The Master is a spectacular display of filmmaking technique,
and in the often arid landscape of contemporary American cinema, that in itself
is reason enough to recommend the film unreservedly. But I do have my
reservations about Paul Thomas Anderson's sixth feature, even as I recognise
that it reconfirms his status as one of the most ambitious and innately gifted
directors working today. I appreciated The Master on almost every level –
composition, editing, performance – and it contains a number of scenes that look
and feel like nothing else. I was fascinated and hugely impressed by the
picture, but I can't yet say if it really works as a story or a character
study; is The Master really a great film, or is it simply the flawed work of a
great director?
Such a question hardly seems worth asking in the film's
hypnotic opening hour, which is where Anderson's artistry is most evident.
The Master begins with a gorgeous shot of wide-open ocean waves, and it introduces
us to a character who is all at sea. Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix) is serving
his last days in the US Navy and preparing to go home, but the deep-rooted
psychological scars left by his WWII experiences have not yet healed. This is
Phoenix's first acting role since he notoriously attempted to torpedo his own
career with I'm Still Here, but if anything his performance here is even more
unexpected and strange. Within minutes of the film's start, we see him
simulating sex with a woman built out of sand, and when he returns to the US
and attempts to rejoin civilised society, we watch each agonising scene just waiting for
the time bomb to go off.
Phoenix is all stiff angles and jutting elbows, mumbling
lines out of the side of his tightly grimacing mouth. There's something raw and
animalistic about him, something he tries to contain but cannot prevent
exploding out of him in violent, often moonshine-fuelled outbursts. He seems
doomed to drift across America from town to town, job to job, leaving regret
and recrimination in his wake, but his decision to hop on board a yacht one
night gives him a shot at salvation. The boat belongs to Lancaster Dodd, a man
who is developing an idea known as "The Cause" that bears more than a
passing similarity to L. Ron Hubbard's Scientology religion, but a critique of
that movement is not what Anderson is after here. The Master explores the
fractured psychology of post-war America and examines the nature and limits of
control, but the real heart of the story is this relationship between Dodd and
Quell. Operating on the father-son dynamic that has driven so many of PT Anderson's
films, The Master becomes a kind of love story between two very different men
who feed something in each other, but whose relationship is ultimately doomed.
The pas de deux that Quell and Dodd engage is spellbinding
to behold, with the clashing acting styles of Phoenix and Hoffman creating a
riveting tension and chemistry. A "processing" scene that consists entirely of tight close-ups (Mihai Malaimare Jr's 65mm cinematography is most
potently used in such shots) is a bravura piece of acting from both men, but as
the film progressed I yearned for a shift in focus. Freddie is a static character in
many ways, incapable of moving forward or cutting free of the ties that bind
him, and watching him can be an incredibly frustrating and exhausting experience.
In contrast, I found myself increasingly drawn to Dodd, just as Freddie and the
other Cause followers are. Hoffman's performance as this self-appointed visionary oozes
charisma and garrulous charm – he's part preacher, part snake-oil salesman –
but some of the most telling and intriguing moments in the film come when this mask
slips. "He's making it all up as he goes along," Dodd's sceptical son
tells Quell, and on the two occasions when Dodd's ideas are challenged or even
lightly questioned, he snaps with a blistering fury. I wanted to dig deeper
into Dodd, particularly his relationship with his wife (played by Amy Adams in
a deceptively bright-eyed performance that's as brilliant and unsettling as
anything else in the picture), but Anderson doesn't let us get too close.
Instead, The Master slips away, with the second half of the
picture being marked by a series of inscrutable scenes punctuated by ellipses. My love
of Paul Thomas Anderson's pictures to this point has largely been down to the unashamed
emotional directness of them, especially his stunning late-90s double-bill of
Boogie Nights and Magnolia (which, for me, remains his best film). Even the more austere There Will Be Blood managed
to hit me on a gut level, but for long stretches of The Master I just felt nothing.
The film gets more enigmatic, evasive and wayward with every step, and the
momentum of it stalls as Anderson allows it to drift. The level of craft on show never
drops, but at some point in the picture Anderson's determination to avoid any
easy resolutions or clear answers sees him painting himself into a corner, and
leaves the film feeling disjointed and distant.
And yet, as unsatisfying as my initial viewing was, I'm
already desperate to see The Master again. There are nagging questions I need
to find the answer to (How much of the film is viewed from Freddie's addled
perspective? What's the story with that dream he has before leaving for
England?) and frustrating gaps that I want to fill. Right now, The Master feels
like a confused misstep from a brilliant filmmaker, but when I think of my
initial adverse reaction to Punch-Drunk Love – a film I now adore – I can't
write off a PT Anderson film just yet. The Master is a film that invites
multiple viewings; its greatness will be defined by how fully it rewards them. I want
to embrace this film as a vital and distinctive work of modern American cinema,
but for the moment The Master keeps slipping through my fingers, like so much
sand.