Terrence Malick Tree Life Time Eternity Analysis

In Malick’s The Tree of Life, life and eternity flow into and out of one another. Time is sensed in moments, fragments, memories, dreams. What does the film say about where time resides? Is it something that exists only in the imagination? Is it real, fleeting? Is it unreal when juxtaposed with the eternal (if that is even real?)? The film does a good job of raising these questions—but definitely leaves it open to the viewer about what to make of all the sensations and impressions that it presents. The film appears to suggest, ultimately, that time resides in nature, but that there is something that comes after—when time runs out—something that is called eternity. On this side of the grave, we may have fleeting intimations of eternity—a touch, a sound, an impression of beauty, a sense of grace, a spiritual encounter.

Time is witnessed in the spoken word, the shadow, the passing of days and seasons, and years and of life itself—gone yet not forgotten. Yet things that exist outside of time, like eternity and this elusive soul or spirit or God that seems to haunt the characters, viewing them from afar like the setting sun stealing glimpses of them through the branches of a tree at the end of day—these things seem to indicate a space separate from time. Time seems to reside in the experience, and in the mind, and yet to be unreal, ultimately. The heart yearns for more; time is constantly running out, and the heart seems to cry out in pain. Thus, the film opens with the announcement of the untimely passing of a son. The parents are struck with grief. Another son reflects on their pain, looking back from another decade—contemporary time. He thinks back to his childhood, and later his early adulthood when the news of his brother’s death came. He thinks of his parents older then. He then thinks of them when they were younger, less stricken by age and care and grief and pain. He thinks on and on, and we slip into his memory to see his childhood in fine detail—moment after moment of happiness, of searching, of sorrow, of suffering. Time, full of moments, swirls around us, all of it accompanied by wonderful scores—Respighi, Smetana—the memories fill us with a sense of wonder, of life, of happiness and joy, and yet at the end of it—time runs out; credits roll; we leave the experience with a sense of longing. The movie hints at something permanent on the other side—at the end—beyond the here and now—but how to get there, how to hope for it, how to believe in it, how to find it—that is the question. What we know is that time resides with us, ticking, ticking, every tick seemingly reminding us that our days are running out. And then what? The clock bids us to hurry. The film suggests that time is something by which we can profit—by doing good deeds, by lending a helping hand, by forgiving and asking forgiveness, by showing love when it is most difficult to do. Through these steps, one can transcend time. That perhaps is the greatest point of the film: the way to a happy eternity is through some transcendental spirit.

Indeed, it seems that time fades in the face of faith articulated by the mother, and that it is called to attention with action, expressed by both parents; lessons become buried in the mind, unearthed or recalled by a single flicker of light in the imagination, sparking a recollection. Time seems almost like a messenger from eternity, a whisper with nature and with something within, a kind of inner voice or question—something innate yet elusive. The film is like a meditation on this idea of where time resides—because it is really this idea of time—of time being up (aka death) that stirs up the very conflict at the heart of the film: what are we? Where are we going? What are we doing? The adult reflects on the child; the child experiences an awakening: he prays kneeling at his bed at night but inside his inner thoughts, he asks, “Who are you? Are you watching me?” Time—life, death—what is it, what does it mean. Is it real or a figment of the imagination? Life itself seems bound up by the blurring of reality and imagination, as it bounces between childhood and adulthood—a random moment triggering a memory. A life. A death. A love. A loss of innocence. A restoration of grace. A vision of the afterlife—which can only be achieved by way of belief.

All in all, Sean Penn’s character is looking backwards to his childhood to find a way back to that belief, that innocent belief, which he questioned as a boy but ultimately came to accept and embrace. He comes to feel that time is a ladder to the clubhouse of eternity: the steps on the ladder including acts of hope and faith and love. These are subtle revelations, yet they are presented almost impressionistically. The viewer soars through time as he watches the film, from the very first moments of creation to the very last moments of creation—and finally to the shores of eternity, where all moments are present at once (for instance, there is the startlingly sublime juxtaposing of old hands with young hands, the old becoming young in a flash, as mother and daughter meet in eternity, age becoming ageless)—it is a brilliant visualization of eternity being a kind of complete or total presence of all time wherein all time past is present—as in a T.S. Eliot poem.

So, where does time reside? If we look to Malick’s The Tree of Life, we might say that time resides in all of us—yet it extends outward, like a sign, pointing to another place—another destination to which we are meant to go. Just as at the end of the film, the family says goodbye to their home and neighborhood, the viewer must say goodbye to his own memories and life on earth—yet, that is not the end. The film indicates that there is still yet more to come. The adult takes the elevator down, the heart monitor beeps, the life ends: but a voice, a hand, a spirit beckons us on to something more, something serene, something baffling, something enduring, something that asks nothing of us but to give—to give as the mother gives in her prayer at the end: “I give you my son.” Time resides in us so long as we are trying to hold onto things—but to the extent that we give all, give everything, give ourselves totally, regardless of what we get in return—to the extent that we do that, we are invited (so the film suggests) to be part of that eternal flame that bookends the whole story as though every moment of it were contained therein.

2: If The Tree of Life was a song, it would be “I’m So Tired” by Fugazi

If the Tree of Life was a song, it would be Fugazi’s “I’m So Tired,” which perfectly encapsulates the thoughts and attitude of the Sean Penn character as an adult as he goes through his daily life, totally disillusioned by the empty world around him. The lyrics in the song are: “Out here, Barely see my breath, Surrounded by jealousy and death, I can't be reached, I've only had one call, Dragged underneath, Separate from you all, You all. This time, I've lost my own return, In spite of everything I've learned, I hid my tracks, Spit out all my air, Slipped into cracks, Stripped of all my cares, My cares. I’m so tired, Sheep are counting me. No more struggle, No more energy, No more patient, You can write that down, It's all too crazy,