I love comparing adaptations. Chalk it up to me being an English major who everyone thought was a film major, I guess. And I especially love it when there are two versions of something that are completely perpendicular to each other. Luca Guadagnino’s Suspiria takes the basic framework of Argento’s original—this German dance academy is, in fact, a powerful coven—and brings in a somber, muted vibe that couldn’t be more different from the luridly Technicolor original. Gus Van Sant’s much-maligned Psycho was technically a shot-for-shot remake of the Hitchcock classic, but it has its own aesthetics and sensibilities that make it something more than just a weirdo curiosity.
Enter Ripley. As in, The Talented Mr. Ripley, but by 2024 he’s lost the talent and the salutation. Ripley’s just this guy, you know?
Across both adaptations of Patricia Highsmith’s novel, the central characters here are: Tom Ripley, a constantly churning grifter; Dickie Greenleaf, 1957’s most eligible failson; and Marge Sherwood, Dickie’s increasingly suspicious girlfriend. Through a series of suggestions and misunderstandings, Tom gets sent to Italy to convince Dickie to return home and take his rightful place as the heir to Mr. Greenleaf’s shipping business. Tom instead stays in Italy and gets further entangled in Dickie & Marge’s life. Envy, sexual confusion, and murder ensue.
Spoilers ensue. Tommy! How’s the peeping? Tommy. Howww’s the peeping?
Like with Suspiria and Psycho, it’s a hell of a bold move to adapt something with a beloved version already out there. And Anthony Minghella’s The Talented Mr. Ripley is beloved. You have Jude Law at the peak of his bronze jungle cat beauty. You have Gwyneth Paltrow at the peak of her patrician movie star glamour. (More on her later.) You have goddamn Matt Damon playing his saddest version of the untrustworthy. little. guttersnipes. that he so often plays. And you have Philip Seymour Hoffman making one of the best character entrances in movie history.
To look at that impossibly chic and sun-kissed beauty and decide to do the exact opposite takes real conviction, and Steve Zaillian, the mind behind Netflix’s black & white Ripley, has conviction in spades. All of the decisions that went into this mini-series grow from that. I could honestly document all of the differences between the two versions for hours, and have done so to the innocent bystanders who wandered into my path right after I watched the two versions back-to-back—apologies, dear ones. But instead, I want to focus on the money.
Damon-Ripley is an opportunistic striver, sure, but his eagerness is almost off-puttingly human and relatable. He falls in love with Dickie and Marge because, I mean, how could he not? They are so tan, so happy, so full of life.
Dickie is sloppy and selfish and cruel, but these are all faults of excess—he’s rich enough to do whatever he likes, and his beauty and charisma make it even easier for everyone to forgive him. And his beauty and charisma are so tied to his wealth. He can afford to be this tan, he can afford an icebox, he can afford those irresistible little knit polos. Same with Marge—her exquisite mid-century fits only get more jaw-dropping as the movie goes on. Honestly, as the temperature and her trust in Damon-Ripley drop, she just looks wealthier and wealthier.
As weird as it seems 25 years later, Gwyneth Paltrow really was lovable back in the ‘90s. And as Marge, she plays an arguably more tragic figure than Tom Ripley himself. Even though his every act is one of desperation, Tom at least takes action. Marge just watches her beautiful life ruined by a jealous interloper who kills her fiancé and manages to make off with Dickie’s inheritance and Marge’s gay best friend. (Who he then also kills! Goddamn you, Matt Damon!) Since all the men in her life keep writing her concerns off as hysterics, all she can do is snipe at Tom for being poor. Her snobbish comments about knowing him before his new “to the manor born” presentation doesn’t read as pure snobbery, but as Cassandra-like insight into Tom’s villainy that nobody else will acknowledge. If it weren’t for this grasping little social climber, the movie suggests, Marge would have had the glittering life she deserved.
The late ‘90s was the last time someone like Gwyneth Paltrow could be lovable. That’s back when we as a society still loved family dynasties, from the Kennedys to the Barrymores. That kind of wealth and power was deeply aspirational, and we couldn’t get enough.
Here in 2024, Zaillian’s version of Tom, Marge, and Dickie could not be further removed from Minghella’s. Andrew Scott plays this (much older) Ripley as upsettingly detached from humanity, much less interested in being included or loved, and much more in finding long-term marks. There’s nothing romantic in his appraisal of Johnny Flynn’s (much older) Dickie; he coolly assesses him as someone who has the easy life that Scott-Ripley wants, and who isn’t even doing anything fun with it. He does, however, openly hate Dakota Fanning’s (same age as Gwyneth’s) Marge.
When we first meet black & white Dickie & Marge, they’re completely alone and fully clothed on an empty beach. Nobody else is having a luxurious vacation in this Italian beach town—it’s just these two on a boring, endless holiday.
This Dickie isn’t cheating on this Marge, but he’s also not talking about loving or marrying her. Instead of loving jazz and making up in energy what he lacks in talent, this Dickie paints and doesn’t make up for his lack of talent in any way. If Jude Law’s Dickie is the kind of rich guy you invite along because he could get y’all into the coolest spots, Johnny Flynn’s Dickie is the kind of rich guy you invite along exclusively in the hopes that he’ll pay for everything. And this Marge isn’t a tragic figure, nor is she remotely aspirational. She wears practical menswear and a perfunctory ponytail in just about every scene, and Tom reveals her to be a thoroughly mediocre writer.
Nothing about Dickie and Marge’s existence seems appealing, beyond the endless comfort. They have none of the charm and sparkle of their 1999 counterparts. The noir-ish black & white cinematography precludes any visual warmth, and the character portrayals are just as chilly. These are not two young, free-spirited beauties enjoying their youth before the (slight) responsibilities of their wealth catch up with them. This is a 35-year-old man hiding from life because he simply cannot hang. This is young Connor Roy, frankly.
The Succession vibes don’t end with Flynn-Dickie, either. Instead of the glittering, aspirational wealth that Damon-Ripley couldn’t help but covet, the 2024 version’s chilly distance feels very familiar to the Roy family saga. These are people so stunted by their wealth that they can’t enjoy it, and we’re prompted to question whether they deserve it. If anyone does, it’s Scott-Ripley, who logs so many on-screen minutes of effort—climbing stairs, disposing of bodies, painstakingly forging passports—that his grift feels like an entire job. A job he’s willing to do so he can wear Ferragamo shoes and track down seemingly every Caravaggio painting in Italy, just so he can see them in person.
Since 1999, we’ve weathered too many financial crises and become too disgusted by wealth disparity for dilettantes and socialites to be heroes or victims in these stories anymore. Still, we haven’t lost our Damon-Ripley-esque instinct to press our noses up against the glass and gaze at all that wealth. So now, we make these characters our antagonists and anti-heroes. Now, we root for their downfall while we tell ourselves that we would be better stewards of this kind of privilege. Now, we hate Gwyneth Paltrow. Because, unless we’re willing to forget even more than we usually do to keep living in this specific society, we can’t quite let ourselves go back.
LOVE. So insightful.
Excellent essay