Andrew Scott: "Ripley"

One enduring mystery (for me) is what Patricia Highsmith may have meant by her title, "The Talented Mr. Ripley."

It seems debatable that Tom Ripley is talented. He leaves an obvious bloodstain on a heavily trafficked staircase -- after a crime. (He gets lucky because the landlady concludes that the blood came from a mouse. The landlady blames the cat.) Tom does not check that he has locked his door before (eerily) dressing as his friend and speaking in his friend's voice. And Tom neglects to change out of a particular pair of ostentatious shoes before meeting Freddie Miles; the shoes tell Freddie that Tom is weaving an elaborate lie.

In any case, Tom seems to be slightly *more* talented than the people around him. He can write Marge's book -- when Marge herself is an obviously bad writer. He can quickly reproduce Dickie's paintings, without training (though Dickie thinks of himself as an artist).

These are wonderful, pitiful characters. Marge loves Dickie (though she should not be wasting her time on this guy). Dickie is spoiled and indolent, and also stupidly invested in a dream of "proving one's greatness." In other words, he is human. Tom seems to be a sociopath--but, because he comes from nothing, and because he works quite hard, he is oddly sympathetic. If I had to choose lunch with either Dickie or Tom, I'm almost certain I'd choose lunch with Tom.

I think this series is spellbinding--especially Andrew Scott's contribution. What a gift to have eight hours to get lost on this strange, and strangely plausible, "Highsmith Planet."

Comments

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

Search This Blog