Both Tár (2022) and Phantom Thread (2017) depict artists at the pinnacle of their practice. Lydia Tár (Cate Blanchette) and Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) are elegant yet demanding—of themselves and those around them. Maestro for the Berlin Philharmonic, Tár’s motives are not pure. Blanchette’s feline features lend Tár a predatory edge: a woman on the prowl in a custom-tailored suit. An esteemed sartor who holds his austere routine above all, Reynolds Woodcock’s haughty demeanor is ruffled at the slightest disturbance. Tár and Reynolds use their talents to entice lovers into a gilded life, only to mistreat them at their whims. Tár is absorbed by the disaffected existence of The Artist and it’s only through the twisted love of Alma (Vicky Krieps) that Reynolds finds release.
~
Paramours past and present comprise Tár’s inner circle, a group in awe of a woman who behaves as though she were alone in the universe. Indifferent to their support, she deceives those closest to her with wanton abandon. She lies to her assistant, Francesca (Noémie Merlant), and ignores desperate emails from Krista (Sylvia Flote), a former student ostracized by Tár because she had issues. Not even her wife, Sharon (Nina Hoss), whose heart pills ride in Tár’s carry-on, is safe from Tár’s apathy. Every encounter is a transaction.
Despite Tár’s conceit, the women who surround her desire the eros of her power: seductive, studied mannerisms and thick, rehearsed lines enthrall admirers into her life of insulated luxury. Promising young musicians like Krista and Olga (Sophie Kauer), Tar’s latest conquest, become willing prey, eager to advance their own career. Who are we to fault them? Glamour is delusional to an onlooker blinded by the light.
Both Sharon and Francesca are aware of Tár’s penchant to play favourites amongst students. It only becomes an issue once Francesca, passed on for a promotion, decides to end the score. Krista remains a haunting vision, and the nameless others are never seen. Olga remains immune, lacks the stiff grace of courtship and rebuffs Tár’s attempts to bewitch with barely a turn of the head.
Pushed from the podium after her superiors are made aware of her affairs, Tár returns to her childhood home. Born Linda Tarr, Lydia Tár is a persona that allows for the distance necessary to use her power insidiously. In her old room surrounded by awards, she watches a video of her mentor, Leonard Bernstein, as he extols the power of music. She cries. As Tár, she sublimated herself and could no longer access her vulnerability. Watching her cry, it seems it’s always been for the music. But, at the expense of whom?
Alienated by her thirst for glory yet concealed behind her commitment to the composer, Tár is left to conduct music for a live role-playing game. Even without esteem, Tár remains methodical. Though, in the end, she’s alone.
~
When Alma asks why he’s not married, confirmed bachelor Reynolds promptly replies: I make dresses—devotion to his craft being his primary partnership. He elaborates: marriage would make me deceitful, and I don’t ever want that. Plucked from a seaside restaurant, rosy-cheeked Alma resists the box Reynolds places his muses in and her defiance wins the favour of his sister, Cyril (Lesley Manville), an essential ally in the House of Woodcock, where adherence to order, craft, and poise are absolute.
Reynolds’ rigidity creates chaos for those around him—until he’s worn himself out. After the launch of his winter collection is complete, he pauses in his car. Alma strokes his hair and offers to drive for him. An auspicious, fluttering piano begins as he acquiesces. Rarely allowed a moment of weakness, Alma is there to tend to the little baby. Distance between them grows taut. Alma forages for mushrooms as an eerie tone looms. She compares her gilled discovery to an illustrated book and proceeds to grate, muddle, and measure the poisonous yellow-stainer before slipping it into a pot of tea; the music grows ominous. Alma’s act collapses the narrative of the troubled, isolated genius. In her care Reynolds becomes small, his illness is a sadomasochistic pleasure she bestows on behalf of them both.
Reynolds’ employees (all women) contribute to his success; he works alongside them, hiding little messages within the dresses, and ensures the house remains within the esteem it has always enjoyed. After Alma poisons Reynolds, his team of seamstresses reconstruct a wedding dress while he is ill. These women are, perhaps, just doing a job. But the position offers status as sewing for Reynolds—a man bound in pride—allows for knowledge and care to bloom alongside the precision of the craft.
Alma’s disruption of the House of Woodcock’s rigid routine prompts Reynolds to react like an insolent child. Her insistence that she must know Reynolds in her own way upends his expectations of his muse—but even after they’ve married, he’s convinced of her ruinous presence: I can’t work, I can’t concentrate, I have no confidence. And what is love but a chance for ruination by, in, for the other? In Reynolds, I recognize the kind of petulant artist I can be. If, when in the zone, I’m disrupted, it’s difficult (dare I say, impossible) to get myself back In It. The interruption does stay.
Alma’s antidote to Reynolds’ artistic temperament is a perverse, titillating exploration of care. His resistance to vulnerability is a fear I know well: an urge to turn away from the other, even as you loathe the act of being turned away from. In Alma, I’m reminded of my willingness to obliterate myself in love. To devote myself wholly to another at the expense of every other aspect of my life. Besides, who needs a job when you have love?
Without a brutal, besotted lover you have nothing. Would a thimbleful of poisonous mushrooms be enough to slow Tár down? Or would she remain devoted to the music, diligently working away on her next composition, like the incessant tick of a metronome?
Both Tár (2022) and Phantom Thread (2017) depict artists at the pinnacle of their practice. Lydia Tár (Cate Blanchette) and Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) are elegant yet demanding—of themselves and those around them. Maestro for the Berlin Philharmonic, Tár’s motives are not pure. Blanchette’s feline features lend Tár a predatory edge: a woman on the prowl in a custom-tailored suit. An esteemed sartor who holds his austere routine above all, Reynolds Woodcock’s haughty demeanor is ruffled at the slightest disturbance. Tár and Reynolds use their talents to entice lovers into a gilded life, only to mistreat them at their whims. Tár is absorbed by the disaffected existence of The Artist and it’s only through the twisted love of Alma (Vicky Krieps) that Reynolds finds release.
~
Paramours past and present comprise Tár’s inner circle, a group in awe of a woman who behaves as though she were alone in the universe. Indifferent to their support, she deceives those closest to her with wanton abandon. She lies to her assistant, Francesca (Noémie Merlant), and ignores desperate emails from Krista (Sylvia Flote), a former student ostracized by Tár because she had issues. Not even her wife, Sharon (Nina Hoss), whose heart pills ride in Tár’s carry-on, is safe from Tár’s apathy. Every encounter is a transaction.
Despite Tár’s conceit, the women who surround her desire the eros of her power: seductive, studied mannerisms and thick, rehearsed lines enthrall admirers into her life of insulated luxury. Promising young musicians like Krista and Olga (Sophie Kauer), Tar’s latest conquest, become willing prey, eager to advance their own career. Who are we to fault them? Glamour is delusional to an onlooker blinded by the light.
Both Sharon and Francesca are aware of Tár’s penchant to play favourites amongst students. It only becomes an issue once Francesca, passed on for a promotion, decides to end the score. Krista remains a haunting vision, and the nameless others are never seen. Olga remains immune, lacks the stiff grace of courtship and rebuffs Tár’s attempts to bewitch with barely a turn of the head.
Pushed from the podium after her superiors are made aware of her affairs, Tár returns to her childhood home. Born Linda Tarr, Lydia Tár is a persona that allows for the distance necessary to use her power insidiously. In her old room surrounded by awards, she watches a video of her mentor, Leonard Bernstein, as he extols the power of music. She cries. As Tár, she sublimated herself and could no longer access her vulnerability. Watching her cry, it seems it’s always been for the music. But, at the expense of whom?
Alienated by her thirst for glory yet concealed behind her commitment to the composer, Tár is left to conduct music for a live role-playing game. Even without esteem, Tár remains methodical. Though, in the end, she’s alone.
~
When Alma asks why he’s not married, confirmed bachelor Reynolds promptly replies: I make dresses—devotion to his craft being his primary partnership. He elaborates: marriage would make me deceitful, and I don’t ever want that. Plucked from a seaside restaurant, rosy-cheeked Alma resists the box Reynolds places his muses in and her defiance wins the favour of his sister, Cyril (Lesley Manville), an essential ally in the House of Woodcock, where adherence to order, craft, and poise are absolute.
Reynolds’ rigidity creates chaos for those around him—until he’s worn himself out. After the launch of his winter collection is complete, he pauses in his car. Alma strokes his hair and offers to drive for him. An auspicious, fluttering piano begins as he acquiesces. Rarely allowed a moment of weakness, Alma is there to tend to the little baby. Distance between them grows taut. Alma forages for mushrooms as an eerie tone looms. She compares her gilled discovery to an illustrated book and proceeds to grate, muddle, and measure the poisonous yellow-stainer before slipping it into a pot of tea; the music grows ominous. Alma’s act collapses the narrative of the troubled, isolated genius. In her care Reynolds becomes small, his illness is a sadomasochistic pleasure she bestows on behalf of them both.
Reynolds’ employees (all women) contribute to his success; he works alongside them, hiding little messages within the dresses, and ensures the house remains within the esteem it has always enjoyed. After Alma poisons Reynolds, his team of seamstresses reconstruct a wedding dress while he is ill. These women are, perhaps, just doing a job. But the position offers status as sewing for Reynolds—a man bound in pride—allows for knowledge and care to bloom alongside the precision of the craft.
Alma’s disruption of the House of Woodcock’s rigid routine prompts Reynolds to react like an insolent child. Her insistence that she must know Reynolds in her own way upends his expectations of his muse—but even after they’ve married, he’s convinced of her ruinous presence: I can’t work, I can’t concentrate, I have no confidence. And what is love but a chance for ruination by, in, for the other? In Reynolds, I recognize the kind of petulant artist I can be. If, when in the zone, I’m disrupted, it’s difficult (dare I say, impossible) to get myself back In It. The interruption does stay.
Alma’s antidote to Reynolds’ artistic temperament is a perverse, titillating exploration of care. His resistance to vulnerability is a fear I know well: an urge to turn away from the other, even as you loathe the act of being turned away from. In Alma, I’m reminded of my willingness to obliterate myself in love. To devote myself wholly to another at the expense of every other aspect of my life. Besides, who needs a job when you have love?
Without a brutal, besotted lover you have nothing. Would a thimbleful of poisonous mushrooms be enough to slow Tár down? Or would she remain devoted to the music, diligently working away on her next composition, like the incessant tick of a metronome?