Mastering The Master

The Master, (2012), written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, stars Philip Seymour Hoffman, Joaquin Phoenix and Amy Adams.  The two male leads dazzled me with their full-bodied performance. Whether it was Hoffman’s face, which combined humor and sinisterness (ala Jack Nicholson), or Phoenix’s posture and gait, of which he constantly struggled to gain control of, both deserve to win best actor awards, as they did at the Venice Film Festival.

This is a movie that you must watch more than once to speak intelligently about it.  I have seen it only once. 

That leaves me with questions for my second viewing:

1.      How closely do Lancaster Dodd’s purposes and tactics parallel scientology’s?  If such a strong comparison exists, does it extend to Lancaster’s physical and threatening behavior?  [You simply must read The New Yorker’s  expose on Scientology… http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/02/14/110214fa_fact_wright]

2.      I missed some of the dialogue in the bathroom scene.  I know what I see, but I don’t know why it’s going on beyond a creepy power battle between husband and wife.

3.      How innocent is Dodd?  How sinister?  Does he change during the course of the movie? 

4.      Why is Freddie so aggressive and addictive to near-poisonous alcoholic drinks?  Beyond his military service experiences, has he always been so flawed?

5.      At one point we hear a faithful follower puzzle over the second edition’s revision from recalling to imagining.  She realizes that this departs drastically from the premise of returning (Plato-like) to a core self through Dodd’s recollection sessions.  The second edition’s imagination replaces the first edition’s nostalgia.  Dodd takes a minute to understand her confusion and the import of his (unintentional?) revision.  However, we understand immediately that to imagine is to create, not recreate.  He has left Plato behind and embraced Aristotle.  But he has no clue.  Is he an idiot?  A pawn?  After all, we’ve seen his wife dictating to him what could be the new manuscript.  Who’s running this cult—Mr. or Mrs. Dodd?  If she’s the brains behind it, did she intend the transition to imagination  because her philosophy has evolved?  Or is she trying to set him up for failure?

6.      Where is the son-in-law at the end of the movie?

7.      At the end of the movie, Lancaster threatens Freddie—not just in this life but in other lives.  Why is he so angry?  Threatened?  Why isn’t Freddie that phased?

8.      At the end of the movie, Dodd challenges Quell:  “If you ever figure out a way to live without a master, any master, be sure to let the rest of us know, for you would be the first in the history of the world. “ Who/What is Dodd’s master and why is he controlled by him/it?  Who/What is Quell’s master?

9.      The music offers an important dimension to understanding the movie.  It requires more attention upon a second viewing.

10.  So do the set designs and costuming.

Check back later for a better mastering of this film’s message.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close—But Not Close Enough

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close—But Not Close Enough

 (2011)

  In Stephen Daldry’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, we follow a young boy’s searchings.  We see his father’s (Tom Hanks’) tutelage and inspiration, which sends his son, Oskar Schell (played by Thomas Horn), on many a journey through the boroughs of New York City.  Before he dies on 9/11 in one of the towers, Thomas Schell  introduces his son to the “reconnaissance” mission of discovering the missing sixth borough.  But his death, and the six answering machine messages that he leaves prior to the tower’s collapse, detours his son to search for the lock that matches a key found in a blue vase hidden at the top of his father’s closet. Was that convoluted enough?  Through the five boroughs, Oskar visits everyone whose last name is “Black”—the single word written on the envelope containing the mysterious key.  OK, it did get more convoluted. Along the way, he learns to talk civilly to people, which is quite an accomplishment for a child suspected of Asperger’s Disease, discovers his long-deserted grandfather, and overcomes significant fears (e.g., riding on public transportation). It’s a good coming-of-age story, at least for the first two stages (separationàmargin), Oskar repeats every Saturday when he (later, joined by his grandfather) journeys from his Manhattan apartment to fulfill all of the requirements of the margin stage:  mentor, breaking taboos, struggling with tasks, facing trials, dealing with failures, and grabbling with (pre-)adolescent angst.  All that is fairly obvious and well-done.  So I don’t choose to discuss it further.

Rather, I’d rather complain about the disturbing ethics of the ending. (Spoiler alert.)  Although his mother yearns to hear her husband’s voice just one more time, proclaiming his love for her—a desire she confesses to her son at the end of the movie after they’ve quickly patched up his hostility toward her—Oskar continues to conceal the answering machine messages, one of which reveals his father’s profession of love.  Or more accurately, her husband’s profession of love to her.  How can he be so cruel, especially since he’s just so poignantly reunited with his mother? 

Oskar has one more secret, which he tells to a random character, but again, not to his mother.  Flashback to 9/11.  Oskar has listened to the first five answering machine messages left by his father.  Oskar hears his father’s desperation at being on one of the tower’s floors amidst crying, screaming, and sirens.  The phone rings again.  Poised, Oskar becomes emotionally and physically paralyzed, ignoring the phone.  The machine clicks on.  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” Nine times.  The phone goes dead.  After switching out answer machines, Oskar spends many a secret moment reviewing the messages.  We don’t hear the sixth one until very late in the film when Oskar reveals that he envisions his father to be inquiring about him.  But Oskar must know that it’s just as likely that this is a husband seeking his wife, a woman he seems to have adored.  And Oskar must know how much this sixth message would, in particular, console his mother.  Likely, he also knows how much it would disturb her that Oskar never picks up the phone, consigning his father to lonely, lost final moments. 

Why Oskar conceals the messages from his mother—his guilt, his control, his spite—matters not to me.  He deprives his mother of the truth and perhaps, of the only consolation she will ever find amidst the shambles of her life.  While his decision causes her no more anguish, it cheats her from a pseudo reunion with the man she has loved and has loved her. 

All ethics aside, this decision prevents Oskar from successfully completing the coming-of-age cycle: separationàmarginàaggregation.  With such a secret, how can he create a healthy relationship with his mother, his new-found grandfather, and his grandmother?  How can he self-actualize when self-actualizing demands creating healthy, authentic relationships?

In the final analysis, Oskar has cheated himself.

A/Too Dangerous Method 

Directed by David Cronenberg, A Dangerous Method  attempts two agendas—to show us how the genesis of Sigmund Freud’s genius (psychotherapy) inspires and alienates Carl Jung and how Jung’s affair with a patient unravels his life.  Starring Michael Fassbender, Keira Knightley and Viggo Mortensen, the movie adequately portrays each agenda but fails to correlate them seamlessly.  That seems to be my job here.

What fuels the tension between Freud and Jung?  Freud, for his part, refuses to abide any alterations of his talk theory.  No matter that this leaves his patients more self-aware because he leaves them without prescriptions—without hope.  Jung wants to explore avenues for those prescriptions, whether that be mysticism, dream theory, and any other approach yet to be considered that has the least chance of working.  Freud wants no part of the therapist as curer.  And he resents Jung’s attempts to consider that role.  Think of Freud as Creon, although much older, who’s not willing to tolerate the young upstart’s (a male Antigone) new ideas and loyalties.  After all, Freud’s done all the work—listening to his patients drone on for hundreds of hours about mommy and daddy stuff, then, churning all that yakking into sex, sex, sex.  Now, Jung comes along and it’s dream imagery this and archetypes that.  There may be sex but there’s no guarantee.  So, Freud thinks, what’s the point of listening?  (I’m projecting, I confess.)

Or is the tension between teacher and student fueled by something more basic?  Like jealousy? Jung has this very, very disturbed (and hot) Russian female patient with whom he violates the rules of psychotherapy.  Yes, he becomes her lover.  But worse, he cures her.  She walks right, talks right, becomes a psychiatrist, and functions as a friend and professional.  She forgives Jung his transgression and tries to console him after his life with his family and patients has deteriorated into a series of patient-mistress affairs.  Think of that iconic scene (or will be some day) in The Artist when the silent movie actor is descending the stairs and the talking picture ingénue is ascending.  Sad, but it's the way of the world, of course. Your patients, like your students, exceed your achievements and status.  Ironically, Jung doesn't seem to value that his patient's transformation embodies a great professional success for him--the goal of prescription he so fervently sought, despite Freud’s disapproval and professional rejection.

I suspect that’s what has upset Freud more than Jung flexing his psychiatric muscles or having his patient affair.  Jung’s patient improves—something that Freud claims lies beyond his interests.  Or does he actually realize (at some semi-/unconscious level) that curing lies beyond his talents, a I suspect that it does?

Does the movie suggest that Freud’s aversion to Jung’s explorations reveals the teacher’s professional jealousy? Not really.  But it should have, for that would have connected the two agendas.

Of course, if Freud were reviewing this film, he would likely project that his character’s ire is sexually driven: he’s jealous of this younger, more sexually potent rival.

You chose which analysis you prefer.  Our time is up.