The thing about Phantom Thread

is that it's one of three things, none satisfactory. Either:

1. It's a profound meditation on the nature of love, on something intrinsic to love between men and women, a kind of unavoidable, even beautiful, crack in the surface of what is usually presented as seamless, without defect: in which case the film is false, self-deluded, and self-serious. Or:

2. It's a cheeky close-up, not on love in general, but on this particular couple's "love," doomed to dysfunction, an eternal power-play, in which the would-be submissive learns how to gain the upper hand, and the otherwise dominant, now dominated, accepts this kink in the relationship with a wry ardor: in which case the film is vile, an unserious exercise in sadomasochism either metaphorized or taken to an absurd extreme. Or:

3. It's nothing more than funny (and it is very funny), using the trappings of prestige film and high fashion and world-class acting and audience expectations as a Trojan horse for avant garde melodrama, gender-role hijinks, and an all-around send-up of the infinitely humorless genre of Very Serious Genius Men And Their Long-Suffering Muses: in which case the film is a rousing success, but ultimately quite shallow; and its central plot device is such a severe misdirect that the film's biggest fans have mistaken it for that which it is meant to parody: a meaningful commentary on love, genius, gender, art, power, etc.

These are also the stages of my own judgment about the film. I can make no sense of people who opt for either of the first two interpretations and acclaim the movie's greatness. And if, as I have come to believe, the third interpretation is best, then Anderson accomplished a task that wasn't worth the time or energy of his genuine genius. Or at least, it's not worth any more of my time, which otherwise might have been devoted to rewatching and continuing to reflect on such a film.