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Literary theory dictates that ghosts must exist for one of two primary reasons:
to harvest negative energies or to herald important warnings, both usually
directed towards ambivalent onlookers. The foundation of their existence can
vary depending on a story’s tone, but almost always the root causes are the same
–violent tragedies have left them in a state of otherworldly confusion. One of
the more humorous ironies is that few characters contemplate those possibilities
when they come face to face with such apparitions, often assuming that they are
capable of only the worst fates. Perhaps the principles of some modern
interpretations have violated those quintessential rules – the more seasoned
architects believed that ghosts can only haunt, not attack or harm – but who is
to say they could really be any worse than the living beasts that walk among us
already? The reality is that they are byproducts of a world with much more
menacing energies, and their refusal to leave is indicative of more singular
agendas; they must endure for the sake of either redemption of vengeance, lest
they be doomed to walk through eternity in a fog of aimlessness and despair.
If these details are commonplace for writers, then it is no wonder that
Guillermo del Toro, the man behind the new “Crimson Peak,” opts to create a
heroine who possesses such qualities. An imaginative but brooding sort who lives
in the shadow of a childhood trauma involving the haunting of her dead mother,
she has evolved into a creature of morbid fascinations, stirred less by romantic
inclinations and more by the underbelly of a confusing human existence. That she
carries those qualities into a passion for fiction writing is a key detail in
exemplifying that prospect. Indeed, Mary Shelley might have seen her as a gifted
understudy. So it is little wonder, in that regard, that her experiences arm her
with the right level of supernatural hindsight, and when she ascends the steps
of a gothic Victorian manor that seems to pulsate the tragic experiences of its
former residents, she is the only one who has walked through its halls that
bothers asking the fundamental question: “did someone die violently here?”
Many are sacrificed in the pattern before someone perceptive enough comes along
and dives deeper into the mysteries, and luckily for them movie cameras are
frequently nearby to observe those journeys in abundant detail. Those present
during the course of events of “Crimson Peak” are perhaps more fortunate than
others; in every sense of the word, it is one of the most distinctive-looking
pictures of recent memory, constructed entirely around a production design that
dares to imagine its world through eccentric eyes and rich style. That is a
staple of many of del Toro’s films – his “Pan’s Labyrinth” remains a benchmark
of modern fantasies – but here we see it realized in the fabric of a more
conventional story. Ghosts don’t merely show up as shadowy apparitions that pass
through space; instead, what we get is blood-red manifestations of souls that
seem to drip with anguish, and they stumble through an atmosphere of immense
decay like the most vivid warnings against any who sense them. Why would one
bother when it all amounts to the same end, you might say? For this director,
the better question is a perpetual “why not?”
The story deals with the adult experiences of Edith Crushing (Mia Wasikowska),
an aspiring writer of gothic horror fantasies whose bookworm routine is a result
of lifelong isolation. An only child who lost her mother at an early age, she
has plodded along in a state of cautious ambivalence. Some of that, we suspect,
is due to a traumatic experience as a child, when a shadowy ghost figure she
suspects belonged to her mother paid a startling visit to offer an ominous
warning: “Beware of Crimson Peak.” What did it mean? The answers are yet to be
clear to her, but this much she knows: ghosts are real, and they seldom occupy
our space unless there are grave motives driving their foreboding silent
prophecies.
Much becomes clear when Edith passes into the life of Thomas Sharpe (Tom
Hiddleston) and his sister Lucille (Jessica Chastain), strange entrepreneurs
from overseas who have arrived in America seeking funding for an ambitious
mining project. While the details of the sales pitch are vague, the passion is
certainly not misplaced; sharp and oratorical Thomas believes intently in what
he is trying to convey, even as would-be investors – including Edith’s
stone-faced father Carter (Jim Beaver) – shed doubt on his underlying motives.
Edith empathizes with the stranger, and he in turn finds something bewitching
about her pure conviction. They share affectionate platitudes. She offers him a
chance to read her manuscript. And then they engage in rather public
pleasantries that more proper sorts look upon with shock and dismay (the scene
of them waltzing while holding a candle stick isn’t just well-staged, it’s an
effective conduit for suggesting their chemistry). And if you think that doesn’t
add more fire to Carter’s own watchful agenda, then you just haven’t been paying
attention long enough.
Long story short: Edith is won over by Mr. Sharpe’s charms and is whisked away
as his wife to London, where their abode, Allerdale Hall, rests atop a mound of
red clay that is rich in fine minerals. What that also means – no doubt a
convenience to Thomas Sanders, the production designer – is that much of the
visual aesthetic relies on blood-red hues, because Sharpe’s mining venture
requires him to dig through the soil and excavate its resources (we are shown
vats of liquid red material in the basement, for instance, and the crimson soil
stains ground snow so that it looks like an elaborate massacre). Meanwhile,
Edith spends some quality time Lady Lucille, the chilly sister whose shtick is
always to look distant and devious, even when she feigns nurturing qualities.
What does she have to hide? The screenplay intentionally works in a circular
fashion around her menacing presence, but of course it does; it is clear from
the first interaction that her own secrets are at the core of the darkest truths
of this crumbling house, and to know them too early would be a hindsight way too
damaging to any of the momentum.
The problem is that we are not exactly new to this rodeo. We have seen many a
ghost story on the big screen over the years, and almost always there are the
same quintessential details driving the dangerous impulses of one of the
supporting characters, who are usually motivated by a sense of destruction
interlaced with some level of perverse desire. If her cleverly-worded dialogue
exchanges are not enough to indicate that particular narrative reality, then the
presence of the actual ghosts sure make up for it; even early on, it is clear
that they mean not to inflict pain or death on their newest arrival, but only
seek to offer warning. And of course those warnings must translate into shrewd
investigations in the second act, leading to masquerades and false conversations
to abundant supply. That, I fear, is not accidental either – both del Toro and
his co-writer Matthew Robbins clearly establish that they are only interested in
telling us a straightforward story with all the obligatory twists and “gotcha”
moments, because hey, even those formulas have yet to be seen in a structure
this aesthetically exciting.
There is something charming about that approach, and at the same time maddening.
We are never surprised or shocked at a single thing that gets worked into the
frame. When the reveals happen, they aren’t exactly earth-shattering epiphanies;
the dialogue’s suggestive tone won’t let them be. And because the picture’s
technical values are something of an artistic revelation, it only aggravates our
natural cynicism. With a movie that looks this great, why is del Toro holding
his narrative back in the throes of convention? It is not a sound impulse,
especially given how one correlates to the other. Sure there are great stretches
of exposition going on here. Sure, the characters are convincing conduits for
the screenplay’s devious methods, and sure there are some rather top-notch
performances extracted from the leads. But where is the vision? The novelty? In
a road map to a point that contains some of the most distinctive visual stops of
any movie you will probably see this year, how sad is it to realize, rather
early on, that the final destination plays like it was created in the remnants
of a recycled imagination.
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