THE TREE OF LIFE—A Death in the Family

Posted on by Mick McAloon

 

Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life feels as though it has been made with a great sense of freedom.  I agree with A.O. Scott’s remark in his NY Times review that “To watch ‘The Tree of Life’ is, in analogous fashion, to participate in its making.  And any criticism will therefore have to be provisional.”  So provisionally I would say that it’s like a home movie, albeit the most expensive of its kind.  (It’s also like a dream.) The camera stays close to the actors—like a dad with his Super 8—but the actors lead the way.  Malick’s cinematographer, Emmanuel Lubezki, understands and anticipates movement with a sure sense of how something might cut together.  In that regard, it’s like an improvised dance film.   The sense of freedom is so great that it begs the following questions: Was there even a script, and if so, what did it look like?  What did the rehearsal / shooting process entail?  What constitutes the offer of a role for an actor in a TM film? And for that matter, what constitutes character? I would not be surprised to discover that there were only notes or ideas for scene.  For the film is surely process-led.  Not that the means of its making should matter—not in the end, anyway: it is what we’re left with that counts.   And what we’re left with in this instance, I would say, is a very personal film—autobiographical by all accounts—ostensibly about grief. I found it compelling, and in places very moving. Yes, the birth of creation is in there too, but to me that’s just conjecture, and Malick is free to make it, whereas the grief is palpable.

In Malick’s films people are at the mercy of the elements, mental weather included. In The Tree of Life, a middle-aged man (Penn) remembers his childhood in Waco, Texas in the 1950s.  He is still trying to come to terms with death of his younger brother, a death we never see.  He looks haunted (and Penn looks suitably ravaged).  We gather that Jack is an architect.  There are sketches of scenes in, presumably, Jack’s offices, a gleaming, glass-fronted tower in present-day Austin, Texas.  And these scenes really are sketches, the closest the film comes to a form of conventional exposition.  We see him point to blue-prints and take calls.  We see him in an apartment with a woman.   But he inhabits neither of these spaces: he is a ghost of his own life.  But the soul of the film—if a film can be said to have a soul—exists in Jack’s remembrance of childhood: his domineering but no less loving father (Brad Pitt), his beautiful and graceful mother (Jessica Chastain), and his two brothers.  This, to me, is the richest section of the film, and the most moving. And to remember it afterwards, in analogous fashion, is to participate in its protagonist’s consciousness.

Of course, that is only a nominal description of what the film is about, with the emphasis on synopsis, and the chronology ironed out.  What it is is another matter.  It is common-place for filmmakers to say that films are written three times: at the writing stage, obviously; during shooting; and finally—and perhaps, most importantly—in the editing.  I’d guess that Malick found his film during shooting and continued to find it right up until it was locked.  (Perhaps for Malick there was a reading stage–a lifetime of reading!) There is barely a conventional scene in it, and you can kiss goodbye to the notion of a three-act structure.  With his elliptical style at its most extreme, Malick’s film “flashes by” in a ribbon of images, presumably as a way of putting us inside Jack’s head: “Unless you have loved, your life will flash by”. We move from childhood to adulthood in a cut, and back again. (It is simultaneously fragmented and continuous.)   I love the way Malick’s film rustles into being, its sense of immediacy: a girl looking out of a barn window onto a field, the marriage of image and music, the sense of wonder at the world.  At its rhapsodic best, it floats free of its baggage—the profundity of its themes, the fame of its stars, the weight of (our) expectation.   It held me from beginning to end. Not that I went with everything.  The much talked about dinosaurs, for example, left me puzzled. But this was more to do with how they are rendered on screen than any philosophical inquiry on the part of Malick.  The CGI seems at odds with a filmmaker who is a natural with natural light and relishes the unplanned and unforeseen.

—MM

ANIMAL KINGDOM—the Glamour and the Grunge

Posted on by Mick McAloon

 

In his book ‘Cultural Amnesia’, Clive James writes that “the atmospherics of Michael Mann’s Heat affect the look of any movie made about crime: other directors, whether working out of the United States, Latin America, Europe or Hong Kong, either go with him, towards glamour, or go against him, towards grunge, but they always have his look in mind.”  There’s more than a touch of Heat to David Michôd’s Animal Kingdom, especially in its depiction of an armed robbery unit that is as wild and lawless as its quarry.  It also has that city-at-night feeling which Mann is so attuned to, though in this instance the city is Melbourne. But despite its cinematic influences (Goodfellas, Magnolia), Animal Kingdom is rooted in the real.   Michôd has spoken in interviews of wanting to “make a film that unlike, say, a Quentin Tarantino or Guy Richie crime movie, took itself seriously, and was set within a big, dark, nasty world, which was nevertheless still quite poetic and beautiful.”  In other words, Michôd goes for the glamour and the grunge.

From its stark opening (it begins with a bark) to its final confrontation (it ends with a bang), Animal Kingdom more than justifies its grand and arresting title. In its native land, it has been called “the Australian Godfather”, and one can see why: a terrific cast at the top of their game; a brilliant script which takes the sequence as its dramatic unit; a family drama in which the family’s youngest (and most innocent?) must make his way in the world.  Where it differs from The Godfather is in its sense of scale and ambition.  But then Michôd’s crime family is not as organised, nor as operatic, as Coppola’s: the Cody’s are not the Corleones, though what they lack in grandeur they more than make up for in their propensity for violence, betrayal, and incestuous feelings.

The film is loosely based on an actual incident in Melbourne’s recent history known as the Walsh Street Killings. But while Michôd uses this incident to ignite the film’s plot, he is after bigger game.  Like the recent Winter’s Bone, Animal Kingdom is about survival. Its teenage protagonist, Josh, must negotiate the perilous terrain of family—or at least his family.  His notorious uncles and grandmother, to whom he turns after the death of his mother, provide Josh with an unsentimental education: “We take it out on whoever turns up.  That’s what we do.”  It is left to Guy Pearce’s homicide detective, and the film’s moral centre, to guide Josh as best he can.  It is Pearce who supplies us with the film’s metaphor of the “animal kingdom”, telling Josh:”You’ve survived because you’ve been protected by the strong, but they’re not strong anymore.”

In case we were in any doubt about Michôd’s intentions, the film is full of bracing scenes in which the strong and the cruel survive at the expense of the vulnerable. Time and again we see goodness expunged, innocence corrupted. Watch how Michôd fixes on the smooth and youthful complexion of a rookie cop, his good manners, and his by-the-book approach as he responds to the report of a stolen car. This is just one of several extraordinary sequences. Already you sense that Michôd is one of those “sprinkler on the lawn” directors who can summon dread from the sweetest of sights. And unlike Josh, the influences that have shaped him (Scorsese, Mann, P.T. Anderson) have been all to the good. Josh has been raised by wolves and acts accordingly.

—MM