On The New World, some middle ground

When it comes to The New World, I seem to be the exception. Yes, I found it quite good—lush, hypnotic, wrapping over you in the way of a remembered dream—but I certainly wouldn’t put it in the top five films of the year or, as Matt Zoller Seitz did, declare it my “religion.” So when Village Voice film crit legend J. Hoberman writes that “Not everyone adores The New World, but those cineastes who like it, really, really like it,” I know who he’s talking about (that’s you, Ross, and you too, Jeffrey), but I don’t share the sentiment. In a way, it seems to me that its strengths are also its weaknesses: the gentle, vaguely surreal drift of the film washes over you with enormous power—it’s transporting in a way that’s rare for relatively big-release movies—but once you enter Malick’s world, there’s little to do other than marvel at its effortless lucidity. It’s like finding yourself in a dream where you suddenly have the power to fly, only to realize your subconscious didn’t bother to provide much to look at while you drift through the clouds.