There's always something inscrutably askew about P.T. Anderson's movies (Magnolia, There Will Be Blood, The Master). There isn't anything pointedly off, but rather an undercurrent of tension, the hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck feeling that an entirely different story bubbles just beneath the surface. Perhaps this is why Anderson's movies have never found much traction with a mainstream audience. He's always the other Anderson - not as accessibly quirky as Wes, not as overtly trashy as Paul W.S. He's the tough nut to crack, the odd man out.
Phantom Thread has made headlines as Daniel Day-Lewis' supposed last movie before his retirement from acting. Ordinarily I wouldn't put much stock into real-world factors conflating a movie's story but it's difficult to view Phantom Thread without this information in mind. Given this context, Day-Lewis' role takes on greater levels of meta-commentary on the creative process and the toll of perfecting one's craft.
Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) is a master dressmaker in mid-century London. His home is exquisitely posh, his days immaculately structured. He works with the craft and dedication of a real artist - constantly dreaming, obsessing, perfecting. But something is lacking in his personal life, as Woodcock discards a series of muses once they cease to inspire him. When he meets Alma, a demure and commonplace waitress, Woodcock embarks on a relationship that will challenge everything he's known.
There are more than a few, ahem, threads to follow in this movie. For one, I found it much funnier than Anderson's other movies. Its humor is dark, somewhere between perplexing, flirty, threatening, and witty. Upon first meeting Alma waiting on him for a breakfast order, Woodcock proceeds to order seemingly everything on the menu - rabbit with poached egg, scones, toast, bacon, butter, jam, tea. And a plate of sausages. There is an odd eroticism as Woodcock watches Alma dutifully jot down his order, like a hawk eyeing his next prey. When Alma brings out the food, she hands him a written note. Woodcock unfolds it, a smirk on his face. "For the hungry boy," it reads, "My name is Alma."
The movie continually plays with the representation of food as a metaphor for Woodcock's creative appetite. So important is breakfast to Woodcock - and absolute silence during it - that he dismisses an old muse for making too much noise in the morning. "I can't begin my day with a confrontation," he rationalizes. Later on, Alma butters her toast with crass, firm swipes of the knife. Judging by Woodcock's cringes, each swipe of the butter knife might as well be a machete hacking into his flesh. For a brief moment, it seems possible that Alma will also be dismissed, used and forgotten by Woodcock like the countless women before her. But she learns to play the game quickly. She cooks for him, nurturing his body and his creativity. Food is often a vehicle for comfort, care, pleasure, love. But in Woodcock's house, food takes on more sinister dimensions - a tool of warfare to cajole and control, to undermine and to dominate.
What begins as a story of a powerful man courting a much younger impressionable girl does not end how you might expect. Alma doesn't just stay in Woodcock's home. She lingers. She burrows. She forces herself into every aspect of his existence. On their first night together, Woodcock takes her home not for sex, but to measure her for an impromptu dress. She has small breasts, he notes as his hands trace measurements at all angles of her body. But rest assured, he'll give her some. If he chooses to. This power dynamic may seem off-putting at first, but Alma is more than capable of flashing her own talons. That same night, Alma and Reynolds share a quiet moment. "If you want to have a staring contest with me," she states, "You will lose." It's meant as both a flirt and a dare, an invitation and a warning.
Upon my first viewing, this movie felt cold and slightly off. It's difficult, and likely unfair, for me to try to describe it as any one thing. It seems plain on the surface; but there is something captivating festering beneath it. And it has steadily burrowed into my mind. It doesn't go away easily. It doesn't diminish with time. I presume this description is apt for Anderson himself.
Much has been said of Alma, and deservedly so. But Day-Lewis' Reynolds Woodcock is equally magnetic. It's not difficult to find the similarities between Woodcock - a biting, ruthless, aloof, emotional artist - and Daniel Day-Lewis' famously dedicated acting methods. He fits this role like a handmade suit. A large portion of this movie has Woodcock sitting, laying, watching, drawing, thinking. These are typically thought of as passive activities, things an actor has to do but doesn't necessarily want to do. Day-Lewis is that rare actor whose stillness says more than any writer could conjure on paper; he emotes more with his thoughts than most actors do with deeds. It's the type of craft that looks simple but requires perfection of the highest degree. If this is indeed Daniel Day-Lewis' last performance, it is a worthy vehicle in which to end a career.
Phantom Thread is a great many things, but I see it as a suffocating meeting of opposites. It's a love story as told by a sadist, a tale of growth and evolution by way of oppression and subjugation. Love, in its purest state, is perhaps best described as a meeting of volatile parts, both fulfilling and toxic, protective but crippling. Alma said it best when accused by Woodcock of ruining his pristine life. "You are not cursed," she reassures him. "You are loved by me."
