One of Paul Thomas Anderson's strengths as a filmmaker is his ability to render time
periods with such palpable detail.
Boogie Knight's glows with late 70s nostalgia.
The master burns with 50s frustration and anxiety.
And in Aaron Weiss, Trita Thomas' pension's novel is ripe with a smoke-filled 60s hippie
vibe.
Of course, PTA's films exist as unique worlds within themselves, each ripe with complex
and emotional themes and rich characters.
But as is true with any artist, it's also possible to observe Paul Thomas Anderson's
entire body of work as a thematic whole, uncovering reoccurring ideas and drawing connections
between characters and events.
This can be done in any number of ways and techniques.
In this case, however, I want to propose that each of Paul Thomas Anderson's films
adhere to a chronological timeline.
Let me explain.
In 1998, Daniel Plainview, already a towering giant of iconic movie characters, is a bastard
with a pioneering determination, as we are immediately impressed by it and there will
be blood's opening sequence.
Throughout the course of the next 29 years, we realize that much of his determination is
fueled by a monstrous greed and a rather frightening set of base instincts, instincts that slowly
tear apart the world around him, reaching a climactic boil in 1927.
Religion, the organized foil to Daniel's sinful lifestyle, is an enigmatic, mysterious concept
that weaves in and out of Daniel's life, proving to be a guilt trip, a need to make
ends meet, and finally, a self-fulfilled prophecy.
Daniel sits on the floor stained with blood and declares with passionate certainty, he
seems to have bested his master.
He's also distanced himself from all traces of family, virtually a death sentence in PTA's
world.
Fast forward 23 years to 1952 and Daniel now goes by another name, Freddie Quell, a man
stripped of all but his very base instincts.
Eli Sunda has also reincarnated and is back with a religious vengeance.
The complexities and nuances of religion and truth are once again a strange mix of foil
and guilt for Freddie, who is desperate to cling to something.
Lancaster Dodd's religion slash family brings back a community that Freddie so desperately
needs but is also alien to.
A title of the film, The Master, once again predicts our arrival at Freddie's ultimate
conundrum.
Who is men's master?
If not religion, then surely himself?
In a final desperate attempt to win Freddie over, Lancaster Dodd's serenades him with
a song.
Freddie wells up with tears, and then he leaves.
He is free, at least for now.
Freddie is Larry Dock's Portello, a drifting pothead with an arguably improved foothold
on life.
A private investigation sends him on an absolutely bewildering odyssey of greed, familial relationship
and psychedelic religious experience, all familiar territory.
In the position of authority is, of course, Bigfoot, a profoundly frustrated reincarnation
of Dodd, who altogether loathes and admires Dock's fucked up little lifestyle.
As a film, an errand vice is comfortable to drift amidst the relentless questions.
And if it were to arrive at anything like an answer, we might take a cue from one of
the film's most emotionally resolving scenes, The Restoration of Family.
This of course proves to be the thematically and emotionally dominant underscore by the
time we arrive at 1977.
PTA takes us to the booming porn industry and gives us Dirk, a younger version of Freddie,
who finds himself endowed with a unique asset, much like Freddie's ability to mix exceptional
cocktails that endears him to an unlikely family, particularly Lancaster reincarnate
Jack Horner.
As if rebellion were in his blood, Dirk eventually tries his go at life without a master.
Modernist idealism, however, leads to isolation and depravity.
Dirk belongs to a family.
In 1996, we meet an all too familiar character named John, a lonely man desperate to cling
on to someone with a confident authority to tell him what to do with his life.
He finds one in Sydney, and the mutual admiration and jealousy of their relationship recalls
every other reincarnation of a PTA pairing.
Sydney even builds a family for John, and he defends that family to the bitter end.
Then in 1999, the character thread reaches a crescendo of epic proportions.
The truth seems to be bursting at the edges.
Daniel, Freddie, Larry, Dirk, John, who is now Frank Mackie, jacked up on sex and control
and spinning a web of lies to hide his past.
But he's also Donnie Smith, Earl Partridge, Jimmy Gator, and Claudia Wilson.
Each are crippled or broken to varying degrees.
Through a series of highly risky sequences and emotionally heightened ambitions, PTA
seems to be overtly suggesting that they are all family, interconnected through themes
of fatherhood, love, betrayal, and impending mortality.
And what of a master?
Well, it's hard not to imagine a certain incident of biblical proportions as hinting
at something much larger than any of them.
Whatever PTA believes in, he's certainly playing with the idea of a universal form of judgment,
and, ultimately, reconciliation.
Finally, Punch Drunk Love gives us 2002's most chronologically recent and fitting chapter
in the Paul Thomas Anderson archetype.
Barry Egan is Daniel in his most vulnerable moments of weakness.
He is Freddie in his inability to interact socially with others.
He is Dirk with youthful innocence and desire for acceptance.
He is John.
He is Donnie Smith.
He is broken down by an oppressive family, and suddenly his world is changed by an angel.
Looking back, I think Lena has been in every single one of Paul Thomas Anderson's films.
She showed up in 1998 as a vulnerable young child.
She appeared at the end of Freddie's journey in the 50s.
She was Amber Waves to Dirk Daigler in the 70s.
She was Clementine.
She was Jim Curring.
She is that purity, that unexpected beam of grace that separates Paul Thomas Anderson's
cinematic world from the worlds of David Fincher or Stanley Kubrick.
Any good filmmaker's portfolio will point to reoccurring themes.
Themes that are of emotional importance to that filmmaker that perhaps speak to personal
struggles in a quest for truth.
Though PTA's body of work speaks to many different topics, his core morality should
be evident to anyone who watches his films closely.
If nothing else, Paul Thomas Anderson believes in family, he believes in grace, and he believes
in a master.
His films are, I think, an ongoing quest for that master.
A longing, best exemplified, and Lancaster Dodd's challenge.
Are you ready?
In the future, whatever you get, you're ready to face the perfect star.
