The Master, Cert 15, 144 mins - review

Paul Thomas Anderson’s original take on the power play between an alcoholic and a charismatic cult leader reminiscent of L Ron Hubbard is sometimes difficult to watch but repays the attention
p43 p44 p45 films
2 March 2013

No recent movie has opened up such a big divide between critics and paying cinema audiences as The Master. In the US the film garnered rave reviews but cinemagoers have stayed away or, reportedly, walked out halfway through.

A quick steer, right now? If you loved There Will Be Blood, you will want at least to make your own mind up about The Master, since you presumably rate Paul Thomas Anderson as one of the best directors now working. But if you didn’t much care for that, save yourself the trouble. You will certainly find The Master harder going and less rewarding. It is two hours 24 minutes long, doesn’t tell much of a story and it is difficult to interpret.

Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix) is a damaged, alcoholic, perverse sailor whom we first meet as the war with Japan is ending in 1945. We see him drunk on a beach, perhaps in Guam, simulating sex with a woman made from sand, then masturbating. His face is contorted, his whole body bent, his movements simian, yet he is also peculiarly cocky, given to crazy laughter. He brews up hooch from torpedo fuel and paint thinners. Shown Rorschach blots, he says he sees only genitalia. Asked by a service psychiatrist about a crying fit, he mumbles about it being nostalgia caused by reading a letter from a girl he used to know.

In 1950, in trouble, blind drunk, he stows away on a big pleasure-boat where a party is going on. Its commander is The Master (Philip Seymour Hoffman), a charismatic figure who describes himself absurdly as a “writer, doctor, nuclear physicist, theoretical philosopher”.

Gradually, we realise Master is a cult leader, not dissimilar from the founder of Scientology, L Ron Hubbard. Having created a movement called The Cause, he spouts nonsense about reincarnation and practises a mish-mash of therapies, called “processing”, based on endlessly repeated questioning, hypnosis and past life regression.

Master puts Freddie through a session, which turns into an intense encounter for all the spuriousness of the method. Although he calls Freddie a scoundrel, Master adopts him as a protégé and guinea pig, to the dismay of his controlling wife (Amy Adams) and family. Master loves Freddie’s moonshine too.

The remainder of the film follows their improbable relationship, both needing the other, neither surrendering or changing. In one powerful scene, they are in adjacent prison cells (almost a split-screen effect), Master for financial fraud, Freddie for having assaulted the policemen who came to arrest Master. Freddie rages, smashing up the fittings.

“Your fear of capture and imprisonment s an implant from millions of years ago,” Master serenely tells him. “This is not you, you are asleep.”

“Shut the fuck up,” shouts Freddie, “you’re making this shit up!”

“I give you facts,” says Master.

“Fuck you! Fuck you!”

“I am the only one that likes you,” Master tells him, always ready with the words that will get to people. This pair are deeply connected, whether they like it or not.

In a scene near the end, where perhaps they are parting, Master tells Freddie: “If you figure out a way to live without serving a master, any master, then let the rest of us know, will you? You may be the first person in the history of the world.”

That’s perhaps the clearest hint we get of what the whole film is showing us. If you approach The Master expecting it to be a satirical exposé of Scientology, you’ll be frustrated. Anderson is little interested in what belief systems propose (perhaps thinking them all equally baseless?). What concerns him is dominance and submission as a process, the power that people who seem to know what to do have over others — as There Will Be Blood demonstrated. There is no standing back, no analysis or diagnosis offered. He shows you actions you can’t quite grasp and then starts another scene without apparently connecting them.

Which is why, the first time I saw this film, it left me not just bored and puzzled but actively cross (cross as in Basil Fawlty muttering “Why don’t you talk properly?”). It felt too long, self-indulgent and wilfully obscure despite its obvious distinction.

You can’t miss the fact that Joaquin Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman give towering, Oscar-commanding performances: Freddie so twisted and feral yet always with a kind of crippled integrity too; Master such a mystifying combination of charlatanism and real address, puffed up but genuinely magnetic, anger lurking under the charm.

Then the music by Jonny Greenwood (music drives Anderson’s films) is compelling, and the cinematography frequently thrilling (a scene moving around a department store, where Freddie is briefly working as a portrait photographer, following a mannequin modelling a fur coat, is just beautiful, an unforgettable image of that nascent consumer society).

Moreover, Anderson has filmed in rare, 65mm film stock, with the film being shown in one cinema at least in 70mm projection. At the press screening this week, this antique technology broke down after 20 minutes and the film was started from the beginning again in digital projection — a useful opportunity to appreciate that while digital offers clarity, the old film stock has richer colours and greater emotional impact. See it this way if you can.

I found myself revelling in the film second time around. Partly that’s just knowing where it is taking you, who the people are, freeing you to appreciate its texture. The speech and action that seemed so disconnected become more comprehensible and you can orient yourself more decisively in relation to the people. Scenes that seemed baffling become significant, almost mythological or legendary, even.

One of the reasons The Master is hard to take is simply that it is so original that you have little prior context for it. So don’t see it tired, or late, or if you just want diversion. But it will repay all the attention you can muster.

Cert 15, 144 mins

Create a FREE account to continue reading

eros

Registration is a free and easy way to support our journalism.

Join our community where you can: comment on stories; sign up to newsletters; enter competitions and access content on our app.

Your email address

Must be at least 6 characters, include an upper and lower case character and a number

You must be at least 18 years old to create an account

* Required fields

Already have an account? SIGN IN

By clicking Create Account you confirm that your data has been entered correctly and you have read and agree to our Terms of use , Cookie policy and Privacy policy .

This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.

Thank you for registering

Please refresh the page or navigate to another page on the site to be automatically logged in