I saw The New World with only ten other souls in the theater. By the time an hour had passed, two had left. Before the film was over, four more would walk out. The general public isn’t known for its taste, but a glance at Rotten Tomatoes is disconcerting. Only fifty-six percent of the critics polled liked it. Fifty-six percent? Really? Can that many people really be that wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time, of course. The critical masses have embraced their fair share of stinkers and let more than a few diamonds pass by without a kind word. Still, having sat through the film, I find it utterly astonishing.

There is film as poetry and film as narrative and The New World (like director Terrence Malick’s entire filmography) is poetry of the highest order. Films by Malick and other similar artists have never been “entertainment” in the basest sense of the word (the sense of the word that has, unfortunately, come to define the viewing public’s idea of what good film can and should be). Still, I fail to understand how a film like this cannot be enjoyed by a casual movie watcher with even a faint desire for stimulation. But then, what kind of stimulation do I mean? It has become increasingly clear to me that my own ideas about entertainment and stimulation fall pitifully far from what is the norm. If I had a quarter for every time one of my favorite films was described as “weird” (apparently any film that cannot be characterized as mind-numbingly banal—films that I would call interesting and thought provoking—can be characterized as such), I would fill a sock with them and beat the speaker to death with it. Isn’t it entertaining because it is interesting? Isn’t it interesting because it is intellectually stimulating? To a sizeable portion of the human race, the answer to those questions is a resounding “No.”

It is a mistake to think Malick is bringing any kind of historical accuracy to the John Smith/Pocahontas myth. Instead he indulges in myth-making on his own terms, his own auteur tendency lending a surprising amount of vitality to a story that was little more than bleached bones by the time the Disney sequel hit DVD shelves. The unnamed Pocahontas (Q’Orianka Kilcher, absolutely radiant) of Malick’s world is an almost literal spirit of the American wilderness, bringing prosperity with her very presence. Her banishment from the Powhatan tribe marks their downfall and her entrance into the Jamestown colony marks the beginning of European domination in America.

Book-ended by baptisms—first John Smith (Colin Farrell) after his first encounter with the Powhatan tribe, then Pocahontas as she takes residence in the Jamestown colony—that mark the entrance of a character into an alien society, The New World quickly resolves itself into a look at culture from the biased vantage point of an outsider.

First through the eyes of John Smith, Malick deftly interchanges views of the Jamestown colony and their Indian neighbors. The Indians are called “naturals” by the colonists, a reflection of the colonists’ view of Indian life, and a comment on how modern societies perceive their own place in nature. When Smith is captured by the Powhatan tribe and saved by the chief’s daughter, Pocahontas, we begin our look at the natives. Ethereal and steeped in tradition and ritual, living in perfect harmony with Mother Earth (or whatever), the tribe is colored completely by Smith’s vague understanding (and misunderstanding). Still, he comes to love native life, and when he returns to the colony—his perspective changed from his time with the natives—it appears to be little more than a mud pit filled with starving scoundrels.

When these instances are paired with images of Pocahontas dressed in impossibly elaborate English clothes and a Powhatan Indian (Wes Studi, always nice to see you, sir) quizzically studying a meticulously manicured English garden, The New World achieves an unspoken (despite the film’s nearly constant voiceover) grace and understanding that shames every other film that dares play in the same theater.

Malick’s film speaks to the inherently paternalistic tone that seems to be prevalent in Western nations any time “natives”—or, as is more often these days, poor non-white, non-Americans—are brought up in conversation. Just a few weeks ago, I met a college student who had recently returned from Guatemala (sent there by her liberal arts college to study pottery). After a few minutes of conversation, she began to go on about the natives, telling me I “just couldn’t know” what life was like for them if I hadn’t been there—which was probably true, but I was left wondering what a tourist studying pottery could possibly understand about any culture after such a brief stay. More, the tone of the conversation troubled me a great deal. It is, of course, typical for visitors to think they have an understanding of a host culture after spending a short time with them. But we don’t seem to hit the same notes of condescension when speaking about, say, the French. Alcohol being a factor, I did not quite acquit myself courteously, but the conversation still lingers in my mind.

The New World is a lyrical film about cultural misunderstanding. If it indulges in the popular “noble savage” view of indigenous cultures, it does so only through the eyes of characters who find themselves suddenly lost in an alien society, disconnected from home. (It is important to note, though, that at this time, native life could be so appealing to colonists that strict laws had to be enforced to curb desertion.) The English are viewed with similar embellishments—divorced from nature, dirty, starving, and selfish. Finally, through the eyes of young Pocahontas, they become strangely mannered and unbelievably ostentatious.

Obsessed with nature and man’s place in it, Malick shoots the forest as a devout Christian might shoot the gospels—assuming that devout Christian is not Mel Gibson. The New World is awash in stunning cinematography that imbues the forest with such force and beauty that when the English settlers refer to America as Eden, we hardly think it an exaggeration. In nature, Malick finds every symbol and metaphor of note. When the banishment of Pocahontas is matched with a shot of a flock of birds splitting apart in mid-air, we immediately understand that we are watching a complicated work of art by an American poet at the height of his powers.

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This entry was posted on Monday, February 27th, 2006 at 1:44 am and is filed under Cinema Showcase. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.