The Tree of Life

Well, this is a hard one. Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life is certainly divisive: I’ve heard poncey critics call it a masterpiece equal to any other, and I’ve read reports of punters across America walking out of the movie theatre, all complaints and confusion. To be fair, I’ve also heard enough critics go against it, but there doesn’t seem to be much of a middle ground here. There are, in general, two opposing camps:  those who think it’s a masterpiece, and those who think it’s just navel-gazing. I kind of think it approaches being a masterpiece, but that it’s held back at times by its reliance on navel-gazing. While many aspects of the film are strikingly affective and accomplished, at times it’s too nebulous, too grandiose, and undeniably ponderous. So join me as I take something like the middle ground in my own poncey way.

brad pitt tree of life Brad Pitt & Jessica Chastain Interview For ‘The Tree Of Life’

Actually, now I mention it I’m not sure navel-gazing is the right word, though I’m also not sure it’s a good idea to second-guess myself at the very beginning of a review, and yet here we are. So, navel-gazing: that phrase really implies, at least to me, an intense or prolonged bout of unnecessary introspection. But The Tree of Life is at its best when it’s being introspective. It’s when Malick attempts to move from the personal to the grand, the epic, that I think the film falters. Early in the film we’re moved suddenly away from a series of simple scenes showing a married couple (Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain) finding out about the death of their nineteen year-old son, and transported to an entire dramatisation of the formation and life of the universe. Stars and planets are formed, dinosaurs display untoward levels of empathy towards one another, and so on and so forth. Then we’re back in the care of the O’Briens, and we watch the lives of the mother, the father, and the three young boys  (chiefly the eldest, Jack, and the middle child R.L) for most of the remainder of the movie, except for short scenes where an adult Jack (played by Sean Penn) remembers these younger days and thinks painfully of his brother.

So, uh, yeah. Dinosaurs. It’s kind of hard to get away from that once you start thinking about it. It’s clear that Malick is trying to make a film that encompasses pretty much everything about life and the world around us, and there’s not anything wrong with that, per se, but this sequence feels overwrought, and is undeniably long and ponderous. It’s initially pretty interesting, but it soon starts to feel like it doesn’t need to be there, at least not for such a long time. And I think it was a colossal mistake to include a sequence about the life and death of dinosaurs. It made a big, silent What come to my mouth, and instead of turning into a How, a Why, or better yet a Hmm... it just stayed an unhappy What that was repeated until the bloody dinosaurs went away. In essence, I think the problem with this sequence, and with a good number of others wherein vaguely religious platitudes are whispered dramatically over various images of nature, is that they (a) feel like something you’d find in a student film that’s trying very hard to be profound, and (b) don’t really seem to have any connection to what the movie is about. In a very big way The Tree of Life purports to be about one thing, when it’s not really about that thing at all. But I’ll get back to that in a second.

So onto the bulk of the movie: Malick explores the lives of this family expertly. I imagine its setting (a suburban neighbourhood in Texas) and the details of the children’s lives will play far better to many Americans, having shared similar upbringings, than to an Englishman such as myself, but even without the resonance brought on by such personal recognition I can still say that this depiction of a childhood, and family life feels entirely real, and it’s clear that Malick is bringing much of himself to the screen here. The vast majority of the film is like this; slow-moving, understated, and lacking in any real sense of conflict or narrative urgency. There is conflict between the strict, somewhat embittered father and his children, as well as conflict between the father and the mother, but most of the time it’s just bubbling softly under the surface, and it’s tempered throughout by long stretches where very little happens. It’s not about a narrative, or a sense of conflict, however. Malick captures the feeling and the place of the family-life, and reveals Jack’s views of the world around him, especially his parents, and how this changes. All it is is a long examination of a family’s life, and I guess the film portrays a very slow fall from a kind of prelapsarian family life and childhood into one that’s tinged more and more by tension and conflicting desires.

Brad Pitt in The Tree of Life by Terrence Malick

I happened to find this section, the vast majority of the film, to be hugely touching, interesting, and rewarding, though I take it that many people have taken less kindly to Malick’s attempts to eschew the traditions of narrative cinema. Personally, it really just drew me in to some kind of non-intellectual state where the images and the scenes came towards me in a happy trance (Ponce). The characters and their interactions with one another come into their own almost immediately, and much of the interest comes from the tension on an intra- and interpersonal level. Pitt’s father figure is flawed, very obviously so, but in a complex and understandable way. He’s loving but severe, and somewhat unpredictable. He’s also clearly, clearly going to hit home for a lot of people. Chastain’s mother figure is an angelic, floaty, red-haired beauty, and she’s kind, loving, and wonderful to a fault. And though it’s easy to criticise this level of deification of the mother figure found in so many novels and movies it is going to hit home powerfully to a lot of people: Chastain’s character isn’t necessarily perfect, but that’s how her young children see her, especially when contrasted against their father. The mother is also the subject of much of the film’s cinematographic love, with many of the film’s most wonderful shots revolving around her, from soft images in the twilight to a strangely jarring, but moving flight of fancy that, considering it now, will probably annoy a fair few people.

Going on from this: the film is really just awash with striking shots, and sequences. Malick seems to have a love-affair with dawn and dusk; the early illumination of twilight, and many, many of the film’s scenes are found outside, at the very end of the day. This decision, and the film’s general reliance on naturally-lit sets leads to minute after uninterrupted minute of beautiful moments. Malick’s also taken throughout by scenes of nature, and these are indeed impressive. Getting all rubbish and poncey again for a minute (but, you know, really quite rubbish and poncey): these otherwise incidental shots of nature seem to serve as contemplative dividers that separate two scenes, and allow the audience to contemplate the previous scene briefly, much like the technique often employed by Yasujiro Ozu in his films. Other than the uses of nature, I noticed a childish, magic-feeling recurring use of shots of shadows through thin cloth, delicate silk, and there are many repeats of these kinds of visual themes. It’s rare for a film to make me actively notice and comment on the cinematography, not to mention the method of lighting, but when one does it’s because it’s so very visually striking and impressive, like The Tree of Life.

jessica chastain tree of life Brad Pitt & Jessica Chastain Interview For ‘The Tree Of Life’

It’s beautiful throughout, though I can imagine that others would have far less patience for what Malick is trying to do. And that’s entirely understandable: as I said, it is slow, and ponderous, and a lot of people have called it pretentious (Though, I really think we should put a moratorium on the use of that word until people stop using it to refer to anything that’s a little weird). Where I’m less happy to defend the film is when it attempts to move off from this simple exploration of a mother, a father, and their children, to a an exploration of the entire universe, loss, and the divine.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so obviously, so unabashedly spiritual movie before. And while that’s certainly not grounds for negative criticism, the way such spirituality is handled is problematic. The film begins with a quotation from Job, and the comparison is obvious throughout. But, as I mentioned before, there are stretches throughout where we hear the adult Jack, and his mother speak fairly meaninglessly over some lovely shot or other of nature. They ask questions of the dead son, and God, and they don’t actually seem to be saying a whole lot. We have choruses of choirs singing inconceivably religious music, and we have a long, spiritual, stretch at the end that I think falls flat onto its face repeatedly. Not only do I think these pieces are managed poorly, (and I think there’s a lot to be said for taking on spiritual and/or existential questions by focusing on real life rather than some terribly po-faced construal of cosmic events) but I think they actually go against what The Tree of Life, by and large, is actually about. The film mentions Job (well, slams it into your face, really), and we know from early on that one of these sons is going to die. But there’s very, very little that actively addresses this. We have the death of a son, THE CREATION OF THE UNIVERSE, a family life, interludes where Sean Penn looks pensively out of a window, and then the aforementioned silly bit at the end I don’t want to talk about in detail. But very little that’s actually about loss, or dealing with it. Overall it’s a film about this family’s life, and growing up, and in many ways some very real magic of existence (one that can be appreciated by anyone, regardless of their religious belief or lack thereof), but it’s not about Job, and it’s not about loss, and it’s not about death. As the title says: it’s about life, and I feel like Malick tried to crowbar a spiritual question and message in where it doesn’t really fit.

But God, saying that, it really is something else. I criticise it now, and I couldn’t not, but I really did love it. You have to be patient, and I can understand why few would want to be so patient, considering the film’s failings, but it’s utterly wonderful. It really is shot more beautifully than any film I’ve seen before, except for perhaps There Will Be Blood, and it captures the truth of the lives, and the childhood of its characters. It’s moving and quiet, and clever and masterful, and I really, really did fall in love. But it did flail around a fair bit at times, trying to convince you that it’s got a profound truth, when in reality it’s profound and poignant in a different, more subtle way. It’s about life rather than death, and you can really take as much of the spiritual talk within as you want. You can see it as the real message of the movie if you want, but I see it as window-dressing around the real view. And the view is really worth seeing, even if you don’t end up falling in love with it as I did. Just, I don’t know, try to watch out for the dinosaurs, and try to ignore them if you can.

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Limbo

Limbo is hardly a revolutionary game: it’s not one of those small indie productions that introduce a fantastic mechanic that no one’s ever thought of before. In fact, all you can ever do in Limbo is walk, run, jump, and perform simple interactions with objects, such as pulling, pushing, and so on. And whereas a game like Terry Cavanagh’s VVVVVV combines a similarly limited control-set with clever, often insanely-difficult challenges, Limbo succeeds by framing a game of simple puzzles and challenges in a world replete with atmosphere, and with haunting touches.

You play as a small boy, and you wake up in a dark forest clearing without explanation or context. From this you travel through a dangerous natural landscape until you come first to a wasted, uninhabited city, and finally to an abandoned factory. On the way you encounter hazards and have to avoid danger, and keep moving. For the majority of the game, until around its final third, these challenges are mostly simple and understated: you may have to navigate a series of bear-traps or find a way across a small lake. Regardless of how it’s presented, each challenge faces you with the distinct possibility (and saying that; the reality) of a painful death. traps may be hidden in the tall grass, or a makeshift bridge may not hold your weight, leaving you to drown in the waters below. Limbo presents you with hidden dangers you often can’t really hope to anticipate, and it presents the death of the boy you control without blinking or looking away. So a lot of the problems you encounter are going to be overcome through trial-and-error; meaning the boy will die many times throughout the course of the game’s three to four hour running time.

In most games this would be considered a flaw of design, and in Limbo it can certainly be unclear just what you’re supposed to do at times, but Playdead, the small studio behind Limbo, uses this trial-and-error gameplay to show you the real dangers of this imagined world. It’s very rarely even slightly frustrating, and it really works in what it’s trying to do: the very unpleasant nature of watching this small boy drown, or be crushed, or whatever, enhances the dangerous, foreboding feeling of this blasted, withered world. And while a game attempting to implement a photo-realistic artistic style would just be deeply unpleasant in showing you the violent death of a defenceless child, Limbo’s monochrome, simplistic style makes the game gruesome, yes, but prevents it from being violence for violence’s sake.

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The art-style of Limbo is instantly captivating, and its black-and-white, film-grain styled looks give us a game that is unlike anything I’ve ever seen in the medium. Undoubtedly its uncomplicated interaction and 2D platforming experience helped such a small team to make a game that looks quite this impressive. Furthermore, the minimal use of sound helps greatly to build an atmosphere of quiet horror and awe. Really though, I don’t want to get too effusive here; it’s too easy to get ahold of a game that looks artsy and run your mouth for far too long about its great artistic merits. Its art-style and use of lighting, sound, and so on really is pretty astounding. And the simplistic first third, where you move through the wilderness is very impressive, as you encounter the bodies of other, less-fortunate children, and in one genuinely chilling scene are made entirely helpless before a giant, black-shadowed spider. But its not all perfect; somewhere towards the last third, as you move from city to abandoned factory, things change slightly: the atmosphere drains away somewhat, an atmosphere that is Limbo’s greatest asset, and you’re faced with a more complex, but far more traditional puzzle game with lasers, and saw-blades, magnets and automatic-turrets. It almost completely washes away the experience you’ve been having, and replaces it with something interesting, yes, but that doesn’t quite fit. It stops being a simplistic game with a fantastic atmosphere to a really quite interesting puzzle game with a somewhat impressive atmosphere. The more puzzle-oriented final stretch could be a compelling game on its own, but it doesn’t really work with the game that Playdead have carefully crafted up until that point.

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In terms of storytelling, Limbo has a great approach, though of course by no means the only great approach: the vague story that’s there is only ever hinted at, and it’s driven by your actions as the player. You’re never going to be faced with a revelation as to where this boy is, or why he’s in this situation. The name Limbo obviously seems to reach to the concept of Limbo of the Infants, where unbaptised infants go when they die (or rather, where some people say that unbaptised infants go when they die), but nothing is ever shown to support or deny this. There’s the spectre of a small girl that you come across at times, but you can never seem to reach her. Once you first see her, though, it enters your mind that she is your objective; what you’re running towards. Again, though, you’re left to speculate as to who exactly, if anything other than an idea, she is. The ending, coming quite suddenly after a half-hour of difficult puzzles, is slightly jarring, but it really is, like most of the rest of the game, an understated, affecting piece of work.

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So it’s hardly too different, mechanically speaking, from many other traditional platforming games, and many people have picked up on that in their criticism. And yep, it does gleefully employ unfair challenges against you, but overall it’s hugely impressive for its atmosphere and its audio-visual artistry. Not perfect then, and maybe it would be nice if it had tried to do something more original in its puzzle-platorming ways. And finally, as I said before, the third act is rather difficult to place, hardly in-keeping with the rest of the game, but I’d heavily recommend anyone with an Xbox 360 (it’s soon to be released on PC and PS3) to pick it up and try it out.

It’s certainly worth finding out what it has to show.

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Red Dead Redemption

After weeks of searching I’ve finally cornered one of the ghosts of a past I’d rather forget. I used to run with him in a gang, but I left that behind long ago. I tried to put everything behind me: to change and live a good, honourable life. I suppose I also tried to adapt to a fast-moving world where railroads and bureaucrats and technology are making us gunslingers of the past obsolete. But then again here we are, and I’m pointing my six-shooter into the eyes of another man, like so many times before. Before I have time to react he’s managed to escape, and I’m chasing him through a besieged military fort on the Mexico-side of the San Luis River. I fire a few times at him, but they’re mostly warning-shots. I’ve been ordered to take him alive if I can, and anyway: he’s a man I once called friend, regardless of how much time has come between us.

A little under a minute later I’m chasing him on horseback, and I pull out my revolver, aiming it at his horse. I can see the muscles on its flank move back and forth, up and down, as it runs, and I fire three shots into the hind quarters. It crumples to the ground, and I leap off my moving horse, lasso already spinning above my head, ready to tie up the man I’ve chased across what feels like half of Mexico. But my quarry is already dead: I can see from the blood seeping from his clothes that at least one of my bullets went astray, whether in the fort or atop the horse. I suppose the fall from the animal killed him outright. I take him back to the fort and place his body in a holding cell, and though I tried my best to keep him alive I sure as hell don’t feel too good about myself right now.

The fact that Red Dead Redemption can make you feel like this; make you go out of your way to take someone alive, make you emphasise with your target, and make you hesitate to pull the trigger at that most crucial of moments, is testament to its obvious and almost unparalleled strengths; it’s almost a masterpiece of modern videogames. At the most pivotal moments of the game I was fully drawn in by the plight of John Marston, whom you play as, who has had his family kidnapped by government agents for his past crimes, and who needs to hunt down the members of his old gang of outlaws in order to secure the freedom of his wife and son. And though throughout the course of the game you’re presented with fantastically realised events of world-changing importance (for much of the game’s middle portion Marston finds himself embroiled in a peasant’s revolution in Mexico) it’s the small-scale human drama that has the biggest impact.

Red Dead Redemption can be described as Grand Theft Auto in the Old West: It follows the system of a largely linear main story set in a huge, open world the player can explore and interact with at their leisure, and this open world also houses a large number of tasks and adventures the player can engage in outside of the main story. As well as all this, it follows the Rockstar Games tradition of relying heavily on rather masterfully-done cutscenes to move the narrative along. But the feel of Red Dead Redemption differs hugely from any of the past GTA games, in that the Grand Theft Auto series has always sought to portray the bustling, fast-paced nature of modern city-life. Red Dead Redemption, set in the dying days of the Old West, feels completely different even though it shares the same basic structure: It’s all wide-open spaces, vistas of a sunset over the rolling plains of West Elizabeth, and a feeling of loneliness.

The world you explore is phenomenally impressive: not only is it really something else graphically and aesthetically speaking, as you gallop through the Mexico wilderness, or mosey on down the Main Street of the town of Armadillo, but it really captures the atmosphere of the Old West as we know it through films and comics and literature. The wilderness is filled with an impressive sense of space, without feeling empty, and the towns are packed with smoking and gambling, prostitutes and bar-bums, food stores and gun-smiths, and incidental detail that’ll occasionally made me just stop and look around, trying to take everything in. The soundtrack also adds greatly to the sense of place, and drama throughout the game, including a few licensed songs used at specific moments throughout the storyline that are well-chosen and well-timed, to the point where two of my most memorable moments in the roughly twenty hours the game lasted consisted merely of riding my horse through the desert, or the foothills, and listening to a song quietly play. This sense of atmosphere extends to the cutscenes, which are consistently written with an understanding of convincing dialogue, pacing, and the feeling of the time period in question. They also show off an impressive attention to cinematography that is largely absent elsewhere in the medium. Rockstar clearly understands and is influenced by cinema to such an extent that I kind of want them to make a bloody film, just to see how it turns out. And yes, maybe more videogames should be looking for a more interactive way to tell stories, instead of relying on cinematic techniques and flourishes, but there’s certainly room for games relying on cutscenes, especially when the writing is as good as it is here.

And speaking of the writing: John Marston is probably the most interesting and convincing videogame character I’ve seen in years.  Rob Wiethoff, the actor who plays Marston, is convincing throughout, and I’d say that any emotional engagement that comes about as a result of playing the game is at the very least partly a result of his wonderful portrayal of a complicated, flawed character. The cast of actors is mostly superbly talented, though the writing behind some of the lesser characters isn’t always strong: the Irish stereotype, named Irish, is occasionally interesting, but he lapses into stereotype for stereotype’s sake most of the time. Similarly, the head of the Mexican revolution, Abraham Reyes, is quickly shown to be a rather flat character, and I found myself able to predict with great accuracy both his character arc and the outcome of his attempt at wresting power from the authorities within minutes of meeting him. In some cases, especially with Reyes, I feel that Rockstar thinks it’s being far more clever and subtle than it actually is. But as I said, overall the writing is hugely impressive, and Rockstar really captured an impressive atmosphere with the game.

There are occasional bits of technical strangeness that can really pull you out of the experience (Though the engine usually puts out convincing character movement, especially with horses, Marston can move strangely at times, especially when running unarmed, and there are issues with moving to and from cover, and firing through windows during a gunfight), but it’s largely a solid game technically-speaking. The actual combat is something I have issues with, however: it’s mostly very capable, and every so often a gunfight, on foot or on horseback, can just come together in a stunning manner, but often its a little flat. It can feel like all you’re doing is hiding behind cover, waiting for an enemy to pop up so you can fire at him, and there are many, many missions where you’re speeding somewhere on horseback, only to face wave after wave of enemies on horses running at you, firing wildly. Not only can it feel a little uninspired, but the moments where you or an ally get shot five or six times, and you can actually see the big great holes spilling blood everywhere, can pull you out of the experience faster than I can come up with a pithy remark about this particular problem.

I am rather tired with games that try in many ways to be realistic, and then allow you to be a big old bullet-sponge, lumbering from place to place while bits of metal career into your skull. Mostly it works fine for what it is, but I would like to have seen an option for something different; like a Metro 2033-style difficulty mode where you and your enemies both do far more damage with each shot, with perhaps far fewer enemies also, meaning you have to play carefully, leading to a greater feeling that you’re really in a Western gunfight rather than playing about with water pistols. Finally, though Dead Eye Mode (an ability to slow down time and carefully pick your shots, allowing you to take out great numbers of enemies at once when used well) is a great help at times, and satisfying to employ, it’s just too easy to overuse. It can make things far too easy a great deal of the time: you can pretty much consistently take out five or six enemies, impervious to gunfire all the while, and then rinse and repeat without having to worry too much about your Dead Eye meter falling to zero.

So the fighting is a little uninspiring and problematic, but missions where you have to chase someone down, fight bandits from a moving train, and so on can be very impressive, and there are times when just trotting through the wilderness is near-magical. The inclusion of the ability to challenge or be challenged to duels, herd cattle, play poker, break in wild mustangs, and so on and so forth not only adds to the sense of being in the Old West, but also adds some much-appreciated variety outside of gunfighting, which can become like a crutch for many of the story missions. But while sometimes the actual missions can be by-the-numbers, the main pleasures aren’t to be had from the act of shooting people in the head very quickly and with great aplomb.

Instead, the main pleasure to be had from Red Dead Redemption is in the engagement with the storyline, and the incidental vignettes you’ll occasionally bump into throughout the world. John Marston’s journey turned out to be one of the best and most moving stories I’ve experience in a game to date, though it drags for a few hours in the middle, while you’re going about Mexico performing tasks for both the revolutionaries and the psychopathic government figures (which is problematic, in that it undermines Marston’s moral code a little, even though it’s clear that he’s making moral compromises throughout the story in order to save his family, and because it makes little sense for the government to hire a man known to be helping the revolution to go and slaughter revolutionaries). Overall, the story is one about change, a lack of change, savagery, and obsolescence. Marston and his old gang members are a dying breed; we see the technology and government creeping into the western states; irrevocably changing them. And this march of change feeds into what you actually do within the game, both within the story missions and often outside. The game is at its greatest, in fact, when its narrative and its interactive elements come together and form a compelling whole in this way.

We also see, later on, the plight of Native Americans, and nature against the forces of civilisation. It’s clear that peoples’ lives, and very ways of life, are being torn apart by these changes. And we see the callousness and ignorance which eventually will shape the land: A Native American tries to tell Marston and a famous anthropologist who’s come to study the ‘noble savages’ that the buffalo will be extinct in a few years from over-hunting, and that the march of civilisation comes at a price. The anthropologist replies that such extinction is impossible, obviously, due to the law of evolution, and throughout their interaction he treats the Native American as if he’s entirely incapable of understanding both the English language, and the nature of true civilisation. In his actions, and the actions of other characters, Rockstar Games captures the attitudes of many people a hundred years ago and many people today, as well as all the problems that come with such attitudes. And within it all, within all these grand and world-changing events, you have John Marston; a man who’s done bad things, who’s tried to change, and tried to make things right. But in the end he’s not allowed to, and his old life keeps catching up to him regardless of all his efforts to make things right. We’re taken on a journey showing the inevitability of the decline of the old ways in the face of the new. We come to the realisation that the people he has to kill or capture aren’t necessarily as bad as they’ve been made out to be. We learn a lot about Marston, and a bit about the powers that have manipulated him. It’s powerful, and poignant, especially towards the end, and when the end finally comes we know that it really is the end, not just of a story, but of an era, and a way of life.

Buying a newspaper in the town of Blackwater I read that the Native American ‘problem’ has been removed, the outlaw leaders of the Old West have been killed or simply removed, and civilisation is moving in. Civilisation, at any price.

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