And never mind what we see on screen, it’s what happens after the cameras have stopped rolling that truly terrifies me the most.
Phantom Thread preaches at the high table of cinema as a material, analogue, art and craft. It’s not slow cinema, but it certainly is not in a hurry.
Despite the film not dwelling too much on the day-to-day of ordinary folk, it struck me that Reformation England and Brexit Britain have a fair bit in common. Two sides, entrenched, a compromise must (and will) be sought.
1. Any character in a story can be sympathetic, given the right treatment.
2. The truth in reality is either what is in front of us, or it is not what is in front of us.
3. We each make our own reality.
Whatever it is that we are hiding, protecting, or projecting, we build our identities on a case-by-case basis of compromises that we eventually can agree with and form into us. For some this happens at an earlier stage than it does for others.
Tucked away in the residential suburb of St Margarets, south-west London, Twickenham Studios may not have the cachet status of it's neighbour, Pinewood, but there is still a great debt owed by British film and television due to the many productions that have been filmed within its walls.
I detected a few nods to Hitchcock, as well as previous Almodovar films, and the attention to detail lavished on a film which somehow manages to make over 35 years of a life fly by at a semi-sprint was expert and mouth-gapingly impressive.
Music fills the space in American Honey, literally: papering over the cracks, the warped joints and the eclectic histories of the young road crew.
I asked myself the question, 'Why do I love working with sound to picture' today. It's a question that I ask myself fairly often, whether in times of exasperation or exaltation.
First off, I thought it a wonderful film. At the end, as the credits rolled, my feeling, above all, was that it was an entertaining film. A film may be good, or bad, interesting or amusing.