The reviews for Netflix’s elegant new Patricia Highsmith adaptation, Ripley, have been mixed. While some critics have adored its moody black-and-white posturing and even labelled it a work of art, others have been less impressed. Is Andrew Scott a bit too old to be Tom Ripley, who is 25 in the first novel of the series? Does it compare unfavourably with the peerless Anthony Minghella version from 1999, or to 1960’s Plein Soleil, in which Alain Delon played the scheming sociopath? At eight episodes, with some pushing over the hour mark, is it stretching a relatively short novel beyond its limits?
These are all questions of taste, of course, but it is hard to deny that Ripley is slow. It takes its time, it builds its case, and it luxuriates in the beauty and/or grubbiness of its surroundings. There are lingering shots of staircases – so many staircases – and statues, skies and scenery. This is a highly aestheticised world, and the noir-ish palette works surprisingly well, considering that much of its early action is set on the Amalfi Coast. You might think that such sun-kissed luxury would disappear in monochrome, but it only makes it all the more eerie, and the sinister threat all the more pronounced.
