The Master – Stop Paul Thomas Anderson Before He Directs Again
With this review, we are going to save you not only the price of a ticket, but also the pain of reading pretentious, affected reviews by pseudo-intellectual asshats who will try to argue that The Master is “deep” or “meaningful” or (God help us) “artistic.”
So here goes: This is a bovine, uninspired film without an idea to its name. It is an example of cinematic eggheadery elevated to the level at which it becomes a hanging offense. It is a testament to the criminal insistence of some directors on assembling a group of terrific actors and putting them in gorgeous settings – and then handing them scripts constructed of colorless, incoherent twaddle and wasting every single moment they spend on-screen.
The Master is not allusive, evocative, allegorical, magnetic, oracular, deliberately ambiguous, “like life,” or any of the other bullshit you may have had the misfortune to read, if you dipped into the auto-erotic ramblings of film critics manqués who – trust me on this – don’t understand this film either but get off on trying to convince you, with their winsome and enigmatic smiles, that they do. They are not smart; they are minions. If “Master” existed in real life, they’d be the ones hand-washing his jock.
What The Master is, is unintelligible, boring, and painfully stupid. In fact, only an idiot would refuse to admit just how painfully stupid it actually is.
Paul Thomas Anderson: Please shoot yourself immediately. (No, not fatally. I don’t want him to die; I want him to suffer.) Preferably in whichever hand you direct with.