Paul Thomas Anderson has built a filmmaking career out of exceptional yet challenging craft. His resume tackles everything from stories set in his native San Fernando Valley (1999's Magnolia) to early-19th-Century tales of greedy oil drillers (2007's There Will Be Blood), 20th-century religious cult leaders (2012's The Master), and even Adam Sandler in his most poignant and human role at the time (2002's Punch-Drunk Love). His latest, Phantom Thread, reunites him with the legendary Daniel Day-Lewis (who has gone on record to say this is his final on-screen role) as a famous dressmaker, by the name of Reynolds Woodcock, in 1950s London, and more specifically the relationship he develops with his latest muse.
A man of routine and a very specific lifestyle (with help from his sister, Cyril), Reynolds visits the countryside one day and is immediately smitten with Alma, a local waitress who feels the same way. The plot is as simple as that. What follows is a maze of romance that is, at times, beautiful, while other times psychological. In fact, one of the first things the unmarried Reynolds tells Alma about himself is that he is "incurable," and that "marriage would make him deceitful," considering expectations and assumptions of others.
Other themes that flow--or rather, needle their way--into the fabric of this film include fashion, obsession, occupation, desire, voyeurism, betrayal, disconnect, and secrets. Is Reynolds' relationship with Alma a real one, or just a mere professional one? Could the same go for his feelings, considering women come and go in his life, until that changes with Alma? "I feel as if I've been looking for you for a very long time," he tells her, despite being bitter when his routine is interrupted. Did I mention that Anderson has a tendency to, at times, unsettle audiences, such as having characters stare blankly at the camera (like Cyril, played by Leslie Manville). The late Jonathan Demme was known for this as well. (Remember those moments in The Silence of the Lambs?
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| Daniel Day-Lewis |
Anderson's filmmaking choices here feel very intimate, arthouse, and feel as if they were absolutely made around the film's time period, with All About Eve and Hitchcock films as potential influences. Jonny Greenwood's classical-style score is captivating, and the dressmaking world (courtesy costume designer Mark Bridges) is impeccable, as is the production design (social life, tastes in fashion, status, etc.). The sound design choices are interesting as well, particularly the sounds of food (buttered toast, munched eggs, and mushrooms).
Day-Lewis is as riveting and brilliant as he is, from his character's nuances, his hair style, his quirks, and his tendency to repeat himself; he uses his natural English voice, as a rarity. (A couple sitting behind me at a second screening I attended said he was "perfect for this role.") But it's the stunning Vicki Krieps who guides and develops the emotional core of the film as Alma, as she pursues a real relationship with Reynolds, whom she has grown fond of and concerned over. ("I want to know him in my own way," she tells Cyril.) She is just as compelling, complex, and unpredictable as Day-Lewis, and can amazingly hold her own by going from precocious to vulnerable to betrayed ("Nothing is normal, it's all a game," she argues) to mildly sinister, and back again. The way they dance (or play) between intellect and control is an emotional roller coaster, sometimes an unsettling one, such as when Reynolds expresses his need for Alma "to keep my sour heart from choking me" and other times expressing disdain for how she complicates his routine over time and regrets letting her into his life ("There is an air of quiet death in this house, and I do not like the way it smells.") One character says, contrarily, "A heart that doesn't change is a dead house."
Although not overtly explicit, there is a thorough feeling of quiet spirituality that underlines the film, including secrets that echo such spirituality. Reynolds' memory (and image) of his late mother is the prime factor here, as is some possible superstition of her wedding dress (which finds its way into a particular scene that represents the film's title, as well as a showcase for Day-Lewis). "It's comforting, to think the dead are watching over the living," says Reynolds, "I don't find that spooky at all."
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| Vicky Krieps |
The quiet effect that Alma creates (at least the way Reynolds sees it) is quite stirring, and the way she decides to take control of it becomes very haunting. Let's just say you'll never think of mushrooms the same way again after seeing this, in terms of making somebody ill and vulnerable, so they can settle down and be "strong" again. Haunting, for sure. On their first date earlier in the film, Alma tells Reynolds honestly, "If you want to have a staring contest with me, you will lose."
Upon first seeing the film (an exceptional yet challenging one), I took Reynolds as a character who is never really satisfied, and who apparently has a tendency to make his muses into ghosts. With Alma, I see her as a character who demands to get through to him, but in the most misguided (and perhaps twisted) way possible. "To be in love with him is a mystery." Indeed.
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