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"It's not a ghost story. It's a story with ghosts in it," says heroine Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska) early on in Guillermo del Toro's macabre gothic romance Crimson Peak. She's describing the novel she's just submitted to a condescending publisher, but she might as well be describing Crimson Peak itself.
Yes, there is all manner of ghosts in this gorgeous, tragic tale—some floating above twisted stairwells, others soaking in blood-filled bathtubs or skittering down dark hallways to deliver foreboding warnings—but to call Crimson Peak a horror film is to completely mislabel what del Toro has meticulously crafted: an old-fashioned tale of twisted souls and timeless longing in which spirits guide us through the central mystery. It's certainly creepy, but scary isn't really the point.
As with del Toro's essential Pan's Labyrinth and The Devil's Backbone—the latter of which gets some chilling visual callbacks here—Crimson Peak is a film in which the things that go bump in the night are not nearly as terrifying as the people who walk the earth. And while Peak is lacking in the deep allegorical content and emotional heft that defined those films, it represents the director at the height of his visual game, resulting in a film so immersive and gorgeous, the plot is almost secondary, allowing the actors to chew the rather delicious scenery.
Said plot's pretty simple, really. Young Edith is a plucky and independent writer in Buffalo who spends her days deflecting the affection of the town's goodly doctor (Charlie Hunnam) and hanging out with her wealthy father (Jim Beaver). Soon, though, she encounters British baronet Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston), an aristocrat whose title is undercut by his shabby clothing and who seeks a huge investment from the Cushings in order to fund his clay-mining operation at his dilapidated and isolated English estate.
Soon, Edith is intoxicated by Sir Thomas' charms and returns with him to his home, along with his sister Lucille (Jessica Chastain), who barely even attempts to conceal the sinister and hateful spirit seemingly bursting from her skin. Naturally, once they hit the estate, things unravel. Conspiracies arise. Paranoia peaks. Tensions boil. And an army of ghosts begins to visit Edith nightly with warnings of doom.
Once the film finally arrives at its titular manor, the weight of the film rests almost solely on the shoulders of Hiddleston, Wasikowska and Chastain, and all three performers wear their roles—and their stunning period costumes—quite well. Hiddleston (so good as the Avengers villain Loki) brings his uneasy charm in spades, offering up a complex and conflicted central character torn between his love for Edith and his thinly veiled ulterior motives. Wasikowska instills Edith with a will and strength typically absent in these types of films, transcending simple damsel-in-distress status to create a tough and smart heroine. And Chastain… good Lord, who knew she was capable of such malice? One of the best actors currently working, Chastain creates a ticking time bomb of emotions and seething menace throughout, from an early scene where she casually allows a butterfly to be swarmed by ants to a later one where she takes her rage out on a hot plate of scrambled eggs, she's a whirlwind of black-comic gold and pure discomfort. She's the film's most unpredictable element, a frayed nerve of a character seemingly on the edge of cracking from the moment she's introduced.
The best character of all, though, is the house itself. Crimson Peak—so called because it sits on top of a clay mine, which has a tendency to dye the snow blood-red in the winter—is one of the best haunted houses ever put to film. The grand lobby is consistently covered in leaves, snow and moths, thanks to a gaping hole in the ceiling. The staircases rap endlessly throughout the manor, while a rickety elevator serves as the gateway from the creepy-doll workshop—a staple of these old mansions, really—to the bubbling cauldrons of red clay in the basement. And if the house didn't already seem to be alive, clay drips from the walls like blood, and when the wind blows hard enough, the fireplaces seem to breathe, effectively creating an environment where something could be lurking anywhere.
The story of Crimson Peak is a fairly simple one, probably a little too slow-moving for those expecting something more jolty and probably a little too obvious for those looking for a deep mystery. But it's in combining his influences—old Hammer movies, the works of Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe, Hitchcock's Rebecca and a little Mario Bava and Dario Argento for good measure—del Toro has made a rare homage film that feels of its time rather than a rib-poking exercise in reference. He may be pulling from a lot of different sources, but make no mistake: Crimson Peak is a vision that is del Toro's and del Toro's alone, and while it's not his most compelling work, it's very surely his most beautiful. That alone makes it worth the price of admission.
Critic's grade: B+
Willamette Week