Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven marks a once in a lifetime achievement – a film so strikingly beautiful I could not fathom a rival. Seeing it on the big screen this weekend during its re-release run at the Music Box Theatre, I fell even deeper under its spell than ever before. In a theatre where one naturally feels more immersed in the expansive scenes of the film one obtains an even greater feel for the meticulous attention to detail Malick and his cinematographer (which, depending on whose story you believe, was either Nestor Almendros, who received the Oscar for it, or Haskell Wexler, who insists he contributed the lion’s share of the work) must have exhibited during the shoot; the patient waiting they must have endured, holding out until the sky and sun hit that perfect moment in which all of nature merged together into such aesthetic harmony.

The other aspect that struck me during my recent viewing was the style with which Malick allows his story to unfold. For such a well-known American classic, the film contains such an oddly unconventional approach that I have to wonder whether those present at the screening felt slightly misled by its status. I mean, let’s face it, this isn’t the kind of movie meant for mass-consumption and I suggest that as neither a criticism of the movie-going public at large nor the film itself, but merely to illustrate how much of a revelation this film represents for the cinematic art – the one true successful melodrama in a sense that it ignores all the conventions that, as a rule, tend to bog down melodramas.

Part of what allows the narrative to break from convention has to do with two key factors that elevate it beyond a mere tale of a tragic love triangle. One concerns the voice-over narration itself, which may very well be the greatest ever implemented (Josh Timmerman of Stylus wrote a phenomenal article on this very subject). Rather than having the story told by Abby (Brooke Adams), the central object of desire for both Bill (Richard Gere), who pretends to be her brother, and their mutual employer (Sam Sheppard) who remains nameless throughout the film, Malick instead chooses Linda, Bill’s sister, to narrates the film. Her voice is husky, awkward and, at times, her words obfuscated by her heavy accent. Yet it gives the film its charm since her voice speaks volumes on her character and paints such a convincing portrait of a downtrodden youth that it pains me to think that many members of the audience instead focus their attention on the film’s nominal stars, casting young Linda to the periphery.

Being that she does not play a central role in the actual plot of the film, nor does she possess enough knowledge of the events to truly penetrate the emotion of the older characters, she instead spends much of her time prattling on with random observations of her own and rambling narratives that seemingly lead nowhere. Only occasionally does she touch upon the central story. Far be it from endowing the narrative with a clumsy approach, it actually serves to create a story far more poetic or insightful than had Malick stuck strictly to the main conflict. Even seemingly random statements Linda makes hold a deeper meaning that only reveal themselves upon repeat viewings.

The second element that allows the film to transcend convention is the way the camera itself regards the narrative with the same indifference as the narrator. We catch fragments of conversations, sometimes cutting to a separate scene before they’re finished. Other times the camera remains so distant from the action that we witness the characters conversing but do not hear what they say. In a way, just as Bill, Abby and the Farmer play a secondary role in the eyes of Linda, they too are eclipsed by nature in the eyes of the camera.

This results in a story that, on the surface, possesses no emotional impact and requires some effort on the part of the audience to piece the whole thing together. Even the ending feels muted when compared with the more popular films of the Seventies, but I’d argue that, contrary to this, it’s one of the saddest endings in the history of cinema (however, if you’re looking for a tear-jerker ending, try the contrived efforts of Milos Forman in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest) Malick’s story is too rich with meaning to resort to the subterfuge of manipulating the audience’s emotion. Instead, he meets our sympathies half way, invoking them subtly but never swooping in to force us to feel against our will. You only empathize with the characters in as much as you empathize with others on a day-to-day basis.

Of course, not all critics agree with this notion. Pauline Kael famously panned it, calling it “an empty Christmas tree: you can hang all your dumb metaphors on it.” Let us not forget however, that she showered the same scorn upon Raiders of the Lost Ark (another recent screening at the Music Box), proving that not always do great critics observe great perspectives. Personally I find Roger Ebert’s remarks on the film to be far more accurate. In his Great Movies review of it he said: “watching this 1978 film again recently, I was struck more than ever with the conviction that this is the story of a teenage girl, told by her, and its subject is the way that hope and cheer have been beaten down in her heart.” This statement helps illuminate the sorrow contained within the ending of Days of Heaven with the famous and, in my opinion, greatest of all last lines. It is uttered by Linda as she walks into the distance with a new friend of hers, both abandoned by those they counted on, both unsure of where to go next. Linda’s voice breaks into the silence:

I was hoping things would work out for her. She was a good friend of mine.

And then it fades out…