the charismatic Quellcrist Falconer (Renee Elise Goldsberry).

Netflix positioned Altered Carbon as a Game of Thrones contender largely through its substantial budget, visible in every one of the ten episodes of first season. This stems from its unusual genre fusion of space opera and cyberpunk, with parts of the narrative—primarily Kovacs’ flashbacks detailing his life—unfolding on alien worlds. However, audiences are likely more captivated by Kovacs’ present-day storyline, set in a sprawling futuristic megalopolis that, while featuring the iconic Golden Gate Bridge, bears a far stronger resemblance to the Los Angeles depicted in Blade Runner. The resemblance to Ridley Scott’s film (the primary visual blueprint for cyberpunk subculture) extends beyond set design and costumes to certain shots that appear lifted directly from the movie, as well as the use of voiceover narration by the protagonist to guide viewers through the plot, mirroring the original 1982 version of Blade Runner. This imbues Altered Carbon with an additional dimension, blending elements of classic and unconventional film noir. For viewers less invested in cinematic heritage, the series will likely be remembered more for its generous servings of exploitative content, in line with the uncensored norms of television’s golden age. This includes numerous scenes of spectacular combat featuring futuristic firearms and melee weapons, alongside graphic depictions of their effects on the human body—decapitations, mutilations, and attempts to render death permanent by destroying a “stack.” Naturally, the formula also encompasses several relatively explicit sex scenes and nudity, with nearly all major female characters appearing unclothed; James Purefoy, however, upholds the modesty of the male gender in this regard, baring his body for television audiences thirteen years after his role in Rome. The series even combines these elements in one of its most striking scenes: a bloody confrontation involving recently revived, naked “sleeves.”

The creators, meanwhile, justify such content as mere “icing” atop something ostensibly deeper and more serious. Altered Carbon attempts to grapple with intriguing questions about human identity, speculating how a future super-technological society might evolve—solving old problems while creating new ones, as history has repeatedly shown. Netflix’s series portrays a world where immortality is attainable but has become, both accidentally and deliberately, a luxury reserved for a tiny elite. This immortality enables unimaginable accumulation of capital and social power, while tempting the “Meths” to succumb to extreme decadence and depravity in their battle against millennia-long boredom. The series also explores how those lower down the social ladder might adapt to such a reality, as well as the potential impact of immortality technology on religion. Yet, in depicting this distant future, Altered Carbon succumbs to present-day unspoken canons of “political correctness,” making its antagonists—and thus the mystery to be solved—easily identifiable by how closely they conform to the archetype of the white heterosexual male.

One of the greatest ironies here is that the protagonist himself fits this archetype—yet, in fact, he does not. Thanks to flashbacks, Kovacs appears in no fewer than four incarnations—three distinct “sleeves”—portrayed by four different actors alongside Kinnaman. The most compelling is Will Yun Lee as the “original” Takeshi Kovacs, whom some critics argue should have assumed the lead role from Kinnaman. This effect stems largely from script confusion, particularly the clumsy explanation of “stack” technology and the mechanics of multiple identities. After a few episodes, Altered Carbon largely resolves these issues; the flashback episode detailing Kovacs’ past life, for instance, ranks among the series’ strongest. The finale, however, like many contemporary shows, drags unnecessarily across at least one superfluous episode, and its epilogue feels anticlimactic. What ultimately salvages the project is less its overall quality or even standout moments—such as the brilliantly portrayed AI-run hotel character by the relatively unknown but exceptional Chris Conner—than the glimpses of untapped potential still lingering beneath the surface.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

(Note: The text in the original Croatian version is available here

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