I never read the novel but I did see Hitchock's far more commercial and erratic version of this sad story. David Suchet's conundrum -- he's a double agent working for both the police and the anarchists that haunted London in the Victorian period -- reminded me less of Oscar Homolka in the Hitchock version than of whistle-blowing cop in "Prince of the City," a tragic figure, exploited by both sides, who is ridden with shame, guilt, and fear.
Suchet, as Adolph Verloc, the shabby spy who runs a shabby shop, is nearly perfect in the role. What a range the guy has -- from prissy Frog to someone who looks "like a plumber presenting the bill," as one of his high-echelon anarchist bosses calls him. That anarchist boss, M. Vladimir, is exemplary by the way. What a terrible snob. His inflections ooze contempt. He's played by Peter Capaldi, one of many fine performances in this TV series. Nobody turns in a BAD performance.
Of course, some of the characters are less admirable than others. Not just Capaldi's sneering Vladimir but David Schofield's Ossipon who takes advantage of Verloc's widow, steals her money, and runs off, leaving her to her fate, which is watery.
It's an arguable view of life. Nobody really wins. The Heat is on the Chief Detective Inspector or whatever he is, who looks like Robbie Coltrane. He wants to pin Verloc's bomb explosion on an ex con named Michaelis but it doesn't work out for him. Verloc's widow loses her brother and Verloc loses his life. Yet, maybe he's better off for it. His dead body, with half a meat knife sticking out of his chest, looks almost peaceful in repose, as if glad to have escaped this valley of ashes he's been living in for seven years.
I've neglected the plot. It's simple enough. Vladimir demands that Verloc blow something up to prove he's worth keeping on. Verloc gets a bomb but it blows up accidentally in a park and blows his boyish, simple-minded brother-in-law to pieces. There is no Hitchcockian build-up of suspense. The explosion takes place off screen. Verloc loved the boy and loved the wife who kills him for his deed. The implications and insinuations are far more complex than that. (Verloc was too dense to realize that his wife had hated him all the years of their marriage.) But there's no space to get into it.
The name of the country that M. Vladimir works for is never mentioned but there's little doubt that it's the villainous Russia and her wobbly monarch. Joseph Conrad, on whose novel this was based, wasn't political but he hated Russians. To him, a Pole, everything Russian "smelled of cabbage soup." It's gloomy but it's a finely executed story.
Suchet, as Adolph Verloc, the shabby spy who runs a shabby shop, is nearly perfect in the role. What a range the guy has -- from prissy Frog to someone who looks "like a plumber presenting the bill," as one of his high-echelon anarchist bosses calls him. That anarchist boss, M. Vladimir, is exemplary by the way. What a terrible snob. His inflections ooze contempt. He's played by Peter Capaldi, one of many fine performances in this TV series. Nobody turns in a BAD performance.
Of course, some of the characters are less admirable than others. Not just Capaldi's sneering Vladimir but David Schofield's Ossipon who takes advantage of Verloc's widow, steals her money, and runs off, leaving her to her fate, which is watery.
It's an arguable view of life. Nobody really wins. The Heat is on the Chief Detective Inspector or whatever he is, who looks like Robbie Coltrane. He wants to pin Verloc's bomb explosion on an ex con named Michaelis but it doesn't work out for him. Verloc's widow loses her brother and Verloc loses his life. Yet, maybe he's better off for it. His dead body, with half a meat knife sticking out of his chest, looks almost peaceful in repose, as if glad to have escaped this valley of ashes he's been living in for seven years.
I've neglected the plot. It's simple enough. Vladimir demands that Verloc blow something up to prove he's worth keeping on. Verloc gets a bomb but it blows up accidentally in a park and blows his boyish, simple-minded brother-in-law to pieces. There is no Hitchcockian build-up of suspense. The explosion takes place off screen. Verloc loved the boy and loved the wife who kills him for his deed. The implications and insinuations are far more complex than that. (Verloc was too dense to realize that his wife had hated him all the years of their marriage.) But there's no space to get into it.
The name of the country that M. Vladimir works for is never mentioned but there's little doubt that it's the villainous Russia and her wobbly monarch. Joseph Conrad, on whose novel this was based, wasn't political but he hated Russians. To him, a Pole, everything Russian "smelled of cabbage soup." It's gloomy but it's a finely executed story.
