The Cosmos and the Merits of Abandoning Narrative: An Examination of Contemplative Spaces in Cinema

The distant shores of silence begin

at the door. You cannot fly there

like a bird. You must stop,look deeper,

still deeper, until nothing deflects the soul

from the deepmost deep.

~ Karol Wajtyla

An inherent aspect of the human condition is the inclination to tell stories. In our stories, we seek entertainment, a followable plot, and finalization. We want relatable characters. We want emotion. We want that happy ending, which is somehow so distant from us.

Yet the most interesting and worthwhile stories go a step beyond mere entertainment. Stories, as a true art, carry with them their own integirty, deliberation, and meditation. A story may serve to accentuate certain ideas. Stories can propound ideologies or present ethical dramatizations. These messages might manifest themselves through dialogue or characters’ culminations. But there is also a dimension to storytelling – specifically in its high art designation – that removes itself from this surface-level narrative.

When a story gets away from the limited humdrum of narrative, it allows its audience to do some self-reflection. The work of art continues, but the mind dwelling on it is allowed to wander off…

This artistic aspect can be compared to the contemplation of a painting of still life. Perhaps a portrait, perhaps a landscape with familiar surroundings: the image offers a glimpse into human expression. Recognizing this in one’s contemplation, making the moment now immediately relatable, the work of art becomes a point of reference in which we examine ourselves.

In storytelling, this sort of self-contemplation is best achieved in natural surroundings and away from dialogue. It is found, not in the whisperings of people, but in the spaces between – the wide, wonderful open places where mind and body can run free.

Under contemporary viewing, this aspect of stories is not always well accepted on account that it takes away from the sheer escapism. Giving more attention to creative details might, as some could argue, sap a novel or a film of its entertainment value.

A fine example of these spaces in between can be found in the literary expression throughout J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Through every installment, the reader comes upon segments dedicated solely to an extensive description of the country and the flora immediately pertaining to the characters’ path and surroundings. Personally, these became rough patches in my reading of Tolkien. I plow on ahead to get back to the story at hand. It wasn’t appealing because it had lost the element of traditional escapism: narrative.

There are plentiful examples of these sorts of spaces in cinematic masterpieces, which showcase segments of footage putting Nature’s raw beauty on display. Such a montage, while easy on the eyes, often benefits from accompaniment from a musical soundtrack.

“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” an episode of the acclaimed thriller series The Twilight Zone – created by Rod Serling – offers a rather prolonged perusal of scenery throughout. Overall, it makes for a slower progression of the story, but the long sequences of establishing shots and images of Nature lend themselves to thinking of something deeper than the present story. It makes us consider various aspects of what being human means. The boughs of trees, water droplets resting on some leaves, a spider’s web fading from a soft blur to a sharp picture: all part of the natural world, that harsh environment in which man must learn to dwell.

These escapes to Nature are not limited to any one genre or style – as we will see in examining some films from a range of perspectives.

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When we hear the phrase “the universe,” we are drawn to a mental picture of a starry pattern arranged on a dark canvas, a representation of the Milky Way, or perhaps any of a number of iconic Hubble images. But we need to bear in mind that the universe encompasses everything in existence.

There are quite a few extraordinary films that put forward the interplanetary beauties of the cosmos for our consideration. In Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life (2011), we are given gorgeous heavenly vistas featuring unfolding nebulae, distant galaxies, sunlight caressing far-off spheres, and stars aplenty: all this interwoven in the struggle of the quotidian life of a small family. Zbigniew Preisner’s “Lacrimosa,” aptly utilized here for a portion of stellar awakenings, makes the sequence all the more touching.

In The Tree of Life, the cosmic facet of the universe is brought near the viewer. We exist – in our lives, our families, our failings – just as sure as the solar systems inhabiting the space beyond. While we ponder the beauty of our universe, we are led to ponder our very own existence. Malick tenderly delivers his interpretation of a creationist evolution: the divine Word working upon the face of the deep.

There are other moments in the Malick film in which we return to the earthly from the heavenly – to contemplate the beauty of Nature but also of a transcendent calling. With roving scenes of the wilderness, an assortment of flora and fauna, and unique geographical features of the Earth, it is easy at times to feel as if you’re experiencing a lush documentary presented by Sir David Attenborough. A tree grows. The family’s children advance in strength and reason and talent and personality. Later in the movie, the family is reunited for a scene on the seashore, perhaps, of existence fringed by an oceanic expanse of memories.

This fixation with the sea is one common to poetry down through the ages and is one which, like poetry itself, has enamored other filmmakers such as Christopher Nolan. (Nolan’s Inception, for example, well utilizes the imagery of the sea and shore in addition to the titular phrase of Edgar Allan Poe’s “A Dream within a Dream.”) Here the sea is comparable to the heavens in its vastness and depth, its unchanging ambiance, and the beauty of its components.

Malick’s cinematography also includes many lens flares – as the sun seems omnipresent, ever in the background. A lit candle also offers a recurring symbol of life, of existence, of growing, leaping, rising – even if only subtly.

While we are to recognize the splendor that comes with light, there are those patches of void left in between the star-clusters and planets. A mystery to science, comprised of dark matter, these “empty” sections of the exosphere offer us the sort of aesthetic white space into which we can take visual refuge. In both the colorful conglomerates of stars and gas as well as the underwhelming darkness, the mind is set adrift. Given this liberty to roam with our musings, inevitably, the mind turns back in toward itself. Confronted with existence – all around us in the universe – we are simultaneously faced with ourselves.

If this cinematic tact leaves us on the brink of despair out of boredom, this problematic factor lies not in the art but in ourselves. In watching The Tree of Life, I found myself occasionally in a rut of impatience, uneasy and sighing, awaiting the progress of the story. This is one of the things we might experience in silence and reflection: ourselves. Along with the self comes all the baggage of brokenness, self-image, and the extent of our knowledge and belief. But there is another effect that this can accentuate in the mind. The cosmic scenery, mingling with the sweeping choric melody, more often than not brought on a feeling of gratitude: that out of all of existence, here I am; that the universe was intelligibly and orderly fashioned. This personal experience is powerful, truly awe-inspiring.

Undergoing Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar is perhaps equally challenging, as it likewise has extensive sequences of both the vastness of space and of character development. However, as for personal preferences, I would take Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey over Interstellar any day. Again, its sequences of the deep, raw exosphere serve as a point of reference for some viewers of The Tree of Life, and I am not the first to draw this comparison.

Like these other two films showcasing the beauty of the cosmos, 2001 is not for everyone. While it remains one of the most frequently discussed films of the past century, it’s probably not the best pick for family movie night – not on account of continuity per se, but because of its ambiguity. Kubrick seems to arrest his own storytelling capabilities, focusing more on the visual aesthetics than the underlying narrative. One gets the sense this was a deliberate choice, especially in light of knowing that Kubrick, following the New York premiere of the film, cut approximately 17 minutes of the run time, a decent amount of which was comprised of dialogue.

The ambiguity of 2001: A Space Odyssey is so prominent that it has been said that one typically does not discern the full context of the film upon the first initial viewing. From such an introduction, however, one can follow nearly any line of thought or theory as to the meaning or point of the film. It becomes a philosophical entreaty left at the feet of the viewer and up to the individual’s private contemplation. The result: every critic might opine differently, extrapolating upon various points.

Kubrick does what any filmmaker is called to – construct a visual artwork. But he does much more than the average director. In stepping away from scripted dialogue or distinguishable narrative, such as in the sequence of the spinning stations and satellites or in the stargate sequence with its psychedelic hues and outstretched, rapidly evolving forms, Kubrick allots the space necessary for contemplation. Again, this aspect might be suggested as a forerunner to the mindset evoked in The Tree of Life.

In the sequence with “Blue Danube” playing, the pirouetting station, the wandering satellites, the propelled spacecraft: all contribute to the power and subtle audacity of the encroachment of human footprints beyond our home world. Someone could offer a whole dissertative spiel on this train of thought alone. But I’m much more interested, at least for our purposes, with the stargate sequence.

At the climax of this intriguing and perhaps bewildering sequence, after watching Dave Bowman’s twisted and blinking movements while experiencing a virtually indescribable phenomenon, the viewer is given detailed glimpses of emanating light rays and whispy, mingling nebulae.

As in Malick’s masterpiece, this clip from 2001 offers a space for contemplation. Here are the stars, as they appeared at an indeterminate past, photographs into a history of cosmic dust and gravity. Here are fireballs in the midst of having life breathed into them. Here are the stars in all their luminous glory – as bountiful and countless as the grains of sand upon the shore.

Dave is plunged into an environment seemingly of the infinitesimal, inexplicable, incomprehensible; an encounter with the mystery of existence; not merely a wasteland, not without its striking stellar fruit. The extreme close-up including the pupil in Dave’s widening eye is juxtaposed with an approaching star cluster; our intricacies of our humanity are juxtaposed against those of sheer existence. Using cosmic imagery, similar to elements explored in The Tree of Life, we are brought into a mental dialogue directed back at our own existence.

Ultimately, this is the point of all true and fine art. It is relatable. It is personal. It is penetrative.

Art – like nature itself and as a purveyor of beauty – is both orderly and surprising, as John-Mark L. Miravalle asserts in Beauty: What It Is & Why It Matters (2019). But the basic yet cosmic beauty highlighted in the aforementioned sequences in 2001: A Space Odyssey and The Tree of Life evokes surprise particularly. Here before our eyes is the very stuff which stars are made of – that which is ever out of our grasp and in which perhaps lies the basis of the material dimension of our nature.

Borrowing from Marcus Aurelius, we are advised, “Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.” In a very literal sense, I feel this experience is captured in both films from Kubrick and Malick. In The Tree of Life, it is revealed explicitly; in 2001, it is perhaps best suggested through the film’s finale through an image of rebirth, calling to mind one of the key mile markers in the origins of our mortal lives.

These cinematic moments are stunning but bestilling. Within them, as within the silence of ourselves and the reclusive retreat into Nature, we find the space to dwell upon our existence, our calling, and our place in the cosmos.

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