With The Master, Paul Thomas Anderson has delivered his most complex, confounding, and ambitious work to date. A film that never for a moment feels less than confident in execution but one which slips through your fingers when you reach out to pull in its essence, at least after one viewing. It could well be Anderson's best work and certainly his most visually outstanding. Though it will continue to exasperate many viewers it is unmistakably a work of pure artistry and further proof that Anderson is currently working on a level above and beyond his American peers.
Following the destructive exploits of a Navy man from the fading days of World War Two it's obvious from the start this character is a disturbed individual; an alcoholic borderline sex addicted loner shown humping sand statuettes of women, masturbating violently into the ocean, and creating moonshine liquor out of anything he can get his hands on, such as torpedo fuel. This man is Freddy Quell (Joaquin Phoenix) who's actions speak of a ultimately frustrated man. Much of cinema gives us destructive types left right and centre but here Phoenix gives us the mother of all problems; a man whose very genetic make-up looks to be made up of all the tortured dregs the world can muster. As the veteran Freddy is released back into 'normal' society his psychical attributes become shockingly apparent, his body contorted unnaturally with hunched back and protruding elbows, his mouth half able to produce speech akin to that of a stroke victim. Here is a man spat out of the war machine, a broken man that a dynamic cult leader will later take upon himself to attempt in mending.
Freddy's reintegration into society is far from easy and after a string of problematic employment starting as a department store photographer and ending in the John Steinbeck like fields of migrant workers, he finds himself homeless, hopeless, heartless. This montage of aimless post-war searching is placed eerily within an alien like America, a country reeling and finding its feet after years of tragic maladjustment. Like Japan, America coped by increasing consumer culture to create an idealised (utterly false) perception of unified home and country. These efforts during the McCarthy/Eisenhower led times hit home with Freddy taking pictures of seemingly perfect families and couples whose strained smiles appear starkly perverse next to the world torn reality of the film. Jonny Greenwood's score does a phenomenal job once again of representing the everyday as abnormal; his music harbouring classical motifs through a twisted carbine that nests in the 1950s setting while producing an hallucinatory effect.
On his wayward journey the sailor is struck by the lights of a grandiose boat as those on board merrily dance and sing the night away, perhaps as an unconscious decision to return to the sea or merely succumbing to the cold he boards the vessel; Anderson's camera follows Freddy, framing him against the ship in a fashion highlighting a sense of destiny. On board he meets Lancaster Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), a man introducing himself as many things but above all the leader (The Master) of a new movement (or cult) known as 'The Cause'. This meeting and all its preamble struck me on a gut level like the literature of F. Scott Fitzgerald, this feeling of a doomed predestined relationship like the meeting of Carraway and Gatsby, of Rosemary Hoyt and the Divers. These characters drawn into extravagant worlds that promise much, ending only in heartbreak. A destined meeting made all the more unsettling by The Master's teachings of past lives coupled with his instant liking and familiarity of Freddy.
It's this relationship between Dodd and Freddy that forms the spine to the film, a spine some may find flimsy and wavering in its refusal to define itself. But its the mystery in this fateful bond that keeps the intrigue fuelled. Dodd is clearly fascinated by the former sailor but his motives are left open to us while he keeps Freddy close by throughout, even against the wishes of his followers. The magnetic force between them is mightily ambiguous, Freddie perhaps feeling understood by The Master's auditing techniques (a process amalgamating hypnosis with interview technique) as he taps into his deepest traumas, Dodd seeing Freddie as ultimate proof of The Cause's effect, even the most damaged of subjects. The possibilities go on.
As The Master approached its release the film's ties to Scientology engulfed it into a media frenzy of speculation. This could perhaps explain the divisive nature of the film's reception, after all, despite this being Anderson's first film in five years, the return of Joaquin Phoenix to acting, and the general culminating talent on board, it was the Scientology tag stuck to the 'hype machine'. Those looking for an indictment of cult behaviour, of charlatanism, and cynical deceit, will find only disappointment here despite the film's clear historic connections.
Anderson's film does not judge but merely observes, his motive not to attack but to answer how a movement took off and why people were drawn in? The film shows us a broken America, one of unease and uncertainty taken in by the charisma of a man claiming to know the answers of the mind, answers that heal the soul. If Daniel Day-Lewis channeled the ghost of John Huston in There Will Be Blood, here Hoffman hones a persona similar of Orson Welles; a commanding man who seduces others with charm, humour, and a confidence that inspires trust. Even as the curtain begins to slip with signs of Dodd doubting his cause he is not condemned but rather pitied with wife Peggy (played by a key and wonderfully understated Amy Adams) hinted at being the real driving force. It's the reading of the characters faces that drives the action, with Anderson utilising tight close-ups excessively throughout. The camera observing every facial tick or drop of eye contact, fascinated with what's behind the eyes, ever frustrated that it doesn't have access. If speculation of the picture's use of 70mm film-stock alluded towards epic landscape sweeps and extensive use of exteriors, what we actually have is a largely interior chamber piece employing such a cinematic device to capture the upmost detail of expression.
With its lack of narrative drive and character arcs The Master will frustrate many in its refusal to supply a payoff, even Anderson's previous film lived up to its title while testing expectation. But this haunting study of Man's constant quest to define his existence only clenches its grip when it's over, pulling you in again to restudy its many mysteries, including how much of the story is interchangeably viewed from the point of its three main players. Paul Thomas Anderson has delivered another example that cinema is far from dead as he presents us with scenarios and characters further indicating we've far from seen it all, wrapped in a package that only he, right now, can give us.
Moneyball is one of the hardest movie pitches of recent years. Not only does it centre around Baseball (a sport hardly followed or loved by most of the world) but it barely even classifies as a sports film, yes it's about Baseball but it hardly features any at all. It focusses on the economics off the pitch and follows the true story of Billy Beane (played here by Brad Pitt) an ex-player now manager of the Oakland Athletics, a struggling team who have once again lost out at the postseason. With failure still fresh on the mind and three of the team's most valued players jumping ship, Billy knows the current formula isn't working and radical turnaround is the cure.
Beane finds the man he's looking for in young economics graduate Peter Brand (Jonah Hill), after his current team of talent scouts meet his ambitious demands for expensive restructure with blank discord. After both Beane and Brand realise they're on the same page and know an unthought of recipe for success, Brand comes over to the Oakland team to change the sport forever. So why should we care about a sports movie that predominantly swaps on-pitch action and rooting for maths and people sitting at desks or on the phone? Aaron Sorkin is the reason why, as he gives Moneyball the same treatment as The Social Network - making a seemingly impenetrable area of interest into a multilayered and thoroughly enjoyable experience. Joined this time by Steven Zailian on writing duties, the pair construct a story of universial themes with added commentary on the modern business side of sport. Themes of regret, failure, ambition, and acceptance makes the film accessible to anyone.
The big plan at the centre of Moneyball shows Beane and Brand construct a cunning scheme to use their club's limited finance to buy a team skilful enough to win the next season. This involves looking at a player's value based on their statistics alone, only spending what the player will give back in return by their on base percentage. By buying players who have 'hidden' value but are viewed as tainted or defective by other clubs it appears to be career suicide, in true underdog fashion of course there is method in the madness.
Brad Pitt plays Beane with a high strung quality, a fearsome drive to his endeavours that feel suitable traits as we're revealed bit by bit over the course of the film, Billy's past failures. His violent outbursts (all at inanimate objects) grow rather humorous as the stakes rise. Jonah Hill is note perfect as the young, smart, but awkward Peter; Hill is proven a talented performer to be taken seriously here, we can only hope to see more of this from him in the future. Another highlight is Philip Seymour Hoffman as the Oakland coach who's forced to adhere to Beane's new approach under contractual obligation. He has little to do compared with his previous outing with director Bennett Miller; the intricacies of Truman Capote, but Hoffman adds a valued flavour to coach Art Howe, a character which adds further perspective on the proceedings that could easily of been forgotten if cast with a lesser performer, which in Hoffman's case is every other actor in the world. Art's consistent frowning glare is unrelenting and in retrospect is rather hilarious despite lacking comic value at the time.
Miller's unfussy direction is present as it was in 2006's Capote, however cinematographer Wally Phister raises the visuals well above the bar, maintaining his reputation as one of the greatest in his field today.
But the film's clout really comes from the script, like The Social Network we're provided with a bittersweet ending that asks the question of what it is to succeed. As Billy cruises in his car with a fitting song written by his daughter playing, the scene marks an emotional and resonate ending that stops the tragic man that is Billy Beane leaving your memory too voluntarily. Like Mark Zuckerberg, Billy is put on a pedestal to be considered by all; has he succeeded? What drives him to succeed? Will he know when the goal is met? Does he know what that goal even is?
As previously stated, Moneyball is a hard film to sell to someone who couldn't give a damn about Baseball, hell, even if they did it hardly sounds riveting. However there is something here for everyone, even if it does end up as a pleasant surprise. Though we don't get to know the players, this story of discovering self worth is touching and is brought out well. A team made of players from the scrap heap breaking the record for most consecutive wins in Baseball history is an against the odds triumph to warm ones' heart. Moneyball succeeds past any inherent problems through its humanist qualities, making it a universial story that will strike a chord with anyone willing to give it a go.
George Clooney is no stranger to politics; only recently being arrested in Washington for his protest over the humanitarian crisis of Sudan, he publicly backed Barack Obama's 2008 presidential campaign, and his views on equal rights (particularly gay rights) have always been well known. His part in the recent play 8, focussing on the trial which overturned California's Prop 8 ban on same-sex marriage, was another reminder of his passionate crusade for civil rights.
Clooney's life has been dedicated to Politics, actively serving to bring around change and to make awareness of injustices close to his heart. For a man who is such a part of politics, it's a shame then that The Ides of March (adapted from Beau Willimon's play Farragut North) lacks the depth and insight that we'd expect from a man so engulfed in the world he's portraying. It's an exceptional drama that doesn't necessarily lose any footing, however it feels all too safe, predictable, and in the end all rather inconsequential.
Ryan Gosling stars as our main man, Stephen Meyers; he is junior campaign manager for Mike Morris (Clooney), the Democrat Governor of Pennsylvania looking to run for presidency. Meyers is an idealistic young man who believes in what he does and believes honesty can belong in politics, only say you're going to do something if you know you can and will. Meyers' clean cut angelic outlook could have come across as unrealistic and rather corny, but is given enough rough edges and a mystique sheen that has him come off with some indication of depth.
The film revolves around Meyers completely and follows his decent into the murky goings on of the political machine. It's a cliched story of youthful ideals being corrupted by the cynical grapplings of the world, but a story that's age old for a reason, as it makes for compelling viewing as we can't resist the slippery slope down. Meyers can't resist the slippery slope either, as one mistake (an honest mistake is debatable) unravels a complicated web of snowballing treachery that means he must play dirty (and abandon his ideals) to get back on top.
Out of the cast that features Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Paul Giamatti, Marisa Tomei, and Geoffrey Wright, only Evan Rachel Wood really has enough to grapple with as the tragic soul of intern Molly. She acts as the catalyst for Meyer's decline. All involved have their moments to standout and deliver but this dream team of actors are too cramped to show off the talents we've come to know them for. The main reason for this being the running time; for a film that takes us on a journey of degeneracy through political campaigns, it would have benefitted from being longer to settle us into the world, to soak up the scenes behind the curtain, and to feel like we'd experienced a complete journey. What we get is closer to a skim through, a bullet point summary rather than the entire essay. While the film's ideology is clearly on it's sleeve and does indeed provide a satisfactory character arch for Meyers, it feels all rather basic in the end with no further commentary expressed. A missed opportunity to delve further into the hypocrisy and debilitating effects of politics, only telling us what we already know.
Ryan Gosling is as electric to watch as ever, his scenes with Evan Rachel Wood feel particularly alive while the two smoulder at full power. Hoffman and Tomei both nail their characters as people made jaded and desensitised through their line of work in politics and journalism respectfully. Clooney's candidate Morris whom all this revolves around is kept slightly muted and is only shown at length while rallying people behind his promises for equal rights, foreign policy, abortion, religion, and the death penalty. Perhaps only showing this side of him reveals the hollowness of his words as we never understand the man behind them. Clooney gives Morris a dark intimating edge when the pressure is applied to him later by Meyers' blackmailing, even though Gosling carries the film well, it would have been nice to seem more of this simmering nastiness beneath the surface from varying angles.
The Ides of March is a competent, slick, and interesting film that lacks memorability due to its refusal to dig further beneath the surface.
For fans of: Nashville (1975) The Insider (1999), Good Night, and Good Luck (2005), Michael Clayton (2007)
