Respond to these rapid questions in our Phantom Thread quiz and we will tell you which Phantom Thread character you are. Play it now.
Despite the fact that “Phantom Thread” is, in some ways, the most straightforward, linear narrative movie that writer and director Paul Thomas Anderson has made in a long time (perhaps since “Punch Drunk Love”—and this is not the only way in which the two films are similar—), “Phantom Thread” may be the filmmaker’s most fascinatingly oblique work.
The film begins with a straightforward title card (which is accompanied on the soundtrack by high-pitched tones that could be string instruments or electronic feedback), followed by a medium close-up of a young woman sitting in a chair, her face illuminated by a fireplace. “Reynolds has brought my dreams to fruition,” she says calmly, addressing a figure who has not yet been identified. As a result of the events that follow, it is difficult to believe this assertion.
As a result, please welcome to the world of Reynolds Woodcock, couturier and man of meticulous routine, as evidenced by the following montage of his toilette. He applies shaving soap with vigor, snips his nose and ear hairs with precision (he is played by Daniel Day-Lewis, and he is a well-kept man of a certain age), and pulls up and cuffs his purple socks with vigor. He is a well-kept man of a certain age. On his way to breakfast, a young woman approaches and offers him what appears to be a delectable-looking pastry. He reacts as if she is a massive insect. After a short while, Woodcock consults with his sister Cyril, a shrewd and assertive woman, about how to dispose of the aforementioned household figure.
And before you know it, Woodcock is on his way to Robin Hood’s Bay, driving into the early hours of the morning, dropping off his powerful car at a local garage, and placing his order as he settles down to a table at the Victoria Hotel. We take notice of a young waitress at first because she is unsteady on her feet. With Woodcock’s order in hand, she gains confidence; she vows to memorize his order verbatim, which is lengthy and complex. He notices that she has done a good job and invites her to dinner. In the course of the meal, he spends the majority of the time telling stories about his mother and how she shaped him into the dressmaker that he is today as a result of his having made the dress for her second marriage. He tells Alma about various superstitions associated with the creation of wedding gowns, and he explains how one can conceal small objects and messages within handmade clothing. When the conversation begins to wane, he turns to face her. In her words, “If you want to have a staring contest with me, you’re going to lose.” Finally, he invites her to his dressmaking studio in his country home, where he lives with his family. In this scene, he does not seduce her, but rather asks her to stand for him so that he can begin to make a dress specifically for her. When Cyril arrives, he is just in time to take Alma’s measurements—but not before sniffing her thoroughly. Alma confides in Cyril about her insecurities about her physical appearance. “You’re perfect,” Cyril says in a clear voice. “He likes a little belly,” says the author.
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What is the nature of this relationship? When Reynolds and Alma are walking along the bay, Reynolds expresses his gratitude to Alma for helping him find her, and she responds, “Do whatever you have to do, but do it carefully.”
Reynolds is not particularly conscientious when it comes to Alma. She butters her toast in a way that is too loud. The moment she oozes into his studio, he can’t take it any longer; they volley back and forth with harsh words until he finally tells her, “The tea is on its way out. ” “The interruption will remain in this room with me,” I say. Alma comes to the conclusion that Reynolds needs to “settle down” after a long period of hard work. Her method of coercing him into doing this is, shall we say, intriguing.
Phantom Thread Quiz
However, this is not a conventional film with a conventional climax; the battle of wills between the two main characters does not come to a satisfactory conclusion. Not even sure what Alma wants, let alone what she gets, because we don’t know what she wants. Her past is shrouded in mystery. Victoria Krieps portrays her as a woman with a slight German accent, which is a lovely touch. At a press conference, a vulgar dowager for whom Woodcock has made a wedding dress is discussing her impending marriage to a Dominican politician, and the scene is set in Woodcock’s studio. When a journalist inquires about whether the man “sold visas to Jews during the war,” Anderson cuts to a close-up of Alma, who maintains a neutral expression. Despite the fact that this is a film about confrontations and dreamlike moments that turn into micro nightmares, it is not your typical “battle of the sexes” story.
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Of course, the film is a work of art in its own right. Anderson’s use of color and composition is remarkable. He reportedly shot the film himself, with the assistance of lighting cameraman Michael Bauman, and framed it in a Kubrick-inflected style while cutting it in a Hitchcock-influenced style. A sense of momentum is created by Jonny Greenwood’s score as well as the other music (mostly classical) that is interspersed throughout the film. This is very much a “composed” film; there is very little of it that is not accompanied by music, and there are very deliberate shifts in instrumentation and orchestration throughout the film. Of course, the acting is flawless throughout the film. While Day-Lewis is a tightly-wound wonder who becomes like an old-man kitten once Alma has reduced him to the “open and tender” state that she frequently desires of him, he is actually performing for the first time in what seems like a long time in an accent and vocal timbre similar to his natural voice. The impeccable Krieps and Lesley Manville inhabit the tightly constrained world of this story with complete honesty and sincerity.
Anderson withholds a great deal of information about the world he lives in. In the film, the action takes place some time after World War II, and it appears to be a long time since the so-called “Swinging Sixties.” However, despite the fact that the film contains a scene set at a New Year’s Eve party, “Phantom Thread” goes to great lengths to avoid revealing the exact time. In the scenario, there is never a tipping point that signals a permanent shift in one of the character’s actions or attitudes. It is rather a persistent depiction of the perverse stages of a perverse evolution that is the focus of the film. On a chess board, this represents an irresistible force and an immovable object that is constantly moving to different positions. In a way, it has the feel of anecdotal evidence. Using a dialect peppered with frequent profanity (this R-rated film does not contain any nudity, sexual depiction, or physical violence; it is rated R solely on the basis of its language and, possibly, its themes), the characters portray what would be considered a bad alliance or marriage in conventional parlance. However, as previously stated, it is set in an indeterminate time period, and Anderson’s determination to keep that time period indeterminate creates a fluttering sensation in relation to the familiar worlds and/or genres in which we suspect the work itself could be said to be located creates this fluttering sensation. Numinous objects in the film represent both the pre-gothic (mushrooms, the dirt from which they are pulled) and the post-gothic (Woodcock’s car, a purple Bristol sedan, possibly a 1955 405, which is a speed demon of almost science-fictional proportions)…. The film also contains numerous nods to films that I believe to be Anderson’s touchstones, including “A Clockwork Orange,” “Psycho,” “The Knack (And How To Get It),” and, not as improbably, “Raising Arizona,” all of which are both playful and serious in nature.
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The intimations inherent in the film’s latent content, which is constantly roiling beneath its beautiful surfaces, become increasingly dizzying as they gradually accumulate.
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In his feverish state, Reynolds imagines his mother, dressed in the wedding gown he designed for her, leaning against a wall next to the door to his room, a stiff figure next to the door. However, he never directs his gaze directly at the figure. Instead, while lying on his back, he raises his eyes straight up and asks, “Are you here? Is it always the case that you’re here? I adore you, but I adore you more. “I think about you on a regular basis.” This is the central node of the work, a pointing finger at a mystery that none of us will ever be able to solve, and a sincere expression of hope within the loneliness that we try to escape by, among other things, refusing to love one another in return. It brings us back to the title of the film and imbues it with a power that is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
For more personality quizzes check this: Proud Mary Quiz.
