At this point, I have no choice but to believe that Joaquin Phoenix is a human parody. His natural sneer and intense mumble makes one wonder if he is taking anything seriously. He’s like Crispin Glover without the charm. Presenting Joaquin front and center and saying, “this is your protagonist. Enjoy!” is an insult. And, of course, in The Master, he’s much more anti- or quasi- hero than rooting interest. As a recent WWII vet, Freddie Quell (Phoenix) has all the appeal of a libidinous rattlesnake – he’s simple, yet aggressive and oily; he cares about exactly two things: sex and alcohol. He has exactly one talent: making quality and potentially lethal hooch out of anything lying around, from cabbage to paint thinner. He’s like an evil Forrest Gump.
After getting tossed (or running away, depending on perspective) from his department store photography job for attacking a customer, and then killing a migrant worker while trying to be the life of the party, Freddie stows away on the cult of love boat. Here, we introduce Lancaster Dodd, a.k.a. “The Master” (Philip Seymour Hoffman), connoisseur of man’s advancement, and lover of sycophancy and alcohol. The Master immediately takes a shine to Freddie’s ‘shine and a very one-sided friendship begins in which Freddie ends up becoming the master’s attack dog.
I know we’re supposed to condemn the master-ful manipulation of small-minded Freddie, but I couldn’t help noticing Freddie’s life wasn’t going anywhere in the first place. What
do you want for a man who would otherwise be permanently passed out in a gutter? Hence, The Master becomes one of those films like The Talented Mr. Ripley – shot well, with intense, meaningful performances, but ultimately empty, dull, and unimportant.
Philip Seymour Hoffman has made a living painting the corners of the human experience, often displaying the weakness and fallibility inherent in being human. This role asked for him to exploit exactly the kind of character he’s been playing. There’s nothing wrong with his performance, but it doesn’t quite work – oh you can see what the producers were thinking: “take his cherubic face and astute mannered weaselery and PSH makes a perfect L. Ron Hubbard.” The Master is a story reliant on two prongs – the evil hypnotic charm of a manipulator (think Jeremy Irons in Reversal of Fortune or Jeff Bridges in Jagged Edge) and empathy for our subject, Freddie. Neither of these prongs succeeds and the latter is an epic magnitude failure – there isn’t a single frame of The Master which makes you want to wave the Freddie flag. Personally, I wanted to see him behind bars for the rest of the film.
Amy Adams shows up as Mrs. Dodd for several awkward scenes. She deserved better. So do we.
A sleazy drifter whose life was in tumult
Stumbled randomly into a cult
The leader did adopt
And our nomad had stopped
But thumbs down is the overwhelming result
Rated R, 137 Minutes
D: Paul Thomas Anderson
W: Paul Thomas Anderson
Genre: Exposé
Type of person most likely to enjoy this film: Seekers of truth where none exists
Type of person least likely to enjoy this film: Seekers of entertainment
