Two stars. Rated R, for profanity and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang
I simply cannot fathom the waves
of critical adulation lapping onto the shores of this dramatic snooze of a
film.
 |
| Having decided that Alma (Vicky Krieps) is to become his new lover and muse, celebrated fashion designer Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) naturally insists on creating a dress for her. |
Writer/director Paul Thomas
Anderson may have framed every scene with the care and precision that Reynolds
Woodcock employs while making his haute
couture dresses and gowns, but the story and characters remain unpalatable,
the pacing lethargic, and the result about as appealing as waiting for paint to
dry.
In short — although the viewing
experience seems to last forever — Phantom
Thread is a crushing bore.
Anderson’s films are always
challenging at best; they range from weirdly captivating (Inherent Vice, Boogie Nights),
to distastefully bizarre (There Will Be Blood, Magnolia), to utterly
unwatchable (The Master). His
characters invariably are grotesque burlesques: parodies of actual people,
exaggerated to make a peculiar narrative point that rarely has anything to do
with the actual human condition.
Based on his artistic output,
Anderson feels like a misanthrope.
Phantom Thread is no different. Despite the
luxurious world in which these people inhabit, laced with beautiful things,
their souls are ugly and cruel. They deserve each other ... which I suspect is
Anderson’s ultimate point, but hardly an epiphany on which to hang a 130-minute
movie.
The setting is post-WWII London
in the 1950s, at the House of Woodcock, where the imperious Reynolds (Daniel
Day-Lewis) lives and designs at the center of British fashion: lavishly
expensive creations coveted by royalty, movie stars, heiresses, socialites,
debutants and their ilk. The firm’s mostly silent staff caters to every caprice
and demand of their fussy, fastidious and anal-retentive lord and master; the
stiffly condescending Reynolds expects no less.
Business matters and other
“unpleasant details” are handled by his starch-collared sister Cyril (Lesley
Manville); such details include hustling each of his casual lovers out the
door, once he tires of their companionship ... which, we gather, is a frequent
occurrence. Each, during her short stay, supplies a smidgen of inspiration
drawn from personality and physique; each departs having been transformed, to a
degree, into a “better” version of herself.
Reynolds also is an unrepentant
sexist pig: a coldly calculating martinet who doesn’t even seem to like his
most loyal and devoted clients. The dynamic feels like an uncomfortable gothic
mash-up of Pygmalion and Rebecca, with Manville’s Cyril standing
in as the chilly, omnipresent Mrs. Danvers.
