I was halfway through _Phantom Thread_ on NBC Peacock Premium
and the film abruptly disappeared from the streaming service. The
only reason I subscribed was that the money-grubbing NBC studios
pulled a lot of English Premier League games off its Spanish
affiliate, especially those featuring Liverpool (a team I've
followed for 40 years). Well it was no real loss.

I'm sure no one really watches NBC Peacock for the movies. You
can't pause in the middle -- videos restart from 0:00 every time.
But let's focus on the half-movie. It is about as expected,
another self-important Paul Thomas Anderson award-bait.
Anderson is not capable of originality; here he seems to be
emulating some Merchant-Ivory glossy, soft-focus look. Or
maybe a perfume commercial. There is a lot of close-up of
women's clothes and skin. But the main objection is the
hagliographic depiction of autocratic London fashion designer
(Daniel Day Lewis), who is pampered and infantilized by his
wife, his female assistants, clients (all women), and his
model/muse. It is downright unwatchable in the age of
"me-too," except that this is Anderson, the critic's darling,
so of course he gets a free pass.

There is a recent TV series called "The Collection" about
a French fashion house in post-WWII Paris. The figurehead
of the outfit is charismatic and irresistable to his female
clients. But it is all a sham; his reputation is a social
construct held together by received opinion among critics
and high society. The real genius designer is his brother
who is socially awkward; when the brother tries to break
free and entice the clients to go with him, they dismiss
his work which do not have the "received-wisdom" stamp
of approval. That series features Irene Jacob as the
mother of a very good Jenna Thiam. It is far superior
to _Phantom Thread_ in every way -- particularly in the
meta-cinema category. Movies and movie directors are
anointed as masterful in the same way these fashion
designers are. From the half of _Phantom Thread_ I've
seen, there is absolutely no suggestion that Paul
Thomas Anderson -- himself largely a construct of
critics' desperate need to anoint a new US director
where none exists -- will touch on this obvious point.
The only way the film can go is that the artist at the center
of the film remains an undisputed genius whose autocratic
ways are something we would look back on with nostalgia.

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