SPOILERS AHEAD!!!
Tom Ripley, the complex and morally ambiguous protagonist of Patricia Highsmith's 1955 crime novel "The Talented Mr. Ripley," was recently revived in an 8-part TV series on Netflix titled simply "Ripley." This new adaptation, directed by the acclaimed screenwriter and director Steven Zaillian and starring Andrew Scott in the titular role, marks the second time Tom's story has been brought to the screen.The first screen adaptation was the 1999 film "The Talented Mr. Ripley" starring Matt Damon as Tom, which earned critical acclaim and introduced the unforgettable character to a wider audience. Now, over two decades later, the new "Ripley" series offers a fresh take on the tale of a socially awkward outsider of humble origins who becomes dangerously obsessed with wealth and luxury. Stylistically, Zaillian renders the story black-and-white, creating a foreboding and suspenseful atmosphere while evoking a distinct neo-noir aesthetic reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock's classic psychological thrillers. While we may miss the vibrant, fluorescent colors that are often associated with the story's Italian setting, the minimalist, monochromatic style of the show lends itself to an intimate viewing of Scott's impressive acting range, from outward expressive moments to subtle facial expressions. We feel as if we are watching Tom think as he struggles to maintain a cool composure while hanging on by the thinnest of threads.
As background, Tom Ripley is introduced to us as a nobody, a social outcast, and a petty criminal living a meager existence in the seedy part of NYC. While struggling to make ends meet through minor scams and forgeries, Tom's fortune takes a turn when he is recruited by a wealthy man to persuade Dickie Greenfield, the man's son, to return home from a picturesque Italian town called Atrani. When Tom meets Dickie, he is enchanted. He watches longingly as Dickie casually pulls out a thick wad of cash from his pockets and signs important documents with a Montblanc 149 fountain pen that he draws from the inner pocket of his tailored suit. Though Tom is previously heard resenting the upper class, this intimate look awakens in him a craving for the power and respect that Dickie's lavish lifestyle seems to afford. By the time he is asked to return to NY, the desperate and impoverished Tom is so consumed by jealousy and a crippling fear of losing this tantalizing glimpse of privilege that he resorts to the unthinkable - he brutally murders Dickie, steals his identity, and goes to extreme lengths to protect his newfound wealth and privilege.
As I watched Tom bury his former self in his desperate need to join the upper echelons of society, I was reminded of another infamous cinematic weirdo with a similarly fractured identity: Norman Bates from Alfred Hitchcock's 1960 classic, "Psycho". Like Tom, Norman is meek, unassuming, and virtually unnoticed by society. Guests who wander into the Bates Motel don't think too much of his stutter, shy demeanor, and peculiar interest in taxidermy until they encounter his jealous and murderous alternate personality called "Mother." Where Tom's assumed identity is performative and requires conscious, careful upkeep, Norman's dissociative disorder reflects a more absolute fragmentation. His dominant "Mother" personality derives from his late mother, whose toxic, smothering control over him from a young age stunted his development, leaving him a young man with a childlike psyche. Even after her death, Norman is psychologically shackled to her memories and twisted teachings. Unbeknownst to his conscious self, he gives life to his internalized maternal figure by donning her clothes and having delusional "one man show" conversations as himself and his mother. In these dissociative episodes, his mother's toxic influence lives on, berating him for his natural sexual curiosities that she had shamed him into repressing. Unlike Tom's active decision to reject his former self, at the end of the film, Norman's core personality is permanently usurped by Mother, a rejection of the former self made horrifyingly literal.
Even while in their first "true" selves, both characters grappled with a fundamentally weak sense of self and identity. Throughout Ripley, we see Tom repeatedly declaring to anyone who would listen that he is a good person and that he's "not someone who takes advantage of other people" (as he fully takes advantage of people lol). While his insistence is directed externally, it almost seems as though he is trying to convince himself of these qualities and that he wants to embody these virtues but just doesn't know how. He feels that the only way to be virtuous is to assume a role that he has had no hand in creating. Dickie's persona is a shortcut to reassurance that there is a place for him in society and that he can enjoy stillness, artistic fulfillment, and an unhurried existence that was previously out of reach for him. Norman, too, exhibits a pattern of overcompensation for an unstable ego. He defensively insists to a private investigator, "I'm not a fool! And I'm not capable of being fooled! Not even by a woman!" Here, Norman jumps to defend his masculinity, and assert a strength of character that he clearly lacks. Because he never transitioned into healthy manhood, Norman hides behind a caricature of what he thinks a self-assured man should be. While both Tom and Norman desperately try to reassure themselves through their repeated self-affirmations, neither seems to possess an understanding of how to internalize the virtuous qualities they so ardently want to be seen as having. Ultimately, Tom and Norman represent the worst possible outcomes of traumatic upbringings in a society that leaves them stranded. By the time they reach adulthood, they are left only with a hollow shell of an identity and no internal compass to guide them to morality and self-actualization.
Some comic book villains like The Joker (Batman), Magneto (X-Men), and Killmonger (Black Panther) typically come about as a response to external forces like societal injustice and violence. Tom Ripley and Norman Bates, however, represent a different breed of antiheros - their villainous arcs arise not from external catalysts but from unresolved psychological trauma, fruitless quests for identity, and a stable sense of self. Their plights remind us that even the seemingly unconventional may be dealing with long-unhealed wounds we know nothing about and that our most authentic selves are worth tending to lest we become into something terribly, irreparably other.