By Stephanie Zacharek
By Simon Abrams
By Michelle Orange
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Nick Schager
By Amy Nicholson
By The Invisible Woman
By I Used to Be Darker
Including glimpses of Sleeping Beauty in her glass coffin, the rings of Saturn and a roadside Texas BBQ, Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life bears forth a variety of forms — and invites as many reactions. You may feel amazed or muddled, softly spoken to or simply abandoned while watching it; in any case, you shouldn't wait for the DVD. Better than a masterpiece — whatever that is — The Tree of Life is an eruption of a movie, something to live with, think about and talk about afterward.
The film begins with the O'Briens (Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain) receiving news of their teenage son's death, their grief echoing through perplexing shot sequences and sparse dialogue. It's enough to confirm the scuttlebutt that The Tree of Life will be the most unorthodox Hollywood drama in many moons — and then the film's perspective switches to Hubble for a vision of the birth of the universe. From a nebulous "In the Beginning..." to the first articulations of life on Earth and the reign and extinction of the dinosaurs, this silent, self-contained sequence was conceived in collaboration with pre-CGI-effects legend Douglas Trumbull, fresh out of retirement. The image of a beached plesiosaur craning its neck to contemplate the fatal wound raked across its side lingers on, symbol of a wounding and disorienting work.
Snap forward to the 1950s, the middle-class suburbs of Waco, and the O'Brien family in an earlier, happier moment. Jack (Hunter McCracken), the eldest of three pre-adolescent brothers, emerges as the axis of the film, the process of his education and acculturation to the edge of puberty documented in a headlong style that lifts sometimes to singing montage.
Scenes occur as if bobbing on the surface of a family's collective consciousness. We're transported intermittently to a future where the boy Jack has grown up into a crabby Sean Penn, daydreaming from a glass rectangle in downtown Houston, a contemporary America to make Thomas Jefferson pack it in. In large part, the film can be read as occurring in the mind of adult Jack returning to his birthright of memories: the indivisible combination of Mom, Dad, God, and back yard.
Chastain's mother is transparent with virtue, while Mr. O'Brien badgers his sons with lessons in Looking Out For No. 1 and backyard boxing. Venting a bellyful of frustrated ambition, he talks covetously about the folks on the hill, brags about his worthless patents, and finds an outlet for unrealized musical aspirations by playing the church organ.
Though markedly faithful to Darwin, Malick's film begins with a quotation from the Book of Job, imagines heaven, and features Mother pointing to the sky to deliver the lesson: "God lives there." Like anything ambitious, The Tree of Life will be called "pretentious," but its characters address the gauche subject of the eternal, naturally, through the Judeo-Christian lingua franca instead of via a vague, enervated "spirituality." In this, it is quite direct and accessible.
With his cosmic realism, Malick vividly remembers youth's intimate yet huge idea of God, and Tree of Life's Genesis overture recalls the viewer to a child's awed first conception of the vastness beyond his proscribed world. Thus prepared, you have fresh eyes to see suburbia as, yes, a miracle.
In his evocation of lost-Eden childhood, Malick shows the wisdom of C.S. Lewis's An Experiment in Criticism: "If we are to use the words 'childish' and 'infantile' as terms of disapproval, we must make sure that they refer only to those characteristics of childhood which we become better and happier by outgrowing," Lewis wrote. "Who in his sense would not keep, if he could, that tireless curiosity, that intensity of imagination, that facility of suspending disbelief, that unspoiled appetite, that readiness to wonder, to pity, and to admire?" It is because the 67-year-old director can get so much of that on screen, and much more besides, that he's one of the few American filmmakers operating on the multiplex scale who makes movies feel like undiscovered country.
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