Malick has never made a bad film. Knight of Cups continues his trend of shedding extraneous plot and narrative to focus on emotions, thoughts and memories brought forward in his trademark fragmented visual and aural style. It, like his other films, is about age old universal themes, in this case the quest for enlightenment and the paradox of beauty. The sermon in the movie says that our now imperfect soul gets a taste of the higher existence it once knew whenever it is confronted with beauty, and so Rick immerses himself in all the beautiful sensual pleasures in the modern Babylon of LA. He is quite literally submerged all the time in ephemeral worldly pleasures, yet he still finds his life empty and devoid of any higher purpose and like his soul longing for a transcendental gratification, he is always by the end again quite literally looking upwards to the heavens for a higher meaning. The movie is an impressionistic retelling of his search for God, the Wonder, nirvana, call it whatever - any metaphysical peak that will give his hollow life meaning. But at the end he realizes that the journey itself is the source for his existential quest, the nourishment for the shadow of perfection his anguished soul seeks. Knight of Cups is not just any "story" movie, but a sweeping visual symphony of the search for spirituality in an increasingly materialist world.
>>64690591 Imagine being Arnold in that scene and having to be all like "damn, Jamie Curtis, you fuckin' fine, all sexy with your tight body and horrific androgynous monster face. I would totally have sex with you, both my character and the real me." when all he really wants to do is fuck another 16 year old in his dressing room. Like seriously imagine having to be Arnold and not only sit in that chair while Jamie Lee Curtis flaunts her disgusting body in front of you, the favorable lighting barely concealing her stretchmarks and leathery skin, and just sit there, take after take, hour after hour, while she perfected that dance. Not only having to tolerate her monstrous fucking visage but her haughty attitude as everyone on set tells her she's STILL GOT IT and DAMN, JAMIE LEE CURTIS LOOKS LIKE *THAT*?? because they're not the ones who have to sit there and watch her mannish fucking gremlin face contort into types of grimaces you didn't even know existed before that day. You've been fucking nothing but a healthy diet of blondes and supermodels and later alleged rape victims for your ENTIRE CAREER coming straight out of the boonies in Austria. You've never even seen anything this fucking disgusting before, and now you swear you can taste the sweat that's breaking out on her dimpled stomach as she sucks it in to writhe it suggestively at you, smugly assured that you are enjoying the opportunity to get paid to sit there and revel in her "statuesque (for that is what she calls herself)" beauty, the beauty she worked so hard for with personal trainers in the previous months. And then the director calls for another take, and you know you could kill every single person in this room before the studio security could put you down, but you sit there and endure, because you're fucking Arnold. You're not going to lose your future political career over this. Just bear it. Hide your face and bear it.
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