The wake of a large ship, white froth churned up amidst sparkling aquamarine water. Paradise with a beach, and an Amazon goddess with breasts the size of mountains emerges from the sand, molded by eager hands. Sailors of the last Great War work together to form this tribute to the feminine ideal . . . and then a skinny dude with crazy eyes starts humping the inert object like a shell-shocked, battle-weary Luther Billis driven mad by jungle rot and home-brewed moonshine. This is “There is Nothing Like a Dame” as interpreted by director Paul (I drink your milkshake!) Thomas (I drink it up!) Anderson. Continue reading “The Master” →