Dr. William Palmer (Keith Allen) seems to have forgotten the first principle of the Hippocratic oath. He goes about nonchalantly poisoning people who inconvenience him financially or emotionally. It's not clear exactly how many people he managed to put away, but he can certainly lay claim to the title of England's first celebrity serial killer.
This is one of those long, leisurely British TV productions with a lot of elegance and good production values, the kind the Brits do so well (Inspector Morse, Sherlock Holmes). The characters might be described as late Dickensian. Dr. Palmer's mother is decked out in a wardrobe that makes her look like that portrait of W. C. Fields imitating Queen Victioria. But as far as that goes, all of the period detail seems accurate.
You would not really want to be treated by one of the doctors of this period. (Although Palmer was a surgeon, not a medical doctor, and they had less status. "Surgeon" comes from the same root as "chiropractor" and their practice was initially limited to sawing and cutting.) If the patient is ill, the doctor of the period gives him a quick exam then recommends things like "tincture of mercury", or "a few drops of nitric acid", or chamomile tea, or "the black draft." No, not THAT kind of black draft. Germs hadn't been discovered yet and the doctor might come directly from fertilizing his garden to fomenting the cut on your hand. Between the opium and the belladonna half the people in Europe must have had their pupils pinned at f.11.
In any case, Dr. Palmer is played in a kind of Dennis Price style. He oozes superciliousness. His expression constantly hovers somewhere between boredom and amusement. And when he's really vexed he looks exasperated. The character, evil as he is, with the help of the director and editor, provides a constant source of ironic humor, a Richard III in a stovepipe hat. The movie depends on him and he makes it work. It's Allen's performance that keeps this from being just another true-crime horror film.
I mentioned the contributions of the director and the editor because they add a good deal to the ease with which we can keep our distance from the goings on. When someone remarks to Dr. Palmer that one of his creditors would be better off dead, and Palmer looks wryly up towards the camera and muses, "Yes, I suppose so," and the editor cuts away immediately, you might feel a repulsive shock but you'll probably feel a mean amusement too.
The other performers are excellent as well. Freddy Jones is (for him) pretty subdued as an older doctor in Rugely who has a lifetime of experience but no formal credentials. Some of the characters around Palmer are innocents who die. Others are innocents who wise up to what's going on. Some of them die too, while others live to see Palmer swing.
The film isn't hard hearted. Maybe one or two of the victims are gin-soaked viragos, but others are perfectly friendly, generous people and we don't enjoy seeing them go. Palmer was a nasty guy who pretty much earned what he got.
Try to see it if you have a chance. It's not around that much.
This is one of those long, leisurely British TV productions with a lot of elegance and good production values, the kind the Brits do so well (Inspector Morse, Sherlock Holmes). The characters might be described as late Dickensian. Dr. Palmer's mother is decked out in a wardrobe that makes her look like that portrait of W. C. Fields imitating Queen Victioria. But as far as that goes, all of the period detail seems accurate.
You would not really want to be treated by one of the doctors of this period. (Although Palmer was a surgeon, not a medical doctor, and they had less status. "Surgeon" comes from the same root as "chiropractor" and their practice was initially limited to sawing and cutting.) If the patient is ill, the doctor of the period gives him a quick exam then recommends things like "tincture of mercury", or "a few drops of nitric acid", or chamomile tea, or "the black draft." No, not THAT kind of black draft. Germs hadn't been discovered yet and the doctor might come directly from fertilizing his garden to fomenting the cut on your hand. Between the opium and the belladonna half the people in Europe must have had their pupils pinned at f.11.
In any case, Dr. Palmer is played in a kind of Dennis Price style. He oozes superciliousness. His expression constantly hovers somewhere between boredom and amusement. And when he's really vexed he looks exasperated. The character, evil as he is, with the help of the director and editor, provides a constant source of ironic humor, a Richard III in a stovepipe hat. The movie depends on him and he makes it work. It's Allen's performance that keeps this from being just another true-crime horror film.
I mentioned the contributions of the director and the editor because they add a good deal to the ease with which we can keep our distance from the goings on. When someone remarks to Dr. Palmer that one of his creditors would be better off dead, and Palmer looks wryly up towards the camera and muses, "Yes, I suppose so," and the editor cuts away immediately, you might feel a repulsive shock but you'll probably feel a mean amusement too.
The other performers are excellent as well. Freddy Jones is (for him) pretty subdued as an older doctor in Rugely who has a lifetime of experience but no formal credentials. Some of the characters around Palmer are innocents who die. Others are innocents who wise up to what's going on. Some of them die too, while others live to see Palmer swing.
The film isn't hard hearted. Maybe one or two of the victims are gin-soaked viragos, but others are perfectly friendly, generous people and we don't enjoy seeing them go. Palmer was a nasty guy who pretty much earned what he got.
Try to see it if you have a chance. It's not around that much.
