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Kim Voynar

By Kim Voynar

Review: The Master

The Master, auteur Paul Thomas Anderson’s minimalist drama about a cult leader (Philip Seymour Hoffman) and his troubled and troubling acolyte (Joaquin Phoenix), is Anderson’s first film since 2007’s There Will Be Blood, and it’s easy to see the stylistic similarities between the two films humming underneath the surface: Two strong-willed male characters, as alike internally as they are disparate on the surface, set on course to collide with each other. Keep the conflict close and very personal, but paint it on a huge, sprawling canvas. Don’t be afraid of unlikable, complicated protagonists.

Simple stories. Complex, textured characters. Superlative actors. Anderson excels at working in this space.

There’s nothing mundane in the sparse plot structure and complicated character arcs of The Master, nor is there much of the conventional to be found in the score (by Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood, who also scored There Will Be Blood). Greenwood knows when to overbear and crowd menacingly, when to threaten or allude, and perhaps most importantly, when to shut up and let the silence have its say. But Anderson’s use of duality of form between the simple and the complex is perhaps at its richest when he places tautly constructed dialog flush against sumptuous, majestic cinematography. No clutter. Just lens, light and shadow working flawlessly in concert, revealing the topography of humanity and personality buried within the lines and planes of a human face. And lordy, the skin tones in this film will make you swoon.

The Master is a story about the relationship that forms between Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), a traumatized and unstable ex-Navy man who has a certain harrowing intensity about him that makes him equal parts disturbing and fascinating; and Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman), a breezily charming intellectual and leader of “The Cause,” a cult-like, Scientology-esque group exploring ideas Dodd has been developing around traumas in past lives carrying forward, reincarnation, and, loosely, even time travel. As opposite as the two men appear at their first meeting, Dodd immediately recognizes a side of himself (albeit the animalistic side) in Freddie. If you expect The Master to be a scathing slam of Scientology and its founder, L. Ron Hubbard, a fast-paced thriller filled with danger and intrigue and car chases, then you are likely to be bored and disappointed. If you go into this film expecting to see an a tightly woven, exquisitely drawn character and relationship study rendered through frame upon frame of cinematic beauty, then yes, it works very well.

Fine, fine, you say. Very well. But does The Master function strongly as story? Anderson is sometimes criticized for lacking warmth, for approaching his films with such a technical, clinical eye that his films lose heart. I don’t necessarily disagree with this, but neither do I view this as a detriment. For me, what this means is that Anderson doesn’t seek to shock or titillate, to make you feel angry or sad or happy. The pleasure of watching The Master lies not in judging Lancaster Dodd or Freddie Quell as either good or bad, nor is it derivative of relating especially to one or the other of the two men. The characters simply are who they are, and we are there as silent witnesses to their story.

But we are also there to immerse ourselves in the lush visual world that Anderson’s created here. Imagine being in a small art gallery, just black walls and these stunningly rich and beautiful moving images, the world reduced to nothing more than these canvases and your visceral reaction to them. They wash over you, one after another after another, like being bombarded by a vibrant visual mantra. Soaking in the visuals of this film is hypnotic, but the overall effect is very different than that of watching Tree of Life or To the Wonder, where the poetic abstractness clings to the imagery, lending it a shifting, elusive quality.

Here, the more literal structure beneath the visuals feels prim and discordant and even prickly; Anderson keeps you at a polite distance, lulling you along into a bit of complacency about what to expect and feel until wham! He nails you with these scenes of Dodd grilling Freddie in what one imagines has to be a sort of rendering of Scientology’s “audits,” and it’s so intense you’re ready to confess your own innermost secrets, but then Freddie breaks before you can, and it’s mesmerizing to watch. And then you think, “Goddamn, I forgot what an amazing actor Joaquin Phoenix is. Thank god he got over that whole ‘I’m Still Here’ crap.” Hoffman is great in this film too, don’t get me wrong, but Phoenix, wow.

Much of the execution of The Master as it alludes to Scientology is deliberately vague, as if Scientology is less like the pink elephant in the room, and more like that weird distant cousin no one wants to get stuck sitting next to at the required all-family gatherings. This takes the focus off nit-picking over the accuracy with which Anderson has captured and revealed Scientoloy, and instead forces the focus onto these specific characters in this specific story. The balance between the characters of Freddie and Dodd, the contrasts and the similarities of their choices, creates a rich and interesting dichotomy to explore. Freddie isn’t so much the opposite of Dodd as he is representative of the “animalistic” side of Dodd’s own nature, and of Dodd’s own attempts, through the ideas he’s exploring with The Cause, to better control and cage those aspects of himself.

Strong female characters are rather scarce in The Master, the exception being Amy Adams as Dodd’s wife, Peggy, who’s much more a strong driving force behind-the-scenes than her quiet, relatively meek and subservient outer demeanor would indicate. But as Freddie serves to underscore Dodd’s hidden issues, Peggy also exists to be a female character who is both in close proximity to Freddie, and is the opposite of how he thinks of women generally. Freddie is not a man given greatly to respecting the fairer sex, but Peggy’s manner and bearing demand it of him, whether he likes it or not.

The Master is not a broadly accessible work, in spite of its visual beauty, its appropriately discordant score, and some truly superb, awards-season worthy performances. This is the kind of film that the vast majority of critics will sink their teeth into and praise, while much of the movie-going public will likely just sit there befuddled. Critics and cinephiles, though, will oooh and ahhh over the film’s sheer technical proficiency and stunning beauty and will revel in Hoffman and Phoenix, who are both just superb.

As Dodd, Hoffman evokes the charisma and passion and egocentric worldview of a first-class charlatan and cult leader. Dodd isn’t evil, really; he’s just a very smart, creative, intellectual sort of fellow who had these ideas and found, perhaps rather to his own surprise at first, that other people would listen to what he had to say and even follow him. And he’s not a reluctant leader, but he is a flawed one; it’s his own deep-seated flaws, not Freddie, that will ultimately be his undoing if he cannot wrestle them down. As for Phoenix, he’s an absolute wonder to watch as Freddie. There aren’t many actors who could take a character who’s inherently so repellant and unlikable and somehow make him sympathetic. Phoenix acts this part with every fiber of his being, from his tight, pent up body language, to the way he uses the sharp, angular lines of his face to great advantage, to the manic, inappropriate and disturbing energy he radiates through the screen.

Like a master sculptor, Anderson works in negative space, allowing his actors, through their choices and interactions, to define who they are by scraping away vague chunks of shapeless clay to reveal the forms hidden within. Anderson doesn’t make it easy for you or hold you hand through the rough patches; he politely but firmly steers you through the intricacies of this dance, accompanying his players as they interact with each other, forcing us to meet him halfway so that we might get to the richness that lies underneath the film’s deceptively simplistic surface. The Master is at once a complex, complicated, intricately textured character study, and a meticulous, thoughtful exercise in pushing and refining technique in order to achieve something extraordinary. And if you can find the patience to sit with it, both the journey and ultimate destination are simply sublime.

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3 Responses to “Review: The Master”

  1. thedre says:

    I find that films like these do really well if you sneak in a nap in the afternoon before the evening show. I had a lot of energy and stayed glued to this film all the way through. Mesmerized by it, rather. It’s true that some scenes, like the digging up of the book and the motorcycle sequence don’t really attach themselves to other scenes, (although they are refreshing escapes from the workshops pacing) and the wall to window sequence may take it’s repetition from Kubrick’s space walks, but it’s the accumulation of these events that bears down on you, and the sense of the tragedy of the search for oneself. Remember Linda Hunt’s role as Billy Kwan in The Year of Living Dangerously? The Kwan character attempts to become the puppet master to lead Gibson’s Guy Hamilton on a voyage of self discovery and romance, only to be overpowered by the real world… The beast may be in all of us, but some of us can learn to dance with it better than others.

  2. Segma says:

    This film does not deserve 2 hours of your life. Sticking tooth picks under your finger nails is more rewarding… Film is a total piece of crap. Disconbobulated and disjointed… One can find better works of art inside one’s rectum…

  3. Norton231 says:

    @ Segma And you would know plenty about the inside of your rectum, since your head spends so much time inside it. Death to the haters! “The Master” is the best film of 2012!

Quote Unquotesee all »

It shows how out of it I was in trying to be in it, acknowledging that I was out of it to myself, and then thinking, “Okay, how do I stop being out of it? Well, I get some legitimate illogical narrative ideas” — some novel, you know?

So I decided on three writers that I might be able to option their material and get some producer, or myself as producer, and then get some writer to do a screenplay on it, and maybe make a movie.

And so the three projects were “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep,” “Naked Lunch” and a collection of Bukowski. Which, in 1975, forget it — I mean, that was nuts. Hollywood would not touch any of that, but I was looking for something commercial, and I thought that all of these things were coming.

There would be no Blade Runner if there was no Ray Bradbury. I couldn’t find Philip K. Dick. His agent didn’t even know where he was. And so I gave up.

I was walking down the street and I ran into Bradbury — he directed a play that I was going to do as an actor, so we know each other, but he yelled “hi” — and I’d forgot who he was.

So at my girlfriend Barbara Hershey’s urging — I was with her at that moment — she said, “Talk to him! That guy really wants to talk to you,” and I said “No, fuck him,” and keep walking.

But then I did, and then I realized who it was, and I thought, “Wait, he’s in that realm, maybe he knows Philip K. Dick.” I said, “You know a guy named—” “Yeah, sure — you want his phone number?”

My friend paid my rent for a year while I wrote, because it turned out we couldn’t get a writer. My friends kept on me about, well, if you can’t get a writer, then you write.”
~ Hampton Fancher

“That was the most disappointing thing to me in how this thing was played. Is that I’m on the phone with you now, after all that’s been said, and the fundamental distinction between what James is dealing with in these other cases is not actually brought to the fore. The fundamental difference is that James Franco didn’t seek to use his position to have sex with anyone. There’s not a case of that. He wasn’t using his position or status to try to solicit a sexual favor from anyone. If he had — if that were what the accusation involved — the show would not have gone on. We would have folded up shop and we would have not completed the show. Because then it would have been the same as Harvey Weinstein, or Les Moonves, or any of these cases that are fundamental to this new paradigm. Did you not notice that? Why did you not notice that? Is that not something notable to say, journalistically? Because nobody could find the voice to say it. I’m not just being rhetorical. Why is it that you and the other critics, none of you could find the voice to say, “You know, it’s not this, it’s that”? Because — let me go on and speak further to this. If you go back to the L.A. Times piece, that’s what it lacked. That’s what they were not able to deliver. The one example in the five that involved an issue of a sexual act was between James and a woman he was dating, who he was not working with. There was no professional dynamic in any capacity.

~ David Simon