Paul Thomas Anderson's
Phantom Thread is a dark melodrama with a delicious molasses center. The film leaves an intoxicating and overwhelmingly pungent, yet addictive aftertaste. Like black truffle shavings sprinkled on top of an ice cream cone. Like Guinness in a sippy cup or the whiskey-dipped pacifier Daniel Plainview gives an infant H.W. Speaking of Day Lewis, the real seductor of
Thread. Daniel Day Lewis' Reynolds Jeremiah Woodcock is a mopey and pensive viper; but never has a reptile been so sumptuous and inviting to behold since the garden of Eden. His hair trigger persona and wry, rapid-fire insults are exceedingly entertaining to behold and wince at.
He prowls around the film like an underfed lion, too picky to decide on which antelope to devour. It appears as if he'll starve himself until one presents itself in his jaws (a wickedly pouty Vickey Krieps). Krieps and Day Lewis shower us with the most lovely tantrums since Douglas Sirk. If we're not being stroked by the screen, Jonny Greenwood's lavish and wafting score pacifies even the most forlorn and cranky Scrooge. It is impossible not to feel aristocratic.
The lush exteriors and ephemeral, creamy, and hallucinatory interior set pieces leave you in a haze the same way a good ice cream coats the inside of your mouth in fat. A delicate and delicious exercise in excess. A cinematic cheat day. Not for those on a diet. Everything in the film sticks to your ribs like a meal you've overeaten at; one where everything is cooked to perfection and demands to be sampled. There are no small portions and any specs of food or sauce left on your plate, un-sopped by bread or not greedily raked onto your spoon and rammed down your gullet, draws scoffs. Get back in line for seconds.
