Director Paul Thomas Anderson released “There Will Be Blood” in 2007, proving himself capable of exploring the seemingly-opaque corners of the human mind to produce provacative and intriguing films. His most recent film, “The Master,” exceeds even that effort; the film is a wonderfully crafted and highly intelligent window into the tormented mind of an estranged veteran--the essence of cult.
Joaquin Phoenix delivers a shattering performance as Freddi Quell, a haunted victim of war who wanders through life in an alcohol-and-sex-crazed haze. When he stumbles into Lancaster Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) leader of a cultish philosophical movement called “the cause,” Quell becomes a fervent believer. While Dodd’s philosophical underpinnings and methodology are evocative of Scientology, the film functions more as a general critique of misguided worship than an explicit condemnation of Scientology.
Ironically, “the cause” acts as the most stabilizing and therapeutic force in Quell’s life. He tags along with the rest of the devout as they navigate extremes of public skepticism and blind faith, bringing to the fray his unabashed propensity for brutal outbursts. And though Dodd clearly revels in egomaniacal validation, it also becomes clear he takes an unusual interest in humanizing Quell and freeing him from inner demons.
Anderson seems to ask if it is possible to appreciate the benefits that tightly knit, disciplined community extends to followers? The viewer will wrestle with this question for the entirety of the film.
“The Master’s” success is rooted in the excellent performances of Phoenix and Hoffman, and there is little in the film more gripping than the intense close-ups of both actors in their scenes together. Joaquin Phoenix wears his character on his face, snarling from the left corner of his mouth as he masterfully embodies an individual whose internal struggles often erupt in devastating tantrums. Quell is governed only by emotion and becomes a perfect vessel for Dodd’s philosophy. Though Dodd manipulates Quell to perpetuate “the cause,” he does so with endless fatherly patience and compassion, which acts as a strangely-effective therapy for Quell’s tortured soul. The relationship between these men is a disparate mix of doubt, fear, hallucination, hope, and betrayal that explores the limits of love, friendship and insanity.
Clocking in at two hours and 30 minutes, the film is frankly too long. But admitting that somehow seems to miss the point, for the viewer is never bored. In looking for criticism, I find myself forced to concentrate on nit-picky details: the acting chops of those playing the three main characters, Amy Adams included, eclipse more minor performances, for example, but this hardly seems important.
There is no such thing as a flawless film, but “The Master” is one of those rare films that does present the peak of the craft. Artistically, the film is as close to flawless as any I have seen. Its value as simple entertainment is far more debatable: never does it seek to simply amuse or lower its quality for easier enjoyment, instead demanding thoughtful engagement.
With “The Master,” Anderson gives us a wonder to gawk at and immerse ourselves fully in, not to mindlessly absorb like a Michael Bay film.
Although the film speaks so clearly for itself, I feel obliged to address any claims that it is boring or vague, precisely because this is such a vapid and premature evaluation. “The Master” delivers excellence on nearly every front, and is thus not easily understood. It may feel exclusive or overdone, but only because the material is challenging and copmplex. I honestly have not seen something so well made in years. Consider me, and many others, a convert to the cult of P.T. Anderson.