January 19, 1999 [The Thin Red Line]
Terrence Malick has quite an eye, and he makes me look through it--so bright, so mystical--real mystical, no kidding this time, even the editing a Mystery of his Church. Has he been waiting for this twenty years, this chance to whisper in my ear about war and the language of property gained--no: the language of love, lost and gained, and lost again.
I don't know where to turn. He stands me in the field, the Japanese somewhere beyond the treeline and the battleships hunched down below the horizon--and I know I'd better get moving, stand in one place too long and it's three-on-a-match and bye-bye baby. So I remember my helmet and tamp it down on my head and fix bayonet and float under deep water, Malick's Flood that swipes it all clean like a Hand and makes room for one more meandering line of men going deeper into the jungle and over the rise.