Separate but the Same

Not that I give any credence to the annual Academy Awards popularity contest, but it's a real tragedy to see Asghar Farhadi's A Separation nominated in the wrong category. True, it is a foreign film, but is cinema not among the most universal of languages? The Best Picture award should, at the very least, attempt to celebrate the best film of the year, regardless of origin. Technically, The Artist is French, yet it's the current favorite to win Best Picture. A British film, The King's Speech, won last year. Slumdog Millionaire, another British production with over half its dialogue spoken in Hindi, won Best Picture in 2008. In the last fifteen years, Life is Beautiful (1998) from Italy and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) from Taiwan, were nominated for the Academy's highest honor. A Separation should also be up for the top prize, or nothing at all, as far as I'm concerned. If not for The Tree of Life, this would be my favorite film of 2011.

The Academy was right on, however, in nominating the superb screenplay by the director himself. Easily one of the finest pieces of writing for the screen in years, I was struck by the sheer intelligence and economy of this thing. When I think of the greatest screenplays ever written, including Chinatown (1974), Network (1976), All About Eve (1950), etc., I recall similar attributes. Strong characters, great dialogue, spot-on pacing, and an effective subtext. Typically, I go on and on about film as a visual medium, but A Separation would make for a crackling good read as well. Unfortunately it would lack some marvelous acting on the page, as everyone here is fantastic.

The story, set in Tehran, follows an upper-middle class couple, Nader (Peyman Moaadi) and Simin (Leila Hatami), who had planned to leave Iran together with their ten-year-old daughter, Termeh (Sarina Farhadi). After much procrastination and their visas set to expire, Nader has decided he must stay to care for his Alzheimer's afflicted father, who lives with them. For Simin, this means they must get a divorce, despite their love for one another, so she can leave the country with Termeh. Nader blocks the entire process by refusing to allow his daughter to be taken away.

As Simin prepares to move out of their apartment in protest, she delays the inevitable in a lovely scene, giving Nader one last chance to beg her not to leave. He wants to, we feel, but his pride prevents him. With Simin at her parents', Nader hires a poor pregnant woman, Razieh (Sareh Bayat), to care for his father while he's at work. She desperately needs the job as her husband, Hojjat (Shahab Hosseini), is in a great deal of debt. Razieh can not tell her husband, however, since it is against her religion to be alone with another man, no matter how old or harmless he may be. In a scene that reveals the extent of her Islamic faith, she wonders if it's a sin to help Nader's father clean and dress after wetting himself.

One day when Nader and Termeh arrive home, they discover his father tied to the bed, abandoned and near death. Later, a heated argument ensues between Nader and Razieh; he accuses her of leaving to run errands and fires her, while she insists her sudden absence could not be helped and demands payment. Nader gives her a hard shove out the door. No one specifically witnesses Razieh falling down the stairs, but neighbors rush out after the commotion to see that she appears to have done so. That evening, Razieh suffers a miscarriage, and her irate husband finds out what she was up to behind his back. This event sets the real drama in motion, as Razieh and Hojjat seek justice.

A Separation is one of those rare films that seems never to take a wrong step. There is an awful lot of dialogue, one might even describe the picture as being “talky” if every line didn't feel so crucial to the whole. We see all sides of the story, we understand each character's perspective and motivation. Nader is clearly a good man, he loves his father, his wife, and his daughter. He seems a responsible, respectful citizen. He is stubborn and prideful at times, however, and these traits clash with the personalities of others. I understood this pride, and fully sympathized with his situation. Simin loves her husband dearly, but also wants what is best for her daughter. She finds that she may have reason to be concerned for her child's safety, a fear anyone can understand. Razieh's faith is her strongest attribute, one that guides her every ethical decision. How can one argue with that? Even the hot-headed Hojjat earns our sympathy; he's a desperate, depressed man who lost his job with a family to care for.

I was one hundred percent invested in this film emotionally. It hooked me not by throwing melodramatics in my face, but by leisurely introducing people I grew to care about and placing them in believable situations. No one does anything out of character. One may not agree with every character's decisions, but those decisions never conflict with their unique personalities or convictions. By the end it felt wholly satisfying, honest, and provocative, almost like a work of fine literature. I couldn't wait to turn back to the very first page, and I revisited the film a week later, in fact. Once again, I thought to myself, “What a piece of work.”

The film is Iranian, but it is not political. Tehran is the setting, not the subject. It is a movie about people, with concerns no different than yours or mine, and therefore it strikes a universal chord. It could have been made anywhere, and it would have been equally wonderful. Films such as this can help us to understand that a government is separate from the people, its ambitions not always reflecting that of the people. Admiring this film is not a celebration of Iran, but of humanity and some damn fine storytelling.

I have had the good fortune to travel quite a bit in the last few years. I've seen a lot of Europe and Southeast Asia. I am dying to visit Greece and Turkey, but any further east and my government advises otherwise. We keep hearing about sanctions and a possible Israeli strike on Iran. There is an awful lot of fear mongering going on in the American media, which incidentally ran stories about crazy riots and terrorist threats sweeping Paris during my stay, scaring my family half to death back home, yet I saw nothing of the sort...and I was there. All I know is that if America is involved in a war with Iran in the future, it will not be the fault of people like Nader, Simin, Razieh, or Hojjat.

Please do attempt to see this film free of prejudice and the influence of propaganda. It's a masterpiece, in any culture or language.

Imperfect Lights

City Lights (1931) is one of those movies with a grand, impenetrable reputation built over many decades, like a Citizen Kane (1941) or a Grand Illusion (1937). It lives up to that reputation, for the most part. There are those who consider this to be a perfect movie, however, and I simply can't go that far. Some will say, "There is no such thing as a perfect movie," but I disagree. I have favorite films that I would consider perfect or extremely close to it; obviously they may not be the same films that others consider to be perfect.

For the uninitiated, this silent film directed, written, and scored by the great Charlie Chaplin, was made several years into the talkie era. Chaplin was still the most famous person on the planet, but he believed his iconic character, the Little Tramp, was unfit for sound. Audiences around the world had been made to laugh and cry by the Little Tramp for over a decade, and Chaplin refused to alienate fans of such a universal character. The Tramp spoke through actions, not words. He was understood just as well in France as he was in Japan. Chaplin did not want to choose a language, an accent, or anything else for the Tramp that might push away adoring fans. So it was decided that the Tramp would stay silent in a world obsessed with talkies.

In City Lights, the Tramp (Chaplin) falls for a blind flower girl (Virginia Cherrill). When he buys a flower, she hears the sound of a fancy car driving off and mistakes him for a wealthy man. That evening, the Tramp happens upon a drunk, genuinely rich man (Harry Myers), who he saves from committing suicide. After partying all night with his new friend, the Tramp borrows money and the millionaire's Rolls-Royce to impress the girl he loves. He soon discovers how bleak her situation is; living with her mother in a tiny apartment, about to be evicted. When he finds out about an operation that can cure blindness, he believes he can solve all the girl's problems. The millionaire is a long shot, as he only remembers the Tramp when plastered. So the Tramp sets out to find a job.

As a Chaplin fan since the mid-nineties, I've seen his work for Keystone, Essanay, Mutual, First National, etc., and my first viewing of City Lights came in 1996. I've revisited the film many times over the years. Often I will see a film and think it is above average, perhaps even quite good, but not a masterpiece. Then I will watch it again, successfully gaining a deeper appreciation. This happened to me with Tati's Playtime (1967), Laughton's Night of the Hunter (1955), Malick's Days of Heaven (1978), and so forth. I adore each of those films today, but after a single viewing I considered them to be quite overrated.

I never considered City Lights to be overrated because I loved it the very first time I saw it. Not to the point of labeling it perfect, though. With each successive viewing it never managed to gain that distinction from me. So, what do I think works so extremely well in City Lights, and what does not?

Frankly, the vast majority of this movie is so very superb. The opening sequence with the statue and the gibberish talking politicians. The drunken dinner, complete with near-fights and vigorous dancing. The absurd, but quite hilarious (and marvellously choreographed) boxing sequence. Who could forget Myers' suicidal millionaire? He gives half of the film a darker edge, which I enjoyed, for the most part. Of course, the Tramp's relationship with the blind girl is simply beautiful throughout. The ending, which Pulitzer Prize-winning author James Agee called "the greatest piece of acting and the highest moment in movies", is absolute perfection.

I guess what keeps City Lights from attaining perfection beyond that unimprovable ending, to my eyes, is the episodic feel, one too many coincidences, and some gags that fall a bit flat. These are ultimately minor issues, but I can't ignore them completely.

The swallowing the whistle gag didn't work for me initially, and has never worked for me in sixteen years. I find it a bit too ridiculous to laugh at. The man blowing soap bubbles at the Tramp after believing the soap to be a hunk of cheese was not particularly amusing. The way the Tramp always happens to run into the millionaire, in public, when the latter man is completely inebriated. The way the burglars happen to be in the millionaire's house right when the millionaire gives the Tramp one thousand dollars and conveniently needs a bump on the head to forget his own generosity. Even the way the millionaire remembers and forgets the Tramp based on the level of his blood-alcohol seems a bit much, but I suppose I can accept that.

Being a bit pickier now (too picky, perhaps), I personally dislike when characters get instantly drunk in movies after one or two sips of alcohol. It renders what follows as less believable, somehow, even in a comedy. This same complaint applies to Buster Keaton's Three Ages (1923), for example. In City Lights, the Tramp has two sips and he's falling all over the place in under a minute.

In my humble opinion, a "perfect" movie should feel, to the viewer, like a consistent whole with no missteps along the way. City Lights is so tremendous overall that even the few elements I consider to be missteps can't bring it down much from the high level it usually maintains. For some, I can easily see City Lights being a perfect movie. I wish I felt the same way, and wrote this simply to illustrate for myself and whoever happens to read it, why I don't quite feel the same level of enthusiasm. I adore the movie overall, just not every one of its eighty-seven minutes.

Tree Hugger: Part 2

Terrence Malick, true to his reputation as a “devout Episcopalian”, begins The Tree of Life with a quote from the Book of Job: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?... When the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?” An ethereal mass appears on the screen, a glowing composition of light and energy, moving gently in the darkness. We hear birds, waves lapping at a distant shore, and the voice of Jack (Sean Penn). “Mother. Brother. It was they who led me to your door.”

Is this image intended to represent God? Is Jack saying that his mother and brother helped him to find God? That is for each viewer to decide. One of the most amazing things about The Tree of Life is how differently it has been interpreted. There are those who claim that it shoves Christian propaganda down our throats with all the subtlety of a snuff film (no, that would be Courageous). Others believe the film is “spiritual”, but not specifically about the Christian God or a Christian world view. People have debated whether the film is theist, deist, or pantheist in its approach to God and the natural world. Some have accused the film of supporting the Big Bang, evolution, etc. and of being a “there is no God” piece of trash propaganda.

Personally, I lean toward the Christian reading of the film. If this ethereal light is meant to be “the Alpha and Omega”, then such a theory is supported by the fact that the movie ends as it began, with this same strange image fading in, then out. “The first and the last”. Throughout The Tree of Life, Malick takes interest in the questions and expectations of mankind with regard to a higher power. This image of God, if indeed we are meant to see God in the image, is suitably mysterious for a being we will never even begin to comprehend here on earth. The vision of God as an old, bearded white man in flowing robes seems to me a rather boring simplification of something which should be glorious, all powerful, and well beyond our ability to fathom. This is, after all, the Creator of the universe.

Job was baffled by a God he worshiped, but failed to understand. He was a good man, a man of genuine faith, who nonetheless endured incredible suffering and had the audacity to ask God, “Why?” God went on to put Job in his place, humbling him, proving that he knew nothing of what it meant to be the ruler of the universe. Job wasn't there when God laid the foundations of the earth, no one was, so what can a man know of such things? God revealed to Job just how tiny he was in the infinite scope of existence.

With that opening quote and image in mind, we are introduced to Mr. and Mrs. O'Brien (Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain), who have lost their middle-born son. We don't know the cause, and little does it matter. We see these two parents consumed by grief, filled with doubt and regret. Mr. O'Brien, embodying the harshness of nature, questions his actions. Was he too severe? He laments the fact that the time to make amends has passed. Recalling a moment when he criticized his son over a minor infraction, only to witness the boy striking himself over and over, he mournfully realizes, “I made him feel shame. My shame. Poor boy.”

Mrs. O'Brien, the epitome of faith and grace, is consoled by her mother-in-law: “Life goes on. People pass along, nothing stays the same... The Lord gives and the Lord takes away and that's how he is. He sends flies to wounds that he should heal.”

After crossing a relatively small span of time, we find ourselves in a more modern period, with Jack, the eldest son of the O'Briens. He wanders through his home, which looks about as sterile and disconnected as his marriage. There are no children, both man and wife appear to be focused solely on their careers. Taking a seat at the kitchen counter on what must be the anniversary of his brother's death, Jack lights a blue candle and remembers. “I see the child that I was. I see my brother. True. Kind. He died when he was nineteen.”

Jack, who we infer is an architect based on the blueprints he alters, appears equally disoriented and depressed in the workplace. He finds himself daydreaming about his childhood. This world of glass, steel, concrete, and office cubicles jammed together reminded me of Jacques Tati's Playtime (1967), which focused on the absurdity of it all. In The Tree of Life, it's about the isolation. Nothing natural exists here, nothing of God or a higher power, this is all man-made, and Malick seems to believe this distances mankind. From what, exactly?

In my view, Malick is saying this modern metropolis puts a wider gap between man and the Garden from which he has been expelled. In Genesis, when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, they were banned from the Garden by God and denied the fruit of the Tree of Life, which granted immortality. Christians, as well as people of other faiths, believe immortality can still be earned, however. Life, essentially, becomes a quest for immortality, The Tree of Life, the Holy Grail, whatever you want to call it. Most people, including Jack, seem to be getting further and further away from it. In a physical sense, Jack's world of skyscrapers is far removed from the natural world of God's Creation.

In fact, we see a close-up of a lonely tree planted at a construction site in the moment when Jack says, “How did I lose you. Wandered. Forgot you.” Jack has lost sight of God and everything the Tree of Life represents. We discover later that his brother was, for him, a gateway of sorts. A guide. This too was lost. We hear his brother's voice, “Find me.”

Jack imagines himself in his parent's home shortly after his brother's death. Mr. O'Brien closes the key lid on the piano; did he stop playing after the death of his child? “How did she bear it,” Jack wonders of his mother. He caresses her hair by the window. We hear her cry out in grief.

Despite all consolation, all words of encouragement, Mrs. O'Brien struggles mightily to accept the tragedy of her son's passing. What did God gain, she wonders, by taking him away from her. “Was I false to you,” she asks. She finds herself questioning God, as Job did. We see the strange mass of light and energy again as she gives voice to her plight. “Lord, why? Where were you?”

At this moment the screen goes dark, and one of the finest sequences in recent film history begins. As the score turns to Preisner's “Lacrimosa”, we witness the birth of everything. The universe itself. A celestial tapestry of beautiful nebulae, planets, stars. We see the young earth, a primal landscape of shifting masses and opposing forces; water and fire. It seems the world is taking baby steps of its own; growing, learning. Soon, the first signs of life: a lovely view of jellyfish, predatory sharks, and yes, dinosaurs. This cycle of existence (birth, growth, death, extinction, rebirth), of nature and grace, on such a vast scale serves to humble us as it humbled Job. In the infinite ocean of time and space, even a Caesar or a Napoleon may be lucky to register as a speck on the canvas. Our lives pass by in a cosmic flash, seemingly important to only a select few individuals, and even then for the briefest of instants.

Again, we hear Jack's voice. “You spoke to me through her. You spoke with me from the sky, the trees. Before I knew I loved you, believed in you. When did you first touch my heart?” If Jack asks this of God, then his answer comes almost immediately. We see Mrs. O'Brien's pregnant belly, as Mr. O'Brien places his hand upon it. Then, in a surreal moment Bunuel would have adored, a fully clothed child swims through an underwater bedroom, passing through the door (a symbolic birth canal) that will deliver him into loving arms. Welcome to the world, Jack.

In another fine montage, we see all the simple little moments that shape every being on this planet. Learning to walk and talk. Fear of the unknown, when the toddler is afraid to venture into the attic. The child hiding behind his mother from a barking dog. “Are you afraid,” she asks. The introduction of boundaries, as Mr. O'Brien draws an invisible line in the grass between their yard and the neighbor's. Mrs. O'Brien reads Peter Rabbit to the youngsters, “You may go into the fields and down the lane, but do not go into Mr. McGregor's garden.” Selfishness, when Jack yells at his grandmother, “It's mine!”

Jealousy, of course, rears its head for baby Jack when his brother is born. Unable to monopolize the attention of his parents, he shows his frustration by toppling a box of his brother's toys. Echoes of Cain and Abel, perhaps? People often desire attention and favor, not only from parents, lovers, friends, and co-workers, but from their Heavenly Father, as well. We would like to believe we are that important, as Job did, and Malick is certainly not done ramming this point home.

The boys grow older in this perfectly rendered small southern town (Smithville, TX standing in for Malick's hometown of Waco), under two very opposed parental influences. Nature and grace at war, if you will. Even the tiniest scenes add to this conflict; notice the way the mother playfully wakes her children with ice cubes, while the father storms into the room and rips their bed sheets off. We see playful summer days, but we also notice how carefully Jack (brilliantly played as a youngster by Hunter McCracken) maneuvers around his father at the dinner table, as if one wrong move may set him off. Mrs. O'Brien tries to compliment Jack, but her husband interrupts. He's more interested in Brahms, whose music plays on the record player.

The boys learn what happens when boundaries are crossed. Two men in chains are shoved into a police car. Mrs. O'Brien, instead of passing judgment, gives one of the condemned men a drink of water. The youngest brother asks, “Can it happen to anyone?” Jack prays for the Lord to make him good, but receives a conflicting message from his own father. “Your mother's naive. It takes fierce will to get ahead in this world. If you're good, people take advantage of you.” As an extension of this lesson, he teaches the boys to fight one day in the yard.

Mr. O'Brien is one of those men who had big dreams, he was going to be "a great musician”, but now finds little to be passionate about in life. He speaks about men of whom he is surely envious. He talks about how company executives got where they are (“floated right down the middle of the river”), and about a friend who owns half the real estate in town, despite modest beginnings. He is condescending toward a wealthy neighbor who inherited his fortune. Again, he influences the boys: “Wrong people go hungry, die. Wrong people get loved. World lives by trickery. If you want to succeed you can't be too good.”

Jack sees his father's hypocrisy. He is told not to put his elbows on the table, but his father does. He is told not to interrupt or insult others, but his father does. He is told to be good, then advised otherwise. Jack can not help but question why he should be a good kid when his own father, between occasional bouts of affection, seems a liar and a villain. When the children witness the drowning of another young boy at the river, Jack asks these same questions of his Creator, “Where were you? You let a boy die. You'll let anything happen. Why should I be good if you aren't?”

The other boys respond to death in their own way. The youngest son asks, “Was he bad?” The middle son, whose question resonated the most with me, asks his mother, “Will you die too?” In church, the middle son sees an image of Jesus in a stained glass window as the pastor asks, “Is there nothing which is deathless? Nothing which does not pass away?” The implication being, as I see it, that Jesus is both eternal and the doorway to eternity.

I was seven years old when my father died. Death was something I had heard about for years, I had seen it on television. At that age, one can know of death without having the faintest comprehension of it. This was my wake-up call, when it struck my own family. I instantly discovered that my father was mortal. This could only mean my mother was too, as was I. The shock of this revelation at the time when it occurred can not be stressed enough, and these scenes really spoke to me.

Not long after the boy's death at the river, a fire destroys another boy's home. He survives, but will forever bear the physical scars. Again, Jack is dismayed by the calamities God allows to strike his children. He begins to rebel. The seeds of sexual awakening are planted when he eyes a woman hanging clothes in her yard, washing her bare feet with a hose. She gives him a drink. Later he watches her through a window.

We hear Mr. O'Brien bragging to his children, “Twenty-seven patents your father has, it means ownership, ownership of ideas. You gotta sew 'em up, get 'em by the nuts, if you pardon my French.” He portrays himself as an important man, a man deserving of recognition, reward, and wealth. However, we see Mr. O'Brien in a courtroom failing in his endeavors. “We'll get 'em next time,” his lawyer says. As he's leaving, he reassures himself, “I'm not done yet. Can't say I can't.” Disappointed, he walks alone down a hallway of the courthouse as we hear Jack ask, “Why does he hurt us? Our father?” This question seems to be directed not only at his father on earth, but also his father in Heaven.

In the very next scene, Mr. O'Brien arrives home, showing tenderness initially to the boys. “He lies. Pretends,” Jack says, as he distorts the beautiful music on one of his father's prized records. Then at dinner, Mr. O'Brien's resentment and frustration erupt. He takes his anger out on his children, and later on Mrs. O'Brien. “You turn my own kids against me. You undermine everything I do.” As noted earlier, it would ultimately take the passing of his son to make Mr. O'Brien realize that the shame his children felt was his own.

When Mr. O'Brien leaves on a lengthy business trip, the children celebrate, enjoying a tranquil respite with their mother. We see moments of happiness, boys at play, carefree days filled with laughter, as the mother's grace takes hold. “Help each other. Love everyone. Every leaf, every ray of light. Forgive.” Unfortunately, Jack can not resist the other temptations his father's absence permits. So begins an adolescent rampage that Mrs. O'Brien seems ill-equipped to stop.

With a group of boys from the neighborhood, Jack blows up eggs in a bird's nest, throws rocks through window panes, launches a frog into the air on a firecracker. When his mother tries her hand at discipline, the other boys taunt him. “They're just trying to scare you. Keep you ignorant.” As Jack succumbs to peer pressure, we hear his thoughts, “Things you got to learn. How can we know stuff until we look?” Though Jack is particularly rebellious, this is a natural progression, more or less. Our parents told us not to do things, we did them anyway, and we learned from our mistakes. We hope our children won't make the same bad decisions, but they always do. Such is life. I'm reminded of a Delmore Schwartz quote, “Time is the school in which we learn, time is the fire in which we burn.” Only the passage of time can grant us wisdom, and once wise, we die.

Jack sees his mother washing her bare foot in the yard sprinkler. This reminds him of the woman who gave him a drink that day. He walks to her house, spies on her from behind a tree, then enters the home after she leaves. Inside, he goes to her bedroom and holds her hairbrush, touches a mirror, picks up a pearl bracelet. He removes a nightgown from her drawer and places it on the bed.

In the next scene, Jack is outside running with the gown, desperate to hide it. Clearly terrified of being caught, he sends it down the river. There is a strong implication here that Jack did something resulting in “evidence” being left on the gown. The first couple times I saw the film, I thought, “Surely not.” Now, I firmly believe this is exactly what occurred. When Jack returns home with a guilty conscience, he wants to confess but can not bring himself to do so. Unable to bear his mother's piercing look which seems to have a direct line to his soul, he tells her, “I can't talk to you. Don't look at me.”

It is clear Jack fears his own immorality. “What have I started? What have I done?” He begins to notice and resent the relative grace of his brother. In Jack's eyes, the middle son is favored by his parents. In a lovely, earlier scene we see Mr. O'Brien playing the piano as the middle son, sitting out on the patio with his guitar, picks up the tune and plays it himself. Mr. O'Brien stops, takes notice, and appears pleased. Jack's brother also enjoys painting; he has the artistic connection with his father, and the graceful demeanor of his mother.

So it happens that Jack begins to test his brother. They race and wrestle in the yard. Jack sees him painting at the kitchen table and pours water all over the paper. His mother demands that he come back and apologize. “No!” Jack screams. “I'm not gonna do everything you tell me to. I'm gonna do what I want. What do you know? You let him run all over you.” Jack knows he is doing wrong, and does it anyway. “How do I get back where they are,” he wonders.

When his father returns, Jack can no longer run wild and free. Mr. O'Brien says, “There are things you can't do? Well, there are thing I can't do either.” When Jack talks back and gets shot down, he says, “It's your house. You can kick me out whenever you want to. You'd like to kill me.” He asks his mother, “Why was he born?” Later, he sees his father working underneath the car and considers pulling out the jack. “Please God, kill him. Let him die. Get him outta here.”

Finally, Jack's descent culminates in a betrayal of his brother as they are out shooting a BB gun in the forest. “Put your finger over it. Come on.” Hesitant, but trusting, the boy places his finger over the muzzle. Jack fires, and his brother runs off to cry alone in a field. Jack explains, in a direct reference to Romans 7:15, “What I want to do I can't do. I do what I hate.” Later he hands his brother a board and says, “You can hit me if you want to.” Instead, his brother does not answer violence with violence, he simply forgives. “I'm sorry,” Jack tells him. His brother, standing over him, gently touches his hand, then his shoulder, and finally the top of his head.

At that moment, we see a strong, healthy tree in the yard. Jack has taken a step toward grace. We see the river, once after the betrayal and again after the act is forgiven, which links us to a similar incident in a distant time. This river, much more shallow during the Creation sequence, was the site of a moment of grace within nature. A dinosaur came upon a weaker, wounded dinosaur lying on the rocks. The dominant dinosaur stomped on the weaker dinosaur's head, then relented. In a surprising turn of events, the dominant dinosaur did not destroy the weak one. He simply walked on, and let him be.

“What was it you showed me,” Jack asks. “I didn't know how to name you then. But I see it was you. Always you were calling me.” In another simple, poignant moment we see Jack playing with the neighborhood boy scarred by the fire. They are hopping on cans tied with rope, but the scarred boy's rope comes loose. As the boy tries to fix it, Jack intervenes, repairing it for him. Then he tenderly places his hand on the boy's shoulder, as his brother had done to him. Afterward, he returns home and helps his father in the garden. Jack is moving toward a state of grace, following in the footsteps of his mother and brother. We already know that once he grows older, he will become distant, he will forget. This is what he lost along the way, and what he wishes to find again.

Mr. O'Brien too begins to see the error of his ways. The plant where he works is closed down, and his only option is a transfer to an undesirable job in another city. “I wanted to be loved because I was great. A big man. I'm nothing... ...I lived in shame. I dishonored it all and didn't notice the glory.” Sitting outside on the curb, lost in thought, Mr. O'Brien still wonders how it could have happened to him. “I never missed a day of work. I tithed every Sunday.” When he tells Jack he knows he has been tough on him, Jack replies, “I'm as bad as you are. I'm more like you than her.”

The boys mourn, all three together and separately, knowing they will be saying goodbye to the only home they have ever known. A small Texas town that was, for them, the universe. As their grandmother said, “Nothing stays the same.” The universe is in constant flux. The house is empty, someone else will move in. Left behind are only echoes, memories. Buried mementos under the tree in the yard. Their mother offers a parting message, “The only way to be happy is to love. Unless you love, your life will flash by.” Human lives, for all their brevity, are made meaningful and worthwhile through love, family, acceptance, kindness. We hope these are the echoes future generations will hear.

It may seem that I have summarized most of the film, that I've “spoiled it”, perhaps. Not so. I have seen the picture four times now, and I'm still picking up on things. There are countless riches I have not revealed here. This is an intensely visual film whose images mean different things to different people. I can only offer my reading of the The Tree of Life, I can not predict yours. The “plot” of the film can not be spoiled as there isn't one. One can not point to this movie and say it is about anything specific. It is, quite honestly, about everything. It's about what everything means to you. Your outlook on life? Your religion? Your lack of religion? These factors can make your eyes see The Tree of Life differently than mine, and therein lies its beauty as a work of art.

As I mentioned in my last article, those who do not see film as anything more than simple entertainment will not be ready for The Tree of Life. This is a picture that expects much from its audience, one's mind must prepare itself for that rare thing in a movie theater: intelligent thought. Even though I see The Tree of Life as a Christian film, I'm not sure many Christians will appreciate it. Christians have been inundated for so long with bad art, bad music, etc., I can not help but question whether they will recognize something that isn't spelled out for them. I think too many Christians place a value on the intent, as opposed to the result. For example, if a song praises God in an obvious manner, then it is great by default. I disagree. I think God deserves better music, better films, and so on. Courageous was spoon-fed to a specific audience, but The Tree of Life is an infinitely superior film that can speak to all humanity.

Keep in mind as you watch the final scenes, where characters throughout the film meet again on a seashore; they are only as trite as you choose to interpret them. If you see this as a vision of Heaven or the literal afterlife, then yes, it may follow that, “Malick dropped the ball here.” Personally, I am convinced this is not Malick's vision of Heaven. This is Jack's reverie, after passing through the doorway, and metaphorically completing his journey. For me, this is where all the people who were part of that life's journey, from the most inconsequential to the most instrumental, have gathered. Loved ones, in an ageless state, are reunited. Young, old, there is no time in this place. Notice the hand, aged and withered, becomes young again. It is here that Jack finally understands his mother's resolve. Her heart healed. She gave her child to God, willingly. This is the culmination of one man's spiritual journey through memory, reflection, and introspection to find God and eternity in a world filled with contradictions.

In the end, we see something surprising from this man who, until now, has seemed so cold, so lost. We get a little smile. We see a bridge spanning a river. One state of mind has been left behind, another has been attained. It is accomplished.

Tree Hugger: Part 1

For me, Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life was the best film of 2011. When I saw it last May in a quiet, well-mannered screening for local critics, I immediately leaped onto my Facebook page and posted:

“There will not be a more ambitious movie this year than The Tree of Life, and it's almost inconceivable that there could be a better one. The subject is existence itself, in just two hours and twenty minutes. It lived up to my expectations, based on Malick's previous films. How often does a movie come along affording religion, science, and human nature equal respect?”

Shortly thereafter I wrote a review, going into detail and sprinkling praise all over the place. However, at one point I said, “Some will claim the movie is disjointed, people may walk out of the theater annoyed, there may be laughter and general confusion when the credits roll. I'm reminded of Stanley Kubrick's brilliant 2001: A Space Odyssey, which experienced these same reactions back in 1968.”

Well, that turned out to be true. In fact, seeing the film again in June, I experienced a restless audience first hand. It was downright uncomfortable, and I got the feeling that ninety percent of them had no idea what they had gotten themselves into. They came for Brad Pitt, perhaps? Maybe they wanted another Fight Club or Troy? Regardless, I think I was onto something in the last line of my review, when I claimed, “The Tree of Life should probably be playing on a loop at the Vatican Museums instead of local multiplexes.”

This is the most polarizing motion picture in many a moon, hands down. I've never seen anything like it. Critics adore it, The Tree of Life appears on more 2011 Top Ten lists than any other film, and captured the number one spot on the most lists as well. It received the top award from the Chicago, Denver, San Francisco, and Toronto critics associations, as well as the African American critics association and the Online Film Critics Society. It won the Palme d'Or at the 2011 Cannes Film Festival. Surprisingly, it even got a Best Picture nomination at the Academy Awards, and Madonna (an Academy member) has already revealed that it has her vote.

Audiences, on the other hand, do not share this level of enthusiasm. Only 61% of users at Rotten Tomatoes liked the film. It averages a rather low 7.1 out of 10 score among users at the Internet Movie Database, while Warrior currently sports an 8.2 and The Help is sitting pretty with an 8. Things only get worse when glancing at more mainstream sources (the people who rent movies but probably don't care enough about them to visit film websites). At Netflix, with 154,117 user ratings in, the film averages a 2.7 out of 5 score. Among those who rented it at a Redbox kiosk, 1,079 “reviews” were written, 732 of which awarded The Tree of Life half a star, the worst possible score. It averages just over one star on a five star scale. Wading through the fine criticism, one will come across intellectual gems like, “Too bizzar. Had to shut it off half way through” and my current favorite, “Horrible!!! I would rather what a bug on the wall!!!!”

I have personal anecdotes to illustrate this extreme divisiveness, as well. I recommended the film to three friends of mine. One thought it was the worst movie he had seen, another thought it was the best movie ever made. The third believed Malick took a deist approach as opposed to a theist one, and promoted the theory of evolution, which was not to his liking. Again I am reminded of 2001: A Space Odyssey and Roger Ebert's story about the 1968 premiere. It was a restless audience, a lot of people walked out complaining, including Rock Hudson, who apparently went right past Ebert's seat asking aloud, “Will someone tell me what the hell this is about?” These days, 2001: A Space Odyssey is widely considered one of the greatest films of all time.

So what is behind all this madness? How can the very same movie be transcendently amazing to some and absolutely godawful to others, with very few opinions landing anywhere between those extreme ends of the spectrum? I believe it comes down to what an individual expects from a film. Obviously not every critic was enamored with The Tree of Life, nor was every average Joe a hater. In general, though, we have two camps: the critics/film buffs and the mainstream audience. Both camps approach films differently.

At the risk of sounding condescending, I must admit I firmly believe, as a viewer of over four-thousand films, that the more movies we see the more prepared we are to formulate an educated opinion on the subject. Much like studying history lends itself to informed political or military decisions (think Patton studying Rommel). These opinions need not be the same, I am not condoning groupthink, it's simply about having an opinion and fully understanding why you have it. Kenneth Turan of the L.A. Times and the New York Observer's Rex Reed did not care for The Tree of Life, and they can intelligently explain why. They possess the ability to draw upon their experience and illustrate reasons the picture was not to their liking. On the other hand, a failure to understand the film is not a legitimate criticism, such a statement says more about the viewer than it does about the film (unless the movie objectively makes no logical sense). Saying it is “too bizzar” or that you would rather “what a bug on the wall” may actually convince others to love the movie, if only to avoid being in your company.

Perhaps I'm being too harsh. There is certainly no shame in caring little for film, in general. Not everyone responds to the moving image the way I do, and I respect that. I'm that way with music, so I can relate. I enjoy music, but know relatively little about it. I have no favorite “groups”. I couldn't tell you in any worthwhile fashion why I prefer one piece of music over another. I have appreciated music that others have labeled “simplistic” or “trite”. Well, fine. I don't pretend to be something I'm not. I don't engage in deep conversations about music. Inevitably, I would wind up in someone else's wheelhouse and find myself skewered by a contrasting opinion. By that same token, there is nothing more annoying than a so-called “film buff” whose amassed cinematic knowledge begins in 1980. That's like claiming to love literature without reading Tolstoy, Dickens, or Twain.

The fact is, one's taste primarily evolves through experience. Life experience, certainly, but also experience with the medium in question. About sixteen years ago, I only watched new releases. I thought "old movies" were pretty useless, and would have scoffed at the idea of watching a movie made in Hungary. I could view a black-and-white film in school (1962's To Kill a Mockingbird), entirely overlooking the quality because my biased mind was predisposed from the get-go. Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960), which I rented after exhausting all the new releases at the local Blockbuster, was the film that changed my attitude. A few baby steps later, Akira Kurosawa's oeuvre had consumed me, in Japanese with English subtitles. At that point, I was blissfully lost in it all. A kid in a brand new, massive candy store.

Usually the first misconception to fly out the window is the idea of film as “simple entertainment”. One begins to appreciate that motion pictures, as a medium, are capable of so much more. They helped me realize, for example, that most human problems, desires, etc. are universal, from New York City to Tehran. Relegating this power to a simple diversion is, unfortunately, a rather common attitude among people (thanks in part to Hollywood blockbusters and marketing). If one sees film as a relatively simple medium, one's expectations are understandably in a different place than a person who walks into the theater hoping for something rich, deep, and thoughtful. If one's mind is fixed upon seeing some computer animated battles, a car chase or two, and Megan Fox's ass, then an intellectual treatise on God, humankind, and the universe may very well induce a siezure.

We have been programmed to expect certain cues, certain rhythms if you will, from mainstream Hollywood movies. We expect a certain pace, a narrative flow, a climax of sorts, plenty of dialogue, and so forth. People always ask, "What's the movie about?" We expect not only a plot, but a plot which can be summarized in a sentence or two. "Well, it's about a cruise ship taken over by terrorists, but there's a couple on their honeymoon who happen to be cops!" I'm sorry, but sometimes the very best movies aren't specifically about anything at all. Character is always, in any form of storytelling, more important than plot. Still, we enter the theater expecting these things and when we get something different, all the little alarms start going off in our heads. "Weird!" "That's it?!" "Why is nothing happening?!" "Why don't these people talk more?" "Très bizzar!"

This has been the curse of The Tree of Life. Malick's film does not satisfy all the big studio bullet points. People weaned on modern Hollywood movies often lash out at films that are so defiantly anti-Hollywood. Why do most critics love, or at least appreciate, the movie? Because they have more perspectives from which to observe it. They have seen older films, foreign films, films in color, black-and-white, films with a soundtrack, films without a soundtrack, etc. A critic/film buff understands that movies have not always been made the way they are today, and in some instances still aren't. Movies did not always have these overly familiar rhythms and this breakneck pace to which we have grown accustomed. The visual language was often sophisticated, an audience was expected to absorb story and character through the image, not just the dialogue. Frankly, the critic expects more, not less, from a film. It is more, not less, that the mainstream viewer negatively reacts to.

Again, at its core, this disappointment is simply about shattered expectations. I am reminded of the woman who sued the distributor of Drive last year. She expected something like Fast Five. Instead she got a film with very few car chases and a European sensibility courtesy of Danish director, Nicolas Winding Refn. She also got a better movie than Fast Five, but that didn't stop her from complaining. She expected one thing, and got something else. It is no different with The Tree of Life.

Allow me to reiterate, I'm not saying that the only people who could dislike The Tree of Life should be fitted for dunce caps and probably eat with corks on the end of their forks. It is not my intention to come across that way. There are critics and film buffs who do not like the film, as I've stated. Still, the incredible divide between the overall critical opinion and that of the general audience is a direct result of different expectations and levels of cinematic experience. Before my own transformation sixteen years ago, I concede The Tree of Life would have been prime one star material for me as well.

In Part 2 I will analyze the film further, in a new review.