In only his fifth film in 38 years, eye-of-God director Terrence Malick wraps the pains of a family in ’50s Texas (partly based on his youth) in a bloated burrito of suffocating pomposity. The “wow” nature visuals, cosmic perspective, and solemn, whispery spirituality destroy any chance for real, poetic profundity. Brad Pitt is an opaque, tough-love dad pious about his rules, Jessica Chastain is a shimmering vessel of the inexpressively maternal, and Sean Penn is barely used. The fine kid-actor Hunter McCracken simmers in sullen agony as the traumatized son. Some vivid, haunting images of childhood may seem to rise from your own private depths, but mainly this gasbag fishes up clichés planted into our soft heads by too many life-enshrining commercials. (2011) — David Elliott
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