Philip Seymour Hoffman in Paul Thomas Anderson's "The Master."
Amy Adams is also strong as Dodd’s fiercely protective wife, and, kicked off by an angry cello, Anderson keeps up his fondness for urgent, inexorable music scores, this one, like “There Will Be Blood,” by Radiohead star Jonny Greenwood.
But for all that’s so very right about “The Master,” the narrative is perhaps less crisp and dynamic than “There Will Be Blood." Following a superb opening stretch in which Quell’s existential, alcohol-soaked anguish is mapped out across the wartime Pacific, American-dream department stores and immigrant-filled cabbage fields before his accidental arrival and long, slow induction into Dodd’s sphere, the second half is less propulsive and sometimes puzzling.
Letting the dramatic tension he’d established with such consummate skill fizzle away, Anderson almost seems at a loss where to steer Freddie and Lancaster’s relationship. The fact that they both end up in England brings an unsatisfying conclusion to their journey, leaving both master and former disciple in a vague purgatory. Maybe that’s the point, and one a second viewing might confirm. With such a formidable reputation, maybe it’s unfair that we expect to always walk away from Anderson’s films feeling awed and should just be content that he continues to create such distinctive and unforgettable cinema.