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The Poe-Eyed Detective ("It Will Work Out")
There is something ingenious, if not precious, about the conceit: a murder mystery featuring the creator of the modern detective story.*
Sure, every depressive knows Edgar Allen Poe as the writer of morbid, anguished poetry with repeated lines at the ends of stanzas. But, with his publication of "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" in 1841, he began a new genre of mystery story, based, not only on the dark corners of the human psyche, but it's very opposite, the power of reasoning and deduction—or what he called "ratiocination." With the success of his Dupin stories, came the inspiration for Doyle of Sherlock Holmes (he never shied from admitting it or his other sources) and, from there, the progeny of the countless numbers of problem-solving busybodies that have expanded and pushed the envelope of the Dewey Decimal System for decades.
Homage must be paid.
The Pale Blue Eye (love the title...) begins with an image, a surrealistic scene veiled in fog, of a man handing by the neck from a tree. But, something's off. His feet are on the ground, rather than being suspended above it. The explanation for that image will take the entire movie to explain, but already you're hooked, and that image is a wonderful metaphor for a mystery. Something deadly has happened, but why, and by whom, needs to be sussed out. Only one person knows and that is the one who did the deed.
Landor has some restrictions put on him by the Academy Superintendent, Thayer (Timothy Spall):he is to report to him and Hitchcock daily on his progress; he works for them as an employee as long as they approve of his work; interviews with cadets must be done with Hitchcock's supervision; he can't drink on the job. There is a tavern in the town, however, which he visits after hours. He runs afoul of the Academy's physician, Dr. Marquis (Toby Jones), when he proves himself unsatisfied with the doctor's autopsy—but Landor's thorough work does win him enough grudging respect that he is invited to the doctor's home, where he meets his somewhat-hysterical wife (Gillian Anderson, always great, even when she's not doing the autopsies) and his children, cadet Artemus (Harry Lawtey) and his lovely daughter Lea (Lucy Boynton).
The cadet interviews do not go well. The young men are less than forthcoming-especially under the baleful eye of Hitchcock. But, there is one young Virginian cadet who attracts Landor's attention, not only because he has an obvious intelligence and grand-if precise manner of speaking. He's also a bit of an outsider at the Academy, a frequent object of scorn among the students...and the instructors.
This is cadet E.A. Poe (Harry Melling), not the finest example of military discipline, frequently seeking permission to be excused from outside drills, citing poor health and spending his time writing poetry. When Landor first meets Poe, he is struck by his eloquence and directness, but more by his opinion that the perpetrator may have chosen a mundane way to kill the victim, but the cutting out of the heart "makes him a poet." Poe's creepiness makes him a "usual suspect" as far as murder mysteries go, but at a later meeting in a tavern, Landor suggests to him that they should work together on the case, as Poe might have opinions—and access—that Landor could use.
Oh, this one is a corker, with a resolution that will surprise casual mystery watchers, and inspire appreciative smiles from aficionados with its echoes of Poe's own detective fiction. There might be a bump or two in motivation, a red-herring here and there (aren't there always?), but, by the end, one will be properly sanguine with the mystification they experience.
And the cast is top-notch. Bale isn't grand-standing here with tics and business, but relies on a relaxed body language that he rarely employs, and the relationship between he and Melling's overelegant Poe is a nice study in contrasts in a mutual admiration society of two. Director Cooper keeps things moving swiftly and takes full advantage of cinematographer Masanobu Takayanagi's ability to create astounding images of nature and the unnatural. And Howard Shore's score is lovely, another wonderful example of why he should be doing more music for films these days.
It's a very well-done film, that is only undermined by the fact that it will never light—and darken—a theater screen, where it can be truly appreciated, and, although it is nice that Netflix gave it a healthy paycheck to be produced, why it should be relegated to a small screen, is a real mystery.
* When the Mystery Writers of America organization hands out their little trophies, they are dubbed "The Edgars." There are some scholars who begrudge Poe the title. But, they can't do anything about the little statues.
