Tree Of Life: Malick Writes A Fine Poem

A few days ago I stumbled upon an old New Yorker article by Jonathan Franzen about his reading experiences with the famously difficult, postmodern novelist William Gaddis. Franzen theorized that a reader can treat a novel two ways: according to either the Status model or the Contract model. These models boil down to the distinction between Elitism vs. Populism, the distinction (for some) between Jane Austen and Stephanie Meyer or Philip Glass and The Beatles. The Contract model asks the reader only to read the page; the Status model usually asks for substantially more than that. The Status model (think of any famously “difficult” novel [or piece of art or film or play, etc.]) mostly wants the reader to think.

Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain in Malick's The Tree of Life; via amctheatres.com

Thought, of course, is not always something that the audience wants to do. This seems to particularly be the case with film. Somehow, we often seem programmed to expect film not to engage us in the same way we might expect Virginia Woolf or Samuel Beckett to engage us. Film seems to ask nothing of us other than just to sit and watch. Graham Clarke points out in his excellent book The Photograph that these expectations are probably born out of the historical associations with recording and documentation that we have placed on photography and film. But, I suspect, it is not only this that causes us trouble, but also the very fundamental nature of film itself—images from the real world set in motion.

The modern/postmodern side of this argument would revolve around the notion that life—the “real world”—is, in fact, nothing like the films we watch. Life is a complex, endlessly disorienting experience with new information flying at us every second of every day. Life has no plot and no easy-to-list cast of characters. And yet we understand life through plots—endless varieties of them. We make sense of life’s cacophony by arranging all these errant details into understandable movements of characters and situations. (We may not always know the motive, but we can sure supply it.) So when we sit down and watch a film, we usually expect that the director has done this job for us. 

~

But some films want us to share part of that job. It’s not an indicator of lazy filmmaking, but it certainly can be. My most maddening experiences as a filmgoer have been when the director has all the right details but no sure method of putting them in place the right way. And, for whatever reason, he can’t just leave them be and expect the postmodern crowd to fall in love with it. The first example that comes to mind is Cameron Crowe’s Elizabethtown. Crowe has all these fine little moments, snatches of conversation, picturesque images, but fails to adequately place them.

I must admit that this is an argument without end; please jump to the Comment section below if you’ve more to add. For instance, my current thesis seems to provide filmmakers with a pretty stark fork in the road: either plot it out or don’t bother. Of course, I don’t mean to make it so black and white. It would be better to suggest varying levels of “plotting” (at this point, I seem to be heading towards more of a how-to-arrange-the-story Russian Formalist argument, which is a just a pain) instead of this fork in the road methodology. To hell with it.

~

Regardless of exactly where my argument ends up, Terrence Malick’s Tree Of Life is one of those films with no conventional plot or narrative. Over nearly two and a half hours, Malick portrays in vivid detail the childhood of Jack (Hunter McCracken) in suburban Texas. The characters have conversations, but none of them help us envision an organized plot. There are voiceovers (four of them), sometimes overlapping with one another, but they aren’t much help either.

You’ll notice that I’m painting a rather bleak portrait. So why is it, exactly, that we should care about this film?

For starters, it is beautiful. I don’t mean “touching” or “poignant” (although it is those as well), but “aesthetically pleasing.” More often than not, most audiences don’t pay attention to how a film looks. Some films look pretty awful. While you know a Western is a Western from the first shot, you can also probably tell whether it’s a John Ford film or any one of his countless imitators. Malick stands out from other filmmakers for the pure beauty of his imagery. We all knew that he was capable of shots of tremendous beauty (see an earlier post about Days of Heaven), but this film is exceptional. I have no doubt that in some circles it will be held as some of the most beautiful photography and cinematography work of all time. 

Chastain in the desert in The Tree of Life; via wordpress.com

But the images, of course, are more than images. They amount into the kind of details that I was discussing beforehand. Taking these details, Malick has fashioned himself a visual poem as opposed to a plotted film. Working with a labyrinth of repeating images and motifs—including windows, trees (duh), lawns, gardens, reflective skyscrapers, deserts, lights being turned off, and water—Malick has directed a poem as far as I’m concerned. But maybe “poem” isn’t quite strong enough. Walking out of the theater, the idea of the film being symphony also struck me. Although the film has no plot to speak of, it does have an underlying structure—moving back and forth from Jack’s childhood to Jack’s present (where he is played by Sean Penn in a striking minimalist performance) and even an interlude that shows the history of the Earth from the Big Bang to the dinosaurs.

~

People had problems with this part. There were audible groans from the audience with every new image (an eclipse of the sun by the Earth, volcanoes running over with lava); people sighed when the opera music petered out and the voiceover of Mrs. O’Brien [Jessica Chastain] began again. I think it’s a given that a Big Bang interlude in any film would feel overwrought. But Malick’s inclusion of this “movement” served to shift Jack’s story out of suburban 1950s Texas and into a universal (read: literally universal) backdrop. Malick does no less than compare human life with the formation of the universe, in all its violence and chaos and even forgiveness (when one dinosaur steps on the head of another, but then lets it go). It may be somewhat of a head-trip—maybe even an ego-trip on the part of Malick, knowing that he could get away with it—but it finds a way to work.

The emotional weight of every moment afterward in the film felt full and tangible because of that wild juxtaposition. When Jack forgives his father (“It’s your house”) I stopped breathing. When Jack’s father half-admits failure, time grinds to a halt. And when Mrs. O’Brien’s voiceover reveals the films epiphany, I felt in awe. “Unless you love, your life will flash by.” How uniquely human that sentiment is.

At this point, I’m thinking that a second viewing would probably be both welcome and helpful. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, firstly, don’t expect a plot and, secondly, don’t be scared by such an absence.