Quite crazily fanatical in their devotion to detail, the Hughes Brothers have confessed to an enduring obsession about Red Jack. I, rather shamefacedly, must admit the same. There is something about the fog-shrouded lanes of Whitechapel, prowled by the diabolical and demonic murderer, dressed to the nines in formal cape & top hat (we imagine) with black surgeon's bag hiding the long slim razor sharp scalpels with which he does his horrid work, that is so chilling and creepy. And that he does his villainy on poor, broken-down prostitutes with such a ferocity, that deep & dark motives must be at play here. It is the fuel for both nightmares & movies.
Others must share this fascination, for we have had him as a fixture in our imagination from The Lodger on to dozens of film and television treatments and riffs on the theme, i.e., encounters with Sherlock Holmes etc.
Well, the Hughes's have done a job here, in some instances with absolute brilliance. This is a dark and moody meditation on the Ripper, as stylish and delirious as Johnny Depp's Inspector Aberline's fever-dream hallucinations. Beautifully shot and composed with clever uses of the camera and an evocation of those foggy streets, filled with terror and panic.
Certainly not for everyone. This is a superbly crafted film of an admittedly peculiar interest. Jack the Ripper has provided a Hannibal Lecter-like fascination for audiences for 100 years now. The granddaddy of them all, Red Jack was the real deal, and the true fascination is in his unrevealed identity which leaves him open to any interpretation imagination can take us. He is the monster half-hidden in our nightmares.
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