At the end of World War II, suffering with some degree of psychological trauma from the things he has experienced, Freddie (Joaquin Phoenix) struggles to return to life in America.  His alcholism encourages eruptions of violent and sociopathic behavior, and, after one such incident, he finds himself stowing away on board a ship.

Here Freddie meets Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman), a writer and theoretical practioner, who is instantly taken by the almost inscrutable Freddie, and warmly welcomes him into his fold.  It transpires that Dodd, his family and those around him, are part of some sort of autre quasi-religious movement based on principles in Dodd's novel The Cause.

To continue to speak of the plot of Paul Thomas Anderson's sixth feature would be somewhat irrelevant, as any real sense of narrative is fairly unimportant.  Ultimately there is something undeniably novelistic to the pace, structure and intent of this picture, and, unlike the soaringly cinematic There Will Be Blood, this film is even more content to just let things sits and allow the actors work wonders.

Indeed, the film is at its strongest in its scenes that confine Hoffman and Phoenix together and allow their two characters to really lock horns.  But, key to the frisson of those moments is the fact that whilst the characters are, on the one hand, complete contrasts they are also undoubtedly formed of the same material, and thus, their relationship is more of a dance than a scuffle.

This doesn't leave much room for anything else though, which is surprisingly considering Anderson's previous ability to keep so many plates spinning in films such as Magnolia.  One would think that streamlining his view onto a handful of characters, rather than larger ensembles, would allow for more depth, but, we are kept at arm's length from both men.  Partially this feels llike their intention, that each man, in order to survive, has to keep their cards to their chest, and when, in the briefest of glimpses, we see Freddie become tender or Dodd become enraged, they let their hand show, we can start to get behind whatever facade they wish to present the world.

Unfortunately, despite these two commanding performances and some occasionally stunning cinematography, the film comes up short.  It is an intriguing work, but one lacking in subtlety, there are dull parallels that can be drawn, easy metaphors to be mined, but they seem so irrelevant and unexciting, that they serve to distract from the film's merits rather than enhance them.

It is a great pleasure to watch these two actors do such fantastic work in claustrophobic close-up, but there's a strange emptiness to the film beyond that, as if Paul Thomas Anderson had presented himself with a puzzle and didn't quite know how to assemble it once he had arranged all the pieces.  Strangely, the film reminded me of Oliver Stone's W, which also offered much more than it delivered, or, perhaps, my expectation for what it could potentially say was at odds with the filmmaker's intent.

Regardless, even with these considerations, I can't help but feel a little unmoved and unaffected by the film.  I enjoyed it, as much as I do a lesser novel by a great writer, but its ideas never conflate into something tangible and concrete.

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