He is the founder and driving force of The Cause, a philosophical movement not unlike Scientology. His life, or at least what we see of it, is a deliberate parallel to that of the great charlatan L. Ron Hubbard, but if you’re looking for a Hubbard biopic this isn’t it. In the 1950s, the Master teaches a close-knit circle of followers who cling to his every word like they were that of a prophet, or a messiah. He tells them of past lives, that their bodies are one in a long line of spiritual vessels. He writes, and profits from, self-help books centred on “secrets” he has supposedly unlocked, and claims that his teachings can help cure leukemia. His real name is Lancaster Dodd, but we don’t learn that until halfway through the film, when the Philadelphia police force come knocking on his door.
But while “The Master” is named after Lancaster, it is not he who is the central figure of Anderson’s latest epic drama. That honour belongs to Freddie Quell, a seaman-turned-drifter who, after being discharged from the U.S. Navy following a psychiatric evaluation, thinks he might find answers in The Cause. As played and frighteningly realised by Joaquin Phoenix, Freddie is a boozing, sex-obsessed bum seemingly suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Drunken and damaged, he aimlessly wanders his way through a post-war America that doesn’t understand his condition, unable to hold down a job due to his erratic behaviour.
In the opening scenes, we witness his untamed madness: on a beach with his fellow Navy men he dryhumps a sand sculpture of a woman for longer than is comfortable to watch and masturbates by the sea, and in the depths of a naval ship he curiously guzzles juice dripping down from the inside of a dismantled torpedo. As Freddie, Phoenix is a grotesque sight: his posture is hunched, his hands are frequently affixed to his hips as his elbows inhumanly point outwards, and his expression is a permanent snarl. Some may not recognise him as the man who was Johnny Cash in “Walk the Line,” though the mumbling and the inebriation remain.
Freddie and Lancaster meet by chance. One cold and dark knight, Freddie drunkenly stows away on a brightly lit yacht in San Francisco, maybe seeking work, maybe wishing to sail away. The yacht has been hired by Lancaster, who uses it to host his daughter’s wedding. Lancaster takes an instant shine to Freddie, and his homemade hooch (key ingredient: paint thinner). What Freddie sees in Lancaster is a stranger who shows him affection, understands his condition and does not judge him. What Lancaster sees in Freddie is less clear. Perhaps he sees a stranger he feels he must help. Perhaps he sees himself: “You seem so familiar to me,” Lancaster tells him.
When reviewing “The Master," it is important to note that the film does not follow a conventional narrative template. Rather, it is an enthralling, poetically edited observation of two contrasting individuals who cross paths, develop a bond and struggle to let go of each other. It follows Freddie as he is integrated into The Cause, undergoes bewildering psychological experiments intended to cure him of his rage, is treated with suspicion by fellow members, and as he and Lancaster’s relationship becomes one built on dependency. Some viewers will be reminded of the relationship between Mark Wahlberg’s Dirk Diggler and Burt Reynolds’ Jack Horner in Anderson’s breakthrough feature, 1997’s “Boogie Nights,” although what Jack saw in Mr. Diggler was very clear.
At first glance, and perhaps a few glances later, Freddie and Lancaster appear to be polar opposites. Lancaster is suave and charismatic, sporting sharp suits and a winning smile; he’s a stirring public speaker, flourishing limitless self-confidence and a pin-sharp wit. Freddie, on the other hand, is a feral beast, a mumbling, shuffling brute visibly uncomfortable in his own skin. But there are parallels between the Master and the disciple: both have a short temper, bursting into fits of fury when confronted by opposers, with Freddie the more physically aggressive of the pair. And both are lost, lonely souls, finding something so closely resembling solace in The Cause.
The film is a technical masterclass. Anderson, working for the first time without cinematographer Robert Elswit, shoots “The Master" with Mihai Malaimare, Jr. and creates a widescreen visual experience that absorbs and astonishes; shots of Freddie and Lancaster riding motorcycles through a vast desert landscape are the stuff cinema was made for. Johnny Greenwood’s score is raw, unsettling and imposing, always at the forefront of the action. Expectedly, Anderson indulges in his penchant for long, unblinking takes. Two scenes stand out as examples: Freddie, working as a portrait photographer, inexplicably picking a fight with a harmless customer, and Lancaster’s “informal processing” of Freddie, who mustn’t blink as he is ruthlessly hammered with repetitive questions about his past.
Key to the film’s success are Phoenix and Hoffman, whose performances engross both when they are alone and when they are together. They are almost guaranteed nominations at next year’s Academy Awards, although who will get Leading and who will get Supporting is debatable. But one mustn’t overlook Amy Adams as Peggy, Lancaster’s ever-present wife, who wishes for nothing but fame and success for her beloved husband. Perhaps deliberately, Peggy calls to mind Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth — she has something of a conniving streak about her, and, like so many things in “The Master,” there’s a mystery to her every move.
Many will find “The Master” a challenging watch; indeed, in the screening I attended, nine of my fellow movie-goers ventured out of the room before the film had finished, never to return. A select few, and I count myself among them, will find it the sort of enriching and exhilarating experience we cinephiles get only once in a blue moon. This is a passionate, audaciously assembled masterwork from one of America’s great filmmakers. What it is about is hard to grasp, but for me that just makes it all the more fascinating.
10/10
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