Just who is Tom Ripley?
It is a question that has been at the heart of the character since novelist Patricia Highsmith first brought him to the page nearly seventy years ago.
Faux-charming. A self-developed man of taste. But unquestionably deadly.
Though in a broader sense, it has also produced a feeling of déjà vu: what makes a story told once, stronger the third, fourth time around, if at all?
Highsmith published five novels focusing on Ripley’s escapades over the better part of four decades, as part of a series now known as “The Ripliad” - although it remains the first novel, 1955’s The Talented Mr. Ripley, which has most firmly wedged itself into the pop culture consciousness.
The tree from which virtually all of the best known adaptions of the sociopathic sycophant are pulled.
You can see where the appeal comes from, though.
Spoiled trust fund expatriates, galavanting in post-war Italy and chasing nothing but the simplest of pleasures, a bastardized version of the sweet life.
A dream that is promptly shattered as they are infiltrated and then, throughly destroyed by someone they deemed beneath them: a dangerous grifter in the form of Tom Ripley, who has no qualms about doing whatever he can to ensure his own survival.
And the newest adaption, the aptly-titled, eight-episode limited series, Ripley, which dropped earlier this month?
While it has the prestige of a Netflix release and a strong creative at the helm in writer-director Steven Zaillian it arrives, inherently, both with great promise and whilst fighting something of an uphill battle.
Each new adaption of Highsmith’s novel has brought something new to the table, its own sense of artistic licence and expression.
Whether that is entirely new characters and storylines or interpretations that differ drastically between creatives.
And yet, what fresh perspective can Zaillian, known for his work as the writer of Schindler's List and a co-writer of Moneyball, bring to this story that hasn’t already been covered in 1960’s Purple Noon or 1999’s absolutely excellent, The Talented Mr. Ripley?
The concise answer? A slow and deeply imperfect if ultimately worthwhile burn.
Considering the previous two adaptations specifically, Ripley hews the closet to the source material, relatively speaking. Undeniable artistic highs held back by a few puzzling creative decisions and the reality that yes, the series is retreading familiar ground without having much new to say.
Though when it soars? It soars, making for some terrific television.
If somewhat begrudgingly.
We meet Tom Ripley (Andrew Scott) at his lowest ebb, a man making a meagre living in early 1960s New York City as a mostly unsuccessful con artist. But opportunity strikes when shipping magnate Herbert Greenleaf (Kenneth Lonergan) recruits Ripley to travel to Italy.
Greenleaf wishes to bring his carefree son Dickie (Johnny Flynn) back to America and believes Ripley, who is only familiar with Dickie in passing, to be the man for the job.
Upon arriving in Italy however, Ripley quickly becomes enamoured with both the lifestyle the younger Greenleaf provides and the man himself.
So when Ripley suspects that the heir and his social circle are beginning to reject him? His time in Europe takes a dark turn, as he falls into a series of double lives, deception and incredible violence.
The highpoint of Ripley? It is what the series achieves behind the camera.
Technically, Zaillian and cinematographer Robert Elswit are operating at the highest level, each of their eight episodes, shot in stark black-and-white.
It compliments the larger presentation perfectly.
A moody, noir-esque thriller, which often has extended sequences either in complete Italian or without spoken dialogue entirely, depending on the circumstance, with a meticulous attention to detail: from minute costuming stitches to the period piece work.
The hammering of typewriter keys, characters, watching smoke billow into individual curls as they light a cigarette. An olive, lazily dropping into a martini.
Waves, crashing against the postcard-perfect Italian coastline. Perhaps it is a cat, eyeing a suspicious passerby with interest.
Ripley, scheming, while basked in filtered sunshine. The grand vistas of the country’s famous architecture, given ample praise from behind the lens. The pure craftsmanship on display is simply outstanding, the staging and physical structure, contributing to a distinct and memorable visual style (even if steeped in genre homage).
All of it, accented by crisp sound design and the fabulous score of composer Jeff Russo, who blends traditional arrangements, haunting noir strings and a piano that seems to relish in the unexpected landing of each note.
Together, these elements bring so much life to what makes Ripley shine.
Adaptions, especially for long-existing works (as I’ve discussed previously) can be a difficult thing.
Expectations are never going to be uniform across the board.
And when it comes to Tom Ripley’s origin story? There is a genuine allure, one that has captured the imagination for well over half a century now (as wonderfully spoken too by Carole V. Bell of NPR) but it also means that Zaillian, for better or worse, has his work cut out for him.
On one hand, you want to give the series grace to establish its own identity. But comparing it to the two highly-regarded films that preceded it?
It is inevitable, considering it is the same story being told.
The worlds of René Clément’s Purple Noon and Anthony Minghella’s The Talented Mr. Ripley both are awash in colour and character, young, beautiful people, wearing nothing but masks as they engage in base hedonism, brutality and a full itinerary of vices - while at the same time, differing greatly in the subtext and themes presented. It is here where Ripley lands, trying to find its own voice while being, inescapably, in the shadow of works past.
Dakota Fanning, speaking to Vanity Fair regarding the series, said the creative team didn’t feel that external pressure.
But the seams? They’re there.
So seemingly concerned with "properly” capturing the feel of a noir-esque murder-mystery, as he liberally pulls cues from the Hitchcock and Fellini playbooks, Zaillian’s Ripley doesn’t truly find its stride until the halfway mark - or roughly four hours in, once his protagonist’s life-and-death routine with the Italian police is throughly underway.
This is when the series is at its very best, specifically, the final three episodes.
All of Ripley’s scheming, cunning and deception folding upon themselves and creating genuine thrills, as he looks to both evade discovery and be rewarded for his crimes.
Though to require a four hour investment before things really “get going”, regardless of the medium, is a tough ask and I don’t care how beautifully shot that investment is.
The hitch, is that Zaillian, sadly, seemingly has no interest in making those opening hours engaging, considering their critical importance to the story and the relationships therein. His deliberately slow pacing, betraying a creative who couldn’t quite appreciate, it seems, the reason he was making such a choice in the first place.
When you remember that this story has been more leanly told in film-length, the eight hours of Ripley, at their most lackadaisical and disinterested, seem doubly so.
Yes, the thriller-noir approach looks and sounds fantastic but it also, contradictorily, robs Ripley of growing suspense or tension.
If you’re familiar with the story? You’re biding time but even if you’re coming in completely fresh, there aren’t many surprises here.
This is a shame, especially as it relates to the character work. Dailed-in performers, with a few exceptions, not given quite enough room to stretch their legs.
Most notably, the characters as presented in Ripley are noticeably older than in the original novel and in the previous films both, creating something of a disconnect. It is a feeling that lessens as the series moves along but you can’t really buy their “just living for today” mentality, at least, not to the same level.
You can’t help but wonder, distractingly, just how many of those days they’ve had.
Johnny Flynn, to this end, gives a solid if ultimately forgettable portrayal as Dickie Greenleaf, capturing neither what Maurice Ronet brought in Purple Noon nor the impulsive, hedonistic playboy hiding dark secrets of his own in Jude Law’s version. Flynn, seemingly stripped of any true agency and intrigue.
A man as empty as his tailored suits, a vessel simply to move the plot along.
The same is true for Eliot Sumner as Freddie Miles. To be fair, they’re in the unenviable position of being compared to Philip Seymour Hoffman’s scene-stealing effort as the character in Minghella’s film. Unfortunately, they can’t quite capture anything of value regardless and at worst, feel not just underused but wholly miscast.
Dakota Fanning though, as Marge Sherwood, fares far better.
A combination of multiple factors, perhaps. Fanning, understanding intuitively what makes this particular interpretation of the character tick and Zaillian giving her the room and material to develop her performance to the letter.
She is cool, confident and brandishes a keen, intelligent eye that informs her every action with Fanning delivering some of the series’ best work (even if her characterization, as in the novel, buckles somewhat under plot convenience near the end).
For the supporting cast? As Inspector Ravini, Maurizio Lombardi is great fun to watch, a man who is seemingly never out maneuvered, finding himself trading blows with an increasingly determined Ripley.
Bokeem Woodbine is terrific as always in limited work as McCarron, the private investigator in Herbert Greenleaf’s employ and John Malkovich is memorable in a brief appearance near the end (Malkovich, having played an older Tom Ripley in 2002’s Ripley’s Game).
But the cold, emotionless heart for which it all beats around? It is Andrew Scott as the titular con man.
Scott, of course, is a magnetic performer who has built a respected career playing a variety of distinctive characters (from Jim Moriarty on Sherlock to his well-known role on Fleabag).
In Ripley though, his is a portrayal divided - seeming at once both the wrong person for the role and yet, utterly perfect.
Part of this contradiction, in my option, is due to where Zaillian chooses to start his version of Ripley’s story - at the beginning. And that isn’t to say that an older actor can’t play a younger character or vice versa. So much of what makes Ripley work in that initial outing, however? It is his youth, his ability to coast by on his outward charm for just long enough. Everyone else, only realizing what they’re dealing with (a narcissistic, whatever-it-takes sociopath) until it is far too late.
Yet Scott, at 47, simply can’t deliver that.
His Ripley doesn’t have the raw magnetism of Alain Delon (who was 25 when he played the role) nor the outer veneer of still-boyish charm masking terrible volatility that Matt Damon presented (Damon, being 29 in The Talented Mr. Ripley).
Now, once he gets underway, with his scheming and double-crossing? Scott settles in so well, it is a reminder that he is one of the better actors working today. Yet everything prior to that? It comes across like a series of missed opportunities - absolutely nailing the darker side of the character but forgoing his performative affability entirely.
Scott’s Ripley is so cold, so charmless, almost shark-like, devoid of any sense of human connection or understanding (in this respect, the series only really dances around any deeper meaning regarding his sexuality and relationship with Dickie, in line with the novel but a drastic departure from the 1999 film, where it was a major plot point).
Sure, it is an effective take on the character but it feels better suited for further along in his story, once he’s perfected his masquerade.
It means that his emergence in Italy is almost immediately off-putting, Dickie, Freddie and Marge in particular, being suspicious of him from the jump. A career criminal, a very visible cobra, waiting to strike.
Again, even as Scott evolves well into his stolen loafers? It is a duality that feels at odds.
Ripley does have moments of excellence, particularly with what it achieves technically.
But it isn’t consistent across the board, held back by disappointing creative choices and a difficult to sit through sense of pacing.
And while it is an impressive adaption on its own merits, which hints at, potentially, more to come, it shouldn’t be held up as the definitive take, either.
Rather, it is another solid if unspectacular outing for one of literature’s most enduring criminals. Here for a while but in the end? Elusive.