There’s no tension in Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life—only virtue, as if that were enough to hold a film together. Malick, whose 10th film plays here in competition at Cannes, is revered as an auteur, although some of the faithful have strayed from the flock in recent years after being left slack-jawed by movies like the unassailably dumb Song to Song and that golden goblet of unintentional hilarity Knight of Cups.