Despite reports to the contrary, Terrence Malick's "The Thin Red Line" isn't set on Guadalcanal in 1942. It's set instead in some strange internalized zone between now and Zen.
Infernally contemplative and self-absorbed, it's only briefly a war movie in any conventional sense. It is far more a philosophical inquiry into the nature of . . . well, everything. And the nature of everything turns out to be opaque and poetic, rich in questions and impoverished in answers. Where does this evil come from, a man wonders. Why is love so perishable, another asks the sky. Would a giant find you if you hid, asks still a third (a joke, but just barely).
The movie loves birds and flowers and beauty and lean young men who look too much alike and too much like Montgomery Clift. Most of these young men are either taken up in the business of killing or the business of posing dramatically against an empurpled sunset while muttering precious little insights that come closer to Jack Handey's "Deep Thoughts" than to Rimbaud. Malick, a famous maverick in film culture who with this movie ends a self-imposed 20-year exile ("Days of Heaven," 1978, was his last, following on his only other film, "Badlands," 1973), never met a story he could tell, an idea he could resist or a sunset he could ignore.