For the longest time, Watership Down didn't bother me. To my younger self, it was a beautiful, rather sad book about rabbits that had been made into a beautiful, rather sad animated film about rabbits, and I watched it every chance I got plus a few more times on VHS.
Being honest, I'm not entirely sure when the sheer darkness of it hit me. It might have been once I left university and became sharply aware of how unforgiving the wider world could be, or it might have been after I got married and I was hit with the sudden, dizzying realisation of all I had to lose. Heck, maybe I was somewhere in my mid to late teens and worked out that myxomatosis probably wasn't the most enjoyable way to die. Whatever the catalyst was, however, I felt pretty disgusted with my younger self for not having been traumatised in the way that all the cool kids apparently were from their very first viewing. I still haven't stopped watching the movie every chance I get, of course - the only difference is that now I spend about half of it as a sobbing wreck.
Inventive soul that he is, today Mr. B came up with a creative solution to this: every time he heard me weeping, he shoved a piece of Easter egg in my mouth. It actually worked pretty well, but I have my worries - will this sort of Pavlovian conditioning eventually turn me into a fully-fledged bunny killer in my own right?
That's a worry for another day, though, and a million miles away from the film I've probably watched more often than any other in my life. I've watched it so often, in fact, that I'm not convinced I can write any sort of critique, not when it feels like an extension of my own thoughts and feelings.
For what it's worth, though, I think Watership Down is a top piece of moviemaking that crams a surprising amount of content into its hundred-minute runtime, occasionally trimming some of the detail from the book but leaving the meat of it intact, including the dreamtime-style mythos that underlies the real-world action. This is what opens the film, in fact, in the form of a stylised short that tells the creation story of El-Ahrairah, first of the rabbits, and Frith, the sun/creator. It's an evocative little piece, and a not-so-gentle forewarning of the violence soon to follow.
With this out of the way, we are introduced to our protagonists - Fiver (voiced by Richard Briers), the nervous, possibly clairvoyant runt of his litter, and Hazel (John Hurt), his sensible, protective brother. The sun is setting, and Fiver has a vision of the fields turning to blood. They must abandon the presumed of their warren, he insists, and Hazel reluctantly agrees to join him. Accompanied by a handful of others, the pair depart that evening, but they have no idea of the dangers they stand to face, much less those they leave behind.
The animation is serviceable, if on the crude side; certainly, it's no worse than anything else from that era. Where Watership Down really shines, however, is on the audio side. The voice cast reads like a Who's Who of British acting talent of the period, with each and every participant playing it totally seriously. The soundtrack, too, is superb, richly textured but restrained, imbuing the piece with a quiet dignity and never descending into the sort of sonic hysteria that seems to punctuate the majority of animated films these days (Coraline is a very welcome exception). The real killer, though, is the film's single song, Art Garfunkel's discreetly devastating Bright Eyes.
In some ways, there's something rather comforting about the way the film doesn't shy away from the messier parts of existence. It deals almost entirely in moral grey areas, where even the worst villains are driven not by malice but by the sort of self-interest that doesn't allow for empathy. The world it paints is a harsh one, yes, but there is always room for mercy.
I know there's always a danger in saying X happened to me when I was a kid, and I turned out okay - every kid is different, after all, and no two people will ever draw exactly the same things from a shared experience. That said, I can't help but bridle a little at all those reviewers out there saying Watership Down isn't for kids. I think there's plenty there that the smallest ones might not understand at first, certainly, and that it has the potential to raise some difficult questions, but isn't it the role of any caretaker worth their salt not to shy away from these sorts of uncomfortable truths?
Recommended for all ages.
Sunday, March 27, 2016
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Wake Wood (2009)
Once again, apologies for the interruption in schedule; just trying to get into a routine that works around my other commitments. This morning, that meant embarking on one of my periodic iPlayer raids to see what I could find. Being a chronically early riser, this is a habit I managed to acquire long before starting this blog, which is how I found Wake Wood first time around. I wouldn't say it's amongst the best the genre has to offer, but it was certainly interesting enough for me to be prepared to take another look.
For a self-confessed film buff, I haven't seen many Hammer horror films in my life; I'm not entirely convinced, in fact, that Wake Wood isn't the only one. I know of their reputation, though - lurid technicolour, even more lurid acting and copious quantities of Kensington Gore. That was back in the 60s and 70s, though, and the company lay dormant for a lot of years between then and now. In 2007, however, new owner John de Mol announced his intent to revive the Hammer tradition, and this, an Anglo-Irish collaboration, was their first feature-length effort.
The film opens with an anonymous-looking car trundling through a blandly pretty setting, soundtracked by the sort of tinkly, jangly music that helpfully informs the audience that they are now entering folk horror territory and to keep all their limbs securely within the enclosing wicker effigy. A series of brief flashbacks introduce us to our protagonists - vet Patrick Daley (Aidan Gillen), his wife Louise (Eva Birthistle) and their young daughter Alice (Ella Connolly). They're very much a movie family, bright, successful and loving, until the animal-loving Alice has a grisly encounter with one of Patrick's canine patients. Back in the present, a sign informs the occupants of the anonymous-looking car that they are entering the town of Wakewood, and we zoom in to see Patrick, Louise and an empty back seat.
So, we have a recently bereaved couple starting a new life in a rural setting. Practically writes itself, doesn't it? Of course the locals are going to be friendly but odd, and there'll be strange traditions involving everyone walking down the high street beating on primitive drums. Then, sooner or later, our heroes will see something they shouldn't - on this occasion, a bizarre nocturnal ritual involving the birthing of a human being from some sort of clay sarcophagus. Because the locals are friendly, they will gradually be persuaded to reveal their shared secret - namely, their ability to bring the recently-deceased back to life for a period of three days.
I should probably come clean at this point and admit that I know bugger all about Pagan horror as a subgenre. I've never seen The Wicker Man and I don't particularly intend to; I'm sure there are other examples out there but off the top of my head, I can't name even one. With all that said, I found myself rather warming to the nameless variety of Paganism espoused by Wake Wood, based on mutual respect and support as it is. Despite the film's supernatural elements, for the most part, the film's horror is derived primarily from the acts of desperation that grief can cause even the most civilised members of society to commit. The denizens of Wakewood town are open, kindly people, and things only start to go wrong when the newcomers fail to grasp the seriousness of the rules that they themselves have internalised for generations.
It's all quite slow-moving and thoughtful for the most part, with a lovely performance by Timothy Spall as Arthur, Patrick's employer. Somewhere around the hour mark, however, the movie loses the courage of its convictions for a bit, and taking a brief and slightly tedious foray into slasher territory before it regains its previous ominous tone.
I have no idea what horror fans look for in a horror movie, so I'll say this: at no point did Wake Wood scare me. It's a nicely haunting little piece, though, quiet and thoughtful and frequently rather sad.
Definitely worth a look.
For a self-confessed film buff, I haven't seen many Hammer horror films in my life; I'm not entirely convinced, in fact, that Wake Wood isn't the only one. I know of their reputation, though - lurid technicolour, even more lurid acting and copious quantities of Kensington Gore. That was back in the 60s and 70s, though, and the company lay dormant for a lot of years between then and now. In 2007, however, new owner John de Mol announced his intent to revive the Hammer tradition, and this, an Anglo-Irish collaboration, was their first feature-length effort.
The film opens with an anonymous-looking car trundling through a blandly pretty setting, soundtracked by the sort of tinkly, jangly music that helpfully informs the audience that they are now entering folk horror territory and to keep all their limbs securely within the enclosing wicker effigy. A series of brief flashbacks introduce us to our protagonists - vet Patrick Daley (Aidan Gillen), his wife Louise (Eva Birthistle) and their young daughter Alice (Ella Connolly). They're very much a movie family, bright, successful and loving, until the animal-loving Alice has a grisly encounter with one of Patrick's canine patients. Back in the present, a sign informs the occupants of the anonymous-looking car that they are entering the town of Wakewood, and we zoom in to see Patrick, Louise and an empty back seat.
So, we have a recently bereaved couple starting a new life in a rural setting. Practically writes itself, doesn't it? Of course the locals are going to be friendly but odd, and there'll be strange traditions involving everyone walking down the high street beating on primitive drums. Then, sooner or later, our heroes will see something they shouldn't - on this occasion, a bizarre nocturnal ritual involving the birthing of a human being from some sort of clay sarcophagus. Because the locals are friendly, they will gradually be persuaded to reveal their shared secret - namely, their ability to bring the recently-deceased back to life for a period of three days.
I should probably come clean at this point and admit that I know bugger all about Pagan horror as a subgenre. I've never seen The Wicker Man and I don't particularly intend to; I'm sure there are other examples out there but off the top of my head, I can't name even one. With all that said, I found myself rather warming to the nameless variety of Paganism espoused by Wake Wood, based on mutual respect and support as it is. Despite the film's supernatural elements, for the most part, the film's horror is derived primarily from the acts of desperation that grief can cause even the most civilised members of society to commit. The denizens of Wakewood town are open, kindly people, and things only start to go wrong when the newcomers fail to grasp the seriousness of the rules that they themselves have internalised for generations.
It's all quite slow-moving and thoughtful for the most part, with a lovely performance by Timothy Spall as Arthur, Patrick's employer. Somewhere around the hour mark, however, the movie loses the courage of its convictions for a bit, and taking a brief and slightly tedious foray into slasher territory before it regains its previous ominous tone.
I have no idea what horror fans look for in a horror movie, so I'll say this: at no point did Wake Wood scare me. It's a nicely haunting little piece, though, quiet and thoughtful and frequently rather sad.
Definitely worth a look.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
Hail Caesar! (2016)
Okay, it's confession time: much as I love the work of the Coen brothers, much of their work tends to make me feel just a little bit intellectually inadequate. I am used, let's be frank, to being the smartest person in the room, so I've never quite got over my shame at the fact that after around five viewings, I still don't have the first idea what The Big Lebowski is about. No Country For Old Men baffled me too, and I'm still not totally sure what was going on in Miller's Crossing. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy their films immensely, it's just that these days, even their frothier efforts tend to leave me wondering what hidden dimensions I might have missed.
Take Hail, Caesar!, their love letter to 1950s Hollywood. It's a delight from start to finish, ranging from gently amusing to flat-out, laugh-out-loud funny, but part of me still worries that the joke might be on me for missing something obviously allegorical. Goodness knows there's plenty of material there for allegory, as George Clooney's amiable hellraiser Baird Whitlock is stolen from the set of the titular Christian epic to be brainwashed by the Commies, but try as I might, I couldn't quite work out what it's all supposed to mean.
What it mostly means, in any case, is a rattlingly good time that comes primarily in the form of a series of vignettes linked by the travails of hard-working fixer Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin). We follow him as, for the sake of his beloved Capitol Pictures he attempts to keep any number of different balls in the air. Thus in addition to the situation Whitlock we have him attempting to find a husband for the pregnant star of the aquaballet, DeeAnna Moran (Scarlett Johansson, verging on self-parody), and to placate effete English director Laurence Laurentz (Ralph Fiennes) after the studio insists on casting amiable singing cowboy Hobie Doyle (Alden Ehrenreich, in what may prove his breakout role) in his frightfully mannered melodrama.
The Coens keep it fast-moving and playful, with a number of juicy cameos mixed in amongst the set-pieces. I'm always happy to see Tilda Swinton, and here we're given two of her as feuding twin gossip columnists Thora and Thessaly Thacker. My favourite, however, was Frances McDormand, whose single scene is one I wouldn't dream of spoiling for you.
Wonderful fun, then - and if you ever tire of watching George Clooney pretending to be a bad actor, you're almost certainly tired of life - but I can't shake the sneaking suspicion there's something a little deeper going on. Still, this is one I'll always be happy to re-watch.
Unrelated, but have you seen the trailer for the Ghostbusters remake? I know I hold no love for the original, but I think I may have to give this one a shot. If nothing else, I can no longer complain that movies never star anyone who looks like me.
Take Hail, Caesar!, their love letter to 1950s Hollywood. It's a delight from start to finish, ranging from gently amusing to flat-out, laugh-out-loud funny, but part of me still worries that the joke might be on me for missing something obviously allegorical. Goodness knows there's plenty of material there for allegory, as George Clooney's amiable hellraiser Baird Whitlock is stolen from the set of the titular Christian epic to be brainwashed by the Commies, but try as I might, I couldn't quite work out what it's all supposed to mean.
What it mostly means, in any case, is a rattlingly good time that comes primarily in the form of a series of vignettes linked by the travails of hard-working fixer Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin). We follow him as, for the sake of his beloved Capitol Pictures he attempts to keep any number of different balls in the air. Thus in addition to the situation Whitlock we have him attempting to find a husband for the pregnant star of the aquaballet, DeeAnna Moran (Scarlett Johansson, verging on self-parody), and to placate effete English director Laurence Laurentz (Ralph Fiennes) after the studio insists on casting amiable singing cowboy Hobie Doyle (Alden Ehrenreich, in what may prove his breakout role) in his frightfully mannered melodrama.
The Coens keep it fast-moving and playful, with a number of juicy cameos mixed in amongst the set-pieces. I'm always happy to see Tilda Swinton, and here we're given two of her as feuding twin gossip columnists Thora and Thessaly Thacker. My favourite, however, was Frances McDormand, whose single scene is one I wouldn't dream of spoiling for you.
Wonderful fun, then - and if you ever tire of watching George Clooney pretending to be a bad actor, you're almost certainly tired of life - but I can't shake the sneaking suspicion there's something a little deeper going on. Still, this is one I'll always be happy to re-watch.
Unrelated, but have you seen the trailer for the Ghostbusters remake? I know I hold no love for the original, but I think I may have to give this one a shot. If nothing else, I can no longer complain that movies never star anyone who looks like me.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Kung Fu Panda 3 (2016)
I've always had a sneaking admiration for Dreamworks' Kung Fu Panda franchise. In a time when CGI animation has become progressively easier and cheaper to produce, these particular films have always seemed defiantly high-budget. Combining a distinctive visual aesthetic with stellar casts and a rare sense of timing, they remain an easy, effortless joy whenever I sit down to watch.
For the benefit of anybody who's been living under a waterfall wrapped in the skin of something dead for the past decade or so, the franchise is set in something approximating feudal China and centres around one Po (Jack Black) a kung fu-obsessed panda raised by noodle bar owner Mr. Ping (James Hong). Fairly early on in the first film, we discover that, chubby and lazy as he is, Po is in fact the Dragon Warrior, a legendary champion destined to... well, no, that's never made entirely clear, but he's definitely destined to do something, probably involving kicking the rear of a snarkier and more traditionally athletic opponent. There's usually a sprinkling of nebulous mysticism involved, which usually tends to amount to you can do anything you want so long as you stay exactly who you are. Do I approve? Not particularly, but there's enough eye and ear candy that it never bothers me all that much.
The third instalment of the series offers more of the same, pretty much. The usual suspects are all present (although I'm not completely sure whether Lucy Liu's Viper ever actually gets a line), joined by Bryan Cranston as Po's biological father and J.K. Simmons as, inevitably, the calmly threatening antagonist who occasionally goes absolutely bloody ballistic. It does, at least, answer one or two key questions - what the Dragon Warrior is, for example, even if it's never made clear precisely what purpose he's supposed to serve barring winning - but I'm pretty sure they'll be able to squeeze out a sequel a few years down the line.
Effortlessly charming, but definitely not one to be thinking about too hard.
For the benefit of anybody who's been living under a waterfall wrapped in the skin of something dead for the past decade or so, the franchise is set in something approximating feudal China and centres around one Po (Jack Black) a kung fu-obsessed panda raised by noodle bar owner Mr. Ping (James Hong). Fairly early on in the first film, we discover that, chubby and lazy as he is, Po is in fact the Dragon Warrior, a legendary champion destined to... well, no, that's never made entirely clear, but he's definitely destined to do something, probably involving kicking the rear of a snarkier and more traditionally athletic opponent. There's usually a sprinkling of nebulous mysticism involved, which usually tends to amount to you can do anything you want so long as you stay exactly who you are. Do I approve? Not particularly, but there's enough eye and ear candy that it never bothers me all that much.
The third instalment of the series offers more of the same, pretty much. The usual suspects are all present (although I'm not completely sure whether Lucy Liu's Viper ever actually gets a line), joined by Bryan Cranston as Po's biological father and J.K. Simmons as, inevitably, the calmly threatening antagonist who occasionally goes absolutely bloody ballistic. It does, at least, answer one or two key questions - what the Dragon Warrior is, for example, even if it's never made clear precisely what purpose he's supposed to serve barring winning - but I'm pretty sure they'll be able to squeeze out a sequel a few years down the line.
Effortlessly charming, but definitely not one to be thinking about too hard.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Victor Frankenstein (2015)
Apologies for the brief break in service; I'm now gainfully employed on a full-time basis and hopefully I'll be updating this thing at least weekly.
Anyhow, before I get into the nitty gritty of today's film, Victor Frankenstein, I should probably just clarify the following: your enjoyment of this film will be predicated more or less entirely upon your levels of tolerance for James McAvoy's overacting. Can't stand it? Walk away now; there's nothing for you here. If, on the other hand, you rather enjoy it when he gets all earnest and quivery in that slightly deranged way he has when he thinks he's doing serious drama, come in, friends, and read on.
I have to say, Victor Frankenstein contained a little too much quivering even for me. Running an hour and fifty minutes, I feel it could comfortably have lost twenty or even thirty, and nobody would have felt particularly short-changed in the McAvoy emoting department.
Look, you know what you're getting into when you settle down to watch a pretty, flashy movie about how Dr. Frankenstein met his assistant, Igor, don't you? There'll be attractive costumes, an overly noisy soundtrack, pretentious but punchy dialogue, little to no bloody and gore and no matter how hopeful you might be, the two male leads probably won't get it on at any point. It's a shame, really; Daniel Radcliffe's Igor seems remarkably sane for a former clown/physician, and has the sort of genuinely endearing presence that you can't help thinking would probably have calmed McAvoy's Frankenstein down in the end.
Did I enjoy it? Yes, sort of. Campy but kind of classy, a more judiciously-edited cut could easily become a favourite. Without substance, however, style can only hold my attention for so long, and I won't be in a hurry to come back to this one again.
Anyhow, before I get into the nitty gritty of today's film, Victor Frankenstein, I should probably just clarify the following: your enjoyment of this film will be predicated more or less entirely upon your levels of tolerance for James McAvoy's overacting. Can't stand it? Walk away now; there's nothing for you here. If, on the other hand, you rather enjoy it when he gets all earnest and quivery in that slightly deranged way he has when he thinks he's doing serious drama, come in, friends, and read on.
I have to say, Victor Frankenstein contained a little too much quivering even for me. Running an hour and fifty minutes, I feel it could comfortably have lost twenty or even thirty, and nobody would have felt particularly short-changed in the McAvoy emoting department.
Look, you know what you're getting into when you settle down to watch a pretty, flashy movie about how Dr. Frankenstein met his assistant, Igor, don't you? There'll be attractive costumes, an overly noisy soundtrack, pretentious but punchy dialogue, little to no bloody and gore and no matter how hopeful you might be, the two male leads probably won't get it on at any point. It's a shame, really; Daniel Radcliffe's Igor seems remarkably sane for a former clown/physician, and has the sort of genuinely endearing presence that you can't help thinking would probably have calmed McAvoy's Frankenstein down in the end.
Did I enjoy it? Yes, sort of. Campy but kind of classy, a more judiciously-edited cut could easily become a favourite. Without substance, however, style can only hold my attention for so long, and I won't be in a hurry to come back to this one again.
Friday, February 5, 2016
The Fear of 13 (2015)
I've written about some bad films lately, and some good ones. What I haven't done, however, with the possible exception of Notes on a Scandal, is written about a truly transcendent film. Notes is part of my regular repeat viewing schedule, however, and no matter how great a film is, the visceral impact of it on the second or third go around is never going to be quite the same.
Step forward David Sington's The Fear of 13, then, to remind me of why I love film so much. It's a documentary with a simple enough premise - a condemned man talking to camera, with sporadic illustrative shots - and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end from the very first line to the very last.
Much credit, of course, has to go to our protagonist, the singularly charismatic Nick Yarris, who moves back and forth in time between his misspent youth and the death row cell to weave an utterly compelling narrative. Yarris earned my sympathy very early on, but never my pity - how could I feel sorry for an individual with such boundless inner strength?
I'm torn, to be honest - I could write pages and pages about this one, but not without spoilers, and Yarris took me on such a powerful emotional journey it leaves me reluctant to offer these. I'll say what I believe is necessary, then - from the visuals to the sound engineering, the production is superb, and I'm not sure I can remember the last time a film grabbed my attention quite so hard, or so consistently.
Even if documentaries aren't normally your sort of thing, this is something you really do need to experience.
Step forward David Sington's The Fear of 13, then, to remind me of why I love film so much. It's a documentary with a simple enough premise - a condemned man talking to camera, with sporadic illustrative shots - and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end from the very first line to the very last.
Much credit, of course, has to go to our protagonist, the singularly charismatic Nick Yarris, who moves back and forth in time between his misspent youth and the death row cell to weave an utterly compelling narrative. Yarris earned my sympathy very early on, but never my pity - how could I feel sorry for an individual with such boundless inner strength?
I'm torn, to be honest - I could write pages and pages about this one, but not without spoilers, and Yarris took me on such a powerful emotional journey it leaves me reluctant to offer these. I'll say what I believe is necessary, then - from the visuals to the sound engineering, the production is superb, and I'm not sure I can remember the last time a film grabbed my attention quite so hard, or so consistently.
Even if documentaries aren't normally your sort of thing, this is something you really do need to experience.
Monday, February 1, 2016
The Master (2012)
Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master has been on my to watch list for a fair few years now, so when, yesterday morning, I was seized by the yen for some proper, grown-up drama, it felt like a natural choice. Anderson has always been a director I've admired rather than enjoyed, but if anything was going to change my mind it'd have to be a character study of a very thinly-veiled L. Ron Hubbard, wouldn't it?
Hubbard, or, err, Lancaster Dodd, is a charismatic leader of what is known, enigmatically, as "The cause" - something about the root of our troubles in this life being injuries we may have sustained in previous ones. We view him through the eyes of one Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), a drifter who was perhaps damaged by his time serving in the navy during WW2, or who was perhaps damaged all along. Quell first encounters Dodd whilst on the run from an angry mob, but his borderline-poisonous hooch proves to be exactly what the slightly mystical Dodd requires. The pair form an alliance, of sorts, and it is this that forms the meat and bones of the film.
Confession: I could never truly engage with Boogie Nights or There Will be Blood, and I wasn't able to really get my head around The Master either. Anderson tends to deal in the sort of damaged male characters whose internal logic is a million miles from my own, and his films always leave me feeling vaguely baffled about what, if anything, might just have happened. Quell in particular is an erratic individual who seems to have no real sense of self, and as such, he makes for a tricksy narrator, although technically not an unreliable one.
I don't say this to put anybody off - there's a lot to recommend about this one, after all. It looks fantastic, with the lighting and composition lending a sort of nostalgic glamour to every single shot. There are great performances to enjoy, too, with Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman (as Dodd) both excellent. I also thoroughly enjoyed Amy Adams as Dodd's wife - once again, she excels in a film aimed at an adult audience, tempering her fundamental sweetness with something altogether more sinister.
By the time The Master was over, I was aware I'd seen something very good indeed. I just wish I was able to say with any certainty what it was.
Hubbard, or, err, Lancaster Dodd, is a charismatic leader of what is known, enigmatically, as "The cause" - something about the root of our troubles in this life being injuries we may have sustained in previous ones. We view him through the eyes of one Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), a drifter who was perhaps damaged by his time serving in the navy during WW2, or who was perhaps damaged all along. Quell first encounters Dodd whilst on the run from an angry mob, but his borderline-poisonous hooch proves to be exactly what the slightly mystical Dodd requires. The pair form an alliance, of sorts, and it is this that forms the meat and bones of the film.
Confession: I could never truly engage with Boogie Nights or There Will be Blood, and I wasn't able to really get my head around The Master either. Anderson tends to deal in the sort of damaged male characters whose internal logic is a million miles from my own, and his films always leave me feeling vaguely baffled about what, if anything, might just have happened. Quell in particular is an erratic individual who seems to have no real sense of self, and as such, he makes for a tricksy narrator, although technically not an unreliable one.
I don't say this to put anybody off - there's a lot to recommend about this one, after all. It looks fantastic, with the lighting and composition lending a sort of nostalgic glamour to every single shot. There are great performances to enjoy, too, with Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman (as Dodd) both excellent. I also thoroughly enjoyed Amy Adams as Dodd's wife - once again, she excels in a film aimed at an adult audience, tempering her fundamental sweetness with something altogether more sinister.
By the time The Master was over, I was aware I'd seen something very good indeed. I just wish I was able to say with any certainty what it was.
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