Director: Paul Thomas Anderson
Rated: R
“Whatever you do, do it carefully.” Often an impending break up is more devastating than an actual broken heart. Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread masterfully creates a cruel, twisted, and honest exploration of narcissism, masochism, and self-centeredness that subverts the classical romance tale. Therefore, love, in all of its gloriousness can also lead to an unknown, thereby, making one vulnerable to pain, obsession, and despair. This is exactly the case of Reynolds Woodcock, played by the incredibly talented and dapper Daniel Day-Lewis, a famous well-to-do fashion designer in 1950s London couture.
Phantom Thread is Anderson’s second collaborative work with Daniel Day-Lewis since There will be Blood. Anderson, a genuine and most promising auteur of our time, is known for his bold imagery, breathtaking and mesmerizing composition, hypnotic pan shots, and most of all, unforgettable characters that share the likeness of Greek tragic heroes who fall from greatness as they are crippled by hubris, pride, narcissism, and personal passions. Reynolds Woodcock has the remarkable gift to design and make dresses that transcends fashion. His designs become a work of art that rebrands the individual into the elite privileged. Such creations take place in his prestigious home, The House of Woodcock. Because of this, beautiful women who aspire to wear his dresses surround him. Reynolds, a once proclaimed bachelor, scoffs at the idea of marriage, since it makes him susceptible to deception and expectations—all of which he refuses to subject himself to. His sister Cyril (Leslie Manville) is his most trusted business associate and confidante when it comes to dealing with his lovers. She is also responsible for telling his girlfriends the relationship is over once Reynolds is fatigued by their demands for attention and love. For Reynolds, they can no longer “fit” his perfectly created world, filled with narcissistic and trivial demands. For Reynolds, his world, not just his dresses, has to be carefully designed, precise, and agreeable to his liking. Therefore, his life consists of a demanding quietude that is almost hostile. A morning breakfast must be devoid of conversation, confrontation, and the sound of a typical morning bustle.
When he is smitten by a countryside waitress, Alma, he invites her to his home and dresses her in ballroom gowns made for aristocracy. Like the Pygmalion effect, Alma is transformed. She is like a sculpture, shaped by Reynolds’ hands, made to fit in the upscale world of high society of 1950s London couture—far removed from her humble countryside background. Through this, Reynolds Woodcock new love eventually becomes his muse for his creations, which later catapults his career even more so.
But the Pygmalion effect eventually becomes a struggle between demanding wills amongst the creator and his beloved created, making the romance meander from its fairy tale origins, that is, a young nobody rescued by her dashing and alluring Prince. As Alma has taken residence at the House of Woodcock, his perfectly controlled world is disrupted—even to a point where it is comedic—as he is easily agitated. For instance, Alma’s morning idiosyncrasies such as her noisy entrance at a quiet breakfast table, which consist of the grating sound of her eating toast and the endless pour of tea into a teacup, become intolerable to Reynolds. Alma (Vickey Krieps), astute, intuitive, insistent, and strong-willed wants a love where she and Reynolds can spend time together alone and where the attention is exclusively for one another. Yet, Reynolds is the type who wants to work in uninterrupted solitude—and be with Alma only when his temperament consents. She is both an inspiration as well as a burden. When the romance wanes, he confides with his sister and describes Alma as a shadowy burden that creates an air of death around his house. Because of this, he is withdrawn and unable to get a firm handle on his art. His confidence as an artist is shattered.
When his routine is disrupted by her demands to have dinner together without the typical House of Woodcock busyness, it culminates in a huge confrontation where the romance is spoiled. She may be his new creation and his muse, but she is also his nemesis. Alma is privy to his habits of disposing women so easily when he cannot proceed with life and art according to his control. She calls it a game and is acutely aware that the expiration date of their romance is on the horizon. Will she succumb to such a game so easily? Will she allow his love for her to be tossed out like dress out of fashion?
This tug-of-war between two strong personalities typifies Anderson’s character prototype. And they are usually presented in the form of doubles, doppelgängers, shadows, and alter egos. The “doubling” is manifested through two characters who are drawn to each other but are also antagonistic because they mirror each other’s faults and foibles. In There will be Blood, Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day-Lewis) and his antagonist Eli Sunday (Paul Dano) are ruthless profiteers and charlatans, one being a deceptive oil investor and the other being a charismatic and showboating evangelist respectively. They are both, literally and figuratively, dragged in their own slippery grime while scratching the ground for the next petroleum treasure. This leads to uncontrollable inferno of deception and betrayal. They are also each other’s competitors, nemesis, and mirrors, reflecting and reminding each other of their own follies and corrosiveness. They are also motivated by power and greed that eventually lead to their demise. In The Master, there is Lancaster Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), a charismatic cult leader, and Freddie Quell (Joaquin Pheonix), an untamed, oversexed alcoholic recovering from post-World War II shellshock that prevents him from adjusting in society. They eventually become two complementary halves—master and experimental servant—especially for a good performance in front of a gullible audience. But their roles and identities often become muddled as they become lost in their own contradictions and insincerities.
In The Phantom Thread, Anderson masterfully combines both the doppelgänger wars with a Pygmalion motif for a disturbing romantic twist. This of course adds to the tumultuousness of their love—and the film’s unexpected suspense. The conventions of the romantic narrative—where love has its passionate beginnings, becomes threatened, and is rekindled in a surprisingly perverse way—are deconstructed. Anderson was inspired by works of Hitchcock, namely, Rebecca, due to the suspense, particularly in a romantic genre. [1] In Phantom Thread, Alma becomes Reynolds’ antagonist and lover with a somewhat Faulkner morbidness—in this case, “A Rose for Emily,” a story of a lonely woman’s desperate need to keep her lover through sinister means. Similarly, Alma methodically plans to physically weaken him in order to her to keep them together—so that she is both his lover and caregiver tending to his needs. And, in turn, he is only dependent on her.
Hitchcock critic Richard Allen asserts that in a romantic irony “love and human perversity are . . . utterly opposed to one another and yet also, paradoxically, closely identified”[2]. This romantic irony culminates into what he deems “romantic renewal” in which “Hitchcock’s male characters may be flawed, his female characters duplicitous and deceiving, and circumstances may conspire against them, but it is precisely out of these conditions . . . the “miracle” of romance is forged”[3]. In Phantom Thread, the disconcerting act to hurt and be loved later becomes a shocking accepted norm between Alma and Woodcock to maintain their love. Reynolds who never thought he would be at the mercy of a woman’s company has taken on a new identity that is out of fashion with his carefully created world. And, therefore, Alma becomes his creator. Needless to say, the Pygmalion effect operates both ways.
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As Anderson is able to channel Hitchcock in his exploration of an unorthodox romance, we cannot help but be affected by his stunning cinematography and score that contribute to the film’s romantic lure—particularly at first glance. Anderson presents a shadowy cinematography that shares the likeness to both classical romance and Gothicism—a breathtaking and unique intermingling. We are caught in the smoldering lighting that is dramatically accentuated by colorfully lush ballroom dresses inside the Woodcock residence that is traditionally decorated with beautiful wrought-iron stairways and walls adorned with carefully carved crown molding. Both setting and cinematography are complemented by Jonny Greenwood’s (Radiohead’s guitarist) piano and sixty-piece string orchestra, which becomes a love serenade. As we are seduced by the facade of a classical romantic tale, we continue to anticipate a love story—and a love story we do receive—but with an Andersonian design auteuristically and impeccably stitched with twists and knots.
January 8, 2018
This film review is specifically written for Film Criticism and Theory course to complement our studies in Paul Thomas Anderson’s There will be Blood under the ideology theory unit.
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Notes
[1] Ugwu, Reggie. “Daniel Day-Lewis and Paul Thomas Anderson on How They Created Phantom Thread.” New York Times. 26 Dec 2017.
[2] Allen, Richard. Hitchcock’s Romantic Irony. Columbia University Press, 2007. 21.
[3] —. Hitchcock’s Romantic Irony. Columbia University Press, 2007. 26-27.