Phantom Thread

Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread is a funny, unsettling romance, and we recommend it with a warning about the company it keeps. Reynolds Woodcock makes dresses and expects the people around him to accommodate the work. The film takes his talent seriously while looking closely at how he uses it to justify his behaviour. The women expected to supply the necessary patience have their own say, and we soon have reasons to listen to everyone involved.

Daniel Day-Lewis gives Reynolds Woodcock a fastidiousness that can look reasonable until someone else has to live beside it. His restraint matters: a broader performance would make the man easy to dismiss, whereas here we can understand the attraction without excusing the behaviour. We laughed at his petulance, then felt uncomfortable about how much deference he could command with it. The humour comes from an accomplished adult expecting his wishes to settle a disagreement, and the actor never begs us to find that charming.

Vicky Krieps makes Alma Elson an equal presence without turning her into a ready-made corrective to a selfish man. She makes Alma’s admiration and stubbornness equally convincing, so loving Reynolds never seems to mean accepting his terms. Lesley Manville, as Cyril Woodcock, is just as important: her authority gives the romance a third person whose judgement cannot be ignored. The performances keep us interested in what each person wants, even when we would rather they asked for it differently.

The production design by Mark Tildesley makes the couture surroundings imposing enough to explain why somebody might accept those terms, at least for a while. Mark Bridges’s costumes give Reynolds’s skill something we can actually look at, a necessary courtesy in a film asking us to take an artist seriously. Paul Thomas Anderson’s cinematography keeps those surroundings intimate, so the people remain more compelling than the finery. The enclosed compositions also make it easy to understand why someone might want a little more room.

Dylan Tichenor’s editing handles the shifts between courtship, comedy and hostility without making them feel like separate films. He allows the performances to establish the tension instead of hurrying us towards the next confrontation. Jonny Greenwood’s melodic score gives the romance an emotional warmth that its participants do not always manage between themselves. It is an important contribution: the music helps us understand why these people might stay together despite the difficulty of their conversations.

There are stretches when the enclosed setting becomes oppressive, and some disputes establish a selfishness we have already understood. Alma’s determination also feels more fully explored than her life beyond this relationship, which narrows our attachment to her. These are limits that matter, particularly in a romance asking us to invest so much in its central pair. Yet within the genre’s familiar story of the demanding artist and his muse, Paul Thomas Anderson allows an unusual amount of comedy without treating desire as a joke.

Give its 130 minutes an evening without distractions. The small changes in manner deserve attention, and the humour is liable to pass by if we are waiting only for the next declaration. We recommend it warmly, though perhaps not as a peace offering after a domestic argument.