The Master
Edited to add: After three different drafts, I finally settled on this one. Because of that, I probably didn't expand on some claims I made throughout this jumbled rumination. Some have pointed out questions they have for me in the comments; I suggest you look there for more (hopefully) lucid thoughts on the film and why I compare the editing to that of a Malick film and why even though I understand that the cyclical (what I call redundant) nature of the film is probably Anderson's point on a much larger theme, I still don't know if that's enough to clear up some of the murkiness of the film's thesis.
One of the most apt images of Paul Thomas Anderson’s latest
film, The Master, occurs during its
opening minutes. The man we come to know as Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix)
dry-humps and fingerbangs a sand-sculpted woman; he then goes and masturbates
by the ocean. Two things: we laugh at the absurdity of these actions – bored
sailors during World War II on what we assume is a short "R and R" on an island –
and then as they continue we kind of groan at the aimlessness of it all. It’s a
fitting metaphor for the effect the film had on me: it’s as fleeting as
masturbation. Sure, I may have enjoyed it while it was on, but when it was
over, I realized that what I had just seen really didn’t mean anything. In
fact, I think Roger Ebert’s quote about the film sums it up nicely: “[The Master] is fabulously well-acted and crafted, but when I reach for it, my
hand closes on air.”
