With this review, I'm 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 are going to try to argue that The Master is "deep" or "meaningful" or (God help us) "artistic." Here goes: This is a bovine, uninspired film without an idea to its name. It is an example of cinematic eggheadery elevated to 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 that they spend on-screen. The Master is not allusive, evocative, allegorical, oracular, deliberately ambiguous, "like life," or any of the other b.s. you may have had the misfortune to read, if you dipped into the autoerotic 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. The Master is unintelligible, boring, and stupid. In fact, only an idiot would refuse to recognize just how stupid it really is.
Review of The Master
