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Review: Frank Herbert’s Children of Dune

Posted on by Arleigh

“To know the future is to be trapped by it.” — Leto II Atreides

Children of Dune is one of those sci-fi miniseries that feels a little rough around the edges, but still manages to hit with real ambition, atmosphere, and a lot more emotional weight than its modest TV budget might suggest. It is based on Frank Herbert’s Dune Messiah and Children of Dune, aired on the Sci Fi Channel in 2003 as a three-part miniseries, and it serves as a continuation of the 2000 Frank Herbert’s Dune adaptation.

What makes this version stand out is that it doesn’t just try to retell a story about desert politics and giant worms. It digs into legacy, prophecy, religious fanaticism, and the terrifying cost of being treated like a messiah. That sounds heavy, and it is, but the miniseries keeps moving with enough drama, betrayals, and strange mythic energy that it rarely feels static.

The opening section works especially well because it immediately reminds you that Paul Atreides’ victory was never a clean one. By the time the story gets going, his empire is already rotting from the inside, and the series makes a strong case that power on Arrakis is always poisoned by something, whether it is politics, faith, or the sand itself. The shift from Paul’s once-legendary rise to the unraveling of the world around his children gives the story a tragic tone that fits Herbert’s universe perfectly.

A big reason the miniseries works is that it understands Dune is not really about flashy action, even though it has some. It is about ideas, and this adaptation is willing to spend time on them. The show’s best material comes from the way it frames religion as both weapon and trap, especially once the myth of Muad’Dib starts consuming the people who worshiped him. That theme gives the whole thing a haunted feeling, like everyone is living inside a prophecy they do not fully understand.

The cast does a lot of heavy lifting, too. Alec Newman brings a wounded, exhausted quality to Paul that fits the role well, and his scenes carry real sadness because he feels like a man who has seen too far and cannot unsee it. Jessica Brooks, James McAvoy, and Julie Cox all help ground the family drama, while Susan Sarandon brings a cold intensity that gives the political side of the story some bite. Even when the dialogue gets stiff, the actors usually sell the material better than the script itself does.

One of the most interesting choices in Children of Dune is how it treats the twins, Leto II and Ghanima, as more than just plot devices. Their importance is obvious from the beginning, but the series gradually builds them into the real center of gravity. That works because the story is partly about inheritance, and these kids are inheriting not just a throne, but a nightmare of destiny, expectation, and manipulation. The series knows that the most dangerous thing in this universe is not a blade or a bomb, but a future someone insists is already written.

The production design is another area where the miniseries earns a lot of goodwill. It has that early-2000s TV look, sure, and some effects are clearly limited by the era, but the sets, costumes, and overall visual imagination give it a strong sense of place. Arrakis feels harsh and ceremonial at the same time, which is exactly what it should feel like. The costumes also help sell the political divide between factions, making the whole thing look more like a living empire than a generic sci-fi stage.

There are moments where the miniseries feels very theatrical, almost to a fault. Characters occasionally deliver lines with so much seriousness that the show risks sounding like it is declaring its themes instead of dramatizing them. That said, this is also part of the charm. Children of Dune is not embarrassed by its own scale or its own weirdness, and that confidence helps it pull off material that could easily have collapsed under a more self-conscious approach.

The pacing is mostly solid across the three parts, though it does have the usual miniseries issue of compressing a very large story into a limited runtime. Because it covers most of Dune Messiah in the first installment and then adapts Children of Dune in the later parts, some transitions feel abrupt and some developments move faster than they probably should. Still, the adaptation largely keeps its focus, and it is impressive how much story it packs in without turning into total chaos.

If there is a weakness here, it is that the miniseries can sometimes feel like it is working harder to explain the mythology than to make you feel it. Herbert’s world is notoriously dense, and this version does not always smooth that out for viewers who are not already familiar with the books. A newcomer could easily feel like they have been dropped into the middle of a dynastic collapse with very little hand-holding. But for a follow-up to Frank Herbert’s Dune, that density is more of a feature than a bug.

The best compliment I can give Children of Dune is that it respects the seriousness of its material without becoming completely lifeless. It has the courage to be grand, strange, and a little mournful all at once. Even when the execution is uneven, the miniseries understands that the heart of this saga is not a simple battle for power. It is the burden of seeing the future and realizing it may be worse than the present.

As a sequel, it improves on the sense of scale and emotional consequence from the earlier adaptation. It feels less like an introduction to a universe and more like the tragic fallout of one. That makes it a more satisfying watch for viewers who want Dune to feel like an epic family tragedy instead of just a sand-covered political thriller. The fact that it does this on TV, with all the limitations that implies, makes the achievement even more impressive.

In the end, Children of Dune is a flawed but memorable miniseries that succeeds because it commits to its own strange seriousness. It may not be sleek, and it may not always be easy to follow, but it has ideas, mood, and a genuine sense of doom that suits Herbert’s universe. For fans of the books, it is one of the more interesting screen adaptations because it is willing to lean into the philosophical and tragic side of the saga rather than sanding it down into something safer. For everyone else, it is still a fascinating piece of early-2000s sci-fi television that swings bigger than most shows of its era.

Review: Frank Herbert’s Dune

Posted on by Arleigh

“Mercy is a word I no longer understand.” — Paul Atreides

Frank Herbert’s Dune, the 2000 Syfy Channel miniseries, stands as a scrappy yet heartfelt attempt to tame the untamable beast that is Frank Herbert’s sprawling sci-fi epic Dune. Clocking in at nearly four hours across three parts, it doesn’t pretend to be the cinematic knockout punch of Denis Villeneuve’s Dune: Part One and Dune: Part Two, nor does it dive headfirst into the psychedelic rabbit hole of David Lynch’s notoriously bonkers 1984 film. Instead, it carves out its own lane as the faithful workhorse adaptation—the one that prioritizes stuffing in every major plot thread, faction rivalry, and philosophical nugget from the novel without apology. That dogged completeness earns it major points from book purists, even if the early-2000s TV production values leave it looking like a glorious mess next to today’s blockbuster standards. It’s the version you revisit when you want Dune’s full political chessboard laid bare, rough edges and all.

Right from the opening narration, you sense this miniseries is playing a different game. While Villeneuve hooks you with those thunderous sandworm roars and vast desert expanses that make Arrakis feel like a character unto itself, and Lynch blasts you with industrial-gothic sets and nose-plug close-ups that scream “weird,” the Syfy take eases in with expository voiceover and sweeping shots of Caladan’s misty nobility. The budget screams made-for-TV: thopters wobble like cheap models on strings, sandworms shimmer with dated CGI that wouldn’t pass muster even in 2000, and interstellar travel feels more like a quick fade than a hyperspace spectacle. Yet there’s charm in the earnestness—the ornate costumes drip with imperial excess, from House Atreides’ regal blues to the Harkonnens’ sickly pallor, capturing Herbert’s baroque universe better than Lynch’s fever-dream excess or Villeneuve’s minimalist severity. It’s alien and opulent without trying to reinvent the wheel visually, letting the story’s inherent strangeness do the heavy lifting.

What truly sets this adaptation apart is its unhurried commitment to Dune’s core as a tale of interstellar realpolitik, not just laser swords and monster chases. The miniseries luxuriates in the scheming: extended scenes of Bene Gesserit whispering manipulations across generations, Emperor Shaddam IV plotting from his golden throne, and the Spacing Guild’s monopoly stranglehold get room to breathe. Lynch crammed this into a frantic 137 minutes, resorting to on-screen crawls and “the spice must flow” explainers that border on parody, while Villeneuve elegantly implies much of it through mood and subtext, trimming for pace. Here, the trap closes deliberately—Duke Leto’s honorable doom unfolds with all its tragic inevitability, Paul’s Fremen transformation simmers with ecological and messianic tension, and the Baron’s depravity feels like a rotting empire’s symptom. It’s talkier, sure, but that density mirrors the novel’s heady mix of ecology, religion, and colonialism, making the good-vs-evil surface hide a much murkier power grab.

Faithfulness is the miniseries’ superpower, and stacking it against the films drives that home. Lynch’s Dune is a directorial fever dream—brilliant in bursts (those Guild Navigators floating in spice tanks are iconic), but it mangles the timeline, invents “weirding modules” and pain boxes that Herbert never dreamed of, and caps with a cheesy resurrection and empire-toppling finale that feels like fanfic. Villeneuve’s duology is a masterclass in restraint and awe: Part One builds unbearable dread through silence and scale, Part Two unleashes Paul’s holy war turn with chilling clarity, but both demand sequels and sacrifice chunks like Thufir Hawat’s full betrayal arc or the ecological long-view for runtime efficiency. The Syfy version? It hits about 90% of the book’s beats in one self-contained package—Paul drinks the Water of Life, rides the first worm, unites the tribes, all while fleshing out Yueh’s guilt, Gurney’s survival, and Irulan’s expanded role as a scheming narrator who spies on the action. Smart tweaks like inner-monologue voiceovers clarify the mental gymnastics without Lynch’s exposition overload.

The ensemble punches above the production’s weight, delivering performances that ground the sprawl. Alec Newman’s Paul Atreides evolves from callow youth to burdened Kwisatz Haderach with a steely intensity—more seasoned than Kyle MacLachlan’s wide-eyed innocent in Lynch’s film or Timothée Chalamet’s introspective minimalist in Villeneuve’s, but convincingly haunted by prescient visions. William Hurt’s Duke Leto radiates quiet nobility, a paternal rock that Oscar Isaac matches with fiercer charisma but less screen time. Saskia Reeves’ Lady Jessica is a coiled operative, mastering the Voice while Rebecca Ferguson brings feral maternal fire and Francesca Annis floats as an ethereal priestess. Ian McNeice’s Baron Harkonnen oozes grotesque glee, echoing Kenneth McMillan’s scenery-chewing blimp but with slyer malice; Stellan Skarsgård’s version chills as a tactical monster sans the floating fat-suit camp. Chani fares best as Barbora Kodetová’s fierce Fremen equal, outshining Lynch’s rushed Sean Young and edging Zendaya’s mythic close-ups with raw tribe loyalty. Even bit players like Robert Wisdom’s Idaho shine brighter than their film counterparts.

Directorial choices by John Harrison emphasize theatricality over cinema flair, turning court scenes into operatic standoffs that suit Dune’s ritualistic pomp. Princess Irulan’s upgrade—from bookend quotes to active imperial intriguer—adds a vital scheming perspective Lynch ignored and Villeneuve teases for later. The gom jabbar test throbs with intimate terror, Fremen sietches pulse with cultural depth, and the final duel crackles despite modest effects. Pacing lags in spots—the Atreides downfall stretches, subplots like Feyd-Rautha’s gladiatorial intro feel obligatory—but that thoroughness lets overlooked gems like the dinner-table tensions and spice-blow ecology lectures land fully. Brian Tyler’s score swells bombastically, aping Zimmer’s primal dread without the subtlety, yet it propels the saga forward.

Flaws glare under modern scrutiny: effects age like milk (those ornithopters!), editing chops unevenly between threads, and some line deliveries veer stagey next to Villeneuve’s hushed precision or Lynch’s unhinged energy. It lacks the 1984 film’s quotable weirdness (“The sleeper must awaken!”) or the recent epics’ IMAX transcendence, feeling more like a filmed audiobook than immersive event cinema. Still, that scrappiness fits Dune’s prickly soul—ornate yet precarious, cerebral yet visceral. Herbert crafted a warning about heroes and empires; this miniseries trusts you to unpack it, preserving the unsettling texture the smoother films sometimes polish away.

Revisiting after the others clarifies its niche perfectly. Lynch’s Dune is the cult oddity—fractured, visionary, endlessly memeable despite narrative chaos. Villeneuve’s saga is prestige sci-fi at its peak: disciplined, subversive, a slow-burn symphony begging Part Three. The Syfy miniseries? Your completist’s deep cut—comprehensive, unpretentious, ideal for dissecting the guilds, houses, and prophecies on a rainy weekend. Constraints hobble the spectacle, but the ambition to honor Herbert’s labyrinthine blueprint shines through.

Ultimately, Frank Herbert’s Dune miniseries claims no crowns as the ultimate adaptation—that debate rages between Lynch’s deranged heart, Villeneuve’s cool mastery, or the book itself. At around 1150 words, it’s a worthy underdog: earnest, exhaustive, and true to the novel’s tangled genius. Fire it up if you crave Dune’s unfiltered intrigue over heart-pounding visuals. It respects the spice’s full flow, worms and all.

Review: Conspiracy (dir. by Frank Pierson)

Posted on by Arleigh

“We will not sterilize every Jew and wait for them to die. We will not sterilize every Jew and then exterminate the race. That’s farcical.” — Reinhardt Heydrich

HBO’s Conspiracy (2001) masterfully dramatizes the infamous Wannsee Conference, held on January 20, 1942, where high-ranking Nazi officials orchestrated the Final Solution. The film’s running time mirrors the historical meeting itself, distilling one of the darkest moments in history into a single, chilling sitting that balances historical fidelity, psychological insight, and dramatic restraint. The premise is stark and deceptively simple: a group of men, most of whom had never previously met, gather in a sun-drenched villa outside Berlin to discuss systematic mass murder while enjoying fine food and polite conversation. This contrasting setting, rendered with careful attention to period detail, powerfully underscores what Hannah Arendt called the “banality of evil.” In Conspiracy, evil is not the property of villainous caricatures, but of functionaries and technocrats—chillingly rational and disturbingly mundane.

Much of the film unfolds in real time, utilizing dialogue taken from the sole surviving minutes of the Wannsee Conference. Screenwriter Loring Mandel and director Frank Pierson avoid unnecessary embellishments, allowing the facts and the conversations themselves to carry the full, horrifying weight. Kenneth Branagh gives an Emmy-winning performance as Reinhard Heydrich, the orchestrator and presiding presence at the conference. Branagh’s portrayal is both urbane and authoritative, presenting Heydrich as a figure whose affable composure thinly veils his unwavering commitment to genocide. There is no soaring rhetoric or overt menace; Heydrich’s evil is presented with administrative casualness, making it all the more chilling.

Stanley Tucci is equally compelling as Adolf Eichmann, Heydrich’s logistical right hand and the architect of the machinery of death. Tucci infuses Eichmann with a quiet efficiency and bureaucratic pride—a portrait of a man more attached to process than morality, disturbingly bland in his demeanor. The supporting cast is no less impressive. Colin Firth, as Dr. Wilhelm Stuckart, portrays a legal architect of Nazi race law who appears increasingly unsettled as the agenda shifts from disenfranchisement to extermination. Each attendee is rendered with psychological nuance. Some are disturbingly enthusiastic about their roles, while others are quietly apprehensive, yet ultimately complicit. These subtle gradations of doubt, ambition, and opportunism animate the film’s psychological landscape.

The dialogue, rooted in the actual transcript and skillful dramatic writing, eschews melodrama. The horror emerges not through spectacle, but in analytic exchanges about logistics, quotas, and definitions—the cold calculus of genocide. The men’s debates around how to classify mixed-race Jews, whether sterilization is preferable to extermination, and who should be spared create a bureaucratic puzzle as vile as its intent. Their discussions are delivered in a neutral, even mundane tone, which heightens the chilling reality of what they are planning. Pierson’s direction is restrained; the film never leaves its confined setting, emphasizing the claustrophobic mood of collective complicity. The camera lingers on faces rather than violence, building tension through small gestures—a glance, a pause, the clinking of glassware. The impact of what is said is matched only by the weight of what goes unsaid, until Heydrich, in a quietly devastating moment, makes the true purpose explicit.

More than a simple history lesson, Conspiracy meditates on themes of collective guilt, moral responsibility, and the terrifying ease with which ordinary people become accessories to atrocity. The film is haunted by bureaucracy; if everyone is “just following orders” or “simply doing their job,” the boundaries of blame blur and diffuse. The characters’ debates skillfully skirt the language of murder, favoring euphemisms such as “evacuation” or “resettlement.” This allows viewers to witness, in real time, the kind of moral erosion that enables atrocity on a massive scale. The dry, matter-of-fact tone of the film deepens its emotional impact, forcing the audience to comprehend that such horrors were conjured not in a frenzy, but in calm administrative exchanges over lunch.

For both historians and general audiences, Conspiracy earns praise for its meticulous adherence to historical detail. The screenplay closely follows the Wannsee minutes, and the film’s design choices—muted score, period-accurate costumes, and careful pacing—all serve to render bureaucratic evil as mundane and unremarkable. This unwavering restraint, however, does impose certain limits. The film’s dramatic arc is inherently subdued; the absence of conventional action or narrative tension makes it unfold like an extended negotiation rather than a traditional drama. Some viewers may find this lack of overt conflict stifling or static, resulting in a work that feels more “important” than “entertaining,” but this is clearly by design.

Conspiracy received widespread acclaim for both its historical gravity and psychological depth. Branagh and Tucci, in particular, were celebrated for their nuanced performances. The film is often cited as a model example of how the “banality of evil” operates—not through monsters, but through functionaries in tailored uniforms, sipping wine and rationalizing extermination. For those unfamiliar with the events, the manner in which these men discuss matters of life and death with casual detachment is shocking. As one critic noted, “Most people believe they know what evil looks like… But in Conspiracy, men of true evil met in pristine, gorgeous surroundings… and go about their business leisurely… with a smile and barely a hint of remorse.”

Within the canon of Holocaust cinema, Conspiracy stands apart from films like Schindler’s List or The Pianist, which focus on the suffering and survival of victims. Instead, it occupies a space similar to Downfall and the earlier Die Wannseekonferenz, dramatizing not the machinery of genocide but the mindsets of its architects. By confining itself to dialogue and implication, the film compels viewers to reflect on how civilization’s facades both enable and obscure horror.

The film’s lingering effect is not found in dramatic catharsis or tears, but in an enduring sense of discomfort. Conspiracy dramatizes not just a choice among evil options, but the ease with which those choices become rote procedure and social negotiation. The silence in the final act, as the men calmly disperse after codifying genocide, lands with a cold, almost procedural finality. The closing captions, briefly summarizing the fates of those present, deliver a sobering message: accountability was sporadic, often delayed, and never guaranteed.

Conspiracy is not casual entertainment, nor is it meant to be. Instead, it is essential viewing for anyone interested in the psychology of atrocity, the peril of bureaucratic amorality, and the enduring question of how ordinary people become complicit in extraordinary evil. With a screenplay of surgical precision, outstanding ensemble cast (especially Branagh and Tucci), and a director committed to understatement, HBO’s film demonstrates how history’s darkest decisions are forged not in chaos, but in chilling consensus. To those seeking to understand not only what happened at Wannsee, but how, Conspiracy offers an unblinking and quietly devastating answer.

Film Review: Conspiracy (dir by Frank Pierson)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

The 2001 film, Conspiracy, takes place at a villa on the outskirts of Berlin.  It’s a lovely villa and, as we can see during the film’s opening moments, it’s about to play host to a meeting of very important people.

The date is January 20th and the year is 1942.  Having conquered much of Europe, Nazi Germany is now at war with the Allies.  Reinhard Heydrich (Kenneth Branagh), the young chief of the Reich Security Main Office and the man who many feel will eventually succeed Adolf Hitler as the leader of the Third Reich, has been directed to call a conference so that he and his deputy, Adolf Eichmann (Stanley Tucci), can “discuss” ways to solve “the Jewish question.”  One-by-one, representatives of the Reich’s bureaucracy show up at the villa.

At the start of the meeting, the men discuss various ways to force the Jews out of Germany and all of the occupied territories.  The men chose their words carefully, speaking in euphemisms and doing their best to sound like concerned government officials.  The men know what they’re talking about but they still seem to feel the need to avoid coming right and saying it.  As they talk, it becomes clear that everyone is trying to stay in Heydrich’s good graces while, at the same time, avoiding the fact that they understand the truth about what Germany is doing.  It’s not until halfway through the meeting that Heydrich and Eichmann reveal that Germany’s policy has already been determined and that concentration camps with gas chambers have already been designed and built.  The meeting is less about discussing the policy and more about getting each man at the meeting to sign off on it.  The unspoken subtext is that each man is being tested to determine who will support (and, if need be, help to cover up) the Final Solution and who will have to be otherwise dealt with.

Based on the actual minutes of the meeting, Conspiracy is film that is perhaps even more important now than when it was first released.  It’s a film that explores not only the banality of evil but also seeks to answer the question of why no one in Hitler’s government forcefully objected to the Final Solution.  (Many, of course, claimed not to know what was going on.  This film reveals just how little credibility that claim had.)  Some of the men go along because they understand not going along would mean the end of their careers and maybe their lives.  Some of the men agree because, as members of the military, they believe in supporting their country’s leadership, regardless of what that leadership represents.  Some of the men agree because they want to stay in Heydrich’s good graces.  These men represent a society where anti-Semitism is so normalized that it is accepted as a given and, while some of the men are not as outspoken in their prejudice as the others, it’s clear that all of them view the Jewish people as being a unique problem.  Those who do raise concerns do so only out of worry of what will happen to them if the rest of the world discovers what Germany is planning.  Heydrich insists that there is no need to worry because Germany will win the war.  Some of the men at the Conference are clearly not convinced of Germany’s pre-destined victory but not a single one has either the morality or the courage to refuse to endorse the Final Solution.  The film ends with a series of title cards, letting us know what became of the men who attended the Wannsee Conference.  Heydrich was assassinated during the war.  Eichmann fled to South America and hid there until he was captured by Israel in 1960.  Many of the men were executed for war crimes but a surprising number of them were either acquitted or never put on trial and went to live peacefully after the war.

Well-directed by Frank Pierson, Conspiracy has a distinguished cast who brings the historical characters to terrible life.  It’s one thing to read about what was said and planned at the Conference.  It’s another thing to actually hear those words spoken aloud and it’s a reminder that the evil of the Holocaust was not an accident nor was it something that took its perpetrators by surprise.  It was something that meticulously planned by human beings who were fully aware of what they were doing.  Kenneth Branagh makes for an arrogant and intimidating Heydrich while Stanley Tucci plays Eichmann as being the type of bureaucratic robot who is incapable of seeing human beings as anything more than just dwindling numbers on a report.  Colin Firth and David Threlfall make strong impressions as two of the more weary members of the Conference, as does Ian McNeice in the role of the type of crude, career-driven government functionary who has survived by pretending to be dumb.

At a time when anti-Semitism is on the upswing and Holocaust denialism is being mainstreamed, Conspiracy is an important film.  When others say that the Holocaust didn’t happen or that it doesn’t matter, Conspiracy defiantly says, “Yes, it did and yes, it does.”

Horror Film Review: From Hell (dir by The Hughes Brothers)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

Who was Jack the Ripper?

That’s a question that people have been asking for 129 years.  Arguably the world’s first famous serial killer, Jack the Ripper killed at least five prostitutes in the Whitechapel section of London.  Some claim that he killed as many as twenty.  He may have also written several taunting letters to the police.  Again, some say that the letters are authentic and some say that they were hoaxes.  Hell, there’s even some people who say that Jack the Ripper himself is a myth and the five murders attributed to him were actually five unconnected crimes.  It was speculated that Jack the Ripper was a butcher, a surgeon, or maybe a midwife.  Just as suddenly as the murders began, they ended.  The London police claimed that he had committed suicide by jumping into the Thames.  Few people believed them then and even less now.

The reason that there is so much uncertainty is because Jack the Ripper was never caught.  He was never identified.  There were stories of confessions, though many of them came from the mentally infirm or they were heard by someone who was a friend of someone who claimed to be the Butcher of Whitechapel.  At one point, there was even a claim that Jack’s diary had been found.

As a horror fan, a true crime fanatic, and a lover of history, I’ve read quite a few theories about who Jack the Ripper was.  Nearly every prominent (or, at the very least, remembered) Victorian has been accused of having been Jack the Ripper.  Oscar Wilde has been accused of hiding a confession in The Picture of Dorian Gray.  Various members of the Royal Family have been fingered as the culprit.  Even Lewis Carroll could not escape accusation.  The true crime author Patricia Cornwell wrote an entire book where she (wrongly) accused the painter Walter Sickert.  Cornwell’s case could basically be summed up as follows: “Walter Sicket’s paintings were weird.  Walter Sickert must be Jack the Ripper.”  Apparently, she managed to destroy one of Sickert’s paintings while looking for clues.

The truth of the matter is that Jack the Ripper was probably some guy who no one has ever heard of, most probably one of the unknown men who lived and worked in the shadows of Whitechapel.  For all the talk of Jack being a doctor, it can be argued that the surgical precision of his murders has been overstated.  He didn’t get away with murder because he was particularly clever.  Instead, he got away with it because, in 1888, even fingerprinting was considered to be a radical science.

But, honestly, that’s not very intriguing.  For those of us who have researched the case, it’s far more interesting to speculate that Jack the Ripper was either a famous person or that the murders were all the result of a huge conspiracy.

That’s certainly the appeal of From Hell, the 2001 film from The Hughes Brothers.  Making the same basic case as Bob Clark’s Murder By Decree, From Hell argues that the Jack the Ripper murders were the result of a royal conspiracy.  In reality, that theory has been discredited but it certainly is the most cinematic of all the possibilities.

And, speaking of cinematic, it must be said that From Hell is very stylish movie.  Though the title comes from one of Jack the Ripper’s letters, From Hell also could just as easily be used to describe the film’s vision of Whitechapel.  Whitechapel is full of shadows and secrets and the blood flows freely.  If Mary Kelly (Heather Graham) isn’t killed by Jack the Ripper, it’s just as likely she’ll be killed by one of her clients.  Even as the murders are committed, life and business in Whitechapel goes on.  What other choice is there?  It’s either risk being killed or starve.

It falls to Frederick Abberline (Johnny Depp) to solve the murders.  The real-life Abberline was an almost legendary detective who lived for decades after the final Jack the Ripper murder.  The movie’s Abberline is an opium addict who always seems to be on the verge of a breakdown.  When he and Mary Kelly fall in love, you’re not really sure if it’s something to be happy about.  Abberline seems just as likely to go crazy as everyone else.

From Hell is an uneven and somewhat overlong movie but I like it.  Heather Graham and Johnny Depp give somewhat odd performances but the oddness fits right in with the Hughes Brothers’s vision of a world that’s been turned permanently upside down.  It’s a movie that’s full of atmosphere and the story is intriguing even if it’s never exactly convincing.  For obvious reasons, I can’t reveal who plays Jack the Ripper but I will say that he gives a very good performance.  When he says that, “One day, men will look back and say that I gave birth to the 20th century,” you believe him.