Phantom Thread

“You’re not going to die. You might wish you’re going to die, but you’re not going to. You need to settle down a little.”

2017. 130 minutes. Rated R.

Measurements being taken for a dress in a scene from Phantom Thread.

 

Next level spoiler alert: Not only is this a spoiler, but it’s also a review that’s all about the end of a movie, so it’s like, extra spoilery. Do with that information what you will;

I went to see Phantom Thread with TBBC head honcho Peter at the Coolidge Corner Theater–which, for those of you who haven’t been, is an art deco tour de force that’s worth experiencing in and of itself. It was the perfect venue for a film that masquerades as being all about beauty, despite the grotesque and silly underbelly revealed in the final act.

It’s hard, starting a review of a movie when you only want to write about the last part. There’s no luxury of typing up a formulaic breakdown, outlining the major plot points and weaving in my thoughts about this scene or that character; no beginning or middle, just the end. But the end of Phantom Thread upset me. I think I scoffed. It felt a bit like cabbage-heading, which is one of those terms I thought everyone used but proves to be a turn of phrase unique to this one X-Files fan book I read as a tween. Essentially, that’s when Scully asks Mulder a clarifying question that hamfistedly serves as exposition for the audience, always delivered in the most conversational of tones. (“It calls to mind the Chupacabra.” “Oh, the legendary creature in the folklore of parts of the Americas. The name comes from the animal’s reported habit of attacking and drinking the blood of livestock, especially goats.”)

While The X-Files mostly, um, cabbage-headed in the first few minutes of the show, Phantom Thread waits until the last ten minutes to begin explaining its own explanation, recounted via drawn-out psychiatric visit, that serves as the narrative frame for the film. It’s supposed to be a twist, but something in the rushed pacing–especially following two hours of late-model Paul Thomas Anderson spectacle and world-building–makes it come off as hollow as the inside of a mannequin. I was rooting for Alma (Vicky Krieps), the dark-eyed damsel at the core, to worm her way out of the control-freaky clutches of Daniel Day-Lewis’s Reynolds Woodcock; instead, their codependency winds up rivaling anything worked through on Intervention.

Alma does, however, love Reynolds like crazy. After she cracks his code of mommy issues and arrested development, she spends the movie’s last act poisoning him one moment and nurturing him back to health the next. Reynolds eats it all up, both sickness and cure, in a way that’s at odds with his earlier prompt disposal of any female who even so much as chews a crumpet too loudly in his presence. No great revelation or character development seems to have prompted this aside from maybe(?) his feelings about Alma. The way everything pivots in 15 frantic minutes after the smouldering slow-burn of the first 115 is tough to swallow. Not for Reynolds, though, when it comes to gobbling down Alma’s toxic omelets in the dim light of their kitchen.

So, is the juice worth the squeeze? Perhaps not if you like your plots all sewn up (oh boy, sorry, I couldn’t help it), but I’m hoping that if you’ve read this far–or at all–that you’ve already made up your mind about whether or not to see it. The movie is gorgeously set and costumed, well-acted, immersive; certain details, like Jonny Greenwood’s understated but rich and sensitive soundtrack, are impeccable. I wonder how Day-Lewis feels about it being his final film. A cursory Google search revealed this article about the unpleasantness of cramming into a tiny townhouse, but not much about the content.

It must be strange to go out with a whispering bang.

Author: Callan Bignoli

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