This year’s Forces of Fashion, taking place on October 16, is dedicated to the art, drama, and influence of the runway throughout history. In honor of that, Vogue editors are sharing their favorite fictional fashion shows that have appeared in movies and television shows throughout the years.
Paul Thomas Anderson’s 2017 film, Phantom Thread, is one of the most romantic stories ever captured on film. But more importantly, for the purposes of this publication, it is also one of the most accurate depictions of the agony and ecstasy of working in fashion.
Daniel Day-Lewis stars as Reynolds Woodcock, a 1950s couturier of supremely elegant gowns whose exacting silhouettes mirror his own rigorous character. As such, Woodcock’s everyday life is presented with a particular eye for the idiosyncrasies of being a creative genius—like the importance of quiet time at breakfast, where the designer sometimes sketches or otherwise mentally prepares for his creative tasks of the day ahead. Anderson also takes careful consideration to show the inner workings of Woodcock’s couture studio—where he’s surrounded by his team of seamstresses and tailors, all in matching white jackets—and the acts of fitting and constructing a garment itself. Day-Lewis, one of our greatest living actors—with his own incredible sense of personal style—reportedly trained for a year in the art of garment construction for the role, eventually re-creating a dress by Balenciaga by himself. (While shooting, Day-Lewis also chose Reynolds’s wardrobe from his character’s closet.)
He presents the house of Woodcock’s latest collection in a show that takes place at his town house—which serves as both his home and studio—as was the custom of the time. To an audience of society women seated in individual chairs in a semicircle formation inside two rooms, models wearing the designer’s creations glide slowly past, holding a number that identifies the look they are wearing. Backstage, it is a familiar chaos, although substantially pared back from modern shows backstage. We catch glimpses of the models doing their own makeup, changing from one look to another, and, lastly, coming up to Woodcock, who fixes the position of a hat or reties a cape, for the final nod of approval before stepping out in front of the guests.
It is amidst this familiar flurry of action that we encounter a singularly tender moment. Anderson’s camera follows Alma, Woodcock’s new lover (played by Vicky Krieps), as she puts on a pearl necklace, sweetly walks up to him—which elicits a warm smile from the designer—and takes her first turn through the rooms. She is wearing a red velvet dress with a voluminous A-line silhouette and apron-like lace appliqués on front that is inspired by the homemade uniform she wore as a waitress when she and Woodcock first met. As she walks from one room to another, Woodcock turns and looks through a peephole in the door nearest to him—an analog version of the backstage monitor. The camera is focused solely on the designer’s eye (real and metaphorical), and in a few seconds, we see his creative anxiety shift to satisfaction and then affection for Alma. She knows that he is watching her and keeps her gaze firmly planted on the peephole as she leaves the room. It is subtly sensual and a little devastating in its wholesomeness—a perfect two and a half minute sequence, to the sounds of Schubert’s Piano Trio No. 2.
