Ripley, Believe it or Not

There are any number of shots and scenes in writer-director Steven Zaillian’s stunningly well-executed Ripley (now on Netflix) where Andrew Scott’s title character seems to be metaphorically salivating at the sight of even the most ordinary playthings of the rich he finds himself in the company of.

A thick, gleaming fountain pen or a thin paisley robe are no different than the expensive Italian villa with picture perfect views of the crystal blue sea. They are all precious objects to possess and consume (though not necessarily in that order) and, more importantly, they all seem to have equal weight in his mind.

Hot priest still lookin’ Hot in Ripley

In Zaillian’s stark yet quite stylish black and white adaptation of the renowned 1955 novel by Patricia Highsmith, Scott’s subdued yet somehow quite intensely determined gaze tells us all we need to know about where this will lead.

It would never be enough for Tom Ripley (Note: Well, he calls himself that) to possess just one or most of the above, nor would he be satisfied if he possessed all of them.

The truth it seems to be rendering is that there will always be more trappings, more objects and more ways to live the perceived high life.  But the secret, stubborn stench of one’s own inferior, ordinary self can never be rubbed out by mere things.  Much in the same way those things can never understand what it’s like to be truly alive, or feel good about their lush, humanly perceived beauty. 

Or feel anything.

Sorry Marilyn

This is why, after viewing the first two episodes, all I could think about was just how relevant this Ripley is for understanding the psyches of a certain type in our current billionaire class in these anything but United States – the either Trump supporting Trump agnostic. 

Let’s be clear, this eight-part Ripley mini-series is far from the first time Highsmith’s novel has been deemed relevant enough to be splashily transferred to the screen.  Most notably, it was the source material for the twisty 1960 French film Purple Noon, which made an international movie star out of the then impossibly gorgeous (Note: Sorry, NO other way to say it) Alain Delon, while simultaneously reflecting (Note: Or perhaps presaging) the brewing, far less-materialistic social mores of the 1960s.

No lies told about Mr. Delon

Decades later it was then remade by writer-director Anthony Minghella as The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999), starring Matt Damon, Jude Law and Gwyneth Paltrow, where it became a commercial and artistic hit and received five Oscar nominations.  At the time we thought we were condemning the forever defunct acquisitive values of the let ‘em eat cake Reagan years (Note: Or at least I did) but little did we (or I) know just how much more there would be to condemn a mere 25 years later.

But we would never condemn this look!

It has also been the subject of a radio play, stage adaptation, an episode of an anthology TV series and a young adult novel over the last seven decades for various other reasons and in various other moments.  

In the future – well, it could be perfect material for a balls out contemporary opera, a post-modern ballet or even some combination of both. That is if the Netflix version is determined to be a sufficient enough branding hit.

Depending on where we are headed after that, at some point it might be cloned into a new type of  anti-hero superhero event film. Think an upscale fusion of Joker AND Robin Hood, though let’s not give out any more free ideas).

Lock it in the safe!

The point is you can do a lot with a sociopathic protagonist who refuses to accept who he really is, or thinks a lot of stuff or better people or more admiration or endless victories will fill him up. Someone who would lie, cheat, manipulate and commit a lot worse than that, at will, against anyone or anything that stood in his way, in order to achieve it.  (Note:Perhaps, one day, those crimes might even be against whole nations – or at least provide a template for such a character).

This week the Pulitzer Prize-winning economist Paul Krugman wrote a very thoughtful and quite scary column in The New York Times about why some billionaires will inevitably back the twice-impeached, many times indicted former president (AKA you know who) for POTUS again. 

We’re with you, Disgust.

Krugman correctly reasons that it’s not as if these guys (and a few gals) haven’t made buckets of money in the record high stock market recovery under Pres. Biden, especially compared to how much they lost when the US economy crashed during Trump’s reign and mishandling of those pandemic years.

Nor are they unaware of his admiration for the Jan. 6 insurrection and those who perpetrated it, as well as his desire to be an authoritarian dictator on day one of his next administration. 

He’s literally proclaimed it to them, and to us.

This this this!

Not to mention his intention to use the Justice Department to jail his political opponents, and law enforcement to round up millions of undocumented immigrants to put in “detention camps,” or euphemisms far worse.

Nevertheless Krugman believes, unlike myself, those billionaires would still be unhappy with this type of world – if only because the economy tends to do poorly in times of social and political chaos. 

So then, if none of these IS the reason, then why, why, WHY their recent surge of anti-hero, anti-democracy, Trump…love?

The first answer is obvious, if not odious.  The very rich are guaranteed to pay way less taxes, and their corporations and business will be far less regulated, once Trump regains the Oval Office.

Weekend billionaire activity

But even Krugman himself questions how that will matter.  Since they all have so much money it will barely be a hit to, much less make a dent in, their overall income.

Plus, all the prestige they gain from being as rich, or richer, than the next billionaire (Note: Essential bragging rights among much of that class) will essentially remain intact since they will all be pretty much taking the same hits, and thus be in the same pecking order, across the board.

Thus what we are left with is his second answer, and theory. 

The one that is far more troubling, and much more akin, to the Tom Ripley belief system about money. 

And that is –

Somehow their wealth, their things, their elevated place in society, will protect them from everything bad in the world. 

The. Worst.

Like a small army of multiple Ripleys, they have talked themselves into believing that money, power and position give them absolute and total immunity (Note: Sound familiar?) from it all.

Even from their own bad decisions. Which, like Ripley, are actions fueled by the one fatal flaw nothing they possess can ever give them – the courage to face their own, deepest insecurities.

Neuroses so potent that they actually believe they will not meet the same fate as any number of dead, imprisoned or permanently contained Russian oligarchs under the authoritarian thumb of Vladimir Putin. Or that of so many wealthy Jews in Europe during the dictatorship of Adolf Hitler.

If those names don’t feel like warning signs… look again

Or have to deal with the fallout from their own unbridled excesses the way Pharma Bro Martin Shkreli or Bitcoin-meister Sam Bankmann-Fried recently had to do in an ostensibly free society. Or Roy Cohn or Joseph McCarthy were forced to face several eras before when they were overcome by their own hubris.  Or Phil Spector or Robert Durst fell prey to once their true selves were found out.

This is to say nothing of the fate of Ripley (Note: Though that depends on which of his “endings” you choose) and the sheer havoc he wreaked on almost everyone, good or bad, that he came across in his quest for, well, glory.

But he and they were at least fortunate enough to be fictional characters in a pushed reality version of our world. 

You mean I can’t just escape into a TV show?

Currently, the top 1% of earners in our country control 70% of its wealth.  Among them are our current crop of contemporary US billionaires, 735 of whom hold more wealth than the bottom 50% of ALL American households (Note: For reference, consider there are now about 335 million people in the US).  

Meaning that any group action taken by a substantial enough number of these actual flesh and blood, rarefied human beings have the potential to bring down not only them, but almost all 335 mill. of the rest of us.

Let’s hope that either the majority of them choose wisely in the coming months or that at the very least a majority of us are motivated enough to counteract their bad decisions at the ballot box.

Or both.

And that the $50 million the Trump campaign claims to have raised on Saturday from just ONE billionaire fundraiser in Palm Beach is a mere anomaly, or about as real as all the modern-day billionaire Ripleys combined. 

Roy Orbison – “The Great Pretender”

Sorkin Says

Screen Shot 2016-02-07 at 9.58.19 AM

There was a time not so long ago when I thought being a teacher in the creative arts signified some sort of failing.

After all, as Woody Allen’s doppelgänger, Alvy Singer, once famously quipped in Annie Hall:

Those who can’t do, teach. And those who can’t teach, teach gym.

Many views, Woody, as it turns out, are not as clever as we once thought they were.

As it also turns out, the not so long ago I refer to in my own thought processes was the eighties. Which, given what’s going on in politics at the moment, feels like it was yesterday. To refresh all of our memories – it was a time when the homeless (nee poor) were vilified and money was viewed as the god and goddess of all things as exemplified by one of the most popular movie anti-heroes of the time, Wall Street’s financial baron, Gordon Gekko. In case you don’t remember, he once famously quipped Greed is good. Which pretty much sums up the callousness of thought through most of the decade for those who weren’t there. Or, as I prefer to think of it: the anti-Reagan reality.

At least the cell phones got better

At least the cell phones got better

In any case, this was all brought to mind by none other than Aaron Sorkin when he spoke this week at a panel of this year’s Writers Guild of America award-nominated screenwriters.

At one point towards the end of the evening the entire group of eleven nominees were asked by a young screenwriter, who was now attending UCLA on a military scholarship, how he could possibly proceed with the third act of an in-progress screenplay he clearly hoped to one day sell, that he felt required him to move his story into trans-racial characterizations he feared the world was not ready for.

He's listening

He’s listening

Clearly sensing the real pain and terror in this young man’s voice, it was the famous and most acclaimed of all the writers on the panel who eagerly jumped into the deafening silence and told him:

Don’t ever NOT write something because you think we’re not ready.

Hmmm. It seems that at least one who can do clearly CAN teach. Imagine that.

And Sorkin knows something about writing a character we’re not ready for #unicorns

Well, of course I’m leading with the best example of the evening. The world of mentorship is not a yellow brick road of rosy results and Emerald City glitz and glamour. Amid all the intellectual thought, encouragement and new potential roads of inspiration, there are too many others who are either ill equipped or whose methods are steeped in the art of the teardown and pretentious self-involvement. Every one of us has met at least one of them. The tough love gurus who secretly revel in telling you outwardly or implying to you all too unsubtly that your work sucks. This is usually done through a loop of lecturing where they relate a rating system of all the famous and/or commercially successful people in the field who are really lesser-than hacks you should be not only be absolutely unimpressed by but revile. That is if want your new god-like mentor to secretly continue to bestow upon you their pearls of wisdom.

ahem

ahem

This type of story was bestowed on said WGA audience by none other than panelist and current Oscar/WGA nominated screenwriter of Carol, Phyllis Nagy. It seems as a younger person, Ms. Nagy became a protégé of Patricia Highsmith, on whose seminal novel, The Price of Salt, Ms. Nagy’s screenplay was based. Ms. Nagy, then a copy editor at the NY Times, recalled a 30-minute limousine ride she took with the quite prickly Ms. Highsmith at their first ever meeting in the 1970s during which the novelist spoke only once every ten minutes to ask her a mere three questions. 

The first question was: What do you think of Eugene O’Neill?

Ms. Nagy’s reply: Not much.

To which Ms. Highsmith gave a very encouraging nod of approval.

well aren't you fancy

well aren’t you fancy

Okay, stop right there I thought from the audience. Eugene O’Neill. Really? The guy who wrote Long Day’s Journey Into Night, The Iceman Cometh and well, you get the picture. I don’t care how damn talented or famous she was – really? What does that get you? Or anyone?

Yet it seemed this was exactly the right answer because here we are all these decades later where this once young writer has gotten all of this 2015-16 attention for adapting the older writer’s 1950s story she eventually received the rights to. Or perhaps it was Ms. Nagy’s answer to Ms. Highsmith’s second question:

What do you think of Tennessee Williams?

Because this time Ms. Nagy managed to give the seal of approval to Mr. Williams – an acknowledgement she claims Ms. Highsmith quite heartily endorsed at the time.

Phew.

Tell me again how great I am.

Tell me again how great I am.

I don’t know Ms. Nagy but one hopes this is not the kind of attitude that gets passed on from one generation to the next. Yet I know it frequently does – not necessarily in Ms. Nagy’s case (Note: As I said, I don’t know her) but to other non-famous or more famous instructors and artists of all kinds my students have told me about and I myself have encountered or read about through the years.

Well, like any experience in life, you take the good with the morally questionable and try to balance it all out with your own actions. This is not unlike writing your own stories or living out the actions of your own life. Call me corny or crazy, and I’ve certainly been justifiably referred to as both, but I much prefer the conversation and mentorship I had in the eighties with Bo Goldman – who I don’t consider so much a mentor but an off-the-cuff Sorkin-like teacher I was fortunate enough to encounter during the course of a day.

Mr. Nice Guy

Mr. Nice Guy

As a young writer I met Mr. Goldman, the two-time Oscar winning screenwriter of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Melvin and Howard who had yet to write big studio movies like The Perfect Storm and Scent of A Woman. His agent was a new friend of mine and generously told him I was a talented young writer (Note: Who had only written one semi well-received screenplay at the time) working on a new script. I will never forget Mr. Goldman probably seeing the forlorn terror in my eyes after he asked me about what I was working on and listening patiently as I tried to explain it. But more importantly, I will also always remember him smiling generously at me and saying: Don’t force it, don’t beat yourself up, it’ll come.

He then went on to share several stories of difficulties from his own life, always putting himself and me on equal status as writers.

The reason I can’t remember the stories is not that they weren’t memorable but that Mr. Goldman’s largesse to even include me in the same sentence with him when it came to the craft that he was so lauded for at the time was both shocking and humbling. But he didn’t see the world, as some in the commercial arts do, as a competitive playing field where one is trying to best the next person nipping at your heels behind you; or attempting to put down another more renowned and lauded than you.

Plus, this is the only living creature I prefer to have nipping at my heels

Plus, this is the only living creature I prefer to have nipping at my heels

Instead it was important for him to hear my story and reach out a hand of reassurance, as no doubt someone had done for him – or not done for him – confident that in doing so he was risking nothing of his own status and perhaps enhancing it. After all, what artist doesn’t want to spend a moment or two sharing the pain and/or difficulty of the journey, hoping in some way it dissipates its affect on the psyche. Of course, on the other hand, he could have just been being nice. I suspect it was both.

This is what teaching is about and what true mentorship is. It’s also what being a human being is about. And it feels equally good to both receive and give it – no matter what anyone writes or says about it.

Needless to say, Mr. Goldman was a welcome exception to the eighties. But it’s often the exceptional we remember – no matter where we are or regardless of the times.