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The Tree of Life (2011)


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Tree of Life finally opened in Knoxville this weekend. And I pretty much loved it.

But didja think it was maybe somewhat poetic? I know I did. :)

In an interstellar burst, I am back to save the Universe.

Filmsweep by Persona. 2013 Film Journal. IlPersona.

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I know you're joking, but I'll give a somewhat serious answer. Nearly every film is "poetic" in the sense that it creates an effect by juxtaposing images. An editor's cut is a pretty good analogy for a poet's line break. So, yes, Tree of Life is poetic, just as all films are poetic. Because Mailick's editing is often subjective and associative rather than narrative-driven, Tree of Life foregrounds the poetic form of cinema. Simply calling it "poetic" is totally inadequate as a critical argument, though, unless the critic is willing and able to describe how, specifically, the juxtaposition of images works.

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Part of my big problem with the finale of the film, which I think is the film's unforgivable misstep, is so aptly summed up by this conversation at The House Next Door, which is super-long. I'll quote the relevant section, which is really only a fraction of the article:

JB:
Absolutely. And we might as well dive into that ending now, because we seem to agree that in addition to being disappointing in and of itself, it also undercuts the awesomeness of what comes before it, threatening to obliterate the impact of some of Malick's finest work. The "coda," by which I mean everything that happens after the O'Briens drive away from their Waco home, has to be the most awkward sequence in Malick's filmography—cheesy, clichéd and feeble. It is not entirely void of richness, possessing as it does the mother's (Jessica Chastain) acceptance of her child's death and a bridge shot that neatly symbolizes man's desire for connection (more on that later, I'm sure), but as a whole it's a buzzkill. I can argue in favor of what it tries to do but not what it is. For 10 or 15 minutes, and it feels like longer, Malick follows the older Jack (Penn) as he wanders through a barren wasteland meant to evoke his adult loneliness, goes through a mysterious doorway and ends up on a beach—at sunset, naturally—where he is surrounded by his family and other anonymous souls wandering along the water's edge in heavenly peace. The sequence succeeds in
demonstrating
Jack's emotional catharsis, in a mathematical or architectural way, but it fails to actually conjure that emotion, to resonate.

Critic at large Steven Boone, who shares our disappointment with this sequence, argued that its inelegance is a direct result of its heavy-handed fabrication. Malick, Boone pointed out, makes films out of "found" moments—shooting liberally and often without structure in the first place, and then finding his film within that "found" footage in his extensive editing process. (Malick's films are twice found, really.) In this coda, however, Malick seems to be directing the action, creating a scenario to meet a specific vision rather than letting the action come to him. It's an astute observation, one that, to be fair, probably does a better job of explaining the effect of the scene (or lack thereof) than explaining how it went wrong conceptually, because while Malick certainly delights in "found" moments, he can premeditate with the best of 'em, whether that means giving us yet another house with curtains that blow in the wind or actually relocating from another yard the mighty tree that sits outside the O'Brien home. In any case, when Penn's Jack, wearing a business suit, falls to his knees in the wet sand, his arms outstretched in exultation, it doesn't come off as the act of a man in the midst of catharsis but rather like the gesture of an actor hitting his mark and sending an "exultation" signal flag up the pole for all to see.

EH:
Yeah, the problems with the ending are legion, but the biggest one is how schematic it feels. In terms of style and approach, it's the complete opposite of the material that preceds it. The childhood scenes are so rich in character nuance and observational detail. It's all so specific; this story is apparently autobiographical for Malick, and it shows. If some of Malick's previous characters and stories could be overly generic, that's not even remotely a problem here, as the characters and settings are totally fleshed out. This story is thematically resonant, but the ideas being expressed through these characters—typically Malickian musings on elemental human attributes like love, control, ambition, loss, guilt, maturation—don't feel forced or preachy. Instead, these ideas arise naturally from the characters' interactions, and from the evocative, elliptical style that Malick uses to tell the story.

That's why it's such a letdown when Malick the heavy-handed symbolist returns for the final 15 minutes, not so much to wrap things up as to deliver a crushingly obvious vision of heaven that reminds me, of all things, of the similarly disappointing—and similarly saccharine and spiritually pat—conclusion of the TV series
Lost
. Why does Malick feel this need to literalize, at the last moment, the spiritual, abstract concepts that are expressed so movingly through the more grounded narrative sections? I don't know, but it doesn't work at all because while the young Jack is a fully functioning character, Jack as played by Penn is a total cipher who's divorced from the depiction of his younger self. Whatever catharsis he finds on that beach, surrounded for some reason by people from his childhood, their appearances frozen in time as they looked in the 1950s while only he has aged, it's an empty catharsis that squanders the real depth found elsewhere in the film.

I feel similarly about the mother's acceptance of her child's death, which is a fine idea but an awful scene. She's bathed in white light, flanked by a pair of anonymous young women (angels I guess?) and repeatedly making the gesture of lifting her hands towards the sky and opening them, as though releasing something to fly up into the clouds. Not only is the idea hammered home with a complete lack of subtlety, but the visual sensibility of it is so lame and clichéd, an unthinking regurgitation of the most turgid form of religious imagery. It makes me wonder how such a visually accomplished filmmaker can make something so clunky—especially when the scenes like this are surrounded by the visual riches that make the best parts of this film so stunning.

JB:
I think you've cut to the heart of it: Although there are fundamental challenges to conjuring catharsis through Penn's scowling cipher, the scene's biggest failure is its ordinariness. Malick, love him or loath him, has never been ordinary. He's the guy who gives us extreme closeups of insects, who gives us stories that unfold during the magic hour and who gazes at forest canopies with the awe of someone taking in the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He's the guy who makes curtains blowing in the wind seem profound (mileage may vary). He's the guy who gives us stream-of-consciousness narration that vacillates between poetic grandeur and plainspoken sophistication. Most significant of all, he's the guy who for five films now has found religion, spirituality and seemingly even God himself in the natural world that most of us take for granted. Put all of that together and it's utterly shocking that when Malick finally gets around to depicting heaven
off
earth—after spending his career stunning us with his depictions of heaven on earth—it would seem so uninspiring, so bland, so hackneyed. Malick aspires, as he always does, for heartfelt magnificence, but while the earnestness of the emotions and the lushness of the images are stamped with his trademark, the unimaginativeness of it all makes the profound prosaic. The beach sequence reminded you of the finale of
Lost
, reminded me of Clint Eastwood's clumsy
and reminded
of commercials for "sanitary napkins, or life insurance, depending on which channel you chance upon."

Of course, maybe this is what The Beyond looks like to Malick. Or perhaps this is what Malick figured The Beyond looked like to Penn's Jack. To which I say, fair enough. But the problem isn't that the beach scene can't be defended. The problem is that it fails to live up not only to the gracefulness of the Waco scenes before it but also to Malick's entire oeuvre. Emotionally speaking, that scene needed to tower above almost any other scene in his career. And it doesn't. Not even close. It feels small. I never watched
Lost
, but based on the chatter I've heard about the show's disappointing finale, that might be the most apt comparison. Indeed, the beach scene is enough to make one think, "Wait a minute, you led us all this way for
this
?"

If I seem particularly critical of the coda, I suppose it's because I feel the final moments of his previous two films are absolutely magnificent. This is the third Malick film that I've been lucky enough to discover in the theater upon its initial release, and I vividly remember, as
and
were winding down, nearly clasping my hands together in prayer as I begged them to fade to black precisely where they do. Both
and
end on emotional high points created from climaxing scores that quickly give way to the tranquil ambient noise of secluded nature. They end swiftly, even suddenly. But the coda of
drags on, and all the while the incredible power of the previous chapter escapes like air out of leaky balloon.

Edited by Ryan H.
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Part of my big problem with the finale of the film, which I think is the film's unforgivable misstep, is so aptly summed up by this conversation at The House Next Door, which is super-long. I'll quote the relevant section, which is really only a fraction of the article:

I'm not surprised, after all you've written about the film and its script and how prepared you were to not like it, that you didn't care for the film. But calling the ending "unforgivable"? Not even the House Next Door guys go that far, do they?

"What matters are movies, not awards; experiences, not celebrations; the subjective power of individual critical points of view, not the declamatory compromises of consensus." - Richard Brody, "Godard's Surprise Win Is a Victory for Independent Cinema," The New Yorker

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I know you're joking, but I'll give a somewhat serious answer. Nearly every film is "poetic" in the sense that it creates an effect by juxtaposing images. An editor's cut is a pretty good analogy for a poet's line break. So, yes, Tree of Life is poetic, just as all films are poetic. Because Mailick's editing is often subjective and associative rather than narrative-driven, Tree of Life foregrounds the poetic form of cinema. Simply calling it "poetic" is totally inadequate as a critical argument, though, unless the critic is willing and able to describe how, specifically, the juxtaposition of images works.

By the same token, I suppose you could say that all prose is poetic inasmuch as any good writer pays attention to the aesthetic character of language. Still, we recognize prose and poetry as distinct modes of writing and certainly as distinct concepts, even if to a degree they're poles on a spectrum rather than binary alternatives. In that sense, it makes sense to me to say that, say, Of Gods and Men is (eloquent) prose, and The Tree of Life is poetry.

I'm not sure what it would mean to call identifying a given work as "poetry" or "poetic" as a "critical argument." It seems at most an elementary, preliminary premise that could be used to begin propounding a critical argument.

“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor

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Joel C wrote:

: Well, I won't speak to this effect in the final scene, but it seems to me that perhaps the "problem" of people wandering around in this film seems heightened partially because the characters who do the most wandering around are children.

Actually, I think of the mother more than anyone else when I think of the "wandering around" in this movie.

SDG wrote:

: By the same token, I suppose you could say that all prose is poetic inasmuch as any good writer pays attention to the aesthetic character of language.

If memory serves, one of C.S. Lewis's characters makes this same basic point -- that all good prose moves towards poetry or aspires to be poetry -- in That Hideous Strength (which I haven't read since high school).

"Sympathy must precede belligerence. First I must understand the other, as it were, from the inside; then I can critique it from the outside. So many people skip right to the latter." -- Steven D. Greydanus
Now blogging at Patheos.com. I can also still be found at Facebook, Twitter and Flickr. See also my film journal.

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That's why it's such a letdown when Malick the heavy-handed symbolist returns for the final 15 minutes, not so much to wrap things up as to deliver a crushingly obvious vision of heaven that reminds me, of all things, of the similarly disappointing—and similarly saccharine and spiritually pat—conclusion of the TV series Lost.

Hmm. Again, I think there's a problem here. The easy interpretation is that this is a vision of heaven, but I personally really don't think it is meant to be heavenly. The more I consider it, the more it strikes me as a completion of entering the state of grace. The scene which is juxtaposed with an obviously dead, barren earth, with a cold, blue star in the distance, obviously indicating to me Malick's vision of the end of the world. This, I think, is the completion of Malick's nature narrative, which, even taking into account the obvious break in the bulk of the film for Jack's childhood, is very linear and clear. It begins with the creation of the universe and ends with the destruction of the earth. However, Jack's final scene is to me meant to realize Jack's entering of the state of Grace, a narrative which is not temporal or linear in nature, and which does not imprison Jack to his inevitable fate in the narrative of nature, but which allows him to step beyond both the micro narrative of nature in his life (his struggle with his father), and the macro narrative of nature in the universe (all things will strive and struggle and ultimately pass away, aka dead earth). He's obviously not dead, as we see in following scenes, and the I think the state-of-grace scene is clearly metaphorical. I think you could even make an argument that the macro effects of nature are shown through the images of the universe and the earth in it's various stages of existence, just as the micro effects are shown through Jack's relationship with his father. If the film is primarily driven by the juxtaposition of these two narratives, as I am convinced it is, then apart from the obvious micro elements of Jack's mother and brother in his life, the final scene makes sense as a macro outworking of the grace narrative.

The heaven/grace scene is really only heavenly to me in so far as going through the door brings Jack to living in under grace, a law unbounded by the temporal and driven by the eternal. But to say that Jack is literally in Heaven is, at least to me, a clear misinterpretation of the final act of the film.

I know you're joking, but I'll give a somewhat serious answer. Nearly every film is "poetic" in the sense that it creates an effect by juxtaposing images. An editor's cut is a pretty good analogy for a poet's line break. So, yes, Tree of Life is poetic, just as all films are poetic. Because Mailick's editing is often subjective and associative rather than narrative-driven, Tree of Life foregrounds the poetic form of cinema. Simply calling it "poetic" is totally inadequate as a critical argument, though, unless the critic is willing and able to describe how, specifically, the juxtaposition of images works.

Although, again, as I mentioned above, I think this particular Malick film is very narrative driven. I think it is the juxtaposition of two different narratives, shown both on large and small scales. It is to Malick's credit that the "poetry" of the imagery works so well in the context of those respective narratives.

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I wish I had more time to write. (I'm launching five websites today after working on them non-stop for six months.) In a nutshell, I'm willing to go along with Malick -- the wandering, the associative editing, the music, the voiceovers -- in this film where I've been more skeptical in the past because he's finally broken off from narrative. It's no coincidence, I'm sure, that this is my favorite Malick and Mirror is my favorite Tarkovsky. This is a subjective film built from subjective images. More often than not they achieve the level of Tarkovskian Image. I just wish the voiceovers were read in Russian by Tarkovsky's father. I'm convinced Malick is more interested in the sound of the human voice than in the words being spoken.

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I just wish the voiceovers were read in Russian by Tarkovsky's father. I'm convinced Malick is more interested in the sound of the human voice than in the words being spoken.

This is a brilliant, brilliant thought.

Steven, I'm responding specifically to the words "poetic imagery" which appear often in popular reviews of Malick's films.

Ah, gotcha. Yeah, I'm not sure what that would even mean. Any more than "poetic words."

“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor

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Joel C wrote:

: But to say that Jack is literally in Heaven is, at least to me, a clear misinterpretation of the final act of the film.

Well, sure, though even if one were to say that, I'm not sure what "literally" would mean. Does anyone think Heaven is "literally" on the other side of a door standing all alone in the wilderness? Of course not. You can argue that this movie's images represent a "metaphor" for a "literal" heaven, or that heaven is itself a "metaphor" for something else, or that the movie's images represent a "metaphor" for that something else without any recourse to heaven itself per se ... but at the end of the day, we're still stuck with THESE images and how they wrap things up.

BTW, Darren, thanks for pointing me to that interview with Alejandro. He makes a very interesting point about the clash of impressionism (Malick's usual mode) and expressionism in this film, and I think some of that is also alluded to in the House Next Door excerpt that Ryan posted. But, since you've now seen the film and liked it, I wondered if you had any thoughts on that (or on any of Alejandro's other critiques)?

"Sympathy must precede belligerence. First I must understand the other, as it were, from the inside; then I can critique it from the outside. So many people skip right to the latter." -- Steven D. Greydanus
Now blogging at Patheos.com. I can also still be found at Facebook, Twitter and Flickr. See also my film journal.

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: By the same token, I suppose you could say that all prose is poetic inasmuch as any good writer pays attention to the aesthetic character of language.

If memory serves, one of C.S. Lewis's characters makes this same basic point -- that all good prose moves towards poetry or aspires to be poetry -- in That Hideous Strength (which I haven't read since high school).

Could be. He also writes somewhere else about how poetry differs from prose -- but not so absolutely as to be impenetrable to anyone who can read prose. Lewis does not like the tendency of modern poetry to leave the world of prose completely behind and become something inaccessible, or accessible only to elite specialists.

It strikes me that there is a parallel here to representational and non-representational art. The more representational, the more prosaic; the more stylized or abstract, the more poetic. Lewis likes poetry that is still recognizably representational, and FWIW I agree -- both about poetry and about visual art, and probably about cinema too.

I suppose one could argue that visual art and cinema could function more like music than like writing. But of course even writing can have a certain musical quality that isn't lost by being representational. At any rate, it's a rare film that succeeds in throwing off narrative entirely that works for me. The nonrepresentational segments of Fantasia are an example, but I don't know that I would want a whole film of them.

“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor

Writing at the new Decent Films | Follow me on Twitter and Facebook

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Joel C wrote:

: But to say that Jack is literally in Heaven is, at least to me, a clear misinterpretation of the final act of the film.

Well, sure, though even if one were to say that, I'm not sure what "literally" would mean. Does anyone think Heaven is "literally" on the other side of a door standing all alone in the wilderness? Of course not. You can argue that this movie's images represent a "metaphor" for a "literal" heaven, or that heaven is itself a "metaphor" for something else, or that the movie's images represent a "metaphor" for that something else without any recourse to heaven itself per se ... but at the end of the day, we're still stuck with THESE images and how they wrap things up.

Well, not to be obtuse, but that does seem to be what some people have been suggesting, as if the scene is actually of Jack in the afterlife. "Heaven off Earth", as Jason Bellamy so succinctly put it. My reaction is to this kind of perception.

I guess I think that to say this scene is the culmination and ultimate destination point of Malick's spiritual meanderings over the past few films, is unfair to the film and it's primary intent. I truly don't think "THESE" images are meant to be indicative of Malick's vision of heaven. I think people are getting caught up in the aesthetic of that scene, when in contrast the truly vital elements of the scene relate to who is in the scene, and how those individuals interact with each other. The environment seems to me to be no more or less than just that: a generally unoffensive and innocuous space in which to present Jack seeing his family with new eyes.

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SDG wrote:

: At any rate, it's a rare film that succeeds in throwing off narrative entirely that works for me. The nonrepresentational segments of Fantasia are an example, but I don't know that I would want a whole film of them.

Just wondering, have you seen Koyaanisqatsi? The director of that film has talked about the "dramaturgical" elements that were essential to the editing of that film -- the idea that his film, for all its lack of narrative, was actually following some sort of arc anyway.

Joel C wrote:

: Well, not to be obtuse, but that does seem to be what some people have been suggesting, as if the scene is actually of Jack in the afterlife. "Heaven off Earth", as Jason Bellamy so succinctly put it. My reaction is to this kind of perception.

Right. But I think haggling over whether this scene really does represent the afterlife is to miss the point of the scene, for both its supporters and its detractors.

: I think people are getting caught up in the aesthetic of that scene, when in contrast the truly vital elements of the scene relate to who is in the scene, and how those individuals interact with each other.

So when Malick is at his most deliberately expressionistic ... we should ignore the expressionism?

"Sympathy must precede belligerence. First I must understand the other, as it were, from the inside; then I can critique it from the outside. So many people skip right to the latter." -- Steven D. Greydanus
Now blogging at Patheos.com. I can also still be found at Facebook, Twitter and Flickr. See also my film journal.

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: At any rate, it's a rare film that succeeds in throwing off narrative entirely that works for me. The nonrepresentational segments of Fantasia are an example, but I don't know that I would want a whole film of them.

Just wondering, have you seen Koyaanisqatsi? The director of that film has talked about the "dramaturgical" elements that were essential to the editing of that film -- the idea that his film, for all its lack of narrative, was actually following some sort of arc anyway.

Yeah, Koyaanisqatsi is about as pure an example of successful cinematic poetry as I can think of.

“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor

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Joel C wrote:

: Well, not to be obtuse, but that does seem to be what some people have been suggesting, as if the scene is actually of Jack in the afterlife. "Heaven off Earth", as Jason Bellamy so succinctly put it. My reaction is to this kind of perception.

Right. But I think haggling over whether this scene really does represent the afterlife is to miss the point of the scene, for both its supporters and its detractors.

Well, I think it makes a difference, because if it is the afterlife, then Jack's interactions with the people in the scene really are shallow and meaningless to me. However, if it ISN'T the afterlife, and is indeed indicative of Jack's newfound metaphorical understanding of his family in the context of grace, then the whole focus of the scene changes position.

So when Malick is at his most deliberately expressionistic ... we should ignore the expressionism?

Not ignore, but consider which is subservient to which. I think the unfortunate thing is that this is Malick's answer to the contrasting narratives which play out through the whole film, and the crux of this scene really is about the way in which Jack "sees" his family with eyes unveiled. To put that crucial moment in a more spectacular and aesthetically impressive environment would really detract from the importance of that very human realization.

I suppose one could argue that visual art and cinema could function more like music than like writing. But of course even writing can have a certain musical quality that isn't lost by being representational. At any rate, it's a rare film that succeeds in throwing off narrative entirely that works for me. The nonrepresentational segments of Fantasia are an example, but I don't know that I would want a whole film of them.

Do you really feel that the film "throws off narrative"? I see so clearly two very strong and diametrically-opposed narratives which play through the whole film. Granted, it's impossible to see them except in retrospect, having seen the whole film, but the narrative aspects of this film, again, as they relate to the narrative of nature and the narrative of grace, seem front-and-center to me.

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Do you really feel that the film "throws off narrative"?

No. I don't think that. I wasn't talking about The Tree of Life in that sentence.

Whoops. Sorry. There was no qualifying other film in the post, so I assumed.

Not sure if this is a useful distinction to others, but to me the final sequence is a portrait of grace rather than of heaven. I kinda wish the film had ended on the field of sunflowers. I took it as Malick's personal answer to the question, "What is the most beautiful image imaginable?"

See my above posts, Darren, but yes, I had a similar reaction to the final sequence.

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Not sure if this is a useful distinction to others, but to me the final sequence is a portrait of grace rather than of heaven. I kinda wish the film had ended on the field of sunflowers. I took it as Malick's personal answer to the question, "What is the most beautiful image imaginable?"

Yeah, that accords with how I saw it too. I think it's open to some kind of heaven, some kind of ultimate triumph of grace, coming as it does after an image of the heat death of the universe, but it doesn't have to be seen that way.

“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” — Flannery O'Connor

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Not sure if this is a useful distinction to others, but to me the final sequence is a portrait of grace rather than of heaven. I kinda wish the film had ended on the field of sunflowers. I took it as Malick's personal answer to the question, "What is the most beautiful image imaginable?"

Yeah, that accords with how I saw it too. I think it's open to some kind of heaven, some kind of ultimate triumph of grace, coming as it does after an image of the heat death of the universe, but it doesn't have to be seen that way.

I think it's referential of heaven in the sense that Grace is a narrative unbounded by the chains of time and linearity, and so consequentially evokes heaven in a metaphorical sense. My take of the heat death of the universe is that Jack's coming into an understanding of grace, in a particular moment of his life eons before the end of the universe, plays into an eternal narrative which exceeds and is ultimately victorious over that final moment in the narrative of nature.

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But Pitt. Back to acting. Wow.

I'd read a lot about Tree of Life before seeing it, so a lot of it had been "spoiled" for me (I don't particularly care), but I was completely unprepared for Pitt's performance. So much of the film's dialogue seems almost beside-the-point, but I can't get over his delivery of "that poor boy" early on. So much shame, regret, and heartache in those words.

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I revisited A River Runs Through It this weekend, and it felt like a film Malick must love. Pitt's performance there seems so effortless, so perfect. And in the same way, his turn in The Tree of Life feels a lot like perfection.

P.S.  I COULD BE WRONG.

 

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