“The Master” places its bid for Best Film of the Year

 

The Master has already been building up a lot of Oscar buzz—and decidedly so, much of film is astounding. The film combines tour de force performances by Philip Seymour Hoffman and Joaquin Phoenix (even Amy Adams manages to hold her own) with beautiful cinematography by Mihai Malaimare Jr. set to a magnificent score by Jonny Greenwood; yet, with all these elements, is The Master really the best film of the year (as some film critics have already praised it)?

Set in a post-World War II America, the film follows war veteran Freddie Quell (played by Phoenix who delivers each line from the side of his mouth in the same fashion that Katie Holmes did in Dawson’s Creek) who medicates his PTSD with alcoholism (via a paint thinner concoction he makes that proves useful for making friends and killing the elderly). In a drunken stupor he stumbles upon Lancaster Dodd’s (Hoffman) boat as his family and friends celebrate his daughter’s wedding. Fortunately, Dodd finds Freddie fascinating and quickly inducts him into his cult called The Cause (which draws comparisons to Scientology despite filmmaker Paul Thomas Anderson’s denials). Despite being a fiercely loyal follower, Freddie indulges in far too much promiscuous sex and drinking to ever fully convert to The Cause, making for much grumbling amongst those closest to Dodd.

Clocking in at 2.5 hours, the film is bound to have some missteps. Paul Thomas Anderson acts as both writer and director, but it seems he could’ve used some extra direction in his writing. Some tightening of the story in the midsection would keep viewers more engaged and appreciative of Anderson’s ambivalent ending that is ripe for interpretation. Amy Adams, too, would’ve benefited from an expanded role. Her manipulative Mary Sue Dodd, wife of Lancaster, doesn’t show her true colors until later in the film, making for some disturbingly frightening scenes; but a few more scenes between her and Freddie and her and Dodd would’ve all but solidified her win as Best Supporting Actress come awards season (I still expect her to rack up the nominations, though). Also, while Greenwood’s score is beautifully tragic, it often feels disjointed from the film; or maybe that’s purely because Malaimare Jr.’s cinematography is so perfect that it could stand alone without a score.

Despite these mishaps, however, The Master is a thought-provoking work of art. Viewers will find much to fascinate them and keep them talking about the film long after they’ve seen it. The film also teaches some very important lessons like drinking paint thinner is dangerous, don’t join cults and women can look deeply unattractive when naked.

 

NW

 

Zadie Smith’s newest novel NW delves into an exploration of London, specifically the northwest quadrant of the city. For those unfamiliar with London neighborhoods—like me—it is easy to get confused by all the namedropping of regions; but Smith focuses more on the people who inhabit the neighborhood, making it easy for the reader to compare London to their own city.

The story follows four characters who all started in the same place—Caldwell—but have grown into very different lives. Leah has become a recluse in her own home, trying to avoid getting pregnant despite her husband’s attempts to the contrary. Natalie (formerly Keisha) is having an identity crisis as the past life she shed away comes back to haunt her. Felix is bouncing from job to job and girl to girl in his attempts to discover what will make him happy. And Nathan is leading a shady life that brings him back into contact with old, familiar friends.

These lives become entangled as the characters try to escape their pasts, but the true beauty of the novel lies in Smith’s astute observations of human behavior and culture. It’s the small things that the characters notice or think of and the sharp descriptions that Smith provides that show how keen an observer she is. Such details show the universality of the subject matter despite how contained it is in London’s sphere.

However, the problem with the novel lies in its execution. While Smith easily captures the stream of consciousness of the characters, she ruins it with pretentious contemporary devices that distract the reader, pulling them out of the story. Had she used only one or two of the styles she experiments with, the novel would’ve flowed better, having a stronger impact; but she burdens the novel with so many of these literary devices that reading the novel becomes a chore instead of the pleasure it should be. She is a strong writer, but her reliance on these devices weakens the effect of the novel.

In one of the chapters, Natalie is watching the television with an acquaintance, Marcia. Marcia says, “I hate the way the camera jumps all over the place like that…You can’t forget about the filming for a minute. Why do they always do that these days?” Such an observation by the character could be applied to Smith’s novel. Her novel’s distracting literary devices are the book equivalent of a jumping camera—both pull the reader/viewer out of the world of the text. After Marcia’s statement, Smith writes, “This struck Natalie as a profound question.” It seems that Smith herself finds this a profound question, but whether she found her answer in this novel is hard to tell.

There are plenty of great things to be found in this novel. Smith has a clear grasp of the English language, and she uses it effortlessly. But it is too easy to get bogged down in the style of the novel and lose all sense of the magic that Zadie Smith has as a writer (unless that was her goal all along, in which case the joke is on us).