Jonah Naplan June 6, 2023
Rarely do I see a film as quietly provocative as Paul Schrader’s latest masterpiece, “Master Gardener.” Schrader’s last picture, “The Card Counter,” is one of the only other films I’d compare the distinct feeling to. The auteur’s movies are often filled with the tense, subtle crackling of a thriller, yet some are played as dramas, at least until the third act. This one begins with soft, elegant time-lapse video of assorted flowers blooming on one side of the screen, as Schrader’s team of writers, producers, technicians, and cameramen are credited on the other. This gentle opening is not merely a way to thwart the viewer into drawing conclusions, rather it’s setting the table for the first part of this story.
“Master Gardener” can be very neatly divided into definite thirds. The first is played as a seemingly light and harmless drama—almost with the feel of an 1800’s period piece, though the film takes place in the modern day. Narvel Roth (Joel Edgerton) is the horticulture consigliere at Gracewood Gardens, the private botanical garth of wealthy dowager Norma Haverhill (Sigourney Weaver)’s estate. Not unlike the other protagonists of many a Schrader “man at a table” picture, Narvel is mysterious, meticulous, and intriguing. He has some sort of a dark past. He has secrets. He has intentions that go far beyond his passion for plants. Narvel Roth is not an ordinary man.
Much of the film’s expositional passages are portrayed through Narvel’s voluminous journal entries that are brooding and plentiful. In the disturbing thrill fest that was 2021’s “The Card Counter,” Schrader often placed his leading man in this same scenario. William Tell, played masterfully by Oscar Isaac, had similar characteristics to Roth. They are both mysterious, both brooding, and they both use a diary as a therapist in the evening hours using only a desk lamp for light.
Narvel never explicitly writes about his past, but he does use terminology such as “the buzz you get just before pulling the trigger,” that allows us to infer it was something violent. And when Norma asks him to take on her grandniece, Maya (Quintessa Swindell), as his apprentice, all sorts of secrets from his past start to unravel. If you can go into “Master Gardener” knowing only the details described herein, consider it a blessing. The film works best when you can watch it with a clean slate and let all of its wonderful (and disturbing) reveals and turns wash over you just as Schrader intended.
Unbeknownst to the viewer at first, Schrader is crafting a diabolically twisty narrative from scene one. This is a tension based story that builds upon itself, one thing after the next, driven home by a slew of excellent performances. Edgerton delivers the best performance of his career here, navigating every emotion we’d expect a character like himself to have, and then some we wouldn’t originally expect. We’re told movies are a visual medium—a two hour long piece of art as portrayed on the silver screen. Edgerton’s performance itself is a piece of art, and the world of “Master Gardener” cannot live or condition itself without him.
But his spiky chemistry with the all around ensemble is equally as commendable. His serrated wit matched with the blunt quips of Weaver’s dowager works hand in hand with Schrader’s wicked script. Like the movie, all of Schrader’s characters cannot function without the presence of Edgerton. Yet even while the truth starts to come out, and the way we view Narvel begins to change, his inherent nature does not. He is always the same proper, orderly, man-on-a-mission type of dude.
His relationship with Maya, a twenty-years-old or so youngling, is something of a curious wonder, and it’s supported not only by Edgerton’s approach to dynamic storytelling, but by Swindell’s tremendous persona. She is a spunky, willful, and deeply passionate young woman, who sports a T-shirt reading “No Bad Vibes” in her first scene. One of the film’s greatest delights—or icks, depending on the perspective in which you view it—is seeing the equity and respect between Maya and Narvel grow. Less so is Weaver’s displeasurable approach to Norma—a highly orthodox, yet harshly privileged individual.
In one of her defining scenes, she lunches with Maya; the grandniece of which it is unclear whether she’s actually met before. She tells of her disgust with Maya’s deceased mother, deeming her inadequate. Maya, who we’ve seen to be perfectly capable and resourceful on numerous occasions, responds with, “I’m not inadequate.” With needle-sharp claws, Weaver presses, “No, of course, you’re not. You’re impertinent,” a superficial exchange in a movie that is not without irony.
As Narvel and Maya’s relationship grows stronger, so does our trust in the narrative. One day, Maya shows up to work with bruises traversing her countenance, and when Narvel asks how they came to be, she’s open about it, explaining that they were the work of an abusive drug dealer. Schrader, working with cinematographer Alexander Dynan, shoots these scenes—even simple, dialogue-driven ones—with a viscerally comparative director’s eye. More so than other thrillers, “Master Gardener” has information conveyed through subtle movement or the glance of a pupil. And once “Master Gardener” starts to stroll down a path of recreational substance, the feelings demonstrated through so few words become all the more impressive.
The film’s greatest and most disturbing surprises, none of which I would dare spoil, arrive when Narvel and Maya are suspended from Norma’s land, and are forced to go on the run together. Not only does this allow Schrader plenty of opportunities to tumble around in the eerie playgrounds of dangerous neighborhoods, hate speech, injustice, and privilege, but it teases us, as the anxious viewer, by only showing suggestion of ugly violence, and very rarely portraying it in its most improbable form.
There are two sides of “Master Gardener,” and their relationship with each other is as estranged and disoriented as Elphaba and Glinda. One side is the period-esque piece I mentioned before. Some shots scream “Downton Abbey,” others “Big Dreams, Small Spaces.” The other, more shaggy end, sometimes feels dankly Scorsese, and we’re reminded that Paul Schrader wrote “Taxi Driver.” Yet even as the film devolves into the darkest recesses of humanity, it does not forget that it is fundamentally a character piece, shedding light onto what we perceive as reality norms.
We ourselves do not know how we feel about the film while we’re watching it, because in this instance, the story is not complete and ready to prove itself until it has concluded. How are we to know if the film is good if Narvel hasn’t even been banned from the estate yet? You’re of umpteen minds while watching the movie, but it’s not until it ends that you can step back and admire the pieces converging into a whole. In a way that only Ingmar Bergman used to master, Paul Schrader has crafted a deeply, philosophically, and paradoxically sound film filled with crevices. You feel one way about it, then your perspective changes. Then it changes again. And then again, and then again. In response to a new revelation in the culmination of the plot, Norma barks, “That’s obscene.” At first, we agree, but hours later, after having gone through the motions of the entire narrative and journey, then we understand.