This afternoon, I went alone to see The Tree of Life. I figured it would be long and slow and not for everyone. Films that exist as art first and entertainment second tend to be an acquired taste. I was the youngest person in the theatre by a good 25 years. Alas, I’m a sucker for any flick that’s universally acclaimed by the critics. This one lived up to my expectations.
The Tree of Life is more symphonic poem than movie and captures some of the most beautiful images I’ve ever seen on screen. It elicits the scent of sheets, fresh off the clothesline, and washes over you like a gentle summer rain. While I’m not a fan of organized religion, I do believe that existence is holy. Emerging from the darkened cinema, back out into the sun-drenched streets, I found myself able to once again see the world through the eyes of a child. Even if that feeling was fleeting, as bliss always seems to be, it was more than worth the price of admission.