The Master

This movie is an impossible creation. The acting in it is sublime. Philip Seymour Hoffman’s turn as Lancaster Dodd is beyond words. A burgeoning cult leader, you see him fashion his doctrine in real time, contradicting himself, and then having to paper over the cracks when he’s called on it. He doubts himself sometimes and his ability to deliver his message, but he never doubts the message. On the other end is Joaquin Phoenix, turning in a twitchy, bizarre, unnerving performance as Freddie, a WW2 vet with PTSD, a drinking problem, and a volatile temper, searching for something to fill the holes in his heart and quiet the noise in his head. Though this movie has other fantastic actors — Amy Adams as Dodd’s devout wife, in a role far too small for her talents — this is their show, as they attract and repel one another at will, a man who wants to lead a flock and a man who wants to be a disciple, but they may not fit together that way. The direction is exquisite, with a vibrant color palate and marvelous use of the environments. I loved the shot in the hard pan desert where Freddie, Dodd, Dodd’s daughter and son in law drive up, and the camera is so far away, and you hear them speaking, but the camera never gets any closer, giving you the sense of open space. There are so many gorgeous shots in this movie. And yet, this movie is more dull than plain white toast on a paper plate. The movie’s fundamental issue is a total lack of emotional depth. Like, none whatsoever. You are watching Dodd and Freddie interact, but at no point is the movie interested in injecting a feeling into a moment. Freddie is damaged and needs help, but the movie is only interested in showing him as an unstable, dangerous malcontent. There is no explanation or exploration into Dodd founding this “religion”, no idea why he holds these fanciful ideas of mental time travel and eternal life so dear. Neither man is an audience proxy. Nobody is. There is no emotional window in this movie for us to see through. All you see is actors saying lines. It is as emotionally deep as a police report of a fender bender. I’ve heard more passion from appliance salesmen than I got out of this movie. Without emotion, or commentary, or any narrative climax to which to build, the movie is just a collection of scenes that are connected but in the same way as the nesting bowls in your China cabinet are connected. They form a stack, but until something is put into them, they are empty. That is this movie: a very pretty, but totally empty bowl.