I really wanted to like Netflix’ Ripley. Patricia Highsmith is one of my favorite writers and The Talented Mr. Ripley is by far my favorite of her novels. And I’ve loved Andrew Scott since his turn as Moriarty on Sherlock. What could go wrong?
A lot, actually. And it all started and ended with the trailer. Stick with me. I’ll bring this around to writing in the end.
If it seems harsh to judge an entire series solely by its trailer, be warned that I also judge books by their cover. In fact, I used to make a game of it. As I wandered bookstore aisles, I would pick up a novel at random and make a wild guess at the basic premise and presumed audience based solely on the cover. I played fair – I avoided books by writers I recognized, franchise novelizations like Star Wars or Star Trek novels, and any novel where the cover imagery was directly representational of its contents. It doesn’t take a genius to guess the contents of a novel with a vampire or swastika on the cover.
Honestly, it was easier than you might guess. Quirky single woman with ludicrous hobby needs a boyfriend. Midwestern family is sad but comes together at the end. Unethical lawyer accidentally does something good. Giant corporations make space as shitty as Earth. Woman over 50 perseveres despite the terrible secret in her backstory and/or her husband.
My friends used to laugh and call me judgmental – which I really am – but in this case, I wasn’t relying on my standards, but observation. Publishers buy novels that are similar to books that have already sold well. They design those books to look like the book that sold well. This alleviates the need for readers to do too much thinking at the bookstore. If you want to read a novel about Quirky Single Woman, look for neon colors, fun fonts that look like handwriting, and specific graphic elements, like a lipstick or a sundress. If you’re looking for Slightly Older and Slightly Less Quirky Single Woman Who Has a Job that Exists in the Real World, your color scheme is pastels.
So under certain circumstances, I’m very comfortable judging a television show by its trailer. The whole point of the trailer is to sell the show. The scenes the audience what the show is about and how the story will be told. It’s meant to entice People Who Like This Sort of Thing, and a show like Ripley should have been aimed squarely at my forehead.
My first disappointment was with the characterization of Ripley. The presentation of Andrew Scott in the trailer made it clear that the story would portray Tom Ripley as an intentional serial predator, rather than the emerging, almost accidental, villain of the novel. (Folks who watched the show say my impression was correct.)
If you find it odd that I refer to triple murderer Tom Ripley as the accidental villain, please note that my friends who call me judgmental also comment on my unsettling infatuation with sociopathic protagonists. It’s a thing.
Yes, I know…Ripley does Bad Things: Identity theft, fraud, at least three murders, and general profligacy. But the pleasure of the novel – for me – is his path to villainy. Tom’s choices and mistakes drive the narrative and create the dramatic tension. At the beginning of the novel, Tom’s biggest crime is passing bad checks so that he can pay rent. But from there, he’s presented with opportunities and choices, and because we understand his backstory and motivations, we know why he takes the job from Mr. Greenleaf, why he’s attracted to Dickie and Marge’s lifestyle, why his jealousy turns to craving, why he’s desperate to maintain the fictional life he’s created, and finally, why he’s terrified of capture.
The reader understands Ripley’s motivations and roots for him, even though we know we shouldn’t. In our right minds, we believe he should be caught, but we’re thrilled when he finds yet another way to slip between the cracks. The whole joy of the novel is watching Ripley improvise his escapes and make ever-escalating bad choices.
For my dollar, setting up Ripley as a serial predator undercuts him as the protagonist of his own story and drains that dramatic energy. It also precludes the audience from participating in his villainy. I couldn’t see myself rooting for the version of Ripley in the trailer.
My second disappointment is that they filmed in black and white. I initially thought the trailer was stylized to reflect a noir vibe, but then I realized the entire show itself was going to be B&W. To be fair, the cinematography looked gorgeous. My criticism is not a slight to the talent, but rather a disagreement with the artistic choice. If the series had been called Ridgely, I would have watched it and probably enjoyed it.
But instead, the choice to film in black and white robbed the story of one of its crucial elements – its setting.
In Patricia Highsmith’s novels, the setting is not merely where the action occurs. The location is central to the plot and characterization. There are no incidental settings in a Highsmith novel.
Ripley’s story starts in New York, where a clever young forger realistically could get away with passing bad checks. Highsmith could have chosen another large city, but not a smaller one. However, the choice of New York also puts Tom in proximity to money, in the form of Mr. Greenleaf. Greenleaf is motivated by generational status and wealth, an interest he wants his son to share. He hires Tom – a very slight acquaintance of Dickie’s – to retrieve him from Italy. Could this scenario have taken place anywhere but New York? Greenleaf’s motivation and his access to sufficient wealth to run a business, fund his son’s profligate lifestyle, and rent a boy to fetch him required a major city in the background. A major player like Greenleaf doesn’t live in Baltimore or St. Louis. He lives where the action is.
But the rest of the novel absolutely could not have taken place in New York. Why does Ripley become so attached to Dickie Greenleaf, to the point that he becomes him? Tom enters the story through Dickie’s father and the family’s wealth, both of which he envies, but it’s in the Italian seaside town where he’s enraptured. Initially, Tom’s goal is to earn some easy money by tracking down Dickie in the fictional Mongibello, but when he arrives, he’s enthralled by possibilities. This is the life he could be – should be – living, and he can have it, if he ingratiates himself to Dickie. When the younger Greenleaf starts treating Tom to travel, restaurants, and nightclubs, he’s hooked.
And once Tom’s crimes start mounting up, it’s even more clear why the story could not have been set in New York. For Tom to assume Dickie’s identity, the setting had to be relatively remote, somewhere Dickie Greenleaf wasn’t well known. Tom might have gotten away with some light forgery, but he could not have passed himself off as Dickie Greenleaf in New York without a significant risk of bumping into people who knew him or his father. He certainly would not have had easy access to Dickie’s money.
To evade arrest, Tom also needed a locale where he could play cat and mouse with the local police. A densely populated city would have provided less opportunity for evasion, making it more likely he would have been spotted. In Mongibello, Tom could sail up the coast to another remote town. In New York, he could easily have been spotted by a train porter or subway cop. Let’s also concede that the local constabulary in post-WWII Italy weren’t as sophisticated as the NYPD and did not have access to the same technologies.
Ratcheting up the tension, though, Tom is also at a disadvantage in Italy. When he arrives, he does not speak the language and never picks up more than some rudimentary conversation. He does not know his way around. He also has no money, and must rely on Dickie – pre- and post-death – to pay his way. On the other hand, he is also advantaged, because no one knows him, either. He can claim to be Dickie Greenleaf, confident that only a small handful of people in the area know otherwise.
One of the best elements of Anthony Minghella’s 1999 film version is the glorious views of the Italian coastal town, the colors and people. It’s so beautifully done, you can practically feel the midday sun and the breeze, smell the fishermen’s boats and the salt sea and the suntan oil. The audience understands why Tom falls in love, with Italy and with Dickie.
For my dollar, filming in B&W drains much more than the color from the imagery. It robs the setting of its power and puts the audience at a remove from the characters. Your mileage may vary.
I probably wouldn’t care so much, except that Highsmith does such a brilliant job setting her novels. She did so many things well, but carving her characters out of the wood of her locations is one of her master talents. Need more examples?
In Deep Water, the Little Wesley setting is critical to the plot. Little Wesley is a small New England town, but small as in exclusive, not poor. The upper middle class community is tight-knit and socializes regularly at garden parties and dinners. In a more conventional small town, the serial infidelity of the protagonist’s wife, Melinda, would likely have resulted in her being ostracized, but the more worldly neighbors in Little Wesley take their cues from her husband, Vic, who seems to look the other way. Importantly, Melinda uses social occasions to introduce her boyfriends to everyone they know, humiliating Vic. In a larger city, like Boston or New York, she would have had less opportunity to present her lovers repeatedly to the same audience. Melinda’s ability to flaunt her lovers and pay no social cost required a setting where both could happen.
In The Price of Salt (later Carol), it’s important that Carol Aird lives in a tony suburb with a husband with a successful career. If Carol had been wealthier, perhaps someone else would have done her Christmas shopping, preventing her from meeting Therese. If she’d been lower class, Carol’s relationship with Therese would have presented less risk, as her husband could not have afforded a private investigator or lawyers.
In Strangers on a Train, the train setting is central to the inciting incident, of course, but the location of the train at the moment of the fateful meeting is equally important. The conspirators meet while the train is passing through the fictional Metcalf, TX, on the way from New York to Santa Fe. Guy Haines is far from home, contemplating divorce from his unfaithful wife, and perhaps more intrigued by Charles Bruno’s suggestion that they trade murders than he would have been otherwise.
Encountering Charles was mere happenstance that could have occurred anywhere, but would events have followed in the same way if they’d met nearer to Guy’s New York home, or their mutual destination in Santa Fe? Had the train been more populated, Charles might not have risked raising his macabre plot. Had they been closer to Santa Fe, he might not have had time to cultivate his conversation with Guy and make his proposition before they took their leave of one another. By timing the encounter while the train crossed a lonely prairie, Highsmith gave Charles the opportunity to make his pitch and time for Guy to entertain it.
Like a realtor, Highsmith understood one of the most important elements of fiction: Location, location, location. And though her novels were printed in black and white, her writing brought her settings to life in full color.
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