There's a decent chance that I'll wind up thinking that
Melancholia is a load of hooey, but I'm legitimately happy for
Best Actress winner Kirsten Dunst. Overdue for a comeback, Dunst will with any luck be able to score some indie roles that have the charm of her best early films. Reading
this piece about Palme d'Or winner
The Tree of Life has me wondering if amid all the divided opinions the jury didn't get it exactly right. (Daily Mail/HND)
Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life never stops moving forward. It begins with a Bible quote and ends with a transcendental meeting of found souls on a beach, and it has the structure of a child's memories; it gathers in fragments, dreams, fancies, associations, glances, whispers, impressions. Most of it takes place in a small Texas town in the 1950s, and at a certain point, we see a truck that says "Waco, Texas," which is Malick's own hometown. We have no way of knowing just how personal this clearly personal film is, but there can be no question from what's on screen that Malick is working from his own most intimate knowledge of what childhood felt like. Every short shot preserves a sense of mystery, of expectancy, so that we're likely to feel like a character in a Virginia Woolf novel crying out, "Wait! Stop!"
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