The Master

I've said before that cinema is my religion. I worship at the church of the three-act structure and I believe in the redemptive power of the Hollywood character arc. But it's good to have your faith challenged from time to time, so you can be sure that you haven’t turned into a brainwashed zealot. The Master, a film that follows none of the basic tenants of my faith, is certainly not good enough to make me renounce my religion, but that doesn't mean there isn't a lot to admire about this picture.

First and foremost, the movie looks amazing, capturing the late '40s and early '50s in an astonishing way.  The costumes, make-up, cars, and décor are perfect, and the film gives the viewer a tangible feeling of authenticity.  Comparing The Master to any other period film of this year (like Hyde Park on Hudson, which I saw the same week) is like eating a bar of the finest Swiss dark chocolate and then biting into a stale, generic milk chocolate from a fifteen-year-old advent calendar. Even AMC’s much-acclaimed Mad Men, which gets all its props and costumes just right, still looks and feels like  another TV show, but watching The Master is like seeing old photographs come to life, and as the first fifteen minutes washed over me, I was completely transported.

Much of this is due to Joaquin Phoenix’s magnificent performance. His face and bearing seem so absolutely correct for the period and the character that I consider this role to be his finest work. That said, there isn’t much for him to work with. His Freddy Quell has no arc, and when the film ends, he's the same man as when it started. Nonetheless, he's unceasingly riveting to watch. The other two leads, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Amy Adams, are also excellent--especially Adams, who continues to prove she’s an even better actress than I give her credit for.

I don’t really know what the film's about, or what Andersen's trying to say with it, and I’m not sure he does either. It has something to do with leading and following, with identity, survival, and the cult of personality. It’s far from a great film, but it's well worth seeing, and in a theatre.

Much was made of director P.T. Anderson's decision to shoot the film in 65mm, which hadn't been done since Kenneth Branagh's Hamlet in 1996, and before that since Ron Howard’s Far and Away in 1992. But the use of that format here turned out to be an odd choice. It's a small and intimate film, not an epic, and it consists mostly of people talking indoors, which doesn't really call for the grand presentation. I fear the admirable “see it in 70mm” campaign Anderson launched with this picture, won’t do much to help the cause of celluloid.