By Noel Vera
DVD Review
Phantom Thread
Directed by Paul Thomas Anderson
HAVE TO admit this straight out: I know nothing about fashion or clothes. I鈥檇 repeat that in Andrew Sach鈥檚 approximation of a Basque accent but for the record and to get it out of the way when it comes to couture and textile and clothing design I know nothing. Nada.
Imagine my relief when Paul Thomas Anderson declares that his latest feature Phantom Thread isn鈥檛 about fashion either; it鈥檚 (he insists) about obsession, about an artist鈥檚 insistence on the primacy of his work, and a woman鈥檚 need for space and significance (In relation to a man? Now that鈥檚 a knotty question), about the constant struggle within a man to either be an inspired creative mind or a total pain in the ass. Probably a combination of or variation on both.
Oh, it鈥檚 also about Daniel Day-Lewis鈥 announcement that this would be his final performance on the big screen, so when he plays the role of Reynolds Woodcock, a fussy, hermetically sealed designer who insists on choosing his own models and lovers (usually the same woman) and who (though he never actually comes out and says it) prefers his women to butter their toasts silently — well you have to assume Day-Lewis is making some kind of statement.
Not sure; wouldn鈥檛 know for certain. It鈥檚 obvious stuff covered in magazine articles and web pages from here to eternity; watching the film I鈥檓 aware of the momentous nature of this, Day-Lewis鈥 Final Acting Challenge, how he鈥檚 reasonably mobile without serious neurological condition or clubbed foot or anything (translate: obvious awards fodder) — if there鈥檚 something the matter with his character, it鈥檚 inside. His world is perfect, his lifestyle is perfect, as a result his work — which admittedly earns him bread and butter plus spare change — is perfect down to the last stitch, and perfectly static. Time for a change.
Enter Alma (Vicky Krieps) and has anyone noted how Anderson seems to enjoy tweaking our noses with his characters鈥 names? There Will Be Blood鈥檚 Daniel Plainview couldn鈥檛 be more obvious; Reynolds Woodcock? Fuhgeddaboudit. Alma in Spanish, for the record, means 鈥渟oul,鈥 which should suggest her function in the narrative.
Anyway, enter Alma and she鈥檚 shy and bumbling at first which readily draws Reynolds to her side; he wants her to have dinner with him, become his latest lover/model. Alma, after a brief pause, agrees with a smile. Krieps keeps it all admirably simple, mysterious: a combination of the naive and the guarded, an innocent harboring depths — a plain cotton dress if you like, with a few sharp needles hidden away here there.
Alma does have to contend with Reynolds鈥 sister Cyril (Lesley Manville) who recalls a more understated Mrs. Danvers by way of Madame Sebastian (maybe with a touch of Clara Thornhill tossed in the mix). Manville isn鈥檛 as vivid as either of these characters alas, though she seems more than capable of playing vivid; she鈥檚 conceived to be a foil to Alma, someone the girl can observe and draw on as a way of cracking open and gazing at the inner workings of Reynolds鈥 mind.
If I鈥檓 throwing names from Hitchcock films at you that鈥檚 deliberate. Anderson doesn鈥檛 really attempt (unlike, say, De Palma) to pay homage by evoking one of the master鈥檚 many memorable shots (though there is that giant closeup of Reynold鈥檚 eye peering into a peephole). This director seems more interested in creating an analogous feel — their atmosphere of romance and repression, guilt and lust — through his own more deliberately static style.
At a certain point you want to ask: if we鈥檙e channeling Hitchcock why not do it properly? An eerily illuminated glass of milk, a window frame in the shape of a spider web, a crane shot diving down into Alma鈥檚 tightly clenched fist? Anderson seems after different game (Skip the rest of this paragraph if you plan to see the film!): think Suspicion only with Hitchcock鈥檚 original ending restored, or love (after some sturm und drang) resolving itself on its own perverse terms. Hitchcock never managed something quite this twisted; took De Palma (or so Pauline Kael would claim) to realize the master鈥檚 more explicit fantasies for him. Not necessarily a good thing but here I submit it works: a case may be made that Reynolds is in a creative rut, that his clothes aren鈥檛 as innovative as those of his contemporaries (Balenciaga comes to mind), and that a change in circumstances — say a change in the power dynamics between him and his women — is just the cuppa he needs to sip to start his juices flowing again. Diarrhea is only one known side effect of Alma鈥檚 mushrooms — could they also have hallucinogenic (Doesn鈥檛 Reynolds see his mother at one point?)? And might that help somehow?
Arguably the film鈥檚 most serious flaw (as critic David Ehrenstein puts it) is its attempt at straightwashing the famous designers of the period — again I鈥檒l plead little to no knowledge on the issue; I think it works as a straight romance, and will readily admit the film probably doesn鈥檛 come close to depicting the real period.
Which hasn鈥檛 stopped Anderson from going ahead, or me from enjoying his works warts and all. I鈥檓 taking this particular cup gingerly, conscious of what it is and what it fails to do: as one of Anderson鈥檚 fussy hermetically sealed exercises in style (which, when you think about it, isn鈥檛 all that different from the work of that other Anderson, he of the ultraconscious dollhouse/aquarium look). One of the better, more entertaining, if not entirely accurate films of last year — but what do I know? I wear clothes mainly to avoid being arrested.
