Ripley is and has always been a uniquely American character. But you have to keep in mind that it was conceived and brought to life by a cranky, unhappy, ex-pat. So what you get in the seemingly ageless series of books that have been inspiring adaptation after adaptation is a profoundly unpleasant character with no gifts outside of mimicry and nothing much to offer but uncomfortable attention that’s quick to turn deadly.
Ripley is a void of a person, and from time to time he tries to complete himself with other things … and people. It isn’t so much that Ripley is unknowable, it’s that there isn’t much to know about him. He’s malleable, adaptable, quick on his feet, and utterly unburdened by conventional morality. In many surface respects, he is very ordinary. It’s what makes him such a good villain. Also, notably, unlike so many other villains who do soliloquys expounding on their motives and reasons, Ripley stays quiet. He simply is. He simply does things. That’s what makes him such an effective villain. Ripley’s creator was notoriously difficult about her character’s screen adaptations. She panned at first then loved Wim Wenders movie. It is very unlikely that she would have enjoyed Mignella’s movie, arguably the most famous one, which glammed up and hollywoodized Ripley into practically a stranger to his origins. But she might have liked this adaptation. Although exhaustively detailed and quite slow, taking eight long episodes to adapt a rather slim book, it nevertheless seems to “get” the novel and its subject. Shut in stunning black-and-white, which gives the beauty of Italy a subtle sinister undertone, and competently cast, it features one of the latest Irish leading men, Scott of Moriarty fame, as the eponymous character. Scott is actually perfect for Ripley. It isn’t just that he’s average looking, it’s that he’s unpleasant looking. He looks like the worst thing (person) to have happened to someone. As Moriarty, he was the worst thing to have happened to Sherlock, and here he is the same to the poor young Mr. Greenleaf. Scott’s Ripley can barely even hold on to his surface charm, which keeps slipping and sliding, constantly exposing him to others, like poor Freddy or poor Marge, who see right through the thin façade. Even Greenleaf catches on eventually, but he is much too nice to address it well or in time. The only person who fails to catch on is the detective investigating the murders. It is jarringly noticeable in the scene where he inexplicably fails to recognize Ripley (whom he’s met before on numerous occasions and talked to extensively) because of—get this—a bit of facial fur, an ugly wig, and some mood lighting. Seriously? Well, sheesh no wonder Ripley gets away with it all to live another day, sneak into another book, another adventure, and likely another season of the TV show. I’d likely watch it, too, because despite being far from perfect, it’s so freaking compelling. And Ripley is too unique of a character not to fascinate. Although in and of himself, he is profoundly unfascinating. Just a two-bit conman with jumped-up ideas and complete absence of conscience. I’m not sure Ripley books would have been published in this day and age. The public has been conditioned and dumbed down to crave a very specific sort of thriller with a very specific sort of protagonist, morals, etc. Even the page count now is curated. Ripley books would be deemed too thin, too male-centric, too amoral. Which is what makes it so great that he survives and goes on to grab attention once again. Like the striking black-and-white cinematography, it’s a lovely reminder of the golden age of publishing, where originality still mattered. And of course now that Ripley’s in the world, he comes back again and again. Because, of course, you can’t keep a good psychopath down.
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