Archive for the 'Analysis' Category

28
Jul

wargames 25th anniversary event

It was the coolest movie trailer in the summer of 1983. A robotic synthetic voice asked “SHALL WE PLAY A GAME?” as the words themselves spooled out across a computer screen. And a nearly unknown Matthew Broderick (character name: David Lightman) answered back: “How about ‘GLOBAL THERMONUCLEAR WAR’?”… unleashing a phantom Soviet missile attack and chaos inside of NORAD.

OMG!!! IT WAS AWESOME!!

Okay, so ordinary people didn’t scream Internet (or even mundane) slang in all-caps back then. Actually, nobody I knew had ever even been online… except maybe those guys who kept round-the-clock vigil inside the university computer lab and spoke amongst themselves in Elvish. But for the rest of us, David Lightman’s hack in to the ARPANET was our first entry into the world of hacking, personal computers, dial-up connections and extremely large floppy disks.

Young America packed the theaters, Roger Ebert gave the film a rousing thumbs-up, and computer science majors must have tripled that Fall after the summer movie Geekathon! Even a decade later, I got a special WarGames rush when I opened the back of a new PC, installed a 14.4 Kbps dial-up modem, and then dialed my first number, heard the handshake and logged in.

The movie rocked my world. So what did I think when I heard there would be a special 25th Anniversary big screen presentation? I was: 1)Thrilled. 2)Worried.

Worried? Yes. What if it didn’t hold up after all these years? I really hadn’t seen the film since Matthew Broderick (like us) was still a fresh-faced kid. And the technology involved could—you know—be called a little… old. I mean, the first Mac didn’t even come out until a year later. And now? In a single day, I can confront two unique virus threats to my work PC, conduct business by email with prospective magazine contributors located anywhere inside the English-speaking world, send an article typed from a prone position on my laptop to an online magazine that could be housed literally anywhere in close enough proximity to Earth, and practice lightsaber technique, Backgammon and advanced Sudoku on my iPhone. If you’re reading this, you are already online and can add your own litany of everyday computer marvels.

So how did this seminal and award-winning film hold up after all these years? Astoundingly well—and definitely worth a shout-out on its Silver Anniversary.

Pre-event photo taken on iPhone

To celebrate the landmark, MGM Studios teamed up with Fathom Events to create a satellite broadcast airing Thursday, July 24 at 7:30 pm local time in select theaters nationwide. The theater selection, though, was fairly broad—at least in major markets. Virtually all of the multiplexes on the Virginia side of the Washington DC Metro Area offered tickets, including my local theater, where I had just seen this summer’s blockbuster, Dark Knight, a few days before.

The short feature preceding the main event contained standard made-for-DVD feature fare (film footage, on-the-set stills, interviews with major cast and crew) plus a look inside the real NORAD (the military command center featured in the film).

Did you ever see that Star Trek documentary in which LeVar Burton got folks at NASA and the scientific community to talk about the aspirational impact Star Trek had on their professional lives? That’s what the interviews with NORAD personnel were like. The interviewees adored WarGames, but were quick to point out the fantasy elements of the film in light of NORAD realities. For example, they didn’t even have full-color displays back in 1983. WarGames gave the folks at NORAD technology they could aspire to—though not (and never!) technology that could go around crucial human decision making.

After the short documentary (which I will just bet is on the 25th Anniversary DVD!), they rolled out the trailer for War Games: The Dead Code, set for straight-to-DVD release on Tuesday, July 29. The new movie does not continue the adventures of David Lightman (though the character list does include a “Dr. Stephen Falken,” the scientist who programmed the WOPR computer that wanted Lightman to play a game). Rather, the film is a cyberterror update, featuring a new fresh face wanting to play games with a seemingly benign piece of particularly pernicious code.

The warm-up over, WarGames itself finally hit the big screen for one special show. It was kind of like catching up with an old friend from 20 years ago. I couldn’t always see what was coming, but I remembered it when I saw it. Among the pleasant semi-surprises:

  • Getting a quick look inside the Minuteman Missile silos. I didn’t know it until about a decade after my dad retired from his top secret job negotiating contracts for the Air Force, but those silos put food on my table when I was a kid. By the time I got to college, I’d concluded that dad had bought Minuteman nukes for a living, but he corrected me when asked, saying: “No. I bought the silos.” WarGames gave me at least a fictionalized look into what my dad had wrought.
  • The film score and sound design. I never knew just how far I could wax nostalgic over sounds from the video arcade! Using a combination of military-style march music and 1980s computer bloops and bleeps, the film score struck a perfect balance between the worlds of NORAD and David Lightman. Not surprisingly, “Sound” was one of three categories for which the film received an Oscar nomination. Alas, “Soundtrack” was not another.
  • The intelligent and nuanced nature of the script—another category for which the film got nominated. The screenplay for WarGames could have gone for any number of clichés. For example (skip ahead of you don’t want spoilers!):
    1. The commanding general could have been a bloodthirsty redneck warmonger.
    2. The resolution could have used a classic deus ex machina straight out of Star Trek to disable the computer.
    3. The script could have given us dialog making a direct comparison between young Lightman’s skills and Falken’s long-dead hopes for his now-deceased son.

    Instead:

    1. Colorful as he is, the general is the voice of reason, arguing with government civilians that humans, not computers, should control the warheads.
    2. The tic-tac-toe game does not halt the launch of WWIII by blowing the computer’s circuits in grand Star Trek: TOS style, but rather helps the artificially intelligent computer to reach its own conclusion that mutually assured destruction is a pointless gaming strategy.
    3. We can read the excitement and pride in Falken’s face as Lightman finds the solution, but the script never bashes us over the head by making explicit comparisons with Joshua.

Yes, of course, the movie also has elements that appear incredibly silly today. Network security is almost non-existent. A world-class computer scientist has a backdoor password into NORAD’s WOPR war-strategy computer that anybody who’s read his bio could hack. It’s easy today to laugh at such nonsense, but as far as I can tell present-day network security (and password) standards resulted from hacker exploits. It didn’t precede them.

One other point of amusement: all those great shifting lights on the WOPR computer? Those were controlled by a guy sitting inside the box, hooked up to the interface with an Apple II (that’s pre-Mac, for you young folks!).

All in all, the WarGames 25th Anniversary Event was well-executed and a great deal of fun. Too bad it wasn’t better advertised.

And just remember the next time you see some cinematic hacker unleash a bit of cyber-havoc… David Lightman may not have been the first-ever hacker on screen, but WarGames‘ breakout success did make “the hacker” a standard movie character type.

21
Jul

michael emerson’s 5 creepiest characters of all time:
hour of the wolf

In his “creepiest performances” video, Michael Emerson (Ben Linus on LOST) gives a nod to Max von Sydow and Ingmar Bergman:

Another great one is, if you watch Ingmar Bergman movies… Max von Sydow did a movie for Bergman called The Hour of the Wolf, where he plays a sort of standard tortured Swedish artist who just can’t stop killing young people. It’s kind of awful. —Michael Emerson

Most people don’t go looking to Ingmar Bergman for their “creepy fix.” But obviously they should—and Michael Emerson (almost apologetically) does. It would be hard to come up with a better pick. Hour of the Wolf, Bergman’s lone”horror” movie, practically defines “creepy.”

The film shows the disintegration of an artist’s mind as strange phenomena occur on the remote and isolated island he inhabits with his wife. We never know quite whether the phenomena are objective supernatural disturbances or subjective mental ones. (sound familiar?) But demonic figures (alternately referred to as “cannibals” and “ghosts”) do interact with the couple either objectively or subjectively, and seek to “claim” the man as their own—driving him toward murder and madness, and most likely to his own death.

Stephen King, obviously, ran with this concept in The Shining. But Stanley Kubrick’s film version of that novel relies on a visual style nearly opposite Bergman’s. Kubrick’s Overlook Hotel is full of light and color, a stunning contrast to the dark drama surrounding Jack Torrence.

Hour of the Wolf (shot by legendary cinematographer Sven Nykvist in black and white) uses chiaroscuro techniques to bring the faces of the characters out of the surrounding darkness (and to darken their faces when surrounded by light).

Von Sydow by nightVon Sydow by night

Not to belabor the point (such lighting has become so commonplace), but compare the shadows on Von Sydow’s face with the shadows often used to frame Emerson’s character, Ben Linus:

Shape of Things to Come - Ben reacts to Alex's deathShape of Things to Come - Ben threatens Widmore

It’s easy, of course, to make superficial comparisons with LOST. After all, Bergman’s film is set on a remote island where we don’t always know what’s real and what’s not, while Von Sydow’s artist, Johan Borg, is almost always shot in partial shadow. But Hour of the Wolf is really more like what would happen if the unutterable humiliations found in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf were visited upon an insomniac already on the verge of a mental breakdown… and visited upon him by supernatural monsters. All I can say is that, psychologically, Bergman must have been having a pretty bad year.

As a filmmaker, Ingmar Bergman dealt with his personal anxieties and demons by turning them into movies. So Hour of the Wolf is not merely a brooding meditation on the theme of madness. It is actually a very personal film. Von Sydow is largely standing in for Bergman, who had himself suffered (and been hospitalized for) a significant mental breakdown only couple of years earlier. While Bergman grappled with the darkness, Von Sydow (a frequent Bergman actor) had been playing Jesus in The Greatest Story Ever Told, one of the last all-star biblical epics.

Okay, so now I’ll ‘fess up before I bore you with an endless stream of Bergman and Von Sydow trivia. I “found” Bergman during the requisite “post mortem” viewing of what I assumed would be a medicinal dose of just one or two of the director’s films. I’d been avoiding his work my entire adult life because of the whole “tortured Swedish artist” thing that Emerson mentions. But with his death, I decided it was time to see at least one Bergman film.

And so I saw The Seventh Seal. And then I watched Virgin Spring. And then I watched Wild Strawberries… and Persona… and Through a Glass Darkly... and Winter Light… and The Silence… and Shame… and Hour of the Wolf. I just couldn’t get enough. Bergman was nothing like what I expected. Yes, he was full-on arthouse and full-on tortured, but man was he compelling!

For me, finding Bergman was like a huge relief. Here was somebody making well-crafted movies that asked the big questions, and asked them honestly—not as a chance to pontificate but as an opportunity to explore. It was exciting to see films this courageous and probing—a cinema of ideas. And oddly, Bergman’s exploration of the darkness was not nihilistic, but often strangely hopeful.

But there’s not much hopefulness in Hour of the Wolf. The darkness of the title (the hour between night and dawn) permeates the fabric of the film. Von Sydow delivers a magnificently tormented performance as the doomed artist, and Liv Ullmann is spectacular in her part of the grief-stricken wife. You could say that this is a “creepy” favorite of mine. And I’m delighted to find that it’s also a favorite of Michael Emerson’s.

This article first appeard on Blogcritics.
It has also appeared on the LOST site Room 23.

BTW, if you want to get a sense of the film, you can find the American trailer here. It does contain partial upper nudity.

17
Jul

regarding blondes, psychics and abberline’s
crutch (part 1)

I had the opportunity to appear this week on Episode 22 of Rippercast, a wonderful podcast for all things related to Jack the Ripper. This week host Jonathan Menges and a panel of Ripperologists took some time to discuss Ripper movies with me. What fun! It was an international Skype call (first time I ever used Skype), with participants spread out from Kansas to England.

The name of the episode is “Blondes, Psychics and Abberline’s Crutch.” I’d link to it, but the Rippercast site is experiencing technical difficulties. It’s also available on iTunes for easy download, which is how I got my copy.

Y’know, when you listen to an actor on one of those DVD commentary tracks, you’ll frequently hear comments like “Oh, they shot the wrong side of my profile” or “My nose is way too big.” (we’re all so vain).

For me, listening to this episode is kind of like that. I’m thinking: “Whoa, I sound like I’m talking over him, cutting him off. I hope they didn’t all think I’m rude.” Or… “Well, that was a missed opportunity. I could have mentioned…” Anyway, just thought I’d provide a little elaboration on some of those missed opportunities.

#1 Jonathan asks me what my favorite Ripper movie is, and I come out of the gate with the apparently controversial 1988 production with Michael Caine. So let me clarify what I meant when I said that it “tells the case the way it really was.”

First, I think that serious students of the case (let’s call them “investigative Ripperologists” for short) and serious students of the movies (that would be me!) can have different perspectives on what makes a good Ripper film… or even what constitutes “verisimilitude” in a film about the Whitechapel murders. 

I have seen, well, just about all the movies listed on this site. A significant percentage of them (90%? 80%?) are highly fanciful. So… along comes the 1988 Jack the Ripper, and the film is set in the real world (not in outer space or in some parallel supernaturalized universe or in some sanitized London). It does a very realistic job of recreating the 1888 East End. It names the real victims, gets the modus operandi correct, includes numerous well-known incidents from the investigation into the case. It shows the potential for social unrest. Heck it even gets down to showing the weird Richard Mansfield wrinkle. Most Ripper movies don’t even try to name the real victims, much less use the killer’s authentic modus operandi, much less try to recreate the East End!

“Abberline’s crutch” (part of the title Jonathan gave to this Rippercast episode) does highlight a potential point of contention between the traditional investigative Ripperologist and a student of film—i.e. the portrayal of Abberline, chief investigator on the case. I did a doubletake, sure, when I first saw him portrayed as a drunk. But I’ve seen movies that portray the victims as glamor girls and the Ripper as a supernatural monster who transcends time! So portraying Abberline as having a crutch (in this case, an alcohol addiction) did not register very high on my “egregiously unrealistic” meter… though I guess it certainly registered for Abberline’s family. For me, none of that hurts my enjoyment of the movie, given Michael Caine’s wonderful performance and all.  But it is enough to get an investigative Ripperologist fuming!

Nothing wrong with that. We’re just looking for different things. He’s looking for absolute accuracy while I’m giving the film marks not only for being an excellently crafted, well-acted production but also for happening to be the most accurate non-documentary film on the killings that I know of. 100% accurate? No. Most accurate? Yes.

So, if you’re an investigative Ripperologist who’s shocked by what I said about the movie, just remember that I come at the films from a movie angle (i.e., do they make good cinema?). “Most accurate” Ripper movie is good enough for me! “Well acted” Ripper movie is good enough for me. Heck, even “supremely entertaining though preposterous” Ripper movie is good enough for me. (Hey, I like Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde.. and yes, I do know better!).

So, that’s where I’m coming from when I list the 1988 MIchael Caine movie as one of my favorites.

13
Jul

michael emerson’s 5 creepiest characters of all time:
the maltese falcon

In his EW video on the creepiest performances of all time, Michael Emerson (Ben Linus on LOST) reveals that Sidney Greenstreet creeps him out:

Another über creepy performance, I think, is Sidney Greenstreet’s in The Maltese Falcon. He’s one of those characters who’s so civilized on the surface, and yet you hope you’re never left in a room alone with him.—Michael Emerson

The Maltese Falcon Movie PosterWell, that’s one performance I didn’t see coming! Greenstreet’s character, Kaspar Gutman (a.k.a. “The Fatman”), is probably the most affable character in The Maltese Falcon. But of course, as Emerson points out, it’s all surface. Below the surface, Gutman has no compunction about having his henchman bump off people who get in the way of his objective—just as he has no compunction about selling out his henchman to the police only a moment after claiming that the young man is “like a son” to him.

What I find odd is that Emerson honed in on Gutman when there are really so many creepy characters in The Maltese Falcon to choose from. How about that leering lech of a partner who gets himself killed by the crafty dame? How about the effete crook who offers Bogart’s detective $5000 for the return of the bird? How about the dame herself who plays schoolgirl innocent while concocting murder?

When I see this movie, my money for creepy is on the femme fatale—the dame. She is a serial confabulationist who the second she gets caught in one lie starts creating a new one without missing a beat. By the end of the film, we’re not certain that anything she’s said is true. She seems as substantial (or insubstantial) as Keyser Söze.

Yes, Gutman is a sociopath (like so many of Emerson’s choices). But I still find it curious that Emerson finds the disjunction between civilized surface and murderous interior so über creepy. Is this one of those factors that Emerson brings to his own creation of Ben Linus—a character who appears so civilized on the outside but who helped The Hostiles annihilate the Dharma Initiative (the community he grew up in) and personally killed his father as part of that purge, seemingly without a second thought?

(This is putting aside, of course, the fact that we still don’t know the whole story of the Dharma Initiative, why they couldn’t get along with The Hostiles, how/why the purge occurred, or Ben’s complete role in that event. What we do know is that Emerson played Ben throughout Season 3 of LOST as a hyper-civilized sociopath—an interpretation that reached its pinnacle in “The Man Behind the Curtain” episode’s flashback to the purge.)

So allow me to speculate that perhaps Michael Emerson’s unease with Kaspar Gutman is one of those factors that he draws on (consciously or unconsciously) to make us uneasy with Ben Linus. After all, an actor can find inspiration in the strangest places. It’s well known that Anthony Hopkins’ characterization of Hannibal Lecter was inspired in part by HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey!

Speaking of which, let me add that the “off-the-grid” choice of Sidney Greenstreet tells you everything you need to know about why Michael Emerson is qualified to play creepy… and why I’m not. I would have gone for a perfectly obvious creepy performance and probably selected Hannibal Lecter for this slot. Emerson’s choice, on the other hand, is so unexpected that it’s inspired.

This article first appeard on Blogcritics.
The LOST site Room 23, found it on Blogcritics and re-posted it on their site. Thanks guys! Nice to get a nod from the Losties!

07
Jul

michael emerson’s 5 creepiest characters of all time:
nosferatu

“Creepy” is the first word viewers use to describe Ben Linus, former leader of The Others on LOST. Some time back, Entertainment Weekly got Michael Emerson, the actor who plays Ben, to reveal who he credits with giving the 5 creepiest performance in film and television history. EW later posted the video on YouTube.

So who creeps Michael Emerson out? First up is Max Schreck in Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror.

Max Schreck in Nosferatu   Count Orlok sleeps in his coffin

I don’t think that anyone that’s even seen a still from that movie can argue with him being something really horrifying.
—Michael Emerson

I saw Nosferatu for the first time when I was in college. It was during a fundraiser for the Dallas PBS station, KERA—the same station that first brought Monty Python to the U.S. (as they were fond of telling us whenever they wanted us to open up our wallets).

On that Saturday night, KERA played a double vampire feature, starting with the 1974 BBC Dracula starring Louis Jourdan. It floored me. Jourdan’s Dracula was so handsome, so sexy, yet so dangerous. Not to mention that the production, unlike all the others I’d seen, was largely faithful to the Bram Stoker novel.

But the Jourdan Dracula was not to be the evening’s big event. KERA was saving its “special” vampire feature for the wee hours: the 1922 German silent movie that kicked off the whole cinematic vampire trend. Nosferatu. At that time, 30 years ago, it was largely unavailable and infrequently seen.

Directed by F.W. Murnau, Nosferatu adapted Bram Stoker’s Dracula, playing up the creepy and eerie qualities of the tale. Alfred Hitchcock, who learned about storyboarding from Murnau during a 1924 assignment in Berlin, regarded Murnau as the master of “pure cinema”—i.e. visual, rather than strictly narrative, storytelling.

Count Orlok rises from his coffinBut regardless of Murnau’s credentials or Nosferatu’s place in vampire movie history, I frankly didn’t know what to make of it. It wasn’t really what I would call a “scary” film. It didn’t have any sudden shocks or screams, no blood or gore. Instead, it slowly unfolded its eerie atmosphere and mounting sense of doom.

I had no framework for it. Most vampire movies since the 1930s played up the vampire’s romantic, or at least sexual, angle. Bela Lugosi’s Dracula seduced victims with physical beauty, magnetism, and charm. Christopher Lee’s Dracula overpowered them with a hypnotic quality coupled with a sexually charged animalistic ferocity. But this?

The vampire sucks his victim\'s bloodNosferatu’s Count Orlok was animalistic all right… but in a repulsive, rodentlike way. He had long claws for fingernails, pointed ears, a bald head, sunken eyes, and fangs replacing his incisors rather than his canine teeth. He looked like a giant rat—and not surprisingly, rats accompanied his coffin. Here there was no romance, no sexuality. Just an instinct-driven thirst for blood.

This was hardly my first silent movie—or even my first German expressionist one. In fact, I already regarded The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari as one of my favorite films. I think the confusion I experienced that night over Nosferatu came from the sheer shock of it. I had loved cinematic vampires since I was a kid, and this movie subverted everything I thought I knew about them. It was a little much to handle at the time.

Count Orlok\'s shadow on the wallIt did leave an impression though. Once the initial shock wore off, the brilliance of Murnau’s “Symphony of Horror” became clearer. For years afterward, I remembered the repulsiveness of the vampire. But most of all, I remembered the shadow his long fingernails cast on the wall as he crept slowly through the house towards his victim. Nearly 65 years later, long ripping nails would become a staple of the hopping Chinese vampire movies.

All in all, Michael Emerson’s choice of Max Schreck in Nosferatu is an excellent place to begin any discussion of creepy characters. The role is so legendarily creepy that it inspired the Oscar-nominated movie Shadow of the Vampire to postulate that only an actual vampire could have pulled it off. Ergo, Max Schreck could be nothing other than a real vampire playing the cinematic role of vampire!

This article first appeared on Blogcritics.
Room 23, a very cool site devoted to LOST information, re-posted it on their site. Thanks again, guys!

06
Jul

why the happening doesn’t

The RipperLady blog is not limited to Ripper movies. Here we takes a look at M. Night Shyamalan’s latest film, and how it stacks up against the movies it’s taking on.

Filmmaker M. Night Shyamalan is known for creating twist endings. What he should be known for is twisting conventional genres. Sometimes it works—as it did in The Sixth Sense, Signs and Unbreakable. And sometimes it just falls flat.

In The Happening, Shyamalan plays off a couple of different genres, but most obviously he works with “nature gone wild”—a subgenre of science fiction and horror with a resumé dating back at least to 1954’s Them! In its science fiction manifestation, “nature gone wild” usually involves genetically altered species of animals or insects: giant irradiated ants (Them!), giant chemically mutated bunnies (Night of the Lepus), giant irradiated brain-eating talking crabs (Attack of the Crab Monsters). You get the picture.

In its horror manifestation, “nature gone wild” sometimes involves natural breeding gone dangerously out of control (The Swarm), but most often it involves some kind of malign natural sentience. That is, some element of nature, without any mad science assistance, has developed an apparently conscious will to kill humans. The two most famous examples involve: 1) a lone shark preying in shallow waters, and 2) the interspecies flocking of homicidal birds (c’mon, you know the titles!).

In The Happening, Shyamalan blends “nature gone wild” with what I jokingly refer to as the “siege on a farmhouse in Western Pennsylvania” subgenre of horror—i.e. the George Romero Dead movies and their descendents, including the British Dog Soldiers and Shyamalan’s own Signs. (Curiously, the original “siege on a farmhouse” movie took place in Bodega Bay, CA… and involved the interspecies flocking of homicidal birds).

Dawn of the Dead poster artIn addition to alien invasion movies and Swedish existential ones, Shyamalan’s Signs took on Night of the Living Dead (arguably the most famous film by a Pennsylvania filmmaker) and did a credible job of it, turning flesh-eating zombies into aliens cultivating humans as food and directly assaulting the protagonists’ farmhouse over night. The Happening pays homage more to Dawn of the Dead, as the protagonists flee the city into rural Pennsylvania, hoping to find a safe haven from the assault, only to find a string of abandoned, hostile or semi-abandoned farmhouses… and no abandoned shopping mall!

The most obvious similarity between The Happening and Romero’s zombie movies lies in what happens to the infected. They don’t become flesh eating zombies, of course, but they do become something equally alien and horrifying to the non-infected: suicidal automatons, often wreaking (or seeking) havoc on their own bodies. The Dead films are not just about zombie noshing. They’re also about loss of will and becoming one’s own worst nightmare.

Shyamalan intentionally, even strategically, inserts The Happening into the lineage of some of Alfred Hitchcock’s and George Romero’s greatest work. So how does it match up?

The Birds Original PosterIn The Birds (Hitchcock’s first motion picture after Psycho), the master is at the top of his form. The Birds is sort of an apotheosis of the “nature gone wild” film. In it, birds mass and mount inexplicable (and unexplained) assaults on humans, attacking children as well as adults.

The Birds takes its time in revealing the threat. Starting out as a sort of screwball comedy about the wacky interactions between a wealthy socialite and a young lawyer, the first bird attack— a single swoop down on the socialite— comes at least 20 minutes into the film. The attacks build and build, though, until swarms of birds are racing down the farmhouse chimney, pecking their way through ceilings and doors, and massing for what seems like miles around the farmhouse. In the end, we don’t know the cause of the event. We don’t even know if it’s isolated to Bodega Bay and environs or if it’s the first wave of a worldwide apocalypse.

Night of the Living Dead similarly paces itself. An isolated attack in a graveyard leads to the discovery of an abandoned farmhouse, which leads to the grisly discovery of a mutilated corpse, which escalates towards a full-scale assault. We get the news in waves. The living, first in ones and then groups, descend on the farmhouse. Then come the dead. The film is well underway before we hear the first newscast explanations for this epidemic of homicide.

But the slow, deliberate tease is not necessarily crucial to the genre. Drawing on the mythology of its antecedent, Dawn of the Dead places us already in the middle of the crisis, opening with a SWAT team trying to take down zombies while talking heads try to explain the phenomenon.

The Happening tries it both ways—starting off fast, but teasing it out slow. Like Dawn of the Dead, The Happening opens with a large-scale crisis. Mass suicides occur in Central Park and nearby. But by the time Philadelphia hears, the only questions are how large the crisis is and what’s causing it. Our awareness of the size of the catastrophe, like the characters’, develops slowly, while our sense of the cause evolves over the course of the film.

Regardless of characters’ theories, the film never unequivocally adopts a single explanation. In fact, the “wrap up” at the end is actually The Happening’s most direct tribute to Dawn of the Dead. This is not a categorical summation or pronouncement but an intentionally comic explication of the event by an “expert”… and the exasperated reaction by the show’s host. If you want to get the joke, watch Dawn of the Dead and pay close attention to the talking heads. But herein lies a problem. Should we really need to familiarize ourselves with a secondary film in order to “get” the equivocal nature of Shyamalan’s ending? Not in a mass market movie! But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s back up a bit.

Like Romero in Night of the Living Dead, Shyamalan does do a reasonably good job with building up the sense of danger, from rumor to reality to panic to mass death and the potential for apocalypse. But he gets his film too tangled up in secondary mechanisms (not to mention other people’s movies) to give his threat the immediacy it deserves.

In The Birds and the Dead movies, the threat is immediate and visceral. Birds or zombies attack. The characters defend themselves or die. In The Happening, the threat is more conceptual. Neurotoxins are released into the air by an unknown agency (the trees? the government?), and those infected kill themselves. (Technically, they lose their self-preservation instinct, and for some reason, this translates into an immediate and fatal burst of self-destruction).

Shyamalan did a nice job with the unseen threat in Signs. But there was always a physical bulk behind the invisibility, and that physical bulk could be fought. Here, the struggle is against something insubstantial (the wind) and microscopic (the neurotoxins it carries) and the destruction is ultimately carried out by a secondary agency (the infected individual against him or herself). This pestilence cannot be fought. All anyone can do is try to outrun it (or find an antidote!). And this makes the struggle seem less immediate, even passive.

By riffing off Hitchcock and Romero, Shyamalan creates certain expectations about the kind of threat his protagonists face and how they will fight it. Of course, Shyamalan lives to subvert expectations, but in order to do so successfully, he needs to create a work that at least nearly equals the ones he’s challenging. The expectations established by these films have, after all, seeped in to our collective cinematic unconscious.

So does Shyamalan pull it off? The concept he’s dealing with has potential. In “nature gone wild,” the things we take most for granted are typically the things that turn against us. And what do we take more for granted than the air we breathe? (No matter the cause of the crisis, air is the common denominator here). The concept can work, but it will need strong characters to drive it and actors who will sell it.

Characters do drive The Birds and the Dead movies. The Birds starts with strong characters and develops them more fully through the crucible of an apocalyptic nightmare. In the Dead films, Romero cuts straight to character development through crisis. Unlike Hitchcock, he can’t pay for for A-list actors or a lengthy prelude, but he makes up for these deficiencies in the raw urgency and passion he gets from his cast. Audiences care when major characters go down in Romero films. Romero’s actors, regardless of acting skill, always sell their situation.

In The Happening, though, Shyamalan sacrifices character to situation. Mark Wahlberg’s is the only well-realized character among the major cast. A few small players – the soldier and horticulturalist in particular – manage to make their characters resonate. But most of the cast has trouble getting the audience to care deeply about their characters’ plight or even their deaths. Whether this is a function of the writing or the acting, it is ultimately the responsibility of the director.

Shyamalan loves to present himself with tricky problems that he tries to solve in unique ways. But instead of high concept that can be distilled into a single sentence (eg. “tell a ghost story from the perspective of a ghost who does not come across as a ghost”), The Happening gives us multiple concepts that get tangled up in each other: 1) “transform the ‘nature gone wild’ subgenre from animal/insect threats into vegetation/environmental threats while remaining equivocal that the threat even has its origin in nature,” 2) “transform the end result of the toxin so that the infected do not attack the uninfected but the infected attack themselves,” 3) “transform pestilence movies from scientists racing to find a cure to characters racing against the wind,” and so forth.

The Happening ambitiously attempts to refresh old subgenres. It would like to be The Birds. It would like to be Night of the Living/Dawn of the Dead. But without the boldness of high concept, and without actors who can really sell its overly tangled and abstract threat, The Happening doesn’t ever quite happen.

This article first appeared on Blogcritics.

24
Jun

the crown jewels of ripper cinema: the lodger (1944)

fox horror classics


This article originally spanned two installments. Now that it’s completed, I’ve consolidated it into a single article here.

Not many movies are in contention for being among the Ripper cinema’s “crown jewels.” Perhaps Pandora’s Box. Probably Murder by Decree. And definitely the John Brahm/Laird Cregar Lodger.

My film geek friends have always been split over whether the 1944 Lodger or Murder by Decree is the best Ripper film of all time. There is no doubt in their minds that it’s one film or the other. But they are universally convinced that Laird Cregar gives the greatest Ripper performance ever. For many years, though, fans of Ripper cinema had a serious impediment to seeing this film and this performance. The 1944 Lodger was not out on video.

I, at least, had a decent reproduction in a non-commercial VHS print. But I could never tell visitors to Hollywood Ripper how to obtain a copy of their own. It was not available commercially (had never even been released commercially!), and it was difficult to find an unauthorized version short of visiting the dealer’s tables at a horror film convention. And even then, the movie was a rare find.

For about a decade, actually, the rumor had kicked around among classic horror fans that Fox was finally planning to release The Lodger. The wait, though, went on for so long that some thought the rumor to be a kind of urban legend for classic film buffs.

As it turned out, it was true. Not only did Fox finally release The Lodger, the studio released it in a lavish boxed set alongside two other 1940s films by director John Brahm—Hangover Square and The Undying Monster. So how is this long-awaited DVD? Well, it really delivers.

The Lodger uses a restored grayscale print with what is either a remastered or a re-recorded soundtrack. Both video and audio quality are superb. The restoration has removed all noticeable flaws from the print and given it a gorgeous range of tone, while the soundtrack has all the clarity, frequency separation, and stereo depth of a recording made on modern equipment. (View images from The Lodger)

In addition to high video and audio quality, this DVD collection comes with a small booklet, duplicates of original lobby cards, a “making of” feature, as well as a 1946 Vincent Price radio show production of the 1944 film. In short, this is a classy production. (We particularly enjoyed seeing our acquaintance, film historian Greg Mank, comment in the feature about The Lodger’s place in the classic horror canon).

So what makes the 1944 Lodger the “crown jewels” of Ripper cinema? If you ask my husband, the first thing he’ll say is “the atmosphere.” The movie has excellent production values and a wonderful Gothic feel, complete with foggy London streets, unusual camera angles, and creative use of light and shadow. The film stock here, with its lush but subtle gradations of gray, is a long way from the stark high-contrast stock of lower budget films from the era.

But beyond the film’s look and feel, The Lodger (1944) has a great script and an A-list cast. Laird Cregar and Merle Oberon were up-and-coming stars at Fox, while acting greats Sir Cedric Hardwicke and Sara Allgood (one of Hitchcock’s early favorites) filled out the parts of the landlord and landlady. Future Oscar winner George Sanders takes a delicious turn as the ever-so-sophisticated police detective. Even bit player Helena Pickard brings so much humanity to the poor has-been Annie Rowley that it’s hard to maintain dry eyes so long as she is on the screen.

Even a drab script could turn to magic in the capable hands of a cast like this! But this is no drab script. For starters, it’s based on Marie Belloc-Lowndes’ novel—which means that its makers would have had to try really hard to screw it up all up! This film doesn’t come even close. It makes some changes, of course (they all do). But the essentials of the novel are there.

In the Belloc-Lowndes novel, the killer is self-titled “The Avenger,” and he preys explicitly on alcoholic women. (I suppose Belloc-Lowndes probably could not get “prostitutes” past the censors). In the 1944 Lodger, the killer is called Jack the Ripper—for the first time in English-language cinema - and he preys on actresses, or women who once appeared on the London stage. (In this case, the change was made explicitly to get the script past censors).

Though this film’s Ripper carries a grudge against exquisitely beautiful actresses—women of the type who seduced and destroyed his brother—the women he actually targets are middle-aged derelicts, much like the Ripper’s actual victims.

This is the first film I know of, in any language, to treat the killings in a way that resembles the Ripper murders. The Lulu films, such as Pandora’s Box, tell the story of a beautiful young seductress who turns into a beautiful young prostitute who ultimately becomes a beautiful young Ripper victim. Hitchcock’s Lodger has the killer target beautiful young blonde models, while the 1932 version has him target random young beautiful women who happen to be out alone at night. The operative terms in all of these instances are: beautiful and young. The 1944 Lodger departs from this characterization. Here, the killer preys on down-and-out middle-aged barflies.

In addition to its more realistic treatment of the victims, this film addresses the fact of serious mutilation beyond the throat slitting. As the landlord puts it: “He slits their throats… and then he uses his knife.” The full details are too shocking to reveal to the public.

These departures from the earlier, more sanitized, film adaptations are indicative of the filmmakers’ general willingness to take this film right to the edge of social acceptability. The beautiful and respectable ingénue (played by Merle Oberon) becomes a music hall sensation by bringing a rather naughty (and very leggy) Parisian dance to the English scene. The Lodger uses its period setting (the cusp of the wild 1890s) to push back hard on the production code and bring the skirts all the way up.

And then, there’s Laird Cregar, whose general soft-spokenness makes his lodger’s sudden shifts into impassioned monomania all the more threatening. One moment, he quietly negotiates terms with his landlady. The next, he frantically turns pictures of old actresses to the wall… because their eyes followed him around the room. By understating his lodger’s more ordinary interactions, Cregar carefully modulate his performance so that even his character’s most extreme moments never drive him into overacting.

Yet Cregar lives dangerously in this role. In the lodger’s monologue on his brother’s destruction at the hands of a seductive actress (a “woman subtle of heart”), Cregar takes the lodger’s monomania beyond the edge of production code acceptability… all the way into hints of incestuous homoerotic desire. The script’s raw lines offer standard backplot—the sort of stuff most actors would walk through. But Cregar uses these lines to make the audience squirm ever so slightly (did we really just see what we thought we saw?) and reveal more of his character’s motivation than perhaps we are even willing to acknowledge. His relatively manic reading reveals that the lodger possesses a too excessive admiration for his brother’s physical beauty, a too excessive admiration for his brother’s artistic genius, a love for his sibling that goes beyond familial affection and possibly into the forbidden realms explored by Byron and Faulkner.

The two previous film versions of The Lodger, both starring Welsh heartthrob Ivor Novello, had turned the matinee idol into a “wrong man”—peculiar, suspected, but ultimately innocent. The 1944 filmmakers use this background to their advantage. Cregar’s soft-spoken lodger hearkens back to Novello’s. He seems overly-sensitive and perhaps too excitable (as Novello’s lodger was), but he likewise seems generally harmless.

Movie-goers familiar with this history could easily be lulled into thinking that all will turn out as well in the end for Cregar’s lodger as it did for Novello’s. But despite The Lodger’s conventional façade, this film has little interest in letting its audience off that easily. Its “twist” is that it returns the story to Belloc-Lowndes… and thus challenges its audience to confront a harsher world than previously displayed in English Ripper cinema.

This article was also published on Blogcritics

03
Sep

patricia cornwell’s “jack”: first impressesions of “case closed” — part 4

Can you believe this has taken four parts just to get through the opening chapter? Don’t worry, though, I’m not going to tackle any more Cornwell for awhile once we’re finished here… unless, of course, there’s a wild outcry for more, more, more!

Well, last time I posted (I feel like I’m in a serial!), we learned that Sickert may have been sexually mutilated through surgeries in childhood. We also learned that one of the letter writers to Scotland Yard suggested that the Ripper was a sexually mutilated man. And last time, I also cautioned the reader to remember that, no matter how possible, the notion of Sickert’s mutilation is a hypothesis, not a known fact.

Yet, Cornwell takes this hypothesis and uses it to speculate on Sickert’s frame of mind right before the marriage of his mentor, James Abbott McNeill Whistler. She writes: “The anticipated connubial bliss of [Whistler] must have been disconcerting to his former errand boy-apprentice.” And that “Women were a dangerous reminder of an infuriating and humiliating secret that Sickert carried not only to the grave but beyond it, because cremated bodies reveal no tales of the flesh, even if they are exhumed.”

It must have been disconcerting? And women were a dangerous reminder of a humiliating secret? Well, for starters, Cornwell has just assumed the certainty of her hypothesis…. even though, as she herself admits, Sickert’s cremation makes it impossible to verify. (In fact, she almost implies–or perhaps does imply–that Sickert intentionally had himself cremated to wipe out the evidence of a physical debility that Cornwell is only speculating about). Secondly, she’s presuming to have access into Sickert’s mind and to know what he must have been thinking, how he must have been experiencing Whistler’s marriage. Yet, she has no direct access to that information because Sickert did not keep journals. Perhaps she is channeling Sickert?

Before she gets to the summation of these charges, let’s look at what is currently something of a side issue, but which will figure into Cornwell’s summation. She mentions that Sickert tended to read only stuff that affected him. He liked to see his name in the paper; he liked to read his own letters to the editor. And he loved to read about crime. In other words, he was somewhat narcissistic (as many artists are), and he was fascinated by crime stories. In fact, he had such an interest in crime that Sickert later drew sketches of murder scenes. Cornwell uses this evidence to damn him with the appellation “Jack the Ripper.” She assumes that this fascination is indicative of an unhinged and violent mind. And later in the book, she will argue that some of these artistic renderings may have been drawn of murders committed by the artist himself.

So, let me ask… Would you say that Patricia Cornwell has an interest in crime? She writes detective fiction and speculates on the identity of Jack the Ripper, doesn’t she? Judging by the fact that you are reading this, I would guess that you have some interest in crime. And I know I do. So, here we are… Walter Sickert liked to read about crime. I like to read about crime. You, right at this very moment, are reading about crime. Cornwell reads and writes about crime. Every Ripperologist in the world reads and theorizes on crime. Unless all of us (or even many of us) read about murder as a prelude to commiting murders of our own, then Sickert’s interest in crime seems about as sinister as mine or yours or Cornwell’s.

Ah, but as mentioned above, Sickert also liked to paint and draw crime scenes. (Never mind that he is much more famous for painting music halls!). Doesn’t that demonstrate a murderous inclination? The short answer? No!

Cornwell is a writer. She paints crime scenes with words. Sickert is a painter. He paints crime scenes with… well… paint (and pencil). Are we to assume that, because Sickert is a visual artist rather than a verbal artist, his portrayal of crime is somehow more sinister than Cornwell’s own portrayal of crime? Or, for that matter, Alfred Hitchcock’s visual/verbal portrayal of crime? Ummm, I think not. Each artist is using his or her own medium to artistically portray murder. Now, that’s not to say that Sickert is absolutely not Jack the Ripper. It’s simply to say that if the subjects of his artwork indicate an inclination towards murder, then we could say the same thing about Patricia Cornwell, Alfred Hitchcock, and any number of other visual and verbal artists.

Finally, Cornwell just pulls out the stops in her summation of the charges against Walter Sickert, as she writes: “For Walter Sickert to imagine Whistler in love and enjoying a sexual relationship with a woman might well have been the catalyst that made Sickert one of the most dangerous and confounding killers of all time. He began to act out what he had scripted most of his life, not only in thought but in boyhood sketches that depicted women being abducted, tied up, and stabbed.”

Okay, how much of that do I really need to parse at this point? We see, once again, Cornwell assuming the certainty of her hypothesis re: Sickert’s genitals. We see her beg the question, as she assumes the very thing she needs to prove in her argument… i.e. that Sickert actually was this killer. But we also see, in the final sentence, a rather tenuous grip on factuality. Without access to his thoughts, how does Cornwell know that Sickert scripted the actual performance of mutilations in his thoughts? And further, while the boyhood sketches depicting the murder of women may have been drawn by Sickert, they are actually part of a collection of his father’s artwork. Cornwell has no more certainty that these sketches were drawn by Sickert than she has certainty that Sickert wrote the “Scotus” letter. All she has is hypothesis.

And even if she knew for a fact that Walter , not Oswald, Sickert drew the sketches, would they necessarily indicate that he harbored murderous desires towards women?

And finally finally finally…

Cornwell ignores the “Nemo” letter to the editors of the Times of London (the letter about Eastern criminal methods). Yet in a set up to a major rhetorical flourish, she does make a point of “Nemo” having been Sickert’s stage name, only to instruct us that Sickert “dropped” this name “in the late summer of 1888 [and] he gave himself a new stage name that during his life would never be linked to him.”

Oh, the certainty of it all. Oh, the manipulation of it all! Need I tell you what that new stage name is? No, you know it. It has been played out on the world stage for over a century now. It is synonymous with evil and murder and blood on the streets of London in the fog.

But Cornwell’s flourish, no matter how effective rhetorically, still begs the question.

And Martha Tabram is still quite likely the victim of a different killer.

See the Blogcritics posting of this article.

26
Aug

patricia cornwell’s “jack”: first impressesions of “case closed” — part 3

Hi everybody. Well, today we’re going to get a little closer to why Cornwell insists that Whistler’s marriage drove her Ripper candidate over the edge. Next time, we’ll actually get there!

But hey, let’s look at something else first. If you came across the following description in a book or an article, what do you think you’d conclude about the person it described?

He had “blue eyes that were as inscrutable and penetrating as his secret thoughts and piercing mind. One might almost have called him pretty, except for his mouth, which could narrow into a hard, cruel line.”

Inscrutable, penetrating, secret, piercing, (almost) pretty, hard, cruel. These are the adjectives you have to work with… and this is how Cornwell describes Sickert’s facial features in her opening chapter. Think she might be loading the dice a little bit?

Hey, I’m not trying to “read into” Cornwell’s text or “read between the lines.” But Cornwell is a novelist. As a novelist, she controls, through her words, much of the imagery that the reader will “see” while reading the description. And the imagery she uses here is actually rather “stock” imagery for describing the villain in a novel. Sickert’s eyes penetrate, his mind pierces (and what do knives do?). His eyes are inscrutable, his mind secretive… hmmm, so, he cannot be “read.” To look at him, you would never know what he was thinking. And then, there’s his mouth, hard and cruel. Not much interpretation needed there! She’s instructing you on what to think.

Through the descriptive power of language, Cornwell plants an image in the reader’s mind of a hard and cruel man… piercing, penetrating, and utterly secretive.

Another way of putting it is that Cornwell is using her descriptive powers in place of argument. She’s trying to sway the reader on a somewhat subliminal level. And yes, using adjectives suggestive of cruelty and the type of secrecy necessary to be the Ripper is an effective rhetorical strategy. But in an argument–which relies upon facts, and putting facts together through a logical process–it’s cheating. Sickert’s facial features are irrelevant to the question of whether or not he is Jack the Ripper (unless, of course, they match a well-known description of one of the men seen with one of the victims on the night she was murdered… which, so far as I know, they don’t). But with just the right wording, his features can be made to suggest that he is the Ripper.

Okay, let’s put aside my little language obsession for now. Are you ready for the big revelation? The one that absolutely proves that Sickert was more likely than anybody else to be Jack the Ripper?

Well, without providing any evidence at this point in the book (though she does provide substantive evidence later on), Sickert had a genital abnormality, and he’d had three surgeries for it by the time he was 5 years old. In fact, according to his own nephew (whom Cornwell interviewed), the abnormality was in his penis. From these facts, and some of Sickert’s artwork, Cornwell extrapolates that Sickert may have had a short stump of a penis.

Well, that’s all well and good. Based upon the evidence she presents later on, it may well be true. But it’s a hypothesis. The problem is that Cornwell takes her hypothesis and argues as if it’s a certainty. And she even gives her case a head-start. She plants the notion in the reader’s mind before ever presenting any evidence to support it.

Okay, so what are some of the ways that Cornwell runs with her hypothesis? Oh man. Here is where it really gets “good.” Actually, she piles one hypothesis on top of another hypothesis on top of another hypothesis, and before we know it, Cornwell has reached certainty. But I just have to wonder… If the foundation itself is a hypothesis, and everything built on top of th
at foundation is a hypothesis, then how do we get to a certainty–at least in the “real world” of logic? I mean, am I dense or something? Is it really really obvious that if a guy might have had a mutilated penis, and the guy’s painting mentor was getting married in a few days… that the guy would have been driven (at least temporarily) over the edge into murdering and mutilating women? Ooops. I’m getting a little ahead of myself here.

Anyway, here’s a little bit of the process that gets Cornwell to her certainty. First, like most Victorian gentlemen, Sickert liked to use pseudonyms in writing letters to the editors. Secondly, Sickert (Cornwell, by now, assumes) could not have normal relations with a woman.

Well, guess what? One of the letters written to the police (and signed pseudonymously by “Scotus”) speculates that the criminal may have had his “privy member destroyed” (i.e. his penis mutilated), and is taking it out on prostitutes. Consequently, Cornwell takes this Victorian gentleman’s speculation about the state of the killer’s genitalia as fact. And then, from there, she implies that the letter writer may have been Sickert himself! (I mean, Sickert did like to write under pseudonyms, didn’t he? Never mind that “Scotus” was not known to be one of them!). Maybe Sickert was just playing with the police, laughing at them.

So here’s the status of the Cornwellian logic at the moment: Some Victorian guy suggested that the killer might have had mutilated genitals, so that means that the killer must have had mutilated genitals… particularly since the letter suggesting that theory just might have been written pseudonymously by Walter Sickert (who just might have had mutilated genitals). In the real world, though, the “Scotus” letter really has no authority without any solid evidence of its significance. It’s just another of the many pseudonymous theories floating around London at the time.

Along these same lines… One of the letters to the editors was signed using (more or less) an identity that Sickert was known to use in his letters (and had even used on stage). The letter was signed “Nemo.” And Sickert was known to use the pseudonym “Mr. Nemo.” The author of the “Nemo” letter claimed that his time in India led him to believe that the murders were were using “peculiarly Eastern methods and universally recognized, and intended by the criminal classes to express insult, hatred, and contempt” (Times of London, 4 October, 1888).

Now, unless Sickert had spent time in India (or thought it would be fun to pretend he had spent time in India), it’s unlikely that the letter was written by him. But since “Nemo” is a name that is actually associated with Sickert (while “Scotus” is not), it’s much more likely that the “Nemo” letter was written by Sickert than that the “Scotus” letter was. (Cornwell, incidentally, never mentions the “Nemo” letter). I’m not quite sure why Cornwell thinks that the theory voiced in the “Scotus” letter carries any more weight than any of the other theories that were going around… except that this theory happens to be the one that best fits her pet suspect.

Well, once again, it looks like I’m going to have to stop, so I don’t start to bore you. But here’s where we are at the moment (getting repetitious?)… Sickert may have had genital mutilation which impaired his ability to engage in genital sex, and a letter signed “Scotus” speculated that the murderer roaming Whitechapel had mutilated genitals.

Next time… we finally get to dissect the Whistler hypothesis, which only works, by the way, if we first accept these these two other hypotheses as fact.

Hope you’re having fun. I’ll be finished with my first impressions on Thursday. What’s wild is that these first impressions only took a couple hours of reading and note-taking. But there’s just a lot to talk about.

Who knows, maybe when she gets into the forensic evidence stuff, she’ll start to argue on more solid ground.

See the Blogcritics posting of this article.

23
Aug

patricia cornwell’s “jack”: first impressesions of “case closed” — part 2

Today’s blog (and the next) will be about the creation of a villain through the use of language and innuendo. But first, a little bit of background information.

On Hollywood Ripper, we have a listing of the women that nearly everybody agrees were killed by Jack the Ripper. We call them The Canonical 5. Martha Tabram is not on that list. This will be important information a little bit further down on the page.

Martha Tabram was murdered probably sometime between 2:00–3:30am on August 7, 1888. Her body was found on the first floor landing of the George Yard Buildings in Whitechapel. Here is a description of her wounds:

“The post-mortem examination of Martha Tabram was held by Dr. Timothy Robert Killeen (also spelled Keeling or Keleene) at 5:30 AM on the morning of August 7th. Tabram was described as a plump middle-aged woman, about 5′3″ tall, dark hair and complexion. The time of death was estimated at about three hours before the examination (around 2:30-2:45 AM). In all, there were thirty-nine stab wounds including:

•5 wounds (left lung)
•2 wounds (right lung)
•1 wound (heart)
•5 wounds (liver)
•2 wounds (spleen)
•6 wounds (stomach)

According to Killeen, the focus of the wounds were the breasts, belly, and groin area. In his opinion, all but one of the wounds were inflicted by a right-handed attacker, and all but one seemed to have been the result of an “ordinary pen-knife.” There was, however, one wound on the sternum which appeared to have been inflicted by a dagger or bayonet (thereby leading police to believe that a sailor was the perpetrator). ”
(For more info, see Casebook: Jack the Ripper - Martha Tabram)

Martha Tabram was stabbed multiple times by her attacker, but her throat was not slashed. She had not been cut open. There were no organs missing from her body. She is generally viewed as the victim of some other killer, or an early “piece of work” by Jack the Ripper before he got his infamous modus operandi down.

The killing occurred, however, only 25 days before the first “canonical” Ripper murder. If it were the Ripper’s work, it would indicate an extremely quick transformation of his technique—from stabbing the exterior of a woman’s body to slashing the throat/ripping out her innards. However unlikely that swift a change would be, the Ripper definitely did show rapid development in his killing technique.

There was a tremendous difference in the level of mutilation committed between the first and fourth canonical murders (though they were only one month apart), and nobody even began to anticipate the level of mutilation he would commit in the fifth (about 5-6 weeks after the fourth). But regardless of all that, what needs to be said is that there’s no obvious sign of the Ripper’s work in the murder of Martha Tabram… as there is in the fifth canonical murder. Tabram is, at best, a controversial listing among alleged Ripper victims.

Now, what does this all have to do with Patricia Cornwell?

Well, the beginning of her story takes place during the evening of August 6—only hours before Martha Tabram’s body was found lying in a pool of blood in the George Yard buildings. August 6 had been a bank holiday. The streets had been full of activity—which Cornwell uses to set the stage for a little bit of innuendo.

Assuming at face value that Martha Tabram was murdered by Jack the Ripper, Cornwell mentions that during the holidy, people could buy costumes of soldiers and policemen with ease (and Martha Tabram had last been seen going off with a soldier). Well, coincidentally, Sickert had a theatrical background and enjoyed wearing costumes, and he also enjoyed disguising his identity in letters he wrote to the editors of various newspapers. (My note: the latter was a common practice at the time, with many letter writers scribbling their opinions pseudonymously).

Notice how we’ve travelled here from facts to innuendo, again using the underlying assumption that Sickert was the Ripper. There is no evidence that Sickert was on the streets on August 6, 1888. There is no evidence that he wasn’t. There is no evidence one way or the other. Neither can Patricia Cornwell produce a receipt for Sickert’s purchase of a soldier’s costume. However, since he must have been Jack the Ripper and since Martha Tabram must have been killed by Jack the Ripper, then Sickert must have been on the streets that night. So how do we account for the rather inconvenient fact that the man Tabram was seen going off with was in soldier’s uniform? Well, rather ingeniously, Patricia Cornwell drags out the notion that perhaps—no, definitely!—Sickert bought a costume so that he could look like a soldier. It’s a bit of a stretch, but as far as Cornwell’s concerned, it works.

Now, why, you ask, is it so important to Cornwell that Martha Tabram be one of the Ripper’s victims? Chronology. You see, Sickert’s mentor (the painter, James Abbott McNeill Whistler—yes, that Whistler) was getting married in a few days. Cornwell needs for us to believe that it was Whistler’s marriage that sent Sickert over the edge into murder. Why? Well, I’ll have to tell you that in the next installment because now I need to go do some other work.

But if you’d like to do some reading in the meantime, here are a couple of links to Stephen P. Ryder’s amazing Casebook website:

Casebook: Jack the Ripper - Victims
Casebook: Jack the Ripper - Walter Sickert

(Oh, and yes, I did read the Casebook’s primer to Cornwell’s accusations… nearly a year ago, and it’s brilliant. What I’m writing now, though, is based strictly upon my own examination of Cornwell’s text).

See the Blogcritics posting of this article.




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