Paul Thomas Anderson: An Ode to My Cinematic Soulmate

P.T. Anderson, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

One is for Boogie Nights, a film about Porn.
Two is for Magnolia, the film most adored.
Three is for Punch Drunk Love, The Adam Sandler Masterpiece.
And four is for There Will Be Blood, the one I’ve yet to see.
Paul Thomas Anderson, a filmmaker without peer.
Paul Thomas Anderson, for him I would go queer.

I’m sorry, I must apologize. Merely thinking of the greatness that is P.T. Anderson forces me to spontaneously conjure poetry and the resulting urge to reveal these psalms of no-doubt sacred origin to the world is so great that it cannot be contained by any means, be they physical or mental, that I have come upon to date.

Also I must apologize for the vulgarity contained in the final couplet of my poem. Vulgarity and crassness are literary devices of the weak-minded.

Anyway, I did not come here to discuss poetry. I came here to discuss the cinematic genius that is Paul Thomas Anderson. Few directors have been able to craft a film that has left an everlasting mark on my soul. Paul Thomas Anderson has already made three and, if the reviews are any indication, most likely a fourth. He is, to put it plainly, the most masterful filmmaker the world has and will ever see.

What makes him a master? Is it the way he weaves together massive ensemble casts, intertwining them with complexly layered, symbolically driven storylines to create an incredible tapestry of surpassing depth and beauty? Is it his flawless vision and shot selection acting in tandem to create such a compelling visual style? Is it his writing, Shakespearian in terms of its depth and complexity, yet simple enough to be understated and beautiful? Or is it perhaps the passion he pours into each and every second of each and every scene, there for all of us to behold and marvel at, caress momentarily and mourn upon its passing, leaving behind only a feeling of regret and sadness reflecting our inability to create such magnificent vistas?

It is all of those things and more. The work of P.T. Anderson is one instance where the sum of its parts is inconceivably larger than their values would seem to indicate independently. To understand the phenomenon, one would have to spend hours dissecting every scene, frame by frame, and every line of prose, syllable by syllable. To do so would be a great disservice. For how does one compare the beauty of two snowflakes? So different, and yet so perfect in their own different ways. The piercing eye of the microscope may reveal the sharply symmetrical contours and crystalline lines of a snowflake normally imperceptible to the human eye, but viewing them in such a way is futile, the enjoyment ephemeral. Taken out of its natural environment, the snowflake inevitably melts, leaving behind only a faint residue of what it once was and none of the beauty.

This, then, is how a P.T. Anderson film must be viewed: in its natural environment, as a whole as it was intended. To be lived. To be breathed. To be immersed in and consumed by it until the fading picture and lines of scripted credits come as a jarring shock, waking you from the dream. Leaving you with a feeling of ultimate melancholy and regret knowable only to the old and infirm as they sit, feeling their life ebb out of them with every passing breath, wishing their story could continue just a few minutes more…..

That is why P.T. Anderson is a master.