(dir. Paul Thomas Anderson, 2012)
Here is an opaque movie shot with such authority of purpose that it practically dares you to dislike it. "The Master," Paul Thomas Anderson's latest, is indefinable to the point of maddening, cold to the point of numbing. It's also exquisitely framed, precisely written, and containing depths which render a first viewing practically superfluous.
Maybe it's a masterpiece. Maybe it's hogwash. It might be nothing, but it's definitely something.
What Anderson accomplishes, and what will prove to be the movie's downfall to some, is create a central character who remains perpetually out of reach, then cleverly structure the movie to mirror him exactly. A rare feat for a movie to be genuinely smart. Rarer still to be smart in the exact same way its star is. "The Master" isn't content to show us its lead - we have to KNOW how it feels to be near him.
And believe me. You can feel it. Languidly paced to make "There Will Be Blood" feel like "Run Lola Run," Anderson cashes in almost all of his artistic capital earned with "Blood" and "Boogie Nights," asking us to trust that he's taking us somewhere as he skirts along a threadbare narrative. Finally playing actual characters again after his descent in "I'm Still Here," Joaquin Phoenix stars as Freddie Quell, a seaman who returns from WWII to a country that essentially discards him, bouncing around from job to job, without any knowledge of where he'll end up or a desire to even make it there.
Through sheer chance, he stumbles onto the boat of Lancaster Dodd (always reliable Philip Seymour Hoffman), charismatic leader of a new belief system called The Cause. Freddie becomes Dodd's right hand man, and through his eyes, we must decide if Dodd truly believes what he's coughing up, or if he's stringing everybody along as pawns.
Lets get this out of the way now: "The Master" is decidedly NOT the "Scientology movie." It's not the insider's expose on L. Ron Hubbard. Well, OK. Maybe it is. But in the same way that "Prometheus" is an "Alien" prequel. It hits those notes, but the music is something else entirely.
And what is it, exactly? Bear in mind I'm not being entirely rhetorical. Like obvious inspiration Stanley Kubrick, Anderson proves himself to a master at telling us precisely what we need to know and nothing more, then finding artistry in cold, grand gestures. Large chunks of "The Master" consist of nothing more than things happening, followed by other things happening. Freddie lazes on a beach. Works as a department store photographer. Suffers through Dodd's treatment session of touching a wall and window over and over again, forced to describe it differently each time.
That last sequence fittingly sums up "The Master" on the whole. Anderson presents a work that appears entirely superficial, drags us through it repeatedly, and leaves the heavy lifting to us. As moviegoers, we're conditioned to assume that nothing in a movie's final product happens by accident. Everything happens and is shot for a reason. So when confronted with a movie that so defiantly shuns easy explanation, we become desperate. We want an explanation. Any explanation. And what we ultimately arrive at probably says more about us than it does about the movie.
Which is really one of Anderson's greatest triumphs here. "The Master" at its core is really about lost souls in an America growing too big to accommodate them all, turning to the first person whose playbook says "Answers" on the cover, whether there's anything inside or not. It's about how desperation makes blind submission seem satisfying, and how those leaders are just as clueless as the rest, except their id is fed by loyal subjects, not commands. And just as Anderson structures his movie to intellectually resemble Dodd, he allows it to emotionally resemble Freddie, putting the audience firmly in his shoes.
We're desperate for easy answers in a movie that provides none.
For a movie of such sweeping statements, Anderson and cinematographer Mihai Malaimare Jr. shoot in luxurious 65mm film, the stock of such classic epics as "Lawrence Of Arabia" and "Patton," reportedly even using the same camera as "2001: A Space Odyssey" for select scenes. Predictably doing figure eights when he should be doing circles, though, Anderson ultimately shoots "The Master" as a startlingly intimate character study. Think you've seen all there is of Joaquin Phoenix's gums and nostrils? Think again.
The film stock of sweeping landscapes, last applied in full to friggin Kenneth Branagh's take on "Hamlet," finds itself reduced to uncomfortably close close-ups in "The Master," allowing for uncommonly rich detail within the frame. It's a jarring effect, narrowing the focus square on these two characters, and raising their inner turmoil to the forefront. If the house lights must go down on celluloid in an increasingly digital world, at least it's granted one hell of an encore.
It takes a true artist to tackle a medium or form which come with rigidly defined purposes, then recraft it to fit his own. And that's precisely what Anderson does. Prepare to feel frustrated. Prepare to feel dumbfounded. Maybe practice looking like you're in deep introspection, but really it's because you can't think of anything to say. "The Master" arrives with its own beats and rhythms, never catering to what you hope.
It also further cements Anderson's growth as a director of intellectual thrills, shaking what we think the movies can and should do.
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