Bad Fish
The Tree of Life (2011)
directed by Terrence Malick
rating: 1 out of 5 cravats
seen on the screen at Manor Theatre
The Tree of Life is a humorless mess, and I want to write about it without repeating Malick's mistakes. It's easy to mock the beachfront scene, or the dinosaurs as they prepare to tube down their favorite Texas river, but what about that moment in the Houston high rise, when one of Jack's colleagues confesses to the collapse of his marriage? What if he'd said something funny there, instead of the expected miserable nonsense? A dirty joke, barely audible above the hum of soulless modernity, is all that's needed, but the wink never comes.
The kids appear like an oasis, running through grass and digging up bones - dinosaur bones! - for their dog. But Young Jack, R. L., and Steve spend most of their time in unlikely contemplation. They see a group of mentally unstable men on the town square, act on baser impulses in the company of their peers, and watch the adults and the world around them. The boys laugh, of course. They pray, and love their mother, but the prayers are flat and the questions mundane.
Like Mr. O'Brien's monologues about fairness and work, Young Jack's voice-overs sound like they were written by a man with nothing to say - a man who wished he could rely on images completely, or drown out words in liturgies and choruses. But what are the images, really? A beautiful woman in a sun dress? The green shade of Texas live oaks? I'm sure I'll watch Jaws again soon; summer is upon us. This time I'll pay more attention to Michael and Sean Brody, inhabitants of childhoods equally fantastic but more telling, in a minor and unpretentious way, of the fears and joys I recognize.
directed by Terrence Malick
rating: 1 out of 5 cravats
seen on the screen at Manor Theatre
The Tree of Life is a humorless mess, and I want to write about it without repeating Malick's mistakes. It's easy to mock the beachfront scene, or the dinosaurs as they prepare to tube down their favorite Texas river, but what about that moment in the Houston high rise, when one of Jack's colleagues confesses to the collapse of his marriage? What if he'd said something funny there, instead of the expected miserable nonsense? A dirty joke, barely audible above the hum of soulless modernity, is all that's needed, but the wink never comes.
The kids appear like an oasis, running through grass and digging up bones - dinosaur bones! - for their dog. But Young Jack, R. L., and Steve spend most of their time in unlikely contemplation. They see a group of mentally unstable men on the town square, act on baser impulses in the company of their peers, and watch the adults and the world around them. The boys laugh, of course. They pray, and love their mother, but the prayers are flat and the questions mundane.
Like Mr. O'Brien's monologues about fairness and work, Young Jack's voice-overs sound like they were written by a man with nothing to say - a man who wished he could rely on images completely, or drown out words in liturgies and choruses. But what are the images, really? A beautiful woman in a sun dress? The green shade of Texas live oaks? I'm sure I'll watch Jaws again soon; summer is upon us. This time I'll pay more attention to Michael and Sean Brody, inhabitants of childhoods equally fantastic but more telling, in a minor and unpretentious way, of the fears and joys I recognize.
posted by NPK at 6:49 AM
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