The Pale Blue Eye Review

“I dwelt alone, in a world of moan, and my soul was a stagnant tide.” – Edgar Allan Poe, Eulalie – A Song, 1845.

Cold surroundings, pathways flooded with fog and blood-red text all feature in the opening moments of The Pale Blue Eye. It should not be surprising. This is, after all, an adaptation of a book concerning Edgar Allan Poe, not the works themselves. Netflix attempt to stick their nose into this great artist, but at least they have Christian Bale to help them. Scott Cooper has been building to this for some time. The reservation of great artists in seclusion found in Crazy Heart is not so far away from the 1830s of New York and beyond that are found in this Bale-led piece. It is, of course, not Bale that gets to portray Poe, but that of Harry Melling, whose resurgence in the post-Harry Potter era of his career has been littered with period pieces such as this, taking down the deeper entropy of wildcard Americans.

That much is present in The Pale Blue Eyes, a troubled and difficult piece. Fellow Harry Potter compatriot Timothy Spall marks a rough performance that does provide him with some authority lacking in the characters he has previously portrayed. Clear it may be that most of the budget has gone on style and ensemble, but it does not stop The Pale Blue Eye from being at least an interesting turn of the Poe-featuring features. That translation to the big screen has been rocky, and considering the most notable and interesting of all was a segment of The Simpsons, it is clear better form needs to be offered to the man that gave the world The Raven. But this piece comes to an audience before said poetry was ever offered.

Bale commands this ensemble with great dedication to a slow-burning, often dull and reliant on the score or surroundings feature. Unfortunately, dedication and over-respondent are delicate and different matters. Melling for instance portrays this iteration of Poe with a flagrancy to the characteristics, playing up the poet as a hokey American soldier. Bale does little too, switching back and forth between simple dialogue and periodical charms. The Pale Blue Eye may look beautiful and bloody but peeling back that singular layer reveals a stuffy mystery. Dialogue, more than anything, is bloated here. Simon McBurney is unconvincing with this boisterous performance, levelled at Timothy Spall all the same. But it is Cooper that gets the best credit, his surroundings benefit his direction, improved by the surroundings. It is a back-and-forth that gives The Pale Blue Eye at least a visual beauty beyond that ruinous script.

Whether the laughter on the face of Bale as Melling speaks is part of the character or a break in tone is unknowable. It is certainly easier to laugh at The Pale Blue Eye than with it. A tad cliché, which is saddening because of how butchered the prospect of Poe’s inclusion in this then becomes. Even Cooper begins to lose interest around the half-hour mark, his direction and choreography of each scene nothing more than bubbling tension that is placed firmly in the hands of Bale. Another waste of Robert Duvall and company. The Pale Blue Eye is what happens when the focus is not the story, but on individual moments for everyone, from Toby Jones’ coroner to whatever forgotten, ill-prescribed meaning Gillian Anderson’s work is here meant to represent. Sloppy work from Cooper gives a stunted, period piece its dues.