“The New World”

Directed by: Terrence Malick Starring: Q’Orianka Kilcher, Colin Farrell, Christopher Plummer, Christian Bale and David Thewlis Rating: PG-13 (for violence) Running time: 151 minutes Best suited for: the historyloving existentialist Least suited for: the plot conscious

Watching a Terrence Malick film without the expectation of minimalist dialogue and dreamy, languid, introspective moments is like watching a Sam Peckinpah movie and not expecting rampant bloodshed. In other words, I wouldn’t anticipate a typical night out on the town.

Knowing such, I had no reservations about seeing “The New World”—Malick’s vision of the English establishing the colony of Jamestown in 1607. There would likely be little room for chattiness in this particular culture clash, and introspection about so monumental a chapter in America history would be intriguing. I do believe that schoolchildren, even today, are aware of Pocahontas beseeching her father, an Algonquin chief, to spare Capt. John Smith’s life. Myth or not, this one had the makings of classic cinema.

For the first hour, Malick held my rapt attention. The English fleet sailing toward the unspoiled, untamed American shores was, in a word, breathtaking. Even the crescendo of exceedingly lush music seemed somehow appropriate. The natives, hiding amid the foliage, giggling, pointing at the approaching armada, seemed to me to be utterly realistic.

Another Malick eccentricity is his editing technique—a juxtaposition of cuts that don’t quite match, as if a moment or two may have lapsed, perhaps days or weeks, in the blink of an eye. There’s an unsettling sense of lost time, of disjointed pacing, in “The New World,” a nagging feeling that, if we don’t pay close attention, the film will pass us by.

Colin Farrell plays English rogue John Smith, a man of few words and, at first glance, a seemingly chivalrous soldier of fortune. Other than Farrell and an underutilized Christopher Plummer as expedition leader Capt. Newport, the others who established Jamestown appeared to be ruffians and hooligans, lucky to escape England with their lives. Smith spies the Algonquin princess (newcomer Q’Orianka Kilcher) across a windswept meadow and, for quite awhile, the two flirt and tease. Smith teaches the girl the English language.

To my knowledge, the name “Pocahontas” was never uttered in the film and, according to www.wikipedia.org, Pocahontas was a childhood nickname; the princess’s real name was Matoaka. But I digress.

Even as a love story, which “The New World” essentially tries to become, there’s little visible connection between the two lead characters—very little chemistry. Smith and Matoaka spend too much time either ogling or pining. Rule No. 1 for effective story-telling is: show, don’t tell. Malick uses little imagery to show affection; instead we’re told, bombarded with dreamy, poetic voice-over. Matoaka’s comprehension of the English language—over what time period I’m uncertain—is quite impressive. If they uttered even half of their deepest thoughts to each other, a steamy romance it surely must have been. But we’re never invited along.

Midway through the film the travelogue sets in. I have no doubt that what we’re watching is rendered as authentically as possible—the tools and artifacts of 17th-Century European settlers, the villages and manners of the Algonquins, the wary mistrust of the cultures and the senseless bloodshed, even the realization by Chief Powatan that, if not annihilated, these new trespassers will eventually spread like weeds. Plot-wise, however, we are stranded, lost and unsure, in the wilderness.

Without giving too much away, John Smith vanishes for much of the remainder of the film, and for reasons that are only alluded to. His departure is most unchivalrous. Matoaka is left to pine and fret, unsure of his fate. When another, seemingly noble settler steps into Matoaka’s life (Christian Bale, looking suspiciously like Farrell’s twin), a sense of déjà vu completely overwhelms the film. We’re inundated with similar, poetic voice-overs of love and desire and frankly, for me, an utter sense of vacuity.

The settlers of Jamestown attempt to “modernize” Matoaka (she’s been banned from her own tribe for having previously warned Smith of an impending attack), and what might have been an illuminating look at European pomposity—a glimpse at the newcomers’ haughty assumption of their own moral value—falls flat. Matoaka adapts to European garb and customs with apparent ease. Late in the film, when she sails to England at the request of King James I, there are a few decent moments of her astonishment and awe—of being a stranger in a strange land, but Malick quickly passes over numerous opportunities. The music swells, and we flash back to happier times. Sadly, all I could wonder was: Where’s the plot?

In a nutshell: What begins as a magnificent opus to a historical culture clash ends as a disappointing romance-gone-wrong. No doubt director Malick remained true to history, but unfortunately his storytelling suffers in the process.