I can appreciate a piece of art, even if it’s not to my particular taste. And sometimes, it’s clear when an artist’s aims or goals were simply beyond his ability. Do we fault the artist for having a reach that far exceeds their grasp? For having the desire to express some great universal truth, and yet not having the capability of bringing his vision to bear? Where is the line drawn where we can acknowledge something as a work of art, and yet at the same time admit that it is a pure mess? All of these questions are relevant in a discussion of Terrence Malick’s film “The Tree of Life”.
On the credit side of the column, the film has some stunningly beautiful images of nature, and when I say stunningly beautiful, I mean that sincerely. These scenes showcase Malick’s talent as a visual filmmaker, a sort of director/poet, who takes the camera into places that other directors might not have the audacity or the nerve to go into. There is the scent of Kubrick in his visuals. It’s hard not to be moved by the beauty of the direction and camerawork here, and I applaud his efforts at creating a beautiful visual palette for the film.
Secondly, there are pieces of the domestic drama of the young sons growing up in a family led by strict father Brad Pitt and loving mother Jessica Chastain that are so true in their realism as to be almost painful, for myself at least. These scenes showcase the talent of Pitt and Chastain, and especially the cast of young actors, and Malick’s talent as a writer and director of intimate scenes between people. Chastain is especially impressive, as hers is a largely silent role, and yet the camera lingers so lovingly on her that she becomes the epitome of “mother”.
If you could extract the finely drawn scenes involving the family, separating them from Malick’s grand vision of God, nature, and the universe (which seems to be his theme), you might have a very well-crafted movie. Yet, it is the intrusion of the mystical, the fantastic, and the overwhelming that left me feeling exhausted. Much of the dialogue is whispered, as if in prayer, and you must strain to hear what is being said. I did strain to hear, because I wanted to hear what Malick had to say about all the great questions of life; something I needed to hear about faith, and love, and loss.
And then there were dinosaurs. Perhaps they were meant to be metaphoric, but there they were on the screen, actual dinosaurs like from “Jurassic Park”. This is the point where I felt that Malick took a huge misstep. I had stretched my mind around the grandiosity of his earlier images, and the silent passages, and the family narrative, but finally grew exhausted by Malick’s schizophrenic filmmaking style; it was simply too much for me, and whatever statement he was trying to make about the meaning of life (if that was indeed his thought) was lost somewhere between the majesty and the quiet.
I’ve struggled for the past two days over what I wanted to say about this film, and I’m still not sure about my feelings. Perhaps that in itself is a mark of what an artistic dilemma “The Tree of Life” inspired within me. I’m not convinced that it’s a great film. While I do admire certain things within the film, very highly, overall I don’t feel that the blend was a success. I give the man props for attempting something like this, but in the end, I feel it was just a lot of bluster and pomp that weighed down what should’ve been a simple story about growing up, fathers and sons, brothers, and faith. As it stands, “The Tree of Life” is one hell of a glorious failure.
No comments:
Post a Comment