jgreco7
Joined Jan 2007
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jgreco7's rating
For Patricia Highsmith, homosexuality was a metaphor for deception and the orgasmic release that comes with death. A purveyor of existential crisis and anything unconventional, her novels and stories have inspired filmmakers of a similar bent, like Hitchcock, Rene Clement, Anthony Minghella, and now Steven Zaillian.
An Oscar win and nominations for his screenplays, Zaillian has moved to the long form of the Netflix serial in this black-and-white retelling of "The Talented Mr. Ripley," abbreviated to just "Ripley," although clocking in at over seven hours. The added length demonstrates, as it often does, that--while exhaustive--it fails to impress without staying power.
In the role of the titular, creepy chameleon, English actor Andrew Scott effects a flat, non-regional, American accent like that of a 50s television announcer, and manages, somehow, I know not how, to come off rather asexual, especially for one who earned a reputation as having played a sexy priest. His counterpart in the plot's ménage, which includes Dakota Fanning as Marge Sherwood and Johnny Flynn as Dickie Greenleaf, is an actor named Eliot Sumner who plays second victim Freddie Miles, both suspicious of Tom and a bit jealous, too--jealous of his attraction to Dickie. Males with fuzzy sexual preferences interested Highsmith, and Miles is that typical blue-blood, Ivy leaguer whose sexuality falls on a sliding scale: think William F. Buckley, and a perfect foil for Ripley. Marge, however, was always a problem for Highsmith, who understood a lesbian, but Marge is a 50s housewife-in-waiting that's neither here nor there. She, quaint American debutant, is an obstacle in this: a usual object of desire, but disposable. Her misfortune is that she isn't killed, just bypassed.
As to the movie itself, Zaillian wisely keeps the action in the past where, let's face it, it belongs: without social media, Facebook, iPhones, DNA, and color (except for one brief homage to Spielberg, his mentor). The result is visually striking, but more arty than artful. And without strictly scoring his movie, relying instead on sound that comes naturally, he attempts something akin to documentary. But thrillers, which this story is, as Hitchcock knew, do not work as documentaries (he tried that only once).
All of the above is just part of what's wrong with this movie. It's also drawn out to exasperation, over extended with minutiae and obscure references to Caravaggio (one indulgent, gratuitous flashback), and as slow as a how-to for the obsessive-compulsive. Thank goodness for fast forward.
Ripley is the all-American psycho, an original once upon a time. But his type has been done to death, and by actual serial killers (think Andrew Cunanan) whose lives have been serialized and movieized ad nauseam. Why are such killers fascinating? Well, it's clear why they fascinate writers, directors, and actors. But audiences? Leave that to the analyst whose employment depends on it. Writers, directors, and actors are doing well enough for themselves.
An Oscar win and nominations for his screenplays, Zaillian has moved to the long form of the Netflix serial in this black-and-white retelling of "The Talented Mr. Ripley," abbreviated to just "Ripley," although clocking in at over seven hours. The added length demonstrates, as it often does, that--while exhaustive--it fails to impress without staying power.
In the role of the titular, creepy chameleon, English actor Andrew Scott effects a flat, non-regional, American accent like that of a 50s television announcer, and manages, somehow, I know not how, to come off rather asexual, especially for one who earned a reputation as having played a sexy priest. His counterpart in the plot's ménage, which includes Dakota Fanning as Marge Sherwood and Johnny Flynn as Dickie Greenleaf, is an actor named Eliot Sumner who plays second victim Freddie Miles, both suspicious of Tom and a bit jealous, too--jealous of his attraction to Dickie. Males with fuzzy sexual preferences interested Highsmith, and Miles is that typical blue-blood, Ivy leaguer whose sexuality falls on a sliding scale: think William F. Buckley, and a perfect foil for Ripley. Marge, however, was always a problem for Highsmith, who understood a lesbian, but Marge is a 50s housewife-in-waiting that's neither here nor there. She, quaint American debutant, is an obstacle in this: a usual object of desire, but disposable. Her misfortune is that she isn't killed, just bypassed.
As to the movie itself, Zaillian wisely keeps the action in the past where, let's face it, it belongs: without social media, Facebook, iPhones, DNA, and color (except for one brief homage to Spielberg, his mentor). The result is visually striking, but more arty than artful. And without strictly scoring his movie, relying instead on sound that comes naturally, he attempts something akin to documentary. But thrillers, which this story is, as Hitchcock knew, do not work as documentaries (he tried that only once).
All of the above is just part of what's wrong with this movie. It's also drawn out to exasperation, over extended with minutiae and obscure references to Caravaggio (one indulgent, gratuitous flashback), and as slow as a how-to for the obsessive-compulsive. Thank goodness for fast forward.
Ripley is the all-American psycho, an original once upon a time. But his type has been done to death, and by actual serial killers (think Andrew Cunanan) whose lives have been serialized and movieized ad nauseam. Why are such killers fascinating? Well, it's clear why they fascinate writers, directors, and actors. But audiences? Leave that to the analyst whose employment depends on it. Writers, directors, and actors are doing well enough for themselves.
