There are few film directors whose influence should be
studied at film schools because of their innovated approach and style. On my
list are Bergman, Eisenstein, Fellini, Hitchcock, Gilliam, Spielberg and
Terrence Malick.
His latest work, “The Knight of Cups” achieved what his similar film “the Tree of Life” did not; a surreal minimalist apprehension of faith and desire through a delicate royal prism. The discernment wrought through a scattered array of bits of intertwined dialogue narrative and poetry interpreting glimpses of characters without making any assumptions and neglecting to frame a moral structure or typical story line. It is as if it’s up to the viewer to decide what’s going on and to relate or deem what’s suited for them to absorb, yet readily and intensely therapeutic.
A meditation or a prayer of sorts, the film follows Christian Bales various love affairs and privileged life of a king who forgot he had to lead. Seeing and feeling Bales faults and qualities reflected back from the eyes and motions of beautiful women, these Goddesses enable his various stages of detachment from earthly duties and grounded enlightenments. The film is a storied poem observing important moments in the lives of demigods.
Malick juxtaposes with images of homeless people and a man being eaten away by some aliment describing suffering as a gateway into divine perception albeit from the lips of an imposing priest and the promise of rebirth locked away in our bosoms. Bale is left searching in a rocky desert told by his father watching over him to begin again after having failed to maintain relationships; seeking a more fulfilling love and conquest of endearing souls.
His latest work, “The Knight of Cups” achieved what his similar film “the Tree of Life” did not; a surreal minimalist apprehension of faith and desire through a delicate royal prism. The discernment wrought through a scattered array of bits of intertwined dialogue narrative and poetry interpreting glimpses of characters without making any assumptions and neglecting to frame a moral structure or typical story line. It is as if it’s up to the viewer to decide what’s going on and to relate or deem what’s suited for them to absorb, yet readily and intensely therapeutic.
A meditation or a prayer of sorts, the film follows Christian Bales various love affairs and privileged life of a king who forgot he had to lead. Seeing and feeling Bales faults and qualities reflected back from the eyes and motions of beautiful women, these Goddesses enable his various stages of detachment from earthly duties and grounded enlightenments. The film is a storied poem observing important moments in the lives of demigods.
Malick juxtaposes with images of homeless people and a man being eaten away by some aliment describing suffering as a gateway into divine perception albeit from the lips of an imposing priest and the promise of rebirth locked away in our bosoms. Bale is left searching in a rocky desert told by his father watching over him to begin again after having failed to maintain relationships; seeking a more fulfilling love and conquest of endearing souls.
This extravagantly lush piece of art can be viewed, perhaps intentionally, as a great symbol of the media and its current state of denial. Like
“the Knight of Cups” our foundational perceptions of what is wrong and needed
are severally distorted and preoccupied by want. Distracted from real injustices
and harmful corruption in desperate need to examine structural change. A giant
hack job octopus with a tentacle for almost everyone, churning away at a deceptive
contentment. Bits of pieces of news scattered on small and large platforms
never coherently brought to bare through painstaking detail. It’s no doubt “The
Knight of Cups” was conceived before the advent of Donald Trump and the
ridiculously mendacious state of so called right wing buffoonery that’s currently
seeping into thoughtful reporting sapping intellectual worth and progress in
favor of headline teases that make for ratings. The teasing has become the news, even in considerate
spins and on well-meaning platforms which lack proper introspection. Bernie Sanders
refusing to play politics forgetting to toot his own horn in favor of purist
talking points fearing unfashioned exposure while Clinton plays congress and
the media like a fiddle no doubt with a room full of experienced advice and
counsel. The cycle whips spins and grinds it out while failing to apply the
same gravitas to stranded refugees, hostage towns, and a melting planet held at
bay with false truths perpetuated by talking heads.
