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

When I hear the phrase “the universe,” I, perhaps like many others, picture a starry pattern arranged on a dark canvas — the Milky Way or another iconic Hubble image. But if I dwell on the words just a bit longer, I start to think, “There’s more.”

A number of films depict the interplanetary beauties of the universe, inviting me to mull over some of the most profound aspects of human nature. But these moments often do not progress the plot. Rather, they call us as viewers to become part of the story, to see ourselves in the picture.

Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life (2011) is a prime example of this. Nebulae unfold across heavenly vistas. Distant galaxies draw near. Sunlight caresses the far-off spheres. And all of this is interwoven into the quotidian struggles of a small family. Composer Zbigniew Preisner’s “Lacrimosa” offers a superb ambiance to these stellar awakenings.

The Tree of Life brings the cosmic facet of the universe near the viewer, reminding us that our existence is just as concrete as that of the solar systems inhabiting the space beyond. While pondering the beauty of the universe, we are led to ponder our own existence. Malick tenderly delivers his interpretation of a creationist evolution: the divine Word working upon the face of the deep. And it is this same Word that works upon the characters, and the viewers, as well.

Over the years, a tree reaches upward for the sun, all the while the children grow. Circumstances and surroundings change, but people’s attitudes remain relatively stagnant. The family, outside of time and worry, reunites on the seashore of existence, fringed by an oceanic expanse of memories.

Malick’s cinematography includes plentiful lens flares; the sun seems omnipresent, ever in the background. Shafts of light penetrate household windows and curtains, draperies behind which reside the illusive mementos of childhood giddiness. A lit candle symbolizes life, in all of its subtle leaps and rises, which we see in the characters’ stories just as we do in the flame.

Alongside the splendor of light, patches of void are left between the star-clusters and planets. Such “empty” sections of the exosphere offer us aesthetic white space — a mental and visual refuge. In both the colorful conglomerates of stars and gas as well as the underwhelming darkness, the mind is set adrift.

I confess that, while watching The Tree of Life, I found myself occasionally in a rut of impatience — my uncomfortable self rising to fill the silence as I sighed in want of story progression. But I think this could be part of Malick’s genius — a depiction of the universe that draws the viewer not only to behold nature, but to encounter the vast expanse of the self.

In seeing the cosmos, I see myself as well.

Confronted with the universe, we are also faced with ourselves.

Decades before Malick, Stanley Kubrick drew viewers into a comparable void in 2001: A Space Odyssey. By stepping away from 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.

At the climax of intriguing and oft-bewildering stargate sequence, after watching Dave Bowman’s twisted and blinking movements while experiencing a virtually indescribable phenomenon, we see detailed glimpses of emanating light rays and wispy, mingling nebulae.

As in Malick’s masterpiece, this sequence from 2001 offers 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 the infinitesimal, inexplicable, and incomprehensible in an encounter with the mystery of existence. An extreme close-up shot — including the pupil in Dave’s widening eye — is immediately juxtaposed with an approaching star cluster. Thus, the intricacies of our humanity are juxtaposed against those of sheer existence.

“Dwell on the beauty of life,” Marcus Aurelius wrote. “Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.” This is the experience captured in The Tree of Life and 2001. Along with the sun and the stars, the ocean and the open spaces, we behold the baggage of our brokenness, the complexities of self-image, the extent of our knowledge and beliefs. But there is another effect this can accentuate in the mind.

Here before our eyes is the very stuff of which stars are made of. Here unfolding before us is a cornerstone of existence, the stuff of which we too are made.

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