Richard Gardner

From the opening montage of Tom Ripley in New York (expertly directed–to contain the lengthy (and largely superfluous) prologue to the novel within the title sequence) to the lustrous beaches of an Italy beginning to find new resplendence from post-war decline (and then later Rome, San Remo and Venice) this is a film that is glittering with the class and debauchery of the period. In this way, the depiction of Patricia Highsmith’s classic psychological thriller is a fair triumph; however, the source material (as with Highsmith’s other works) was about much more than trimmings.

First, though, a tribute to Jude Law–in a sparkling performance–who plays the playboy son of a shipping millionaire, Dickie Greenleaf, with the kind of precision and metrosexual magnetism that I thought he would be unlikely to bring to the screen as I read the novel. His performance is crisp and energetic and is (actually) so spell-binding that the film sags terribly when he departs.

It is difficult to find fault with Matt Damon’s (genuine) portrayal of Tom Ripley, for (as I will mention later) he is hampered by some fairly pointless directorial focus. He manages to capture the character from an outsiders perspective (the nervous ticks; the more obvious social faults), but doesn’t really get under the skin of Ripley’s schizophrenic illness (if ever there was an adaptation that screamed for a narrative voice-over, it was here), as Highsmith achieves (with an unnerving accuracy) in the book. In fact, I wasn’t really certain whilst watching this as to whether Ripley was a psychopath or simply someone who accidently commits murder and then decides to assume their identity (there isn’t much room for uncertainty in the novel…)

Gyeneth Paltrow also shines as Marge (who — like Law’s Dickie — brings character  to life as you would expect her to be) in the sort of manner you would expect Gywneth Paltrow to do. The trouble is — unlike Law — she is also present in the second half of the film, which is where the second major problem comes in.

Though the film largely captures the feel of the novel during the first half (largely due to Law and the fantastic sun-bleached locations)–and you feel it might be heading towards a decent homage–it plummets rapidly in the second half. What should have been a paranoid study of Ripley’s mental decline (swinging helplessly between fits of manic exuberance and reclusion) is simply a formulaic (and fairly contrived) 90s Hollywood thriller, which bears less and less resemblance to its inspired source material.

Throughout, I was disapointed that so many small details of the plot had been altered, but later on (with new characters changing the plot significantly, and the realisation that Ripley wasn’t going to be explored in anything like the depth he needed to be), I just ended up becoming annoyed (don’t film a classic novel and then fool everybody into thinking you are going to actually do it justice only for it to turn into every other film halfway through–the book didn’t really fully come alive until the point where this film dies…)

I can see why people enjoy this film: it is original (compared to most “serial killer” films). It is stylishly set up and well-acted. It just isn’t a patch on the novel, though, and (in pointlessly changing so much/leaving out so many important themes) doesn’t even really make an effort to be (it is telling that Damon wished afterward that they could film it again using the original plot).

Watch Hitchcock’s interpretation of Strangers On  A Train if you want to see a better (though still not perfect) translation of Highsmith’s unique paranoia on screen. Better still, just read her novels: they are light years better plotted than something like this.

The Rules of Attraction (Brett Easten Ellis’s second novel) is a richer and deeper exploration of the nihilistic themes he covered in his stark debut. Whereas Less Than Zero concentrated on the empty existence of rich, hedonistic Camden student Clay (covering his drug-showered return to LA one holiday), The Rules of Attraction follows three — similarly pampered and self-obsessive/self destructive — students (this time at Camden college itself).

It is more of the same, really — none-stop partying, drinking and references to popular 80s youth culture; the characters making no attempt to do anything constructive with their lives — and in some ways is a much better novel. It is funnier (Ellis is sharper and more comfortable when swinging his satirical axe — though his humour is still muted in comparison to American Psycho); it is more complicated (not just in there being three protagonists, but also in scale (the college drug sex social mess is realistically constructed) and greater covers the effects that their bohemian lifestyle has on their purchased souls). You are also left with an even bigger void of hope at the end of it all (despite the somewhat flowery title, this is no romantic comedy).

I didn’t really enjoy it as much, though. I guess, because it wasn’t new to me anymore. I think I was hoping for a greater shift towards the naked satire of American Psycho. More of this novel is filled with the same empty observations and dialogue that made Less Than Zero so effective. This isn’t a bad thing, but it takes greater effort to get into (getting to intimately know three characters instead of one), a little longer to read and doesn’t really reward you with enough new ideas.

Anyway, that is only a surface disappointment: more of Less Than Zero is a good thing and I did enjoy reading this. Fans of his first novel will feel at home here. If you haven’t read that, then I recommend that you should read it first–it is a slightly more focused and fluent example of Easton Ellis’s early work.