He presents House of Woodcock’s latest collection in a show that takes place at his townhouse—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 semi-circle formation inside two rooms, models wearing the designer’s creations glide slowly past them, holding a number that identifies the look they are wearing. Backstage, it is a familiar chaos, although substantially pared back from modern backstage shows. 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 re-ties a cape, for the final nod of approval before they step 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 the front that is inspired by the homemade uniform she was wearing when she was working as a waitress when she and Woodcock first meet. 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, soundtracked by Schubert’s Piano Trio No. 2.