That, of course, is the experience of “A Hidden Life,” a film that puts us deep inside of a situation and examines it in human terms, rather than treating it a set of easy prompts for feeling morally superior to some of the vilest people in history. What’s important here is not just what happened, but what the hero and his loved ones were feeling while it happened, and the questions they were thinking and arguing about as time marched on. 

What makes this story an epic, beyond the fact of its running time, is the extraordinary attention that the writer-director and his cast and crew pay to the mundane context surrounding the hero’s choices. As is always the case in Malick’s work, “A Hidden Life” notes the physical details of existence, whether it’s the rhythmic movements of scythes cutting grass in a field, the shadows left on walls by sunlight passing through trees, or the way a young sleeping child’s legs and feet dangle as her father carries her. In a manner reminiscent of “Days of Heaven,” a great film about labor, Malick repeatedly returns to the ritualized action of work—behind bars or in the village—letting simple tasks play out in longer takes without music (and sometimes without cuts), and giving us a sense of how personal political struggles are integrated into the ordinariness of life. 

There are countless fleeting moments that are heartbreaking because they’re so recognizable, and in some cases so odd yet mysteriously and undeniably real, such as the scene where Franz, in military custody, stops at a cafe with two captors and, on his way out, straightens an umbrella propped against the doorway. Moments later, there’s a shot from Franz’s point-of-view in the backseat of a car, the open window framing one of his escorts doing a weird little dance on the sidewalk—something he probably does all the time whether he’s wearing a Nazi uniform or plainclothes. 

Franz Rogowski, the star of "Transit," has a small, wrenching role as Waldlan, a fellow soldier who also becomes a conscientious objector. With an economy that’s dazzling, Rogowski and Malick establish the profound gentleness of this man, with his sad, dark eyes and soft voice, and an imagination that leads him to monologue on red and and white wine, and pose two straw men meant for bayonet practice as if they were Malickian lovers necking in a field. Every minute brings a new revelation, nearly always snuck into a scene sideways or through a back door, its full power registering in hindsight. Not a day has passed since first seeing this film that I haven't thought about the moment when a prisoner who's about to be executed turns to a man standing next to him, indicates the clipboard, paper and pen that he's been given for last words, and asks, "What do I write?"

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