Halfway through ¡°Knight of Cups,¡± the latest treatise from philosopher-filmmaker Terrence Malick, the movie¡¯s chorus of internal monologues yields a line that could be read as a memo to the director himself: ¡°Don¡¯t get your head too far up your own ass.¡±
Malick is a rare filmmaker who strives for nothing less than transcendence in his movies. They exist in a kind of reverie, guided by the free-associating logic of memory rather than the linear narratives typically favored by cinema. Their stories emerge as a series of impressionistic fragments, where dialogue often takes second place to overlapping voice-overs articulating the characters¡¯ inner lives.
For viewers who don¡¯t reflexively roll their eyes at the slightest hint of spirituality, Malick¡¯s cinematic meditations can be transporting, and fans cling to them with the fervor of religious zealots. Yet the director¡¯s output has become increasingly indigestible since his 2011 Palme d¡¯Or winner, ¡°The Tree of Life.¡±
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