|The Meaning of Life, World War II, Iowa hometown.|
Recently I strolled out of my condo and north to the Oriental Theater in my ’hood to see “Tree of Life,” then I wrote a nasty review of the film and titled it “Tree of Strife.” The concept was fine, but director Terrence Malick seemed to wander in the woods a tad too long. I got lost in the tangle, besides which, Brad Pitt, try as he did to mime a strict bulldog-type father, walked like he had a rod up his backside.
However, “Life” did intrigue me enough that I bought “Thin Red Line,” at my neighborhood Exclusive Company on Farwell, and also ordered “Badlands,” Malick flicks. Thank you God, for shining the light on me.
I grew up during World War II, in a small Iowa town and my father was away for five years, way north in the Aleutian Islands where, as a medic, he patched up the broken legs of soldier-skiers patrolling the coastline. My memories of Guadalcanal and the hell of that battle, came mostly from the pages of LIFE magazine. In fact, in watching the supplemental DVD that came with the Thin Red Line, I note that material from that publication was used to help shape the concept of the grunts who died on the island.
All great art (and lots of it isn’t), should be pinned to the pull, itself a battle, twixt life and death, good and evil, nature and man. I’m drawn to writers who understand the power of these concepts. I’m drawn to the diverse ways they choose to express it.
You’ll be relieved to know, I’m going to shorten my blogs, but that’s not because I’ve grown weary of my words, though sometimes I do grow weary of them, it’s because blogs needn’t be laden with blather. Oh by the by, I did a little sleuthing, and see that
my devoted comment-fan, Noodle, is a regular commenter on blog pages other than mine. I feel a twinge of jealousy.
Methinks that’s another problem associated with blog land.