Freddie Quells, brilliantly portrayed by Joaquin Phoenix, is a wounded soul, drowning his sorrows and frustrations in an abundance of home-made moonshine. He’s a naval officer returned from a tour of duty in WWII. Freddie’s post-war life consists of the drink, uncontrollable fits of anger and immediate, juvenile sexual gratification. The awkwardness of Freddie’s behavior includes simulating sex with a sand dune that is shaped into a naked woman, masturbating out in the open sea shore, grabbing the closest igniting products – paint thinner, lighter fluid and gasoline – to mash up his lethal cocktails.
When a peasant farmer comes across his special moonshine and dies, he runs. Freddie runs and drinks and runs until he falls into the bewildering, cult-like society known vaguely as “The Cause,” lead by Lancaster Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman). “The Cause” holds some resemblance to the infamous organization of Scientology, but there isn’t a clear allegory at play. Hoffman’s hypnotic, religious group provides a forum for controversy, but most importantly, a society where troubled souls like Freddie Quells can form an identity within a family-like structure.
Surrogate families and substitute parenting are recurrent themes in Paul Thomas Anderson’s films. The perceptive portrayal of a surrogate relationship is best conveyed in his earlier work, such as Boogie Nights (a family of pornographers) and Hard Eight (the father/son bond between two strangers). After Boogie Nights came out, it was clear that there was a new, fresh and invigorating filmmaker in town. When Magnolia followed in 1999, critics, audiences and filmmakers alike were mesmerized by how a 29 year-old youngster depicted such a rich mosaic of interlocking stories and characters.
Paul Thomas Anderson has written and directed six original films, but his latest, The Master, gets lost in a cinematic abyss. The 70mm film print enriches the visual landscape, the dialogue and performances sizzle with various emotions, but the concept is vague. Yes, Anderson wants the audience to make cerebral inferences concerning the “Cause,” and the turbulent relationship between Freddie Quells and Lancaster Dodd. But does Anderson know himself? Perhaps a second viewing will opt for a different response. I liked the film, I think his craft is in top form, but there were times that I get the feeling that P.T. Anderson, similar to Lancaster Dodd’s therapeutic and religious endeavors, makes it up as he goes along. Unclear of what Anderson is reaching for, I know there’s something profound rummaging in his manic brain, but this time around, I wanted a solid understanding behind his bold ideas. On the upside, I was glued to the filmmaker’s signature foul-mouthed dialogue, sudden outbursts of rage, and characters that are more looked down upon than admired, but written with a keen sensitivity.
Musician Johnny Greenwood reunites, for a second time, with P.T. Anderson, creating a score that brilliantly underscores the film, more so than in There Will Be Blood. Greenwood, known as famed guitarist of Radiohead, orchestrates a wild, yet meticulously crafted broken-circus of woodwinds, strings and percussions, which sublimely melts out of the emotional pores of the images. Johnny Greenwood was ignored by the Academy in 2007 with There Will Be Blood, but hopefully, his tantalizing musical score will be acknowledged this year.
Two of the finest performances of the year are evident in The Master. Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Joaquin Phoenix bring depth to the characters and the dialogue. Sometimes, in a P.T. Anderson film, it’s not what the characters say, but how they say it that speaks volumes. Humor, as usual, blends seamlessly into this epic-like creation. Watching this film, I could tell that P.T. Anderson had the only hand in the script, but this time around, the enigma hovers slightly over the craft. I think Anderson is striving for that masterful American classic. Honestly, he doesn’t have to travel that far from the grime of the San Fernando Valley (his birthplace) to create a great American classic.
*** (out of four stars)
