Alas, it is the last day of production and I have pulled out my black suit. My son wanders in as I iron my shirt and tie and asks me with eyes as big as saucers “Dad? Who died?”. The only time he has ever seen me dressed in my Sunday best is when we’ve had to go to funerals. Huge crocodile tears start streaming down his face. I want to cry and laugh at the same time. “No one’s died, buddy.” I say calmly.
“Don’t go easy on me, dad. I can take it.” He wipes his tears and pulls a chair up next to the ironing board to hear the full tale of some distant relative’s demise. “Seriously, son. No one has died. I’m wearing this monkey suit as a kind of joke.” I explain.
“That’s a shitty joke, dad.” He says and I warn him not to use that language…or at least don’t slip and say that word in front of your mother. “It’s like…I’m playing Gomez for a skit.” I try to explain.
“I heard The Addam’s Family sucks. Except for Bebe Neuwirth.” He says. The kid is still in his single digits. And I feel like I’m talking to Ben Brantly of the New York Times. “Jeez, who told you that and HOW do you know who Bebe Neuwirth is?” He shrugs his shoulders non-chalant and wanders off in search of a nutter butter. For the record I have never seen The Addams Family on Broadway and neither has my son so his review should be regarded as null and void. Meanwhile, I get all gussied up and make my way over to the Londinium Brooklyn brownstone. I think the producers should make a brass historic plaque and affix it to the front of the building because no one and I mean NO ONE will believe they shot at least fifteen different sets (if not more) in the rooms of the parlor floor. Just the feat itself deserves a plaque. I arrive in the afternoon and Thom asks me if I’m on detail for the president. “The only thing missing is the curly wire from your ear.” Ed says.
“It’s not called a curly wire, Ed.” Thom chastises. To which I reply, “Look Felix and Oscar I get the meaning. Details---details…”
“It’s called an earpiece.” Thom explains.
“What? I’m sorry I can’t hear you.” Ed says. The cigarettes emerge from Thom’s pocket as his teeth begin to gnash.
“I’m sorry. Did you say you wanted a sandwich?” Ed says grinning.
“Yeah, some meat between two slices.” And he flips Ed the bird.
“It’s the last day, guys! Play nice.” I say.
They both reply in perfect unison, “Go F*** yourself.” We all laugh.
“I come in reverence to the gallant end of an amazingly entertaining film shoot.” I expound. “Between potato salad and cigarettes – accompanied by stomping out to the stoop, I have never laughed so hard in my life. I have never been informed of so many ‘acting techniques’ in one project that I had to look them all up to find out their roots. I have never wondered in complete and utter awe of how you guys pulled this period film out of a hat with a five-dollar bill. It is truly magic.” I continue. Then I am ushered to the backyard where the sun is now setting and I find the incomparably evil and creepy Stewart Walker as Jules ‘collecting’ images and the stunning and beguiling Elisa Gierasch, playing ‘Gert’, one of the prostitutes that Richard had been with only moments earlier. She is about to proposition him. And just like in some movie theatres where the audience is quite audible I want to yell, “Don’t talk to him---you’ll be sorry. Don’t do it---he’s dangerous!!” It is a lovely September evening with a cool breeze to drive away the midday heat. The actors hit their marks and I watch with the same vague voyeuristic feeling as she strikes a deal, money is exchanged and she begins to unbutton him. I feel so dirty. Then a glint of light hits for a split second on a metallic object and I can only assume with the help of my imagination that the killer’s knife has been exposed. I think I know who dunnit! The scene is covered and we move inside. Elisa is laid out on the old farm table in the kitchen ready for her special effects make-up. Patrick and Thom begin the hour or so process of creating what looks like a knife gash from the belly to the throat. Pretty gruesome and accurate if you look at the actual crime scene photos of Annie Chapman and Catherine Eddowes. I ask the director about the accuracy of the murders since there are six victims in the Londinium story.
“Well, you know, Jack wasn’t the only killer in the slums of the East End of London. There were several copycat killers that weren’t mentioned or purposefully hidden to avoid chaos and panic in the streets.” She says. “London was extremely polarized at the time with the influx of immigrants crammed into a very small space. They were agonizingly poor. In 1888 alone approximately 1600 people died just in those ten blocks radius. Disease, addiction. malnutrition, poor health and hygiene, stresses of daily survival, the elements and violence all worked against the poor. Thousands made their beds nightly in the local cemeteries because they could not afford a place to sleep indoors.” She explains. “Not that different from the very poor areas of India. And yet there is no middle class. You were either desperately poor or of the gentry. You can still find that disparity today in developing countries.”
“So Gert might be the only actual ‘victim’ of the ripper in this story.” I ask.
“She might. No one knows who the killer was and though five murders are attributed to him he may have killed many, many more. We have no way of knowing.” She says. “The police and Scotland Yard were in the infancy of forensic work. They did not think of sharing information with other police departments like we do today. That is why he was so successful as a killer.” She says.
“I think he was successful only because the media realized the murders sold papers.” I say.
“Absolutely.” She concurs. “There were probably several dozen of his kind all around London with some overlap. As I said, if you look at the records there was violence occurring every day. Murders happening every night perpetrated by individuals who could no longer cope with the atrocities of poverty and what that brings.”
“Well put.” I say.
“Nice suit.” She says and she walks away to prepare for the next set-up. I step out onto the back deck. The yard is lit up with an entire Arri light kit. Elisa is sprawled out on the paving stones. Thom and the director try to make sure she is not exposed before the camera roles. Pat dips his hand into a bucket of ‘I-don’t-know-what’. He pulls out bloody entrails and sausage casings or something and places them on the special effects make-up down the center of Elisa’s chest and abdomen. She is a bloody hot mess. It is so gory I feel the urge to puke. Thankfully I am well aware that the whole thing is fake. On three of five of Jack’s victims he cut them from stem to stern. That is from the uterus up to the throat. He then pulled out their intestines and cut out a few sweet meats for souvenirs. In the infamous ‘From Hell’ letter, the only authentic note from the murderer, he sent part of a human kidney along with it to the chief of police. The prior victim was missing her kidney. As the jib moves slowly up and over to reveal the truly heinous crime I feel a martini coming on. CUT! And THAT’S A WRAP! Thom announces. That vague martini feeling is morphing into a bender. Huzzah!
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