Exposé - Ravenous

Woeful misrepresentation of a movie by the marketing division has been touched upon in some of my previous reviews, but only rarely have I seen a case as flagrant as that of Ravenous. Transgressions of this kind are usually reserved for the back cover, but here it extends to the front as well, with David Arquette given first-billing alongside Guy Pearce and Robert Carlyle. This is not to say that I have any criticism of Arquette's performance in the film, indeed so few and far between are the scenes in which he features that it scarcely seems possible to form an opinion one way or another. To put it into perspective, one of the characters whose name we never even learn has roughly the same amount of dialogue. What raises my ire so much about this is the fact that it denies proper acknowledgement of a worthy performance on the part of Jeffrey Jones, for no reason other than a vague potential hook for adherents of the Scream franchise. Turn to the back and you'll find these charges justified, with Arquette billing dead last in the usual credit wrap-up. As for the rest of the back cover information, not only does it misconstrue the genre orientation, but so too the actual plot, providing an outline that is barely applicable to the film in question when it isn't outright erroneous. I voice this frustration because there is a surprisingly competent film being maligned by this farcical exterior. And while it may not be for everyone, I am certain that many will find it much easier to appreciate this film without labouring against the burden of misleading preconceptions. If nothing else, Ravenous is a film that demands to be taken on its own terms.

Colqhoun - Captain Boyd

Compounding the utter failure of the cover designers is the fact that the film manages to perfectly encapsulate itself only seconds from opening. "He that fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster", counsels the frontispiece in a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche, to be rebutted a few moments later with the addition of "Eat me", ascribed to 'Anonymous'. This is Ravenous in a nutshell – a film about cannibalism that is equally serious and darkly humorous by turns, offers moments of wisdom only to pierce them with a razor-sharp wit, and is consistent only in the sense that it is abidingly clever. Overall, it is an experience which defies ready classification, presenting a horrifying subject without ever resorting to the clichéd horror formula, while at the same time maintaining a sense of irreverence that never crosses into the realm of pure comedy. No doubt this all sounds terribly chaotic – and for the first-time viewer this is likely to be the case – but at the same time, Ravenous is also an exercise in restraint. The most readily appreciable evidence of this lies in its brevity, with the film running in at under the hundred minute mark. At a time when even the most vacuous premise is routinely dragged out over two hours or beyond, it is refreshing to find a director who acknowledges the natural limits of an idea. With its relatively simple topic always firmly in sight, Ravenous manages to throw a enough sufficiently interesting angles into the mix to keep things engaging before putting itself to bed. Always on the move, often a step or two ahead of the viewer, Antonia Bird resists the urge to let her creation gorge itself, despite the proclivity of its central characters to the contrary.

Fort Spencer - An inglorious post

Opening in the midst of the Mexican-American war, Ravenous introduces Captain John Boyd during his commendation for a dubious – albeit fortuitous – course of action during a skirmish, the result of which is his immediate reassignment to Fort Spencer, an inglorious post guarding the mountain pass into California. Upon arrival he is greeted by the amiable Colonel Hart, who attempts to make the best of his position as commander of a small contingent, each member of which possesses some trait that has resulted in their being deemed defective. Major Knox passes for the resident medico when he isn't rendered unconscious through drink; Private Toffler suffers from a debilitating mix of intense religious belief and severe lack of social skills; Private Reich represents the opposite extreme, with such zealous devotion to the martial side of soldiering that he is a danger to his comrades; and finally Private Cleaves, whose acceptance of the two native American siblings that also inhabit the fort includes far too liberal amounts of their potent weed than his meagre span of years can handle. The rag-tag formula is familiar enough, and to its credit Ravenous opts to make use of this wheel rather than attempt to reinvent it.

The mild-mannered Colonel Hart

When a half-frozen stranger calling himself Colqhuon turns up one night, claiming to have escaped from a party of ice-bound travellers lost in the mountains, the main thrust of the story commences. Having been tended to and revived by the concerned soldiers, Colqhuon offers a tale of terror: how the desperate party fell to cannibalism as a final resort, and how their demeanour changed after that first irreversible foray into the realms beyond the bounds of social sanction. It is at this point that the mild supernatural element of the film is also introduced, involving the Native American folklore concerning the wendigo. While they remain ostensibly human, the wendigo enjoys an increase in physical strength, agility, and resilience after each cannibalistic feast. The inevitable price comes in the form of an increasingly insatiable hunger, compounded by the fact that the benefits they enjoy begin to wane after only a short time. The parallels with drug use, rampant consumerism, and other addictive behaviours which inevitably escalate in order to deliver the same rewards are obvious, but the director wisely opts to leave them as latent issues in the background rather than attempt to drive home an overtly didactic message. The result is an ongoing exchange between the depiction on the screen and its wider implications, from which both ultimately benefit; equating cannibalism with the more mundane transgressions we are used to offers a level of insight which is otherwise difficult to attain with such an extreme behaviour, while at the same time our shock and revulsion at the latter reflects a critical light back on our willingness to accept behaviour driven by a similar dynamic.

The wendigo of Native American folklore

In addition to this universal applicability, it is worth bearing in mind that the film does nevertheless opt for a specific historical context, and one that significantly expands the potential interpretation of its subject matter. The storyline is, after all, loosely based on real-life accounts such as that of the ill-fated Donner party. Indeed, the nineteenth century was something of a boom for stories involving cannibalism, due in no small part to the rapid expansion of Westerners into remote and unfamiliar territories across the globe. All too often woefully unprepared and generally too arrogant to adapt to local conditions, much less accept that aid of natives, proud explorers and foolhardy settlers set off to the frontiers in their droves. Whether it was the Americas, the isolated expanse of Australia, or in the depths of Africa, these colonists often brought with them murky accounts of savage cannibals living beyond the pall of civilised society, only to find themselves resorting to the same behaviours. Some indigenous cultures did proscribe sanctioned forms of homophagy, to be sure, but the savage delinquent so firmly entrenched in the nineteenth century imagination often turned out to be a mere farmer or society man. Indeed, one can only wonder whether these situations would have occurred anywhere near as frequently had the expedition members not held the fear of such a threat from outsiders so firmly in their minds.

Lair and larder...

Belying the danger posed by the ubiquitous savage – whether real or imagined – was a far deeper, more essential anxiety regarding his possible relationship to civilised man and the links between human and animal kind in general. The nineteenth century was, after all, to see the inception of Darwinism, the various elements of which had been fomenting and steadily coalescing for decades before Darwin himself was even born. Rather than merely citing this historical milieu, Ravenous goes one step further and combines it with the nascent ideology of the post-revolutionary United States, which was still very much in the throes of forging a unique national identity. Direct quotes from some of the founding fathers are imbued with a subversive, and yet disturbingly astute significance when uttered by the antagonist. The rhetoric used to justify his ambition to create a cannibal utopia is also telling in that it uses much of the same material as the burgeoning national ideology, with a particularly chilling approximation of the call for the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses. With such brazen implications as these, Ravenous could have easily devolved into mere sensationalism, but once again it shows enough restraint to pull back just shy of the precipice. Robert Carlyle puts in a delightfully extravagant performance, without ever resorting to scenery chewing, while Guy Pearce maintains an aura of despondency in his bleak Everyman without succumbing to the pitfalls of melodrama.

A coward's ploy

A final testament of the measured nature of this film is its sense of lingering ambiguity. It would be too much to ask for genuine empathy, given the subject matter, but even our ability to sympathise is denied a straightforward target. The amusingly devilish antics of the antagonist form one side of the equation, while on the other is a protagonist who remains stubbornly averse to any form of heroism. Boyd is a man so utterly defined by cowardice that he must ask permission of a dead man before he will take action to preserve his own life, and can only end another's when the man himself begs to be dispatched. Indeed, it is only after being taunted with the idea that true courage would be to embrace the perverted ideology of his nemesis – leaving behind the protective cover of social sanction – that our 'hero' is able to muster the resolution necessary to dispatch the villain, rendering even this an act of cowardice. The subversive elements of the film are thus sealed with an epitaph than splits human nature into two equally despicable groups – the consumers and the consumed.

A vast expanse in which to lose touch with humanity

SPRINGBOARD

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Van Diemen's Land

Jonathan auf der Heide

A recent Australian production based on the notorious exploits of Alexander Pearce: one of a small party of convicts who resorted to cannibalism after escaping from a penal colony on the west coast of Tasmania in the early nineteenth century. When his sensational account was met with disbelief, Pearce was sent back to the site of his imprisonment, only to escape once more. His accomplice was devoured within ten days of absconding this time, and with plentiful sources of nourishment in the immediate area. Historical incidents of this nature undoubtedly leant much apocryphal weight to the pervasive idea that the act of cannibalism results in some kind of pathological alteration. The steady degeneration of the social dynamics within the party is in good contrast to the plunge in Ravenous.

Supernatural

Eric Kripke

A television series based on the premise that a pair of brothers confront all manner of creatures out of folklore and urban legend. The second episode of the first season is the only one to feature a true wendigo, but entities with similar tendencies are encountered with relative frequency. With at least half of season five still to come at this point, chances are there will be a few more entries of this nature. Constantly playing off the most well known horror films, Supernatural often manages to deliver more atmosphere and genuine scares than the material which inspires it. An ever-expanding menagerie of nasty creatures and figures from urban legend makes for a compelling modern take on traditional folklore.

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The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket

Edgar Alan Poe

As verbose and convoluted as its title suggests, the only novel-length work by the legendary Edgar Alan Poe is a true oddity. From humble beginnings as a rather simple adventure story, The Narrative undergoes a series of increasingly jarring redirections in terms of both subject and tone, including a sensational tale of mutiny and survival, a decidedly dry account of south-sea exploration, and most bewildering of all, a final Antarctic voyage that focuses on seemingly impenetrable philosophical symbolism, leading to one of the most abrupt and unsatisfying conclusions in all of literature. Purveyed under the guise of a 'true account', Poe cobbled together whole sections plagiarised from legitimate sources with others of the most fantastic invention to perpetrate one of the most infamous literary hoaxes of his day. And while it may not be entirely successful as a whole, each clearly delineated section in this sprawling tale represents a masterful treatment of various individual genres. Among these is a tale of high-seas survival and cannibalism that epitomises the nineteenth century approach to the subject, both in terms of literary convention and the anxieties it evokes.

The Histories

Herodotus

Accusations of cannibalistic behaviour as a means of asserting racial superiority may have been a particular vogue during the nineteenth century, but Herodotus proves that the practice is literally as old as history itself. Considered a milestone in the formation of the discipline, The Histories is part social chronicle, part ethnographic study, part rationalisation of one the most defining conflicts of the ancient world. What truly sets it apart from the work of his predecessors is its dedication to autopsy, and the process of bringing sceptical consideration to what is generally known and accepted. That said, the work is still a long way from what modern historians would deem an objective treatment. With a bias not only toward Greece, but toward specific city-states as well, The Histories provides a fascinating insight toward the various ethnic prejudices of its day. From the furthest reaches of Africa to the northern steppes, and as far east as India, cannibalistic behaviour is one of many behaviours frequently used to cast aspersions upon other, often mythical peoples.

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The Raft of the Medusa

Théodore Géricault

The scandal surrounding the wreck of the naval frigate Méduse would be just another in a long line of similar tragedies were it not for this painting, which has ultimately transcended its topical origins to become an enduring emblem for the phenomenon of survival cannibalism as a whole. Defying the Neoclassical movement in vogue during his day, Géricault imbued his painting with a horror that the familiar tropes of Greek and Roman myth and Christian theology could never truly approach – the uncomfortable appreciation that his subject was real. As such, while its style is neither as grotesque or exaggerated as other depictions of cannibalism – such as Michelangelo's The Last Judgement or Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son – there is a far more disturbing immediacy to this painting than its archetypical fellows.

Exposé - Frankenstein

After much ado involving my attempts to secure a copy, we come at last to the final member of the classic monster film triumvirate in the form of Frankenstein, a 2004 television miniseries starring Alec Newman and Luke Goss in the titular roles. I say roles both because it may be deduced from a close reading of the original text, for reasons which shall be examined in due course, and because it offers a concise reflection of just how confused the popular image of this enduring story has become, to a point where protagonist and antagonist have become, appropriately, conjoined. Like the towering figure at the heart of the story, the legacy of Mary Shelley's seminal novel has been cobbled together from the scraps and pieces of countless adaptations and reinventions, gradually coalescing in the form of a corpus so bloated and misshapen that none of its myriad contributors would claim the finished product. It is a legacy full of burning windmills and atavistic criminal brains, galvanic batteries and maniacal doctors, a fable concerning the advance of science or an argument against genetic engineering and a thousand other things that have little or no basis in the novel published two centuries ago. As such, any production attempting to breath life into this body of material is forced to navigate a path between the blessing of immediate audience recognition and the threat of being lost among of a veritable ice-field of rival interpretations. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it is a challenge which this particular adaptation attempts to forgo whenever possible, opting instead to remain on a course of strict fidelity, some might argue to a fault.

Victor Frankenstein face-to-face with his creation

If one element from the original novel can be said to have suffered the most in film adaptations, it must be the sophisticated narrative structure it presents. Perhaps it is a testament to the power of the story itself, but the subtle ways in which it shifts perspective and repeatedly turns back upon itself are easily forgotten even after multiple readings, leaving a predominantly linear reconstruction in its wake. To its credit, Frankenstein abandons some of these conventions in favour of ones more suited to the live medium, and does so without any substantial alteration or subtraction in terms of content. The first appreciable instance of this is the restoration of a frame narrative concerning an Arctic exploration team, lead by the ambitious Captain Walton, who retrieve the aged Victor Frankenstein as they wait for a break in the pack ice that traps their ship. Whilst perhaps seeming incidental to the primary storyline, this sub-plot provides an important counterpoint in the moral implications of the work as a whole; will the cautionary tale embodied by the desperate and ruined Frankenstein be enough to curb the determination of another man fuelled by the same reckless determination, or does our innate human inquisitiveness mean that we are destined to repeat his fatal mistakes? It is only unfortunate that the casting of Donald Sutherland in the role of Walton substantially lessens its impact, simply by being four decades too old for a character explicitly stated as being twenty eight in the novel. The resulting inversion of the age difference between the two characters completely negates the implication that Frankenstein sees an opportunity to intervene in the life of a younger version of himself at a critical moment, and thereby renders Walton's eventual decision to relent largely unconvincing.

Captain Walton, of the Prometheus

It is fitting, for a story that explores so many of the fundamental issues involving human nature, that we should follow the protagonist through most of the traditional 'ages of man', ranging from childhood to adolescence, adulthood, and as far into old age as his untimely death will permit. Bringing that transition to the screen is no mean feat, but Alec Newman manages this considerable challenge with dependable aplomb. Striking an appropriate balance between innocence and uncharacteristic seriousness as a child, this is the Victor Frankenstein of the novel in every respect: a man of innate self-contradictions, whose fierce passion is held in check by equally intense rationality. Whether he teeters on the brink of obsession during a theoretical tirade at the family table, or exhibits inhuman serenity in the middle of a charnel house, this is a man whose reactions strike us as mad not in their magnitude, but for being always out of place. While this makes it difficult for an audience to fully empathise with the protagonist, the fact that he never progresses into abject insanity precludes any temptation to summarily write off his actions, no matter how misguided they may seem. As in the novel, this Frankenstein is a complex and nuanced character, which has ramifications not only for the emotional dimension of the story, but the moral implications as well. Most important of all, the time and effort invested in recounting his studies belies the common assumption that Frankenstein is a tale that cautions against the pursuit of scientific advancement.

Frankenstein about his grisly work

As a stoical William Hurt expounds in his first scene as Professor Waldman, the ancient philosophers promised much but delivered nothing, where the modern scientist promises little and delivers great miracles. For the headstrong Frankenstein, this revelation is a devastating one, having devoted much of his adolescent studies to medieval alchemists and debunked metaphysicians. Driven as much by shame as enthusiasm, he throws himself into the meticulous study of chemistry, biology, and all the cutting-edge fields of natural philosophy, stunning fellow students and teachers alike with his ability to devour and retain such vast amounts of knowledge. As time goes on, however, he begins to chafe under the prosaic methodology of gradual advances and aimless experimentation, until the ambitions he held as a youth return with a vengeance. Forming a doctrine as mismatched and bastardised as the creation it ultimately leads to, Frankenstein grafts the promise of the former onto the methodology of the latter. The enduring message of caution is thus aimed at those who would recklessly bend the paths of rational thought toward irrational ends, so intent upon a distant point of gratification that the ethical dimensions of each step in between are passed too swiftly for any real consideration. As both perpetrator and accomplice, it is the innocent dreams of a young Victor who wished to undo the loss of a beloved family pet and his dear mother that press the prodigal Frankenstein of science into their service. Science, when practised according to impartial scientific principles, is no more culpable than any tool subject to misuse. Significantly, the only scene to present a material divergence from this idea – consisting of an eleventh-hour encounter with Professor Waldman – is one that does not occur in the novel.

The staid Professor Waldman

While the circumstances surrounding his creation may be considered monstrous, the creature itself is anything but. Once again placing faith in its source material, Frankenstein depicts the antagonist in the closest possible manner to the way Shelley describes him: tall and lean, with a mane of black hair and physical abilities far exceeding those of ordinary men. This necessarily reduces the degree of visceral aversion many are doubtless accustomed to from other film incarnations, but the human semblance is imperfect enough to maintain an unnerving aura about the character. The sequences in which Frankenstein labours over his creation depict suitably exaggerated proportions – given that he is forced to use normal bodies to build another that is abnormally large – and prove the validity of the 'uncanny valley' approach. Credit is also due to Luke Goss, who augments the design aspects with a thoroughly engrossed performance, conveying an appropriate level of sympathy to offset the latent sense of menace. Far from the lumbering half-idiot of popular imagination, this is a creature whose gaunt skin seems barely able to contain the seething mass of emotion that it harbours within, and which it vents whenever possible in eloquent and persuasive speech. The result is a palpable sense of inversion between creator and creation during their various confrontations, with the former using a veil of reasoned indifference to suppress any claim upon his emotions, and the latter thrown at the mercy of a passion whose fervour exceeds his ability to offer reasonable justification. Each is thus portrayed as an excess of one quality or the other: rational thought or irrational emotion.

A noble creature, spurned

One of the more important, and certainly one of the most interesting areas in which Frankenstein can be seen to either benefit or suffer from its degree of fidelity is its underlying tone. As always, whether you happen to react one way or the other depends greatly on individual expectation. For although we often find Mary Shelley and her literary creation placed together with the likes of Bram Stoker and Robert Louis Stevenson, we are to some extent remiss in doing so. All three represent pinnacles in the Gothic genre, to be sure, but the latter belong to a Victorian revival characterised by gaslight, dark alleyways, and a murky world of black-cloaked horrors. Frankenstein belongs to an earlier phase in the genre, with ties to the Romantic poets in whose company the tale was literally formed. Like the poems of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Byron, this story takes place in a picturesque natural landscapes, from the Bavarian town of Ingolstadt, to the vast amphitheatre of the Alps, and the bright expanse of the Arctic waste. It is a horror of implication, not of visceral slaughter; like a troubling dream rather than a bloody nightmare. In this respect, Frankenstein perhaps even manages to surpass its source material, for on film the discrepancy between brief moments in which all is dark and surreal, and long stretches in which all is light and familiar is particularly jarring. It is almost possible to join the protagonist in his wishful belief that the menace surrounding him is no more than a haunting fantasy, whereas in the novel the threat remains all-pervading. Our separation from the innermost thoughts of the protagonist also throws a light on the central drama that no reading of the novel would be likely to yield, being how mundane the underlying conflict actually is. Exclude the supernatural elements of death and resurrection and all we are left with is the common scenario of a young man who leaves home to pursue his studies and commits in an act of indiscretion, only to find himself confronted with the task of admitting that error to his family in the form of an illegitimate child. In the end, it is shame alone that Victor cannot reconcile himself with, to the ruin of all those around him; all his bastard progeny seeks is acknowledgement of his right to the name Frankenstein.

A drama a human failings before the spectacle of nature

SPRINGBOARD

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Frankenstein: True Horror

Julien Benoiton

The last in a three-part series, this documentary relates the real-life experiments that would inform much of the story in Frankenstein. Through a combination of dramatic recreation and commentary from experts and historians, the story of Professor Giovanni Aldini and his quest to understand the powers which imbue animal life are recreated with lavish flair. Culminating with the attempted revivification of an executed man, these historical events may have played as much a part in inspiring some of the divergent film adaptations of Frankenstein as the original work itself, and are certainly a tale worth exploring in their own right. The truth, as they say, is sometimes stranger than the fiction.

Blade Runner

Ridley Scott

Ostensibly based on the novella Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick, Blade Runner might also be described as a Frankenstein for the twentieth century, dealing with many of the same fundamental issues. In a near-future world of vast urban sprawl, corporations exert a level of influence far exceeding that of national governments, exploiting advanced technologies in order to maintain their position. Specialising in genetic engineering, the Tyrell Corporation manufactures advanced humanoid creations called Replicants, who are virtually indistinguishable from ordinary human beings. When five of these units escape their assigned duties and return to earth, seeking answers from their creator, retired officer Rick Deckard is assigned the task of hunting down and eliminating them. Taking the same existential questions posed by the creature in Frankenstein, the film projects them to a point where they implicate society as a whole.

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Frankenstein

Mary Shelley

First published in 1818, when Mary Shelley was a mere nineteen years old, this seminal tale of Gothic revivification has exerted considerable influence in popular culture over the two centuries since. The mythology surrounding its invention is almost as widely disseminated as the novel itself, involving a challenge to construct the most chilling ghost story, and the likes of Percy Shelley, John Polidori, and the infamous Lord Byron himself. Unlike its competitors, only one of which even saw completion and publication, Frankenstein diverged greatly from the predictable ghost story formula, to the extent that it is often held up as one of the earliest examples of the science fiction genre. This is despite the fact that Shelley maintains a strict aversion to revealing the actual science involved, for reasons of both character motivation and simple narrative convenience. With such an enduring legacy and an indelible place in the canon of world literature, it is no surprise that any of the myriad genres in spans should wish to lay claim to it.

Prometheus Bound

Aeschylus

As its subtitle The Modern Prometheus attests, Mary Shelley consciously drew upon Ancient Greek Mythology as a leitmotif in Frankenstein. The most detailed treatment of the story of Prometheus to have survived through to modern times is this, the only extant instalment in a trilogy first performed in the 5th Century BC. Beginning with the eponymous Titan being chained and impaled upon a mountain peak, Prometheus Bound relates the cruel treatment meted out by Zeus when it is found that Prometheus stole fire from the gods in order to raise humankind out of primitive savagery. The parable seems to have held special poignancy for poets in the Romantic movement, many of whom Mary Shelley was personally familiar with. Indeed, Percy Bysshe Shelley would go on to publish a poem entitled Prometheus Unbound, having initially been presumed as the author of Frankenstein when it was first published anonymously. No doubt the combination of a benevolent, suffering god coupled with the symbolic power of fire as a representation of intelligence, passion, and hope lay at the heart of this appeal.

Paradise Lost

John Milton

Though quoted in this version of Frankenstein, it is not explicitly stated that one of the books used by the creature to improve his grasp on language is a copy of the English epic poem, Paradise Lost. This unlikely twist of fate sees it leave a mark not only in terms of his eloquent expression, but on the very fundamental way in which he views the world and his own circumstances. In a bewildering carousel of alternating roles, Frankenstein too identifies with various characters in the poem, casting himself both as God, insofar as he is the progenitor of a new species, and Adam, in light of the fact that he is still a man, despite his ambitions. In either case, his identification of the creature as Satan remains unflinching, while the creature itself alternates his sympathy between Satan and humanity after the fall. One interpretation that neither ultimately entertains is the possibility that Adam, in the form of Frankenstein, has actually given rise to a new God, represented by his superhuman creation.

Exposé - Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde

Having dealt with the legacy of Dracula in the previous review, it seems appropriate that we turn now to another great staple of late-nineteenth century fiction with Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde. Once again, you may have trouble hunting down a copy of this particular production, but in this case the problem is not the result of marketing division re-branding. Nor is it even a matter of genuine scarcity, although this exacerbates the issue in terms of general public awareness. Rather, the main difficulty lies in attempting to pick out this particular version amidst the bloated catalogue of films bearing an identical title, one of which was released in the same year as the production in question. To clarify, this review is dedicated to the version which features John Hannah in the titular roles, accredited as being released either in 2002 or 2003. As it happens, this frustrating triviality characterises much of the difficulty faced by this, or any other production that aspires to make a faithful adaptation of this particular literary classic. For the most part, however, this treatment manages to address these latent issues with enough skill to maintain interest, whilst also injecting a sufficient degree of originality.

Dr Henry Jekyll ~ Mr Edward Hyde

The greatest impediment to any literal adaptation of R.L. Stevenson's classic novella is that Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is essentially a one-trick pony. This is not to impugn its quality, but rather a simple product of its specific form. One must remember that, despite the fact that Jekyll/Hyde has come to rank alongside the likes of Dracula and Frankenstein as the pre-eminent gothic figures in popular culture, there is a great difference in their various original forms. At a mere seventy-odd pages, Strange Case is a product of the vast nineteenth century trade in serialised, inexpensive fiction commonly referred to as 'shilling shockers' or 'penny dreadfuls' – antecedents of the pulp magazines which proliferated during the first half of the twentieth century. The fact that Stevenson managed to distinguished his tale amidst this morass of castaway entertainment is due entirely to the calibre of his writing and the outstanding quality of his central idea. Of these it is the latter, especially, which has seen the tale consistently punch above its diminutive weight, creating a legacy that continues to hold its own beside those of its novel-length peers. Indeed, in one respect the enduring influence of Strange Case is virtually without parallel, and while this affords some unique advantages, it means that any attempt to follow in its wake is also faced with peculiar challenges.

The dark recesses of the human mind

In essence, the one trick at the centre of Strange Case proved to be so captivating as to leave behind all memory of the device through which it was revealed. One need only reflect upon current popular culture in order to gauge the truth of this statement. So firmly entrenched is the central idea of the tale that the mere name Jekyll/Hyde is enough to elicit instant recognition, even from those who have never encountered one of the myriad adaptations, let alone read the original. For a tale so completely geared toward revealing the mysterious connection between the respectable Dr Henry Jekyll and the disreputable Mr Edward Hyde – to the exclusion of any peripheral concerns – the voracity with which the common populace consumed the underlying idea made the narrative itself largely redundant. There are modern equivalents, in films such as The Usual Suspects and The Sixth Sense, but never in the history of film or literature has a fictional archetype become so firmly entrenched in the common psyche as that denoted by the term Jekyll/Hyde, nor indeed so completely independent of the work itself. The difficulty which Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde faces is thus dealing with the fact that the story is largely unknown, while the big reveal at its centre is perversely known to all. In effect, how can one faithfully translate a mystery story whose very name instantly dispels its secret? The answer, in this case, is to undertake a subtle realignment in approach.

Hyde surveys his gruesome handiwork

The first nine chapters of Strange Case are primarily concerned with Mr Utterson – a lawyer and friend of Jekyll – as he attempts to uncover the link between the titular personages. This sequence ends with the discovery of Jekyll dead in his laboratory, with the tenth and final chapter consisting of a 'full statement of the case', which covers the same period of time from the doctor's enlightened perspective. It is this transition between the two narratives where Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde begins; the primary drama is construed as a flashback with brief scenes of Utterson reading Jekyll's confession interspersed throughout. This rather innocuous device proves to be the cornerstone of the film's ultimate success, and is all the more inspired for its simplicity. Choosing to embark at this point in the narrative effectively dispenses with the nine chapters of suspense which make up the bulk of the original story, conceding the fact that a modern audience is fully aware of the connection between Jekyll and Hyde. I say dispensing with that narrative, not discarding, because the film does preserve each of the key scenes from the novella, as well as many of the peripheral characters, but always with the focus squarely on Jekyll's perspective. In so doing, the film effectively pushes much of the original story into the background, showing enough respect to permit its existence without becoming slavishly indentured to it. The result is something approximate to the relationship between Shakespeare's Hamlet and Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, whereby each represents the opposing sides of a single stage. This culminates in the final scenes, where a poisoned Hyde tears and devours the pages from a journal, even as the ailing Jekyll alternately continues writing, ingeniously accounting for the discrepancies between the truncated 'full statement' and the expanded territory introduced in the film.

Hyde devours the words of Jekyll

Rather than attempt to recreate the central mystery of the novella, Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde wisely opts to re-frame the drama and its attendant issues through a number of substitutions. Operating under the assumption that a modern audience is aware of the Jekyll/Hyde relationship, for instance, the film replaces this original source of suspense with another, revealing Hyde as late and incrementally as possible in order to pique our anticipation. The new territory into which this adaptation expands also allows it to throw in a subdued eleventh-hour surprise, giving us at least a taste of what the original audience must have experienced. By far the greatest value in this film, however, derives from its treatment of Jekyll/Hyde and how it reflects upon the values of nineteenth century society. Whereas the modern idea of Jekyll/Hyde tends toward the universal – an archetype of duality, in which the absolute principles of good and evil struggle for supremacy – Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde confines itself to the very specific context of the era during which it was written. Odd though it may seem, some of the more drastic changes to the original source material actually result in a more faithful translation of its underlying ideas. The decision to forgo any special effects, for instance, and have the transformation into Hyde conveyed purely through John Hannah's very capable acting, does much to restore one of the most neglected and yet vitally important aspects of the original work.

A house with two faces

Jekyll and Hyde are not simple paradigms for good and evil, if you read Strange Case carefully, nor indeed do they represent an equal fifty-fifty dispensation of the whole man. Like all of us, Jekyll represents a mixture of 'high' and 'low' qualities and urges. His attempt to artificially rid himself of this conflict is what inadvertently gives rise to Hyde, who is an anomaly in that he represents only the latter. While Hyde is thus purely 'evil' – in the sense that he possesses no ingrained sense of social mores, and is therefore utterly selfish – Jekyll remains entirely as good and evil as he ever was, still an entire person. The lack of any jarring physical delineation in the film allows this idea to retain its full potential, as we are never quite clear when we are dealing with Jekyll, or if it is actually Hyde. In this respect, Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde also manages to address one of the difficulties relating to any adaptation of the original, which is making Hyde sufficiently evil. In the novella, all but a few of his atrocities are left to the imagination, and thus able to remain absolute in our minds. When it comes to film, however, this becomes difficult to adequately portray. It is no great task to imagine some fairly atrocious crimes, but the task of envisioning the most atrocious, befitting the actions of someone who is supposed to be the utmost evil, is something altogether different. In conjunction with the issue of good taste, any portrayal of Hyde faces the real possibility of seeming too paltry and contrived. Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde, however, takes this potential weakness and uses it as the basis of a scathing indictment of late-nineteenth century society. No matter what depths of depravity Hyde is able to contrive, it seems that someone is waiting to profit from his actions, whether it be via blackmail, organised debauchery, or a mutual concession. The protagonist is thus recast as a paradigm not of duality, but fundamental hypocrisy, with Jekyll using his privileged status as a shield within a society content to abet his crimes.

Not so evil that the cabman will refuse his coin

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From Hell

Albert & Allen Hughes

Inspired by the graphic novel by Alan Moore rather than a true adaptation, From Hell is nevertheless a gripping and stylish film dealing with the notorious exploits of Jack the Ripper. While it opts for a more conventional, procedure-based approach than its source material, the rampant hypocrisy at the heart of Victorian society remains a central concern, showing a political focus that balances well with the more domestic appraisal of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde. More than a little influence in terms of visual motifs and composition is also evident between the two films.

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Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

R. L. Stevenson (Ed. Robert Mighall)

A milestone insofar as it introduced a powerful and enduring concept to the common milieu, and yet the tale itself is largely neglected. While the original reading experience has long been eradicated, thanks to the popularity of its central idea, the modern reader has the alternative surprise of finding many of their preconceived notions about the story disassembled and replaced by a far more nuanced, qualified examination than the common understanding of a potion-quaffing simian menace. This particular edition has the benefit of some fascinating and insightful articles by Robert Mighall, and also features two of Stevenson's other, more conventional “shilling shockers”.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde

The only novel-length work of fiction penned by the legendary Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray was published four years after Stevenson's Strange Case and deals with similar issues, namely the apparent duality of man, the role of society in mediating individual behaviour, and the prospect of leading an existence free of moral consequences. Whereas Strange Case places a heavy focus on the evolutionary implications, with the physical transformation of Jekyll into Hyde, Wilde opts to tackle the issue from a purely philosophical and theological angle: what is man, in terms of the psyche, as opposed to what is man, in terms of physical human being. In many ways The Picture of Dorian Gray is thus something of a companion piece to Strance Case, indicative of the highly topical nature of their core issue during the later nineteenth century.

The Island of Doctor Moreau

H. G. Wells

Primarily remembered as a cautionary tale concerned with the potential abuse of medico-scientific advances, The Island of Doctor Moreau also conveys a scathing indictment of the society which is generally thought competent to guide or censure such advancement. The result is a blurring of the lines between man and beast, forcing us to question the validity of so called 'civilised' behaviour, and ultimately the very social mores that typically delineate right from wrong. Like Strange Case, the result is a muddying of both parties in the cyclical relationship between individual and society, questioning how it is possible that society can regulate the activities of immoral specialists, such as Moreau, when the common populace itself is explicitly compared with brutish, unthinking creatures born through his malpractice.

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From Hell

Alan Moore & Eddie Campbell

A monumental work of graphic fiction, as attentive to the minutiae of its subject matter as it is sweeping in the grand scale of its concepts and intimations. Dispensing with the typical cat-and-mouse scenario of mainstream crime fiction, From Hell follows the exploits of Jack the Ripper throughout the frenetic killing spree that rocked London during the later months of 1888, vividly and intimately portraying both he and the vast network of individuals concerned directly or indirectly with the events that saw his moniker indelibly etched in modern history. Crucially, this is an exploration that manages to damn the society that spawned the Ripper without diminishing the horror or brutality of the acts for which he is ultimately culpable.

Exposé - Dracula: The Dark Prince

In the previous article I made a passing reference to the role of marketing in the proliferation of dubious terminology and outright misrepresentation surrounding film. As the cover of Dracula: The Dark Prince demonstrates, however, the practice of misleading the audience extends far deeper than a mere catchphrase. Fortunately, this is one of those occasions where this translates into a positive outcome. Nothing even remotely resembling the red-eyed, many-fanged monstrosity on the cover is featured in the film itself, nor is there any guarantee that the version you encounter will bear the same awkward title. Indeed, my initial encounter with this little-known production occurred under the guise of Vlad the Impaler, which is by far the most accurate reflection of its actual qualities. In addition to these two pseudonyms, it can also apparently be found under the variants Dark Prince: The Legend of Dracula and Dark Prince: The True Story of Dracula, the last of which is perhaps the most galling. The reason I burden you with this extraneous information is that, despite the near-total deficiency of good sense displayed on the cover, what lies beneath is a surprisingly competent and engaging film, and it seems a shame that it might be consigned to untimely death solely on the basis of its ghastly exterior.

Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia

For those who can recall the prologue from Bram Stoker's Dracula, the major plot points in Dracula: The Dark Prince hold little in the way of surprise. Where the two treatments do greatly diverge is in regard to the focus and interpretation of events concerning the historical Prince Vlad III of Wallachia, known as Dracula during his reign, and given the posthumous appellation of Vlad the Impaler. Beginning in media res, the first scene appears to deliver precisely the sort of Byronic figure that has become synonymous with the name Dracula in the aftermath of the famous Gothic novel by Bram Stoker. With an almost ghoulishly pale complexion, raven-black hair streaming back from a widow's peak, and an ensemble consisting largely of black leather, this is a figure as close to the collective popular idea of Dracula as it is possible to conceive. As we follow his progress through a brief mission of vengeance – culminating in an order to impale a vassal prince that has been installed during his absence from the country – each moment only seems to verify the preconceptions any modern viewer will inevitably bring to this film. At this point, however, the film immediately halts its forward progress and launches into an extended retrospective, conducted under the guise of an inquisition meant to determine whether the Orthodox church will ratify an earlier endorsement of the repatriated Prince Vlad, or else excommunicate him, thereby denying any hope of regaining the throne. While it may seem contrived, at first, this plot device actually proves to be the single most inspired decision in the film, allowing it to pursue some genuinely insightful avenues on the path to deconstructing our notions surrounding Dracula.

Before the Orthodox inquisition

Having presented a vision of protagonist so in tune to our prejudiced imaginations, the subsequent interrogation serves a double function, not only affording the character a chance to justify his actions to the audience, but also effectively putting our preconceptions on trial. The question of where the legend of Dracula ends and the historical figure begins is presented as being a matter as pertinent in his own time as it is today, and the role played by the council of priests allows Dracula himself to answer our uncertainties. Is it true that he once invited a group of fellow noblemen to a lavish feast, only to denounce and execute them for conspiring in his father's death? Did he actually pursue a policy of strict corporal punishment, condemning thieves and other petty criminals to impalement and other horrific deaths? What rapidly becomes clear, however, is the extent to which wild speculation feeds into the very basis of Dracula's consummate use of dissemination and intimidation to achieve goals beyond what his meagre strength in arms could ever hope to gain. With the superior resources of the papist Hungarian king on one side, and a vast army of Ottoman Turks on the other, the Prince of Wallachia is forced to negotiate a perilous situation whereby his own country is essentially the battleground between these rival superpowers.

Romania, then Wallachia

As we examine his tumultuous history – from his distant memories of father Vlad II, through his years as a captive in the Sultan's camp, and then his ongoing efforts to liberate his homeland from foreign influence – Dracula offers an elusive commentary, explaining his motivations where doing so will aid his cause, allowing them to remain murky and unresolved where the perpetuation of his legendary status does the same. The result is a surprisingly insightful meditation upon the nature of legends themselves, the circumstances in which they are likely to propagate and grow, and the potential this represents for those who can actively shape their evolution. This is driven home particularly by a number of clever elements that anticipate Dracula's immortal fame as a vampire. These include a suggestion that he dipped his bread in the blood of his victims; an incident that sees a rumour of his death spread throughout the country, resulting in the idea that he had risen anew when the truth was confirmed; a reference to his father having suffered a hereditary sensitivity to light that steadily worsened with age; and, last of all, his excommunication from the Orthodox church. It would have been a mistake to focus too intently upon any one these subtle hints, and thereby write off the Dracula myth as a simple matter of cause and effect, and the film casually puts them out there as little offering to the observant, along with the quiet assertion that these are the details, the minute grains from which all legends sprout. This finally culminates in a short epilogue scene, wherein a spectral Dracula taunts his betrayer with the suggestion that the circumstances of his death have granted him eternal life, a martyred fiend who shall forever inhabit the twin halls of history and infamy.

Tepes - The Impaler

Underlying all these elements is the issue of objective truth. Is it realistic, or indeed even possible, to expect a true portrait of Dracula when so much of the rumour and intrigue surrounding this figure is due to his own program of spreading misinformation? For this reason, any notion that the value of the production should be construed as a direct function of its biographical and historical accuracy should be resisted. It is a simple truth, though generally unacknowledged, that our appraisal of any given film is largely a product of our expectations. As such, those who approach Dracula: The Dark Prince anticipating an epic historical drama in the modern style will be disappointed. There is no doubt that the life of Prince Vlad III of Wallachia would provide a compelling basis for such a treatment, but this production does not attempt to overreach itself in such a way. With only two visual effects shots, all the battles are conveyed off-screen save for a few small skirmishes, aligning film much more with the tradition of historical stage drama, particularly that of the renaissance period with the likes of Marlowe and Shakespeare. Indeed, the influence of renaissance drama as a whole is palpable throughout the film, with the storyline reflecting elements of Hamlet and Tamburlaine the Great in relation to Dracula, while his wife Lidia takes cues from her equivalents in Othello and Macbeth. Precedent has overwhelmingly demonstrated the extent to which good stage drama lends itself to successful translation onto film, but the reverse is only rarely true. Dracula: The Dark Prince is one of those rare exceptions, and those who approach it expecting a lavish stage production are more likely to appreciate its various merits.

Casualties of war

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Bram Stoker's Dracula

Francis Ford Coppola

Perhaps the most faithful adaptation of the novel Dracula, despite some significant deviations of its own. Its relevance here derives from the historical details inserted as a back-story to the Gothic fictional tale, the main points of which essentially summarise the events of Dracula: The Dark Prince.

Dracula: True Horror

Ben Chanan

The second  in a three-part series, this documentary delves into contemporary reports of the enigmatic ruler of Wallachia. Through a combination of dramatic recreation and commentary from experts and historians, the reign of Prince Vlad III and his tendency toward extreme forms of punishment are recreated with lavish flair. The story of three monks who displeased the volatile prince is used as a window to his motivations and the world that shaped the man.

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The Prince
Niccolò Machiavelli

A treatise on the nature of politics and governance intended to address the tumultuous period of internecine conflict between various Italian and surrounding principalities during the sixteenth century. At a time when the right to rule and exert political influence was heavily entwined with the concept of divine justice and pre-ordination, Machiavelli was almost unanimously denounced for his suggestion that the manipulation of power should be examined and defined solely in relation to its social reality, disregarding any theological preconceptions of right or wrong behaviour. An amazingly astute and insightful examination of the dynamics of power and social manipulation.

The Complete Plays
Christopher Marlowe

A contemporary of William Shakespeare, Marlowe produced some of the most widely acclaimed tragedies to grace the renaissance theatre. At times less disciplined and more impulsive than the works of his famous peer, these plays nevertheless manage to produce scenes which are as powerful they are unexpected. With their focus on the dispensation of power and its consequences, the plays Tamburlaine the Great, Parts I & II, and Edward the Second have the most immediate relevance.

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Dracula: The Resurrection
Dracula: The Last Sanctuary
Canal Multimedia

A series of point-and-click adventure games that follow on from the famous novel, with the intention of forming a complete trilogy. While much of the cast and storyline are taken from this fictional premise, there is also a considerable degree of visual influence from the film Bram Stoker's Dracula, in addition to a significant amount of historical information regarding the real Vlad III of Wallachia, his brother Radu, and the political intrigue surrounding their interaction with the Turkish Sultan. As such, the series tends more toward a genuine merging of the two Dracula personae: fictional ghoul and historical warlord.