Review: Phantom Thread (2017)

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson


This review was originally published on

Phantom Thread, Paul Thomas Anderson’s eighth feature, bears little ostensible resemblance to his previous films. It’s his first set primarily outside the United States. It lacks the eager camera moves of Boogie Nights or Magnolia, the excoriated Americana of There Will Be Blood or The Master, or the Cheech and Chong-flavoured bawdiness of Inherent Vice. Yet, it is explicitly and inescapably an Anderson joint, much to the relief of many who feared some kind of sub-Fifty Shades souflée with Oxbridge accents.

Phantom Thread is all about the power of the muse. It’s true to Anderson’s great muses: limitless endeavour, male insecurity and the redemptive power of families of all shapes and sizes. From pornography, to oil, and now to haute couture fashion, Anderson is held rapt by people who are painfully committed to what they do. There Will Be Blood’s Daniel Plainview may have been greed made flesh, but the man knew how to drill an oil well. The erstwhile Plainview, Daniel Day-Lewis (Another consummate professional), returns to Anderson’s world to play Reynolds Woodcock, chief designer at the House of Woodcock. In a booming post-war London, Reynolds is the seductively-affected and gifted couturier to socialites and foreign royalty. This prissy, pristine peacock of a man sees Day-Lewis at his most restrained. His voice and look, both thin and reedy, lie somewhere between James Mason and a deathbed convert. No skinning rabbits or declarations of drainage here; Woodcock would blow away in a gust. Yet, the surface cloth only tells half a story.

Wunderkind directors seem to spend much of their time sidestepping the shadows of the masters, even when they actively reference them. Having nodded (Bowed, really) to Altman and Huston in the past, Anderson focuses his attention on early Alfred Hitchcock in Phantom Thread. Borrowing adroitly from Rebecca, the House of Woodcock becomes our Manderley, complete with its own Mrs. Danvers. Reynolds’ sister Cyril (Lesley Manville, a study in purse-mouthed threat) runs the business affairs of the House of Woodcock, and keeps the delicate Reynolds in the habits to which he’s accustomed. This sometimes means turfing out his latest mistress once she starts to get on his nerves. For as oddly close as these siblings seem, their casual cruelty is what marks them from the start. Reynolds takes any interruption to his routine as a threat, and Cyril is there to remove them like benign tumours.

As is the way of these things, something comes to upend all this order. On a weekend away to a seaside town, Reynolds encounters a waitress named Alma, a character doubtlessly named for Hitchcock’s long-suffering wife, Alma Reville. In this role, Luxembourgeois actress Vicky Krieps is offered a plum calling card, and she absolutely delivers. Resembling a young Meryl Streep, Krieps commands the screen with a radiant confidence. Alma and Reynolds first meet in his hotel, as she takes his order for what appears to be half the menu. Flirtation is written on both their faces. Later, when he takes her for an impromptu dress fitting, Krieps’ face is unsure whether to smile brighter or collapse, as Reynolds offers Alma an accentuated bosom with a few cuts of fabric. He can make her whatever he wants her to be, but the most thing she wants is to be wanted.

Phantom Thread is an unusual love story, at once perverse, tender and strangely prescient. Reynolds and Alma’s courtship is pleasant and carefree, but it’s only when familiarity and the dreaded routine creep back in that proceedings threaten to sour. Observe how tense a breakfast can be when toast is buttered too loudly; passive aggression is Phantom Thread’s stock-in-trade. As the initial romance threatens to go the way of Reynolds’ other mistresses, Alma decides to make her presence felt. She can be a living mannequin for a dress auction, but she will not be ignored by a man she loves. If Anderson’s films teach us anything, it’s that our passions will make us do strange things.

The interplay between the three leads is an unstoppable driving force. Reynolds’ cruelty seems to be as much a product of Cyril’s hen-pecking as from any active disdain, but Alma is determined to break this habit. Day Lewis’ wilting wallflower allows his co-stars to shine, as Cyril and Alma begin an unlikely battle for Reynolds’ soul. Krieps rises to the challenge with aplomb, switching between naivete and grit in the blink of an eye, while Manville delivers venom wrapped in the delicious verbosity of Anderson’s screenplay. Words become stealth bombs in gilded battlefields. A discussion between Reynolds and Alma about asparagus and butter becomes an absurd and hurtful moment so gradually, you’ll scarcely notice.

If Anderson is homaging Hitchcock in his narrative, the look and feel of Phantom Thread is a melange of other worthy nods. The 35mm cinematography (by Anderson himself, though he gives as much credit to his camera crew as himself) recalls Powell and Pressburger in its grainy primary colours and bleached backgrounds. Mark Bridges’ costumes are necessarily beautiful, though the star of the production has to be Jonny Greenwood’s score. Every character and setting seems catered for in its eclectic yet unobtrusive mix of influences, from Bernard Herrmann to Leos Janacek. It’s a masterwork.

It’s handsome, it’s sharp and it’s shockingly funny on occasion, but what is Phantom Thread about? Like so much of Anderson’s work, it’s hard to say, at least on a first viewing. As with his last number of features, the surface pleasantries may be enough to rope you back in to discover its hidden depths. Phantom Thread is certainly the director’s most accessible film since Punch-Drunk Love. Yet, much like that film, this new work can sneak up on you with hints of insight and emotion one mightn’t expect, not least from a period piece about high fashion. When Alma and Reynolds seeks to retrieve a misbegotten wedding dress from a wealthy client (Bebe Glazer found love, Frasier fans!), the tenacity and courage they bring out in each other feels genuine. Like all Anderson films, this comes peppered with moments of farcical humour and oddity, but they slot into a world where all things begin to feel strange, not least that little thing called love. Much like love, Phantom Thread starts out charmingly, before it mushrooms into something altogether unexpected and wonderful.


Walking In The Light: Illuminating religion in Paul Thomas Anderson’s THE MASTER

This article was originally published on

At one point in Paul Thomas Anderson’s adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s Inherent Vice, Joaquin Phoenix’s drugged-up detective Doc Sportello enters a plush Malibu house, to be asked by his hostess, “Do you like the lighting?” (He responds with a semi-stoned, semi-horny, but quietly emphatic ‘Uh-huh.’). Anderson’s previous film, 2012’s The Master, is all about the lighting. In particular, it’s all about people looking for the light, being bathed in glows and beams, only to wind up darkened and despairing before another light source rejuvenates them anew. One might compare the characters to lizards, but it’s simply too cool a comparison. On a first watch, The Master can feel so intensely cerebral as to seem cold, but rewatches help break the ice. A 70mm rewatch, meanwhile, warms this heady brew until it’s as richly satisfying as any of Anderson’s other masterpieces.

As if you need reminding, The Master is Anderson’s Scientology film, try as it might to sidestep any accusations or similarities. Still, the similarities between Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman, whose preening and oddly-charming gasbag turn here may well be his best) and L. Ron Hubbard are inescapable, while the shadow of Scientology’s auditing sessions looms over the processing used by Dodd’s cultish ‘Cause’. Into the lives of Dodd, his family and closest followers arrives Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), a WWII veteran barely maintaining sanity due to PTSD and damage inflicted by his own brand of home-brewed hooch. Phoenix builds on the mania of portraying (a version of) himself in I’m Still Here by playing a man who may never have felt like himself to start. Quell is a neanderthalic hunching Igor to Dodd’s self-important Frankenstein, but they never get to bring a monster to life. The true horror lies in themselves. Their relationship is a cruel symbiosis, at once self-perpetuating and self-destructive. Quell needs Dodd’s guidance, but his basic problems, which are explored to an extent by Dodd’s methods, are never cured, making him feel like a greater failure. This encourages Dodd’s own doubts, whilst strengthening the resolve of his wife, Peggy (Amy Adams). A Lady Macbeth in ‘50s garb, Adams brings  a superciliousness and menace to Mrs. Dodd that often gets overlooked in analyses of the film. Her fervour, religious and otherwise, is positively terrifying. It’s been suggested that she may be the real driving force behind the Cause, and there’s nothing in a rewatch to dispel that notion.

The Master
Joaquin Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman in THE MASTER

As if to rope you in right from the start, the film opens with a shot of the sea. The breaking waters indicate it’s being shot from the back of the ship, with the white foam shimmering in the sunlight, marbling the cerulean ocean. There’s nary a foot put wrong in The Master’s production, but its unsung hero has to be Mihai Malaimare Jr. The rays, beams and myriad other manifestations of light the Romanian cinematographer captures in the glory of 70 millimetre film are key to The Master’s success. In turn, The Master is a key argument for 70mm as a filmmaking tool. As explained by Christopher Bonanos over at Vulture, the wider frame of 70mm film (65mm image, plus an additional 5mm for the soundtrack) captures more detail and more depth. The colours are deeper and more memorable (That opening shot of the water being a prime example), but it’s the little details that you truly savour in a 70mm revisit. Those details can be grim (Flecks of vomit in the beard of a man poisoned by Quell’s brew) or beautiful; it was not until seeing it on 70mm that this writer actively noticed the solitary cathartic tear that runs down Phoenix’s cheek after his one-on-one processing session.

Moments like Freddie’s outburst in the processing session are given extra power by Malaimare’s lighting choices. The ironic thing about these choices is they boil down to a most religious dichotomy: light and dark. When we first encounter Quell, he’s in the sun, but hidden beneath an army helmet, squinting in the shade. Whether natural or manmade, light in The Master is a symbol of hopefulness, abandon and joy. Hardly original, but it’s only when you think about how and when it’s used in the film that the symbolism gains potency. After Freddie is forced to flee his odd job as a farm labourer by running off across a misty, newly-harvested plain, we dissolve to a dock at night. Freddie enters the frame from the left, obscuring the bright lights hanging on a ship in the background. As Freddie walks down the dock, the ship comes into focus. It’s Dodd’s ship, named Alethia. It’s the only source of light in the shot, and Freddie is drawn to it like a moth. Music is playing on board, and people are dancing. He stows away on board, and the ship sails off into the Pacific under the Golden Gate Bridge, a brilliant orange sunrise lurking behind the Marin Headlands. The light is coming.

Conversely, shadows and darkness surround the characters at their lowest ebbs. Freddie’s processing scene takes place in the depths of Alethia, in a dingy room. There’s just enough light to see his features and that single tear. Throughout the film, scenes of light and darkness lead in and out of each other, with the use of either lighting scheme underlining each scene’s narrative rhythm. In the final third of the film, Freddie and Dodd dig up the work that forms Dodd’s new Cause handbook in a desert hideaway. The moment is enveloped in sun-scorched yellow sands, a moment of uncovered joy. The next time we see Dodd, however, he is about to launch the book, but hides away from his audience in an ante room. We see Dodd sitting in a narrow beam from a window, but otherwise covered in darkness. It’s reminiscent of the processing scene, but Dodd is alone, and squints into the light as if blinded by it. This launch should be a happy occasion, but the prospect inhibits him, and may prove his undoing. Anderson plays with our expectations, but always in service of his narrative. A scene in which Freddie and Dodd are put in jail could be seen as a dark moment, but it’s shot in a way to indicate sunshine coming in from a source above the men’s cells. It’s the first moment at which Freddie confronts Dodd about the Cause’s methods, with the lighting suggesting Freddie has uncovered a truth. It’s not blinding, though; this is merely the beginning of Freddie’s emergence from the Cause. Using light as a multifaceted symbol means it is not monopolized by the Cause or any one character. It can be manipulated briefly (Most notably, Quell antagonizes a customer of his photography concession with a lamp in an early scene), but the light is not anyone’s to own.

Amy Adams in THE MASTER

The subtleties of lighting aid Anderson in telling this story, and these subtleties shine brightest in the colours of the 70mm presentation. The inquisitive moment in the jail was spurred on in a previous scene when Freddie talks to Dodd’s son, Val (Jesse Plemons, whose resemblance to Hoffman is uncanny, verging on eerie). Val bluntly informs Freddie that Dodd Sr. is making the Cause’s catechism up as he goes. Their chat takes place outside on a sunny day, but under the shady protection of a porch. Between bright light and darkened rooms lie moments of doubt, junctions at which Freddie must question what he’s doing with the Cause. This leads into a bigger question: is The Master critical of Scientology? Val’s upfront confession to Freddie mirrors similar declarations from members of L. Ron Hubbard’s family about Scientology, and it would certainly be in keeping with similar themes of corrupted religion in There Will Be Blood, in which the petty greed of preacher Eli Sunday is completely overwhelmed by the capitalist dogma of Daniel Plainview. Yet, there’s no definitive end point in The Master to suggest Anderson has pointed his crosshairs at Scientology. After all, the Cause gave Freddie an epiphany and a refocused purpose, even if it’s only temporary. Rather, Anderson seems to say that a religion/cult/whatever is only as strong as its most fervent adherents. Kierkegaard posited doubt was necessary to maintain one’s faith; Freddie has doubts, but they never allow him to leave the Cause completely. Throughout the film, he has moments of enlightenment and profound darkness, from sunny deserts to cavernous movie theatres. The film ends with Freddie lying under a sexual conquest, in a ray of daylight and quoting Dodd from their first processing session. By this point, he’s left the Cause, leaving Dodd tearily singing behind a big desk. The Cause will go on (most likely driven on by the insistence of Mrs. Dodd), and Freddie will continue his search for answers, like Thom Yorke going through an endless parade of doors in Anderson’s video for Radiohead’s ‘Daydreaming’. Yet, there he lies, recalling the words of the Master in the warmth of a post-coital sunbeam. Once again, the richness of Malaimire’s 70mm artistry speaks volumes. This light isn’t the dazzling warmth of a desert sun, but it’s enough to illuminate the dark blue surrounds of Freddie’s partner’s bedroom. The narrator in Anderson’s Magnolia says, “We may be through with the past, but the past ain’t through with us.” Like the past, and the Cause, the light shines on Freddie when he least expects it.

Review: Inherent Vice (2014)

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson


The desolate souls of Inherent Vice, the spent wanderers and dope fiends, are Paul Thomas Anderson’s stock in trade. Whether it’s Adam Sandler looking for love or Tom Cruise looking for a father, the hunt goes ever on. A search for adjectives to describe this film continues apace, but his follow-up to The Master sees Anderson being defiantly Anderson; he knows what he’s saying, and we have to catch up. Lay back and enjoy, then let the vapours clear and think about it. That’s when you really get the hit. Buy the ticket; take the ride.

Given the breadth and depth of the themes and subjects he’s covered over the years, it’s hardly surprising that it’s taken over five decades for the work of Thomas Pynchon to make it to the big screen. It’s clear to see what it was in Pynchon’s seventh novel that appealed to Anderson enough to make it into his seventh feature. The Altman devotee would jump at the chance to make this demented cousin of The Long Goodbye. In place of Philip Marlowe, we get Larry ‘Doc’ Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix), part-detective, part-dude. He is what Hunter S. Thompson would call a ‘high-powered mutant’, one of those wonderful breeds that’s too weird to live and too rare to die. The comparisons to Raoul Duke are apt; the hash-smoked environs of Pynchon’s prose are full of gonzo doodahs in pursuit of peyote. When we first see Doc, he seems to be in an imbibed mellowness when in sashays his ex, Shasta (Katherine Waterston). Her perma-smiled face comes begging a favour. Her lover, billionaire Mickey Wolfmann (Eric Roberts), is being set up by his wife and her lover in a plot to get his money. It must be an act of undiminished love on Shasta’s part to hire Doc to foil the plot. In certain scenes, he appears unable to find his own feet, let alone a clue. Still, the film surrounding him isn’t all that interested in finding out what’s happened, so we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

For a film with such labyrinthine plotting, Inherent Vice pays it relatively little attention, letting the action unfold perpendicular to Doc’s stumblings. That’s not to say that Pynchon’s narrative doesn’t go anywhere; it all dovetails relatively neatly, but it’s not the film’s primary concern. Inherent Vice’s primary register is capturing a sense of time and place. In doing so, it forms a loose trilogy with Anderson’s previous outings to chart the evolution/bastardization of the American Dream. The century started off with Daniel Plainview’s pillaging of oil and milkshakes in There Will Be Blood, before jumping to the early 1950s to see America heal itself after the war with religion and ego in The Master. In Inherent Vice, we watch the optimism of the 1960s boil over to cover the West Coast in blunt smoke. Though Robert Elswit’s hazy cinematography and Jonny Greenwood’s slyly upbeat score hint at that decade’s promise, darkness lingers nearby. The country has clearly given up on looking for answers outside its borders; despite being at its height, the Vietnam War is never mentioned. All that’s left is weed and what remains of the boom of the late ‘50s. Doc’s investigations lead him to a strip mall that remains undeveloped, save for a brothel. Sex is in ready supply, but all other trade seems to be drying up.

Inherent ViceAfter both Wolfmann and Shasta disappear, Doc gets lost in the weedy fog, coming up against neo-Nazis, a dope-running triad called the Golden Fang and a coked-up dentist (Martin Short), all the while hunting down a wayward saxophonist (Owen Wilson) who has something to do with the whole Wolfmann affair. The first viewing of Inherent Vice is best taken as something to be experienced rather than comprehended. Use subsequent viewings to plug the gaps, and admire the talent on display first and foremost. The whole cast commit to the hippy-dippy insanity. The glazed far-off look in Phoenix’s face is a source of joy, whilst an enjoyable ensemble of names big and small come and go to add flavours of all kinds. Benicio Del Toro homages Dr. Gonzo by playing Doc’s (maritime) lawyer Sauncho Smilax, whilst Josh Brolin gives typically good grunt as Bigfoot Bjornsen, the cop who simultaneously helps and hinders Docs’ enquiries. The best turn of the film is arguably Katherine Waterston as Shasta; though she’s often as high as anyone else onscreen, her smile and her delicate features offer warmth as an occasional counterbalance to the insanity being perpetrated around her.

And what insanity it is. Anderson describes the film as his version of a Cheech and Chong picture, with hints of Airplane! thrown in. The best comparison is another Chandler-inflected laugher, one with equally complex plotting and memorable characterisations. That said, no film can touch the stoned antics of The Big Lebowski, so Anderson doesn’t actively try to match its laugh count. Instead of set pieces and one-liners, Anderson luxuriates in the pure nonsense of the times. Constantly soundtracked by sky-high narration from Joanna Newsom’s Sortilège, Inherent Vice pitches Americana as farce. Our nominal leading man is often greeted with a cartoonish “What’s up, doc?”, while dope sends conversations rambling on past coherence. The film ends up dragging at points because it’s content to allow its inhabitants have their intoxicants, with most characters experiencing what Sortilège calls ‘doper’s ESP’ (read: paranoia). Their ramblings are the inherent vice of Inherent Vice. Then again, that’s Anderson’s point. The pratfalls, the ramblings and the hookah are driven by sadness at the passing of the promise of the 1960s. The plot continues on around Doc, as if to suggest the world will move on and this dude will be left behind regardless.

As a legal concept, ‘inherent vice’ refers to the flaws in goods or property that lead to natural deterioration over a period of time. Does the film itself falls victim to its own flaws? Or was that the point? Don’t overthink it. To quote one one of cinema’s great purveyors of the herb, change down; find your neutral space. All the pieces will fit together in the end.

Review: The Master (2012)

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson


Do you remember getting a surprise gift under the Christmas tree when you were young? The kind in a box that you’d poke and prod and shake in an effort to ascertain the contents before eventually unwrapping it? The Master is that kind of gift. It comes with pretty wrapping paper and ribbons, but the best part is probing it in anticipation of what’s inside.

Poke and prod as you might, The Master refuses to give up its secrets easily. Even though it’s got a rep as ‘the Scientology movie’, that’s only a portion of what Paul Thomas Anderson’s latest is about. There are layers upon layers upon layers here, like Leo DiCaprio performed Inception on an onion. That said, chances are you’d have to dig through many a layer of neurosis and angst to get to wherever Joaquin Phoenix is at, mentally speaking.

If anyone thought Phoenix had completely lost his mind when he made I’m Still Here, you’ll be hoping for men in white coats to approach from the wings throughout The Master. Phoenix’s Freddie Quell is a recently-discharged U.S. Marine, but right from the opening scenes it’s clear he isn’t exactly the most upstanding of Uncle Sam’s boys. Hunched, violent and with a penchant for smut and alcohol, Quell is an animal, albeit one actively searching for someone to tame him. The US he wanders through is taming itself after World War II with Mad Men-style advertising and Jesus. Having lost numerous jobs, Quell is quelled having discovered his own personal Jesus. Enter Lancaster Dodd, a preening gasbag of self-importance brought to doughy life by Philip Seymour Hoffman. Dodd leads ‘The Cause’, which can only be described as a Scientology-like cult, with its methods of dodgy pseudo-psychiatry and charismatic leadership. L. Ron Hubbard may be the inspiration for Dodd, but Anderson is not out to satirize Scientology or any other cult. Admittedly, if he were, The Master would be a lot easier to grasp.

Anderson has earned comparisons to many directors with his short filmography. If Boogie Nights saw him channel Scorsese and Magnolia was the best film Robert Altman never made, The Master is full-blown Kubrickian chilliness. Whether it’s L. Ron Hubbard, Timothy Leary or the Reverend Sun Myung Moon, cult heads  are often built on charisma and the backs of the vulnerable. Quell needs the expertise of a psychiatrist, not the blind stabs of a wealthy after-dinner speaker. That said, The Master is not an anti-religious diatribe; the story begins and ends with Freddie Quell. His energy makes him rich pickings for Dodd, but his animalistic impatience is a liability. Who’s toying with who? Many a beautiful moment in The Master occurs when the worshipper becomes the deity.

Whilst The Master is too veiled to be a critique à la Full Metal Jacket, it takes its cues from Kubrick’s distant and cruel eye, reserving its secrets for those willing to devote the time to working its mysteries out. Quell is just a step down from Jack Torrance in the mania stakes, whilst various scenes and narrative points recall the likes of A Clockwork Orange and Eyes Wide Shut. There are moments that may make you raise your eyebrows in quizzical confusion, but then some of these scenes are from Freddie’s point of view, so they may not even be happening. The Master leaves that decision, and many others, up to you.

The relationship between Quell and Dodd is the crux of the film, and continues Anderson’s line in shaky father figures from Boogie Nights onwards. Phoenix the madman and Hoffman the snaky charmer are an odd but weirdly compatible duo: the master and his right-hand neanderthal. Amy Adams, as Mrs. Dodd, looks on somewhat aghast at Quell, and her slow-boiling vexation compliments that of the audience. As Quell submits to Dodd’s ‘treatments’, she can’t believe what she sees. You’ll struggle with it too; Phoenix is nothing short of unhinged. Memorably so, but still unnerving enough to leave you feeling uncomfortable.

Spiritually, The Master is a companion piece to There Will Be Blood. Both period pieces say something about the times they’re set in, though TWBB was arguably more accessible. The odorous oil fields of turn-of-the-century California are swapped for the sanitized 1950s, a fact reflected in Mihai Mihalmire’s gorgeously muted cinematography (less dazzling work than Anderson’s regular DP Robert Elswit, but notable nonetheless). As Jonny Greenwood stirs the hairs on the back of the neck with another taut score, the desperation for hope in these characters becomes clear, but more viewings will be needed to decipher it all. Yet even if the message is closer to the surface than first appearances might suggest, the return trips to this intoxicating film will not be in vain. Anderson has never lacked for confidence in his writing and direction, and The Master is another of his cinematic Rubik’s cubes, awaiting your wonderment.

This review originally appeared on