I've thought, argued and written more about The Master in the last year than almost any film in my life, yet it remains a hard work to love. Paul Thomas Anderson's paean to Hustonian excess, along with loads of debatable influences drawn from the work of one LRH and his Scientological church, did much to divide audiences, rally critics, and do what any interesting film should do - make people care about the work, whatever their reaction is to it. The day after the TIFF screening, I wrote a manic, fever-dream version of a review. In a series of back-and-forth ramblings, I tried to bring across not only what the film was, but how at its best it made one feel watching it. We...
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