In this blog post, I will examine the questions and reflections raised by ‘The Master’—focusing on the way the film prioritizes pure sensation over narrative structure, the relationship between Freddie and Lancaster, its anti-psychological characterization, and the film’s opening scene and the actors’ performances.

The Weaving of Narrative?

First, I’d like to begin by refuting the opinion of critic Yoo Woon-sung. Yoo Woon-sung argues that ‘The Master’ abandons narrative. He contends that sensation is prioritized in places where narrative organization and reorganization should naturally occur. To quote Yoo Woon-sung’s writing:

“One thing is clear: ‘Master’ is not a film that ‘moves toward’ the mysterious by deconstructing the narrative through sensory experience—this is a film that runs completely counter to Luis Buñuel’s ‘Un Chien Andalou’ (1929) and ‘L’Époque d’Or’ (1930), Alain Resnais’s ‘Last Year at Marienbad’ (1961), or David Lynch’s ‘Mulholland Drive’ (2001)—it is a film that runs on a completely different track. —It is a film that “opens a passageway” to the mysterious by bringing to the forefront the various manipulations (excerpting, reduction, compression, omission, transposition, etc.) that are indispensable to the weaving of a narrative, much like Orson Welles’s ‘Citizen Kane’ (1941).” (Yoo Woon-sung)

Yoo Woon-sung assumes that ‘The Master’ must employ “various manipulations indispensable to the weaving of the narrative,” just like ‘Citizen Kane’. This assumption is meaningless. There is no reason why ‘The Master’ should handle its narrative in the same way as ‘Citizen Kane’. It is unfair to evaluate a film based on rules derived from another successful film. A film fails not because it fails to follow the excellent rules of another film. ‘Citizen Kane’ created its own narrative rules within the film itself. Those rules function solely within ‘Citizen Kane’; they are not meant to be forced onto other films.
Rather, we should say this: ‘The Master’ failed to create its own rules to captivate the audience. That is when a film fails.
No, I don’t even think ‘The Master’ failed to create its own rules. The first thing we must distinguish is what Paul Thomas Anderson did—and did not do—with this film. In this film, Paul Thomas Anderson does not aim to construct a classical narrative, as he did in his previous films. In my view, what Paul Thomas Anderson seeks to achieve in this film is the “embodiment of pure sensation,” separate from narrative.
Let’s imagine a film composed solely of pure sensations—not one where sensations pop up momentarily on top of a narrative framework. In this case, narrative becomes unnecessary. Yoo Woon-sung’s premise is reversed, and we end up viewing the film in an entirely different light. Viewed from this perspective, the point at which ‘The Master’ fails is not because it fails to organize the narrative properly. The problem lies precisely in the fact that narrative—an impurity—has been awkwardly inserted into every juncture of the embodiment of sensation.
Let’s look at Yoo Woon-sung’s writing again.

“In other words, we are not simply asking for a ‘coherent story’ or a ‘coherent context,’ but rather for a coherent story and context that are ‘appropriate to the experiences’ provided by these directors.” (Yoo Woon-sung)

What exactly is a coherent story and context appropriate to the experiences? So, does this mean that while we acknowledge ‘The Master’ provides a remarkable cinematic experience, it fails to construct a narrative worthy of that experience? Ah, I see what you mean. But then, why should it be that way?
In Paul Thomas Anderson’s previous film, ‘Punch-Drunk Love’, the most brilliant moments are those when pure sensation alone remains fully on the screen. It is not that the sensations support the narrative; rather, the narrative serves purely to sustain the existence of those sensations.
In ‘Punch-Drunk Love’, the moments when sensations are fully present are when colorful paints blend together and blur throughout the film, when Barry Egan sits at a desk in a strangely colored blue room at the beginning of the film, off-center to the left of the frame; when he flies into a hysterical rage under pressure from his overbearing sisters and shatters the kitchen’s glass window; and when, empowered by love, he defeats the thugs who had robbed him. At these moments, the narrative is almost unnecessary. Certainly, the narrative does play a role before and after these shots. But its influence is so minimal.
The narrative isn’t necessary. All I want to see on the screen are “pure sensations.” I believe this is what Paul Thomas Anderson intended to do.

The Fatigue of Anti-Psychologism

The film begins by showing the blue ocean. Freddie is on a boat, and he’s a little crazy. While cutting a coconut, he pretends to place his hand on top of it and slice through it. He says that to get rid of jock itch, you just have to burn off your pubic hair. The sailors perform all sorts of lewd acts on a female figure made of sand on the beach. He masturbates on the beach while gazing out at the ocean.
He isn’t completely insane. We learn from the scenes that follow what circumstances Freddie is facing. Freddie has experienced war, and it’s clear he’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder as a result. Freddie is just crazy enough to make his character believable.
After getting off the boat, Freddie works as a photographer at a department store. A customer arrives. Freddie holds a spotlight close to the customer’s face. The customer feels uncomfortable. Freddie moves the spotlight even closer. It’s extremely hot. The customer loses his temper, and the two get into a physical altercation.
This episode is a classic example of the character-building approach Paul Thomas Anderson has employed in his previous works. We can only roughly guess at the reasons behind Freddie’s behavior; we cannot trace the origins of his actions to determine exactly why he acts so spitefully.
In Paul Thomas Anderson’s films since ‘Punch-Drunk Love’, the protagonists are always over-the-top. Barry Egan’s behavior, which occasionally erupts like a volcano, always feels excessive—even when considering the circumstances in which he finds himself. In ‘There Will Be Blood’, Daniel Plainview is even more extreme. He cuts ties with his adopted son—whom he raised as his own—for a trivial reason.
Thus, the underlying theme of Paul Thomas Anderson’s characterization is “anti-psychologism.”
This is how Paul Thomas Anderson views human beings.

“Human behavior is not something that can be grasped rationally. There is no need to explain the cause-and-effect relationships behind human behavior. Such explanations trivialize our understanding of human beings.”
Like Paul Thomas Anderson, Michael Haneke is a director who employs anti-psychologism as a primary method of character development. Haneke takes this approach even further than Paul Thomas Anderson.
Paul Thomas Anderson’s characters act within the framework of a faintly discernible narrative. In contrast, Haneke’s characters are all bizarre, malevolent, and engage in a continuous series of incomprehensible actions. While Paul Thomas Anderson’s characters leave open at least a sliver of possibility for understanding their behavior, Haneke’s characters fundamentally block any such possibility.
This is a difference in approach. It’s impossible to judge which director is better or more sophisticated. However, if Paul Thomas Anderson continues to use this method of character construction in his films without significant change, viewers will grow weary. This weariness is similar to the feeling I get from Haneke’s recent works.

The Encounter Between a Madman and a Cult Leader

Lancaster is an even more enigmatic figure than Freddie. In the film, we hear about Freddie’s past directly from him, but we hear absolutely nothing about Lancaster’s past. Paul Thomas Anderson presents Lancaster by cutting out a specific period of his life as cleanly as slicing through a piece of cloth. All we know is that Lancaster is a figure resembling the leader of a cult.
During his first encounter with Freddie, Lancaster appears to share a pure connection, one human to another. Their initial conversation is like a Zen dialogue. They ask different questions and give different answers, yet they understand each other.
Shortly after, Lancaster says something a charismatic cult leader should never say: “But first and foremost, you’re human. A human with endless, uncontrollable curiosity—just like you.”
This out-of-the-blue confession makes it impossible to establish a leader-follower dynamic. The moment a leader reveals his own imperfections to others, his authority is shattered. That is not the kind of relationship Lancaster desires.
A father-son relationship? Judging by the story about the dragon that Lancaster tells at his daughter’s wedding, it doesn’t seem like he wants a father-son relationship either. Lancaster says that one must put a leash on the dragon and wrestle with it to make it obey. This is clearly a fable aimed at Freddie.
So is this relationship that of a master and a servant? A master-servant relationship arises from a situation where the master can enforce absolute power over the servant. However, that is not the case here. Freddie came to Lancaster of his own free will and can leave at any time.

Freddie knows

Freddie knows. Freddie is smart enough to realize instantly that all the ridiculous antics Lancaster pulls off under the guise of a pseudo-religion are nothing but a scam. Lancaster also knows what perspective Freddie takes on his antics. Given this situation, the loyalty Freddie shows toward Lancaster is surprising.
Freddie does not hesitate to become Lancaster’s faithful dog. Lancaster “processes” an elderly woman in New York. “Processing” is the name Lancaster gives to his form of hypnosis. A man named John More, who has been watching, points out the fraudulent nature of the “processing.”
Their argument heats up, and the “Coz”—the members of Lancaster’s sect surrounding him—keep their lips tightly sealed as their expressions grow increasingly stiff. At that moment, Freddie throws food at John More. Then he laughs.
Among the “Coz,” the only one who doesn’t take this situation seriously is Freddie.

Freddie knows that Lancaster is a fraud, so he observes this farce purely from an outsider’s perspective. Only Freddie can laugh in this situation.
What follows is an unexpected turn of events. After the incident ends, Freddie seeks out John Moore and “deals with” him in his own way.
The film never explains why Freddie remains loyal to Lancaster. The psychological motivations of these two characters are never explored in the film. From start to finish, the film “shows” rather than “explains.”
What’s even more intriguing is that their relationship never remains two-dimensional. Throughout the film, their relationship rises and falls in a three-dimensional manner, oscillating between tension, conflict, and reconciliation.
Perhaps the most memorable scene in the film is the one where Freddie causes a riot inside the prison. Lancaster ends up in prison due to a betrayal by his patron. Freddie causes a disturbance to prevent Lancaster from being taken away by the police and ends up in prison alongside him.
Inside the prison, Freddie shouts, his face contorted with rage.

“You’re the one who made all this happen—you’re the one who made it up. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

In response to Freddie’s outburst, Lancaster says he has evidence. But he knows this defense is futile. Lancaster seems to have seen right through Freddie’s true nature.
Lancaster says this:

“I’m the only one who likes you—who else is going to like you besides me?”

This prison scene is the only one that directly reveals the nature of their relationship.
So, does their relationship become clear after this scene? No. Even afterward, their relationship remains ambiguous.

Question

Lancaster and Freddie are released from prison. The Lancaster family has a discussion at the dinner table. Every family member except Lancaster dislikes him.
From the very beginning until now, he’s remained an alcoholic, sexually promiscuous, and a good-for-nothing with a terrible temper. There’s little sign that he’ll ever improve. Furthermore, they even say they have no idea what kind of person he really is.
The family is right. Freddie is a man with no roots. The stories Freddie told Lancaster about his first love and his family all came from Freddie’s own mouth. There’s no evidence that they’re 100 percent true.
Lancaster should rightfully kick Freddie out. But he doesn’t. Instead, he protects Freddie.
Lancaster says, “If we don’t help him, we’re the ones who’ll ruin him.”
It’s a question that can’t be answered. The family’s question is: Why should we keep Freddie around, taking such a huge risk? In fact, even Lancaster himself doesn’t know why.
Lancaster helps Freddie through his own method of “processing.” The processing actually seems to be effective. The story takes a sudden turn: Freddie leaves out of the blue. Once again, no clues are given as to why he’s leaving.
Now let’s consider the biggest question this film poses: “What kind of people are these two, exactly?”
The film’s runtime is 137 minutes. That’s quite long. Can audiences watch this lengthy film and come to understand what kind of people these two are? No—in fact, they end up knowing even less.
This film raises questions about what it means to be human. It never provides any answers. Nor are these questions presented step-by-step within a traditional narrative structure; rather, they are presented through a collection of highly sensory, individual scenes—so much so that, viewed in isolation, they could be mistaken for scenes from a video art piece.
I think I now understand what Paul Thomas Anderson set out to do. Paul Thomas Anderson did not aim to entertain the audience through storytelling. Nor did he take on the role of a moral teacher dictating how humans ought to live. He also rejects the role of a magician who provides aesthetic pleasure through visuals and music.
He wanted to explore what it means to be human. Did Paul Thomas Anderson succeed in this endeavor?

I’m not sure. This task is too vast and difficult. Moreover, he did not express this monumental task through the conventions of traditional cinema.
After rewatching this film, I feel that it is a “bundle of pure sensations not organized into a narrative.” With a cast of famous actors and a substantial budget, Paul Thomas Anderson took a risk. It seems as though Paul Thomas Anderson loaded everything he had onto a massive ship and even accepted the risk that this ship might sink.
This film offers no definitive answer to the question of what it means to be human. However, after watching it, I feel I’ve come to understand, even if only a little, what it means to be human. I support Paul Thomas Anderson’s adventure.
Some may ultimately view it as a failure. But to me, this process seems to possess a sublime quality that only a true artist can shoulder.

About the Actors

Without a doubt, the actors in this film deliver top-notch performances. Philip Seymour Hoffman, in particular, dominates, grips, and shakes up every single shot. Amy Adams is also excellent. She is an actress who, no matter the role, can expand the character’s raison d’être within the film.
On the other hand, I have reservations about Joaquin Phoenix’s performance. I find Joaquin’s gait, hunched shoulders, and manner of speaking unsettling. All these physical details are likely intended to create the character “Freddy.”
What I felt, however, is that these details and the character of Freddy exist separately. The physical details fail to translate into the character’s traits and remain merely superficial details. While Joaquin’s body meticulously portrays these details, they do not blend harmoniously with the character of Freddy.
Each detail—especially the physical ones—feels as though it’s been forcibly pasted onto the actor Joaquin Phoenix.
Of course, all great acting is a sum of details. A single gesture an actor makes within the frame, a subtle hesitation at the end of a sentence, a small sigh—these details come together to form a character.
Take Philip Seymour Hoffman, for example. In Philip’s performance, the individual details—the specific nuances—do not stand out. That is why the audience’s gaze is always drawn to the character of Lancaster, as portrayed by Philip.
The same is true for Daniel Day-Lewis in ‘There Will Be Blood’. In that film, Daniel’s performance is always overflowing. Yet audiences are still in awe of his acting. This is because the details of Daniel’s performance are completely fused with the character.
Details must be integrated into the whole before they are revealed. When the synthesis of these details fails, the performance itself fails.
In ‘The Master’, Joaquin Phoenix’s performance does not coalesce into a whole. The individual details stand apart from one another. I view Joaquin’s performance as a failure.

A Scene-by-Scene Analysis – The Opening Scene

Paul Thomas Anderson is the most technically proficient director working today. Up until ‘Magnolia’, the influence of Martin Scorsese and Robert Altman’s floating camera work was evident. Starting with ‘There Will Be Blood’, he began to reduce camera movement and increasingly adopted a painterly approach, lingering on objects within the frame.
Let’s look at the opening scene. The sea, viewed from above on the deck of a ship, mixes with blue foam and breaks into tiny waves. Next comes a close-up of Freddie, wearing a helmet and taking cover behind an obstacle.
Neither this shot nor the preceding shot of the sea is a conventional shot. The sea shot alone is insufficient as a direct explanation of the environment in which Freddie is situated, and it is difficult to immediately infer why Freddie suddenly puts on a steel helmet in the next shot. Is the protagonist a soldier? This is about the only piece of information one can barely glean.
What these two shots offer isn’t a narrative derived from their causal relationship, but rather the sensory experience itself—the white foam of the waves breaking into tiny pieces behind the boat, Freddie’s inscrutable expression, and the texture of the steel helmet.
Next, we see Freddie slashing hard at a coconut with a knife. This shot is distorted by an extreme wide-angle lens. The following shot shows soldiers wrestling.
Because the narrative does not progress and an extremely wide-angle shot is inserted, the audience continues to feel a sense of dissonance. Consequently, rather than seeking a narrative in the sequence of shots, the audience’s gaze is constantly drawn to the surface of the visuals.
Next, Freddy explains how to get rid of a splinter. It’s meaningless, trivial nonsense. No special techniques were used in this shot regarding lens size or camera movement; it simply continues to focus on Freddie in a close-up.
Next, Freddie takes off his pants and masturbates while facing the ocean. It’s a long shot. Looking at the sequence up to this point, a peculiar rhythm emerges from the opening shots so far.
There’s no narrative; a series of seemingly random shots are strung together, interspersed with an extremely distorted wide-angle shot, and the long shot of him masturbating while facing the ocean. This unique and peculiar rhythm extends throughout the entire film.
It’s not dissonant; there’s definitely a rhythm to it. I tried to find some kind of pattern within this rhythm, but honestly, I don’t know what it is. It’s clearly there. However, it’s not something that’s been methodically pieced together according to fixed rules. It’s purely the director’s intuition. If I had a richer knowledge of film history, I might be able to discover something, though.
Finally, Freddie lies comfortably next to a giant female figure made of sand. This is probably the most peaceful shot in the entire film. Next comes the final shot: a wide, bird’s-eye view of Freddie lying there.
Philip Seymour Hoffman recently died of a drug overdose. We’ve lost one of the few true “artists of acting.” It’s sad. May he rest in peace.
And it seems I should provide a clear definition of the term “sensation” that I used in this blog post. Here, I’ve defined and used the term to mean “a pure mass of surface before it is imbued with any meaning.”