"Phantom Thread": Claustrophobic Elegance

At first glance, from its trailers and promotional material, "Phantom Thread" appears to be another tender story set in the upper echelons of Western society—another tale of individualistic romance detached from cultural norms. In many ways, it is a romance between an older man and his muse, a narrative that seems almost cliché. Yet, this film transforms a conventional framework into a captivating piece of cinema, excelling in its artistry, pacing, conceptual depth, and performances. After all, it marks the collaboration of Paul Thomas Anderson and Daniel Day-Lewis following their monumental work on "There Will Be Blood."

Paul Thomas Anderson's characters often embody a cynical, rebellious force—think of the ruthless oil magnate in "There Will Be Blood," the flamboyant playboy in "Boogie Nights," the antisocial leader in "The Master," and the socially awkward protagonist in "Punch-Drunk Love." From the beginning, I anticipated Anderson's signature subversive character and some disruption of the film's portrayal of the Western bourgeoisie's pretentiousness. True to form, Anderson does not disappoint. After a 30-minute setup, the film dives into its core narrative.

This time, Anderson crafts another unconventional societal figure. Daniel Day-Lewis plays Reynolds Woodcock, a passive, withdrawn, and highly self-centered workaholic fashion designer—practically a king within his fashion kingdom. The story isolates him from external disturbances, painting a picture of a celebrated designer revered by the media, respected by his close circle, and attended by loyal servants.

Interestingly, the screenplay was inspired by an incident where Anderson was being cared for by his wife. At the same time, he was ill, leading him to contemplate a relationship dynamic reminiscent of Munchausen syndrome. Consequently, the film diverges from Anderson's usual focus on the interplay between characters and their environments. Instead, it zeroes in on the psychological dynamics between Woodcock and Alma, shifting the conflict from societal opposition to an intense personal struggle over love, work, obsession, and possession.

The intricate emotional dynamics and toxic masculinity explored in the film have been the focus of much analysis, and rightfully so—they are rich, dramatic, and socially pertinent themes. Yet, the film's most striking aspect is its pervasive sense of claustrophobia. "The New York Times" aptly described it as "Claustrophobic Elegance." But how does this psychological condition manifest in the film?

To start, elegance itself can be inherently intimidating. The film is set against the backdrop of 1950s Britain when the fashion industry flourished. Post-war shifts in women's roles and influences from rock 'n' roll and Hollywood propelled a trend toward luxurious and assertive elegance. The rise of aristocratic fashion during this era made high fashion almost aggressively refined.

In the narrative, clothing transcends mere artistic and material elegance, becoming a form of credentialed authority. For instance, Woodcock's outburst when he forcibly removes the green evening dress from Barbara Rose, disgusted by her lack of sophistication, illustrates how his creations symbolize a particular aristocratic merit—confidence, grace, and allure. When Rose fails to embody these qualities, her façade is swiftly dismantled. This right to recall, this male dominance over female beauty and decency, is encapsulated in Woodcock's fashion—a private, culturally endorsed hegemony cloaked in elegance. Naturally, such domination is suffocating.

The upper class's high-handed manners and expensive tastes further accentuate this sense of suffocation. Alma's exasperation with Woodcock's refined yet detached demeanor culminates in her outburst, "I'm sick of your game!" Woodcock's excellent response, "What game? What precisely is the nature of my game?" exemplifies an unconscious, irreversible aristocratic ethos that drives people to madness. The refined sensibility, like Woodcock's habit of stitching hidden labels into his garments, is invisible yet omnipresent, fostering a sense of insecurity in Alma. This class pressure engulfs the audience, creating an unmistakable sense of claustrophobia and fear.

From a cinematic perspective, this claustrophobic sensation is not merely a byproduct of elegance but also the film's visual and auditory style. The frequent use of close-ups, whether on faces or objects, narrows the viewer's focus, excluding the external world. In film, framing often invites the audience to imagine what lies beyond the edges of the screen. Extended close-ups restrict this freedom, confining viewers to a small, suffocating space. This inherently uneasy feeling aligns perfectly with the film's style, mirroring the controlling, possessive love depicted—a love that imprisons. The thematic content and the close-up shots contribute to this overarching sense of claustrophobia.

Auditorily, the film employs a similar technique. The film often embraces silence in the silent breakfast scenes or the hushed close-ups. This silence acts like violence, submerging the audience in an isolating quiet, severing them from the outside world. It evokes a sense of suffocation and fear; escaping seems impossible as the relentless close-ups pull the audience closer and closer to the characters' world. The final confrontation at the dinner table, marked by minimal dialogue and set against a backdrop of intense stares and music, pushes the tension to its peak. The sense of release is palpable when Woodcock finally breaks the silence with one of the film's most memorable lines. Anderson's masterful manipulation of space and sound underscores the film's claustrophobic elegance, demonstrating his unparalleled directorial prowess.