Sir Paul Thomas Anderson gifts us with yet another masterpiece.
Phantom Thread is a film that illustrates a unique perspective of love; a love so sweet and cruel that is shaped and manipulated by the fragile threads of each character’s hearts.
A story between fashion and romance whispered with such delicacy that only the medium of film can convey.
Like a feather flying away. You’d never wonder where it’s coming from, instead, you stare at its hypnotic movements. It only takes one head turn to discover a dying bird. They call it “the calm after the storm”.
The film’s characters played respectively by acting legend Daniel Day-Lewis and revelation actress Vicky Krieps, talk and move just like feathers in the wind, with such hush that could only come from restless souls.
The more silence, the more each line will signify. The more long takes, the more each short take will signify. We’re hanging on every word, every take, every note, leaving us breathless, like the pain of a first love. A method masterfully used by Anderson to manipulate the audience, most probably inspired by the likes of Stanley Kubrick.
Yet “Phantom Thread” has all a film should have. Strong lead performances, a superb original screenplay, neat cinematography, not to forget the costume design either which perfectly depicts the 50s post-war London ambience. All of this, embraced by Greenwood’s transcendental and sublime score that will stay with you long after the cinema shuts down and everybody goes home.
It’s indeed a rare, rare feeling. Leaving the screen speechless and yet, your head is spinning. Even the world outside the picture house seems more flattering than usual.
An intimate film of cinematic splendor that gives a new meaning to elegance.
“Whatever you do, do it carefully”
Dear Doctor Lecter,
I’m writing to inform you I won’t need your services any longer.
Not only do I firmly believe that there’s no cure for my condition, but I also claim the right to enjoy it.
I’ve been diagnosed with CINEPHILIA, therefore I refuse to believe that a word composed by the suffix “philia”, the Greek word for love, could be considered a mental disorder.
Nevertheless, I’m aware that love itself, is considered to be an illness. Literature and poetry have often described love as a kind of madness, with similar symptoms caused by drugs such as cocaine and other substances that end in -ine.
Your predecessor, Sigmund Freud himself said “isn’t what we mean by ‘falling in love’ a kind of sickness and craziness, an illusion, a blindness to what the loved person is really like?”. (He also said that we fall in love with something with a quality that we wish to have/be)
We don’t have much in common, but we do share something: the human condition, the worst illness of all.
So let me be ill with pride and joy! Let me indulge in my reverie! Let me dance with the gods, from shot to shot.
Love, is to love in a particular way. I’ll illustrate you mine.
You see, every average Joe can discover a masterpiece, but only a cinephile could uncover the glories, all the more wondrous for being hidden, of minor, even failed work that might be refashioned, if only by force of will, into greatness of another kind, perhaps even a better kind.
Ah, those images.
Words pour forth most often as a stream of consciousness or Freudian free association indicating a keen awareness that even the poetry of certain words could never quite convey the poetry of an image.
Cinephilia is the art of seeing in movies what others don’t see. Hitchcock’s beauty of form, the maniacal symmetry of Kubrick, the tenderness under the surface of some of Bunuel’s cruelest films, the old-fashioned elegance of Woody Allen, the perverse intellect of Otto Preminger, the colorful apartments of Almodovar’s grey women, that haze of Fellini movies.
And there she is. Jeanne Moreau, seen through a glass, lightly. The bitter tears of Jean D’Arc. Audrey Hepburn’s slow-motioned smile.
Life can be so miserable, compared to movies. Without the fact that it lasts much longer.
Near the beginning of Bertolucci’s film The Dreamers – among other things an ode to cinephilia – a lonely young American in 1960s Paris haunts the Cinémathèque, lapping up movies, always sitting in the front rows so that, as he says, he can capture the image before anyone else.
It is a beautiful form of addiction; an eclectic, voracious, impassioned, if not a little sentimental way of dealing with the unthinkable, life.
For a cinephile, even a truly awful movie is almost as good as a really great one, and infinitely preferable to a simply mediocre one. But then again, doesn’t this philosophy apply to anything else?
A film embraces moments of quiet euphoria, and makes of those moments a private, shared mythology. The image. The idea of the image itself is sublime. My heart is pounding. It makes my hand reach for a tranquilizer.
But maybe, dear Dr Lecter, I tell myself that you might be right after all. My condition is in a certain way, a form of fetishism rather than a form of love. It is clear that the aura of movies is what I cherish the most. I want to possess the movies, not to own them.
See you at the next session.
I’ve always had the misconception that a person who reads many books is an intelligent person. And then something struck me. The question is: How?
How do you read books?
Were you one of those straight-A students? Were you the “nerd” of the school? Maybe that’s not such a good sign.
These star pupils were praised by parents and teachers but all they really did, was flick through history books without questioning a thing.
Well, my grandma does pretty much the same. She spends hours watching unspeakable telenovelas, serves you tea, then sums the latest episode up in fanciful detail.
It’s true, we’re not talking about Tolstoy here, but how would it be if my grandma told you the story of Anna Karenina?
[ Anna Karenina was a married aristocrat bla-bla-bla who has an affair with the charming Count Vronsky bla-bla-bla she leaves her husband but in the meantime bla-bla-bla. Anna becomes isolated and anxious while Vronsky goes out and about bla-bla-bla. The situation is unbearable, Anna commits suicide. ]
Would you like another cup of tea, darling?
In short; the novel explores topics like politics, religion, morality, gender and social class, but my nanna likes the gossip of it. If you take Tolstoy’s masterpiece that way, it’s true that it doesn’t fall too far from tea-time telenovelas.
How do you listen to music?
Let’s take The Beatles as an example. Why? Because there’s even a thing out there called Beatlemania. That’s right, I’m talking about maniacs. The delirious Beatles fan club.
Nothing compares to the hysteria that The Beatles created in the height of their careers in the 60s. They were mostly teens peeing their pants. Screaming schoolgirls pulling their hair out.
The term “fan” comes from the latin “fanaticus”, meaning “insanely but divinely inspired” or “marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense uncritical devotion”.
There’s a link between how my grandma reads Anna Karenina and Beatlemania.
How do you watch films?
Even movie-goers come in two flavours these days; “film geeks” and “cinephiles” (or movie snobs). The first preferring contemporary films based on comics or video games and the latter, being lovers of “the classics” and modernist or avant-garde cinema, up to the present, and tend to scorn geek favourites.
Film geeks are almost religious creatures, loyal market followers. They could even come off as sweet as they light up their Christmas crib with Batman instead of baby Jesus.
They know it all about their heroes; background, quotes, missions, superpowers and outfits. Meanwhile, a cinephile contemplates a slow-motion caress, heartbroken in a blurry romance.
All this considered, we can arrive at one important point. However you read books, listen to music, or watch films – never lose your child-like enthusiasm.
“He said that life boils down to standing in line to get shit dropped on your head. Everyone’s got a place in the queue, you can’t get out of it, and just when you start to congratulate yourself on surviving your dose of shit, you discover that the line is actually circular.” – Scott Lynch, The Republic of Thieves
It was last Saturday, when I discovered that someone broke into my apartment.
It was one of these days when you don’t feel like seeing anyone, but still, you can’t be left alone and coffee is never enough.
I ended up engaging in my favourite activity, going to the movies. I met a friend even though I didn’t have much to say. Soon enough we entered the cinema and watched “Swept Away” aka “Travolti da un insolito destino nell’azzurro mare d’agosto” (the original 1974 version by director Lina Wertmüller), curiously enough the main character is a spoiled rich woman who ends up in a deserted island with her attendant, only to find out the material world to which she was so attached meant nothing after all.
Still feeling dull inside, all I could think about on my way home, was to put on my cherry printed socks on, even if it was warm outside, and persevere in my film addiction. Celine Dion used to sing “all by myself, don’t wanna live”. For some reason I always thought she was saying “all by myself, I wanna be”, maybe because the latter was more appealing to me.
As I opened the door, I found absolutely everything I own scattered on the floor. As soon as I realised that it wasn’t an hallucination, I burst into tears, violent tears of angst (I was in the same time, like a complete psychopath, trying to save that magnificent rage in my emotional data bank, in order to reproduce it on the stage).
The next door neighbours rushed in to check up on me; the tumultuous love-making couple of the building. They are so sonorous that they even distorted my dreams, as most of them are now set in a 17th century brothel. They introduced themselves as brother and sister, as if I wasn’t disturbed enough, and of course, that revelation made me cry even more.
The next day, traumatised by the current events, I jumped on a night train back to my dad’s home in Milan. Sometimes, all a girl needs is a few whiskeys on the rocks and a familiar place where to safely pass out.
As bizarre as it may seem, all the heartbreaks and disappointments I have experienced lately, are suddenly a long distance memory. Logically, keeping in mind the subdominant law, the latest incident has automatically erased the others.
I remember a “Laurel and Hardy” episode in which Hardy, was moaning about his limping left leg and how much he was suffering because of it. Laurel looks around for a moment, scratches his head and says: “I have the solution for your limping left leg”. He suddenly kicks his friend’s right leg. “Voilà!”. Hardy screams out in pain, steam comes out of his ears… The sky is still clear, the kids keep playing in the street. Hardy moans about his right leg.
C’est la vie.
That’s just my friend Penn playing around with the Woody Allen credits font.
Hoping it will bring me luck for my auditions tomorrow.
After hours of painful labor Eugenia was born in 1897 in Florence, Italy. The daughter of a bronze pots dynasty, soon to be the disrepute of her family.
Years ago, when I was still a Londoner, I payed a seasonal visit to my dad’s in Milan. We had a classic pizza-movie night and the film in question was Woody Allen’s The Purple Rose of Cairo (it’s about a Depression-era unhappily married ingénue who goes to the movies to watch the same film over and over again to escape her miserable life, until the film’s main character walks off the screen and what was a black and white dream becomes real…). “I knew someone like that, an obsessive-compulsive person…” dad says.
Eugenia was my father’s mother’s aunt. I never had the chance to look at pictures of her. I like to think she was petite, controversially boyish-looking for her era, maybe with asymmetrical eyebrows (like those ones of evil movie characters) but still intrinsically sensual.
They say she was precocious for her age. Some others say she was a prodigy. Her family aspected great things from her, even though that would just mean marrying a suitable man of good fortune.
By the time she became old enough to embrace the philosophy of nihilist European writers, the world was experiencing what was then the greatest invention of all: CINEMA.
Movie theatres were filled with what was then la crème de la crème of Florentine society. I would have liked to know what was the first picture Eugenia has ever seen, because that day, the day in which she stepped into a movie house for the first time, something spectacular must have happened. That day marked what was to become her passion, obsession and ultimately madness.
I don’t know what it is, this feeling. It’s Stendhal’s syndrome, maybe. A repulsion to reality after having experienced something of colossal beauty. It was probably just a moment of absolute limpidness. They say it’s natural to become mad as soon as the truth laughs in your face. A lightning bolt.
Eugenia became soon a cinephile. She couldn’t help herself. She would spend her days in picture houses stepping from one movie to the other, often watching the same one repeatedly, feeding herself with lavished silver images, starving herself from the rest of the world, like a junky. Once you get locked in drug addiction, the tendency is to push it even further. One obviously does it because the dullness of life is unbearable. There’s something incredibly gloomy and romantic about it. Lastly, why should it be wrong? Isn’t life about making oneself happy? It doesn’t matter how. Morals weren’t definitely her problem regardless.
Seasons changed, fashion changed, political circumstances changed. Eugenia, unaffected by it all, was now an habitué of movie theatres, so much that they didn’t let her pay for the tickets anymore. It was pointless.
She was quite infamous in town, everybody knew she was a lunatic, a pagan. She had the devil inside. Even the priest had lost faith because of her, he had abandoned his functions and moved back in the countryside, with his lover.
Eugenia didn’t appreciate social gatherings, she hardly ever spoke to her sisters. She would mostly communicate with grimaces, if she had to. Occasionally, she would show up in some café downtown and make a scene. She was popular for showing up drunk and jump on tea tables to dance barefoot. At that point, someone would bring her back home where her mother would be waiting crying, or pretending to.
One day, she found out she was pregnant. Her mother fainted, or pretended to. “It’s a disgrace, it’s a disgrace! What have I done wrong, dear Lord? What have I done?” her father would say frantically while walking up and down the baroque living room, booze in hand, “Who is going to marry you? Who? Charlie Chaplin?”.
Eugenia never married. As a matter of fact, she had no idea of who the father of her baby was, not that she cared. Actually, Charlie Chaplin wasn’t really her type, she must have preferred someone more virile and adventurous, maybe Douglas Fairbanks, or Rudolph Valentino.
Sound in films was already the norm. Eugenia remained silent for the rest of her life. She continued watching movies, neglecting everything else. Obsession, running through blood like poison.
Apparently, her daughter Gilda had inherited the same kind of obsessive compulsive behaviour. She was an avid reader, a book eater. She, in turn, had a son too, whom one day left to move to the promised land, America. It is said he has become a religious fanatic and has joined the Mormon Church.