The Talented Mr.Ripley

There are few things I hate more in a movie review than when the reviewer can't stop talking about how much better the book was. Most times, you haven't read the book. You're too busy to read the book. And if you cared enough to read the book yourself, you're probably going to see the movie anyway and decide for yourself. So I promise I won't tell you how much I relished Patricia Highsmith's wicked little fiction The Talented Mr. Ripley a couple years ago, and its four cold-blooded sequels in the years since. You don't care. I barely care. We're moving on.

I really want you to see the movie The Talented Mr. Ripley. Even though I still haven't decided how I feel about the embellishments concocted by writer-director Anthony Minghella to update this compelling tale of 1950's class envy and blossoming psychosis. The outlines of the story are the same in both versions: Tom Ripley (Matt Damon), a poor, smart chameleon, comes to Italy under false pretenses and insinuates himself into the wealthy life of prodigal Dickie "Ouch!" Greenleaf (Jude Law). Dickie's not always as naughty as the name suggests, but sometimes he's far worse. Jude Law is the consummate self-involved prick; he's best when playing dissipated rich boys like the wheelchair-bound himbo in Gattaca, men who would loathe themselves if they would take the time to bother.

The role of Dickie Greenleaf lets Law be charming and cruel: he wears the part like a fine, sleek suit, just crumpled enough to seem lived-in. Even in one of those absurd '50s hats that wanna-beatniks had to sport, Law comes across as a little bit perfect, and a little bit vile. You can see why Tom gets all hot around the collar for Dickie's lifestyle, even if it comes with Gwyneth Paltrow as an accessory too sweetie-pie elegant for its own good. Of course, Mr. Ripley doesn't last too long as Dickie's new toy. Tensions arise from all sides. Tom lacks that preppie Princetonian je ne sais quoi, and he feels, well, a little too hot around the collar about Dickie for his own good, especially after Dickie gets bored and moves on to fresher playthings.

But Ripley is more stubborn than he seems, especially when he realizes that he's suddenly living the life he always wanted. Highsmith's book keeps the audience engaged just by introducing clearheaded, elegant Tom Ripley. He's fascinating because we know what he's capable of, which is just about anything. He's like Hannibal Lecter minus all that nonsense about fava beans and a nice chianti. But the movie takes the story in an entirely different direction simply by a shift of emphasis. Where Highsmith's 1950's novel barely dares to hint at any latent homoeroticism, the movie explicitly exposes Thomas Ripley to the world, as he hungers both for Dickie's life and Dickie's posterior. Now, Mr. Ripley isn't only eyeing Dickie's suits, he's nuzzling them.

The choice to portray Tom Ripley as a gay man is risky, and not only for Matt Damon's career. As a man capable of murder on a bad day (don't worry, I'm not really giving anything away), a gay Thomas Ripley might become some terrible variation on the mythic self-hating homosexual serial killed--a queasy Andrew Cunanan done up in old-fashioned clothes. But the change actually produces all kinds of new tensions that deepen the emotional weight of the story. Tom's confused sexuality is just another expression of his place outside the privileged world of golden boys.

The newly expanded role of Peter Smith-Kingsley, a British playmate for Tom who enters in the late stages of the film, puts a whole new spin on Tom's movement into his new world. While the acting is uniformly fine, the prize of the hour goes to newcomer Jack Davenport, who brings this character to life with such exquisite sensitivity that he more than justifies the touchy business of Tom's gayness. I wouldn't be surprised if you hear the name Davenport again sometime soon. If Anthony Minghella weren't such a smart writer and director, the changed emphasis might have obscured the icy brilliance of Tom's amoral talents. But Minghella knows a good story when he sees one--his last triumph was the sweeping, stony The English Patient-- and he treats Tom Ripley's tale like David Lean on an epic bender. The thriller story becomes woven into a gorgeous, glorious travelogue through the high points of Italian sightseeing, circa 1957. And, I'll admit, I'm a sucker for a pretty shot of Roman sunlight.

The film evokes late '50s psychodrama with more precision than it has any right to. The music alone, a collection of some of the coolest cool-cat classics of the period, captures that legendary moment when you were more likely to spot Chet Baker in a Naples jazz club than an upstate prison sickroom. The movie probably won't make any top-ten lists this winter--it's good, but it's not quite that deep--but I'll be damned if it doesn't have the wittiest opening credit sequence of the year. It's a not-so-subtle allusion to 1950's credits wiz Saul Bass, and the mere echo works wonders to situate the film within a specific time period, genre and tone. You can practically smell the Lucky Strikes. Even if you don't recognize the reference you'll appreciate the handiwork, and John Seale's meticulous cinematography consistently honors the old masters of that time.

To be sure, there is something a little quixotic about following up a picture on war-ravaged 1940's Tuscany with one on jazz-happy 1950's Rome. But I'm delighted that Minghella is so insistent upon bringing us Italy in ravishing color. A spoonful of Italian sugar makes the thriller go down so easy that one wonders whether the ghost of Federico Fellini wasn't smiling on this one. Why not? Thomas Ripley isn't really all that different from Fellini's heroines: like, say, Giulietta Masina in Nights of Cabiria. They are just two lost idealists looking up at the beautiful world they can't quite enter themselves. But while Masina laughs, Ripley rends. The difference is heartbreaking.