The Thin Red Line (1998) is ostensibly an epic WW2 war film based on the James Jones novel of the same name (published, 1962). But perhaps it is more accurate to describe the film as a philosophical meditation on the nature of war and the war in nature. It is the third film directed by the auteur Terrence Malick, which came after his curious, extended absence from filmmaking that lasted two decades, starting after he made the Americana classic, Days of Heaven (1978).

Interestingly, the same year, another WW2 epic came out from a more known, mainstream director: Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan. A more conventional approach and narrative, Saving Private Ryan would go on to capture the lion’s share of the public’s and critics’ attention and accolades with its innovative, intense, and visceral depiction of infantry combat and its easily relatable emotional arc. Malick’s own WW2 epic, set on the opposite side of the world in the Pacific Theater, was an entirely different beast that had loftier ambitions and concerns, and was somewhat overlooked or disregarded by audiences at the time.

Under his unconventional, intuitive, and innovative direction during principal photography and especially in post-production, Malick crafted an endlessly fascinating and stunning audiovisual work of art in The Thin Red Line. Many war films focus on the procedures of battle, the horrors of war, the bonds of humanity, the motivations and politics on the periphery — all through the lens of a handful of principal characters. Few to none are concerned with the deeper, more primal and philosophical issues of conflict itself, as intractable as that may be. While The Thin Red Line has the former, where it shines is in its interest of the latter.

One of the more fascinating aspects of the film is how Malick channels part of his inquiry through a kind of oblique, decentralized, poetic aspect of the ensemble’s souls, and asks: “What’s this war in the heart of nature? Why does nature vie with itself — the land contend with the sea?”. Why, in the unfathomable depths of time and progress, was it ever ordained that some elements of nature deprive others in order to thrive? The actual technique of that involves transcendent voice-over dialogue, an unplanned innovation that came to life in post-production. Throughout the film we hear many of these voices—these questions, thoughts and laments—floating above many different circumstances and contexts: serene landscapes, the tropical flora and fauna, personal reveries and memories, the sudden brutality and carnage of war, the dying embers of a soldier’s life.

Ultimately, the point of Malick’s inquiry and methods, in conjunction with the other complimentary elements of the film, is not to arrive at some deeper truths. Rather, it seems to be more about invoking contiguous moods, feelings, and thoughts; to invoke in the viewer a simmering, mystical state of mind. With that, The Thin Red Line succeeds in being a powerful tone poem.