Philip Seymour Hoffman plays a L. Ron Hubbard-esque cult leader in the evocative but challenging The Master.
Writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson’s (There Will Be Blood) new movie The Master is, if nothing else, atmospheric. From the first miraculously vivid shot to the last, The Master builds and sustains a boozy, sinister and haunting mood. What else the film accomplishes is anyone’s guess.
The film follows Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix, Two Lovers) as he is seduced by the ideas of L. Ron Hubbard — sorry, Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman, Moneyball), a charismatic self-described writer, doctor, nuclear physicist, theoretical philosopher and leader of the religion dubbed Scient… — er, “The Cause.”
If that sounds like the setup for a scathing indictment of a certain cult, it isn’t. Anderson seemingly has no inclination to say anything about that rather horrific organization. The closest the film comes to making a definitive statement about Scientology is to point out that Dodd is clearly making up his religious dogma as he goes along.
Instead, the movie’s focus is on the Old Yeller style relationship Dodd and Quell share. Both the script and performances suggest this is a master-dog relationship, Dodd frequently referring to Quell as a good or naughty boy and Quell acting like a lunatic canine for most of the runtime.
Taken on this level, the movie is largely a disappointment. The story meanders — most notably in the loose, almost episodic second half — which has little focus or narrative momentum. Indeed, almost any literal interpretation of The Master will fall flat. There’s simply not a whole lot happening.
And yet, while viewing The Master, there’s a palpable sense that something bigger is happening. Through the arresting onslaught of gorgeous images, composer Jonny Greenwood’s (50/50) jarring score, Phoenix’s completely unhinged performance as Freddie Quell — Anderson is almost certainly saying something here. I just have no idea what it is.
Viewing the film once simply isn’t enough to understand it. It could be a case of The Emperor’s New Clothes, but some moments are so obviously symbolic and metaphoric you know there is something deeper to the film. A climactic motorcycle chase through the desert has got to mean something, doesn’t it?
The argument can be made that obfuscating the film’s themes to this degree constitutes a failure, but Anderson’s film more or less shouts it’s got a message buried somewhere. It lingers in your mind days after watching it, your brain constantly shifting and turning parts of the film around in an attempt at making sense of it all.
Perhaps all of this is a lark, and Anderson is a master troll who just released a film to critical acclaim with no real center or purpose. Maybe The Master is just a cascade of lush 70mm cinematography and haunting music with no actual rhyme or reason.
Put it this way: the first viewing of The Master is like setting up a chessboard. You don’t know for sure whether this game will be worth a damn, but your opponent is formidable and the pieces are carved out of rich, magnificent ebony.
It might not go down as a masterpiece, but, if nothing else, The Master will certainly be one of the most discussed films of the year.
chzhang@umdbk.com
