Terrence Malick
Song to Song

It would be really easy to throw mud on this film, mock it, say one outrageous thing after another. Instead, it seemed more sensible to take a deep breath, relax, and look beyond the surface. Complaining about the lack of definition in a Malick film would be like standing in front of a Van Gogh and arguing that it doesn't resemble reality at all. One cannot ignore the artist's poetics.

It's a Malick film, but even more extreme, ambitious, difficult, and sparse than its predecessors. Perhaps the title, the general subject, the actors, the cinematography (as some might say: beautiful!) can confuse the audience and lead them to believe they're going to see a light film, something like La La Land. Quite the opposite. In Song to Song, there is almost no music, neither diegetic nor extradiegetic. And music is not at all the central issue. Even the expression "Song to Song" is entirely metaphorical: from song to song, from one love to another, from one phase of life to another. In short, life and its swings, not exactly sensible, not exactly coherent and progressive. Imagine Malick representing life's lack of sense by setting up a staging that borders on nonsense, pure voyeurism, and the most persistent circularity and contradiction. Here it is, a Malick film even more difficult than The Tree of Life or The Thin Red Line. Thus, it is not surprising that even major newspapers have indulged in phrases like: "it's almost a parody of itself," "even fans have had enough," "it's deadly boring," and so on. Understandable from the less prepared audience, not from the critics.

Obviously, Malick almost does it on purpose, preying on the audience's need to follow a story, a plot, and sadistically denies it. The fundamental plot points of the characters' stories are given by subtraction, always denied visually. The characters loiter on the scene, cuddle, make cooing noises, make love (clothed), look at each other, no longer look at each other, walk in beautiful places, walk in beautiful houses, kiss, go for a drive. If you muted it, it would be an entirely incomprehensible film. This can be seen as a limitation, and indeed it makes the viewing decidedly daunting; but from a broader perspective, it reveals a remarkable virtue. How is this possible? Well, because this is a visceral, physical, tactile film, I dare say. And so what should remain primarily is a sensation, the vivid memory of a sensory experience. Thus, the apparent repetitiveness of the film gradually transforms into a feeling: the feeling of having lived alongside the protagonists' experiences, exchanges of affection, games of glances. It feels like having had the same breeze in your hair, breathed the air of the same places. Because the true protagonist is life, its dignity, the need not to waste it.

This remarkable outcome would be a mere exercise in style if it lacked purpose, reflection, a conceptual core. It is certainly not the music, the rock scene, or infamous producers. It is something of a higher order, concerning life in its entirety. Malick shows us wasted lives, lives squandered, deprived of their sanctity because they are sacrificed on the altar of ignoble, contingent, materialistic ends. Each person bends, abuses themselves because they are obsessed with success, with having to make it. And in this, they sacrifice themselves, their own life, flesh, blood, time, emotion. They sacrifice their own love, hollowing out, until becoming a doll, an empty shell. A counter-current choice is obviously possible, change can be implemented, but in any case, there will be suffering, more or less, depending on the different personalities. Some will succeed in returning to life, others will not. But for everyone, it finally becomes evident that one cannot sacrifice themselves for materialistic ends. Sooner or later, love will rebel, the body will rebel, the soul will rebel.

This discourse has nothing to do with moral evaluations: the character played by Fassbender is a piece of shit, but he lives spontaneously, takes what he wants, is generous, lives his eternal erotic drive. And he is a happy person. It is the people around him who abuse themselves because they desire to exploit him to advance their careers. As a prostitute says: "This is a means to something else." But what Malick wants to say is the exact opposite: there are no distinct means and ends, everything is both means and ends, you cannot abuse yourself instrumentally to achieve something that then turns out to be unreachable. Life is in every moment and requires dignity, sanctity, happiness. Covered in sand on a construction site, yet happy, much happier than sitting at a piano, frustrating days on melodies and copyrights. Better than being on a stage, but without really feeling it as your own.

The film's flaws are mainly linked to the voice-overs, which are less effective compared to other examples in the director's past. The actors are perfect because they instinctively embody the types they represent. And in fact, they do not have to act much: Rooney Mara has really few lines, but she is a perfectly defined, transparent character.

7.5/10