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Nov 15 2017Cosmopolitan
If you’re not watching Alias Grace on Netflix, you should be. Here’s why…
It's based on a novel written by Margaret Atwood, who also wrote Handmaid's Tale
By Naomi Gordon
If you’re still fearing for Offred’s fate in The Handmaid’s Taleand require another timely Margaret Atwood adaption while you feverishly await season 2 , then blessed be for Alias Grace.
The chilling six-part Netflix series adapted from Atwood’s 1996 novel tells the story of Grace Marks, a real-life Irish immigrant and domestic servant in Canada who, in 1843, was sentenced to life imprisonment for the brutal murders of her employer and his housekeeper.
But the story goes deeper than making us question whether or not Grace was capable of committing the gruesome crimes, for which she was confined to an asylum, and pardoned some thirty years later, while her supposed accomplice James McDermott (played by Kerr Logan) was hanged.
As Grace and the other female servants are endlessly subjected to abuse and sexual assault by men in power and expected to remain silent, the series couldn’t be more relevant in the wake of the allegations of sexual harassment being made in Hollywood and Westminster.
“I could have never have anticipated that all of the allegations surrounding Harvey [Weinstein] and the other abusers would have come out at the same time as the show,” Sarah Gadon, who plays Grace, recently told Harper’s Bazaar UK.
“I would have never have predicted that, but I knew that the show would resonate with women especially, because it’s something we’ve all been subjected to – the power imbalance.”
And you’d be hard pushed to find a more gripping performance this year than Sarah’s mesmerising turn as the enigmatic Grace – which is already generating Golden Globe and Emmy award predictions.
The 30-year-old Maps to the Stars actress plays Grace at 15 and beyond, as she unfolds the horrors of what she has had to endure in the lead-up to the murders to Dr. Simon Jordan (played by British actor Edward Holcroft).
And whileThe Handmaid’s Tale gave us a glimpse of a terrifying future where women are forced into sexual servitude, at a time where women’s reproductive rights are being threatened by Donald Trump’s administration, Alias Grace provides us with an unsettling look back.
“The Handmaid’s Tale underlines the anxieties we’re feeling about gender politics and immigration and reproductive rights, things we are feeling collectively as a society and things we want to address.” Sarah continued.
“And The Handmaid’s Tale gives us a look into the future of what’s ahead, and Alias Grace is this look back from where we’ve come from, and right now we’re in the precious space in the middle deciding how we reconcile our past and move on in to the future. It’s very relevant that both shows are out right now.”
Watch it now – but perhaps keep the light on for the final episode…
Alias Grace – also starring Oscar-winning Anna Paquin, Zachary Levi and David Cronenberg – is available to watch on Netflix.
Alias Grace Star Sarah Gadon on Why Grace Marks’s Story Matters So Much Right Now
In 1843, Grace Marks was convicted of murdering her employer, Thomas Kinnear, and his housekeeper, Nancy Montgomery, in Upper Canada. She was just 16 years old. In the first episode of Alias Grace, the new Netflix adaptation of Margaret Atwood’s 1996 historical novel, Grace, who is played by Sarah Gadon and acts as the protagonist and narrator, peers at herself in the mirror. Her expression transforms as she narrates the scene, echoing the same sentiment as the Emily Dickinson poem that serves as an epigraph for the show—that below one version of a person lies another, and another, and another. “I think of all the things that have been written about me,” she says. She has been called “inhuman female demon,” “innocent victim,” “quarrelsome,” “a good girl with a pliable nature,” “soft in the head.” And she wonders: “How can I be all these different things at once?”
The new miniseries Alias Grace, written by Sarah Polley of Stories We Tell and directed by Mary Harron of American Psycho and which premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival in September, wrestles with this dynamic both internally and externally. It examines how trauma—and especially sexual violence—impacts the psyche, and how that is projected onto one woman’s interactions with those around her, especially men. The series plays out through a series of interviews between Grace and Dr. Simon Jordan (Edward Holcroft), a psychiatrist whose insights could exonerate Grace.
As Grace recounts the events leading up to the murders, it becomes increasingly unclear to what extent she is obfuscating (“‘And so forth’ is all you are entitled to,” she says at one point, refusing to elucidate further about her daily chores), versus what she truly cannot remember. In some ways, watching Alias Grace is like staring into a void: As it unfolds, it becomes clear the show, and the interviews between Grace and Dr. Jordan, will never reach a satisfying conclusion.
It’s the second adaptation of Atwood’s work to be released this year, after The Handmaid’s Tale, and it bookends the recent resurgence in interest in her prescient, essential work. As with The Handmaid’s Tale, much of the conversation around Alias Grace has centered on its relevance to the current sociopolitical context, more than two decades after its first publication—and more than 150 years after the events it describes. “Men such as yourself do not have to clean up the messes you make. But we have to clean up our own messes and yours into the bargain. In that way, you are like children: You do not have to think ahead or worry about the consequences of what you do,” Grace tells Dr. Jordan in the third episode. “But it is not your fault. It is only how you were brought up.” The portrait it presents of gender and class relations is not necessarily an optimistic one—and yet, in Alias Grace, it is a staunchly female one, told through its young woman protagonist by a woman writer and director.
As Grace, Sarah Gadon, the 30-year-old Canadian actress best known for her work with David Cronenberg (who also has a small but memorable part in the series), executes a crisp northern Irish accent, performs the household chores (milking the cows, mending garments, collecting eggs, scrubbing the floors) expected of a housemaid, and balances Grace’s competing personae all at once. “It’s the hardest job I ever had,” Gadon admitted recently on the phone from Toronto. We discussed the grueling four-month-long shoot and the extensive preparations that went into it, Alias Grace’s renewed political relevance, and why it’s proved a tough project to follow.
How did you get the part?
I heard Sarah [Polley] was doing the adaptation and had the opportunity to sit down with Sarah and Mary [Harron] and talk about the project. I asked Sarah, “Why did you want to adapt this book?” And she said, “I read it when I was 17 and I tried to get the rights then, and it’s something that I haven’t been able to get out of my head. I think it’s somehow informed everything I’ve ever done.” The following day, we met and I auditioned. We did three scenes a number of different ways, and when I left, I flew to LA, and when I landed, I got a call saying, “You know, Sarah and Mary really want you to do one of the scenes one other way.” I thought, ‘Really?’ We worked on it for so long. But it was, I think, an introduction to what playing this part would be—having to go back and do that additional scene just one more time fit the notion that playing Grace was this endless, bottomless pit of discovery, and that my work would never really be done.
What scene was it?
It was the opening scene with Dr. Jordan, Simon, when he gives her the apple. We’d done it a number of different ways, and they just said, we want to do one that’s completely innocent and completely, and I thought, okay, yeah, sure, so I did it and then I got the part, which was great.
Speaking of apples, how many were sacrificed to get that scene with Mary Whitney in Episode 2 right?
[Laughs] Not that many, actually. I think it was only eight or nine apples. I think it was four apples in the scene, and we only did it a couple of times. So yeah, it wasn’t that—not many apples were harmed in the making of that scene.
How did you discuss the project with Margaret Atwood once you had signed on?
I was really intimidated to meet Margaret. The most important thing that Margaret imparted to me was that the most important thing was to maintain her ambiguity. That was the most important thing in terms of honoring her memory and the book, really, so that was something that really informed the way that Mary and I created Grace.
How did you unravel all of that? Grace is such an unreliable narrator, and in the end we really come away still unsure whether she did it or what role she even played in the murders at all. Did you have to construct for yourself what was true or untrue? Or was it totally ambiguous for you?
No, it wasn’t. In terms of tackling the ambiguity, in the interview sequences between Simon and Grace, for example, we decided to come up with several different versions of Grace. When we shot each scene, we did a take of each of those versions so that Mary could then have room in the edits to piece together an ambiguous character. That was a really interesting way to work because obviously you have to have a lot of trust. But then, of course, in the flashbacks, I’m not really playing an ambiguous person. Everything up until the murder, I feel as if I’m playing all the actions truthfully. Her relationship with Mary—it’s a very honest, real relationship. The way she interacts with Nancy is very real and grounded, and same with Kinnear, so I think there are moments where I wasn’t playing those different versions.
It’s meta, because those really honest interactions are refracted through the present Grace recounting them. Who were the different versions of Grace?
[Laughs.] Mary and I joke around because she would, she liked to call them Good Grace, Bad Grace, and Neutral Grace. Obviously, our Bad Grace was guilty, our Good Grace was innocent, and our Neutral Grace was this character that Mary and I had talked about—the idea of playing her as somebody who’s already dead, as if she’s speaking almost posthumously, which is kind of something that happens to people who have been through the ringer where their identity is almost taken from them. It’s almost as if they’re the walking dead.
How did you film the hypnotism scene at the end?
It was something that I was really scared about because it was like a 20-page sequence. It cuts back and forth between the Kinnear farmhouse and the present where the actual hypnotism is going on. I asked Mary and Sarah, “Are we going to shoot up until a certain point in the flashback and then cut? Will I have time to reset and prepare for the next chunk?” And they said, “No, we want to shoot it all, including the voice-over, as one long scene.” I thought that was just terrifying because I was going to be under a veil talking for 20 pages in a different voice. I said, “Are you sure it’s a good idea that I go into Mary Whitney’s voice?” Sarah called Margaret, and it was Margaret who confirmed that it was really important that Grace was speaking in Mary Whitney’s voice. So then I had to prepare the scene, really, as Mary Whitney [Grace’s best friend, who dies early in the series]. I listened to Rebecca [Liddiard, who plays Mary] and played around with my dialect coach to help access the voice. I practiced and practiced and practiced to be able to shoot it almost like it was a play.
What sort of research did you do, especially in terms of the physical stuff? I read that you had to actually milk a cow and do the sewing and all that kind of stuff.
It was really important to Mary that I did everything for real because Margaret is so descriptive about everything that a housemaid did at that time. Mary and I both read Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, which is this fantastic book from the era about different positions of the house and what each housemaid did. Then, I went to a pioneer reenactment camp called Black Creek Pioneer Village just outside of Toronto. I learned how to navigate a Victorian kitchen; I learned how to milk a cow and light a hearth fire and churn butter and pluck chickens. It’s just brutal, because you have to do all this physical labor in all of this confining clothing. I had to learn to sew by hand because Grace is making a quilt throughout her interviews with Simon. I also read Susanna Moodie’s Life in the Clearings Versus the Bush, which Margaret quotes a few times in the actual book.
A lot of the conversation around this show, obviously like that around The Handmaid’s Tale, has been about its political relevance—here, how little has changed in terms of gender relations since the mid-19th century, even in very subtle ways. I was wondering if you were thinking about that contemporary resonance as you were making the series and as you were inhabiting this world?
I certainly don’t think I could have predicted everything that’s happening right now, but we were shooting when the election was happening and we were shooting when Trump was elected, so absolutely—those kinds of things were definitely on our minds while we were making the show. I think that one of the things that I find so interesting about our show is that as much as it is an exploration of what it does to the psyche when you are repressed as a woman, it also explores what it does when you are a man, to be repressed by the expectations of your time. That’s explored through Dr. Simon Jordan and everything that he’s experiencing—the whole storyline of him having these sexual feelings for Grace, not being allowed to explore them, but then being allowed to take them out on his housekeeper Mrs. Humphrey and the way he uses her because she’s a woman. Their dynamic is, it’s okay for him to abuse her. It’s a really interesting thing that I think speaks to what is happening, this hierarchy of women and who we are allowed to treat in certain ways and who we aren’t.
Now, having filmed it during the election, both politically and in light of the various allegations of sexual misconduct pouring out of Hollywood right now, has that changed how you view the role of the series and its prescience?
The whole notion of exploring this woman who’s very repressed and everything that’s going on in her life has this kind of resonance because people aren’t thinking about their own repression or their own experiences with abuse and harassment privately—we’re thinking about women with this massive collective consciousness right now. It’s amplified the meaning of the show and I think it really is starting to strike a chord with people that goes beyond Grace’s story. It connects to their own story.
You’ve got The Death and Life of John F. Donovan coming up. Can you tell me about your role in that?
Xavier [Dolan] is obsessed with Roswell, and the film revolves around this man who has become famous for being on this Roswell-esque show. I play one of the girls from that show, and it was a hilarious, fun time to make that film. We actually re-shot the opening sequence to Roswell. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen Roswell, it’s pretty hilarious. I really loved working with Xavier. I think because he was an actor, he is so cognizant of the tone that’s created on set. He’s always walking around with a boom box playing music, and he’s so involved in the scenes it almost feels like he’s in them. So it was really cool.
What were the main boom box tracks?
You won’t even believe it, but he loves Titanic, and he loves with Celine Dion, so during a lot of the scenes, he’s playing “My Heart Will Go On.” And for the opening of our Roswell, he played the opening credit music to Roswell, and then, because it kind of takes place in the early-’00s, he would always play Blink-182 and all this music from the early-’00s.
What else are you working on? What are you looking to do moving forward?
I’m not sure. I feel like this character has really just consumed my life for the past two years. I haven’t been able to shake it. The experience [of Alias Grace] was so unique and challenging and incredible that it’s been tough to move on and accept something that’s going to be anything less. So I’m trying to be patient and wait for the next thing that’s going to be special. Sarah Polley has become a wonderful mentor to me, and she is always telling me there’s so much power in saying no to things. So I’m trying to say no to things that aren’t going to be incredible.
Anna Paquin, Sarah Gadon, Margaret Atwood, and Sarah Polley on the set of Alias Grace, 2017.
Netflix’s Alias Grace Is the Best New TV Show of the Year
Meet Sarah Gadon, the actress tasked with playing a "celebrated murderess" in the Margaret Atwood adaptation.
By Julie Kosin
Netflix’s Alias Grace is not your average murder mystery. For starters, it’s based on a Margaret Atwood novel, which in turn is based on the grisly 1843 murder of a wealthy Irish-Canadian landowner, Thomas Kinnear, and his housekeeper, Nancy Montgomery. Kinnear’s servants, James McDermott and Grace Marks, were convicted of the crime, and while the former hanged, the latter received life imprisonment and national status as a “celebrated murderess.” Neither of the convicts’ accounts of what happened to Kinnear and Montgomery ever aligned, and to this day, no one knows exactly how their deaths came to be.
That’s fascinating stuff in its own right, but this is Margaret Atwood’s narrative, and she was never interested in getting to the bottom of a whodunnit. Instead, her gripping 1996 novel imagines visits between Marks and a fictional psychiatrist (one Dr. Simon Jordan, tasked with determining Grace’s innocence or guilt) to explore the perception versus reality of women’s roles within Victorian society and the ways women survive—or perish—within a patriarchy. Those themes drive the Netflix miniseries, one of those rare adaptations that is wholly respectful, almost reverent, of its source material. The show retains much of Atwood’s writing in its dialogue and Grace’s voiceover, exploring the unique horror of life as a young female immigrant in 19th-century North America while recounting the multiple, disparate narratives surrounding the Kinnear and Montgomery murders.
At the series’ center is 30-year-old Canadian actress Sarah Gadon, whom writer Sarah Polley and director Mary Harron tasked with bringing the multifaceted, enigmatic Grace Marks to life. Gadon’s months of preparations—learning to churn butter and sew (Gadon made the quilt you see at the end of the show), obsessively re-reading the source material, drilling with a dialogue coach to perfect an Irish accent—yielded one of the strongest TV performances of the year. Gadon plays 25+ years of Grace’s life with preternatural ease, capturing a terrified preteen burying her dead mother in the middle of the Atlantic as convincingly as a middle-aged housewife. Her story is anchored in the interviews with Dr. Jordan, where Gadon combines remarkable wisdom (you get the sense she is an old woman wearing the face of someone younger) with the fast-talking, almost childlike enthusiasm of a person whose story has lived inside for far too long.
Below, Gadon discusses her journey to finding Grace Marks, grappling with the question of her guilt, and the show’s premiere in the midst of the Weinstein fallout.
Harper’s BAZAAR: What was your relationship to the story before you signed on to the project? Did you know anything about Grace Marks or Alias Grace before?
Sarah Gadon: I didn’t know about Grace Marks, I didn’t know who she was. I picked up the book before meeting with Sarah and Mary because I thought I should read a couple of pages, then ended up reading all of it because it’s a real page turner. I’m so compelled by her. When I started preparing for the part initially, I got so wrapped up in the question of her innocence. I had to untangle myself from that, because Margaret, one of her main pieces of advice before we went to camera was, “It’s so important to maintain the ambiguity. You have to do that in order to honor her memory, and honor this exploration of her.” That was an important piece to the puzzle. It’s not trying to crack her. It wasn’t my job to crack her. It’s kind of your job, as a viewer, but it’s not really up to me, and it’s okay to play different versions of her. There are so many different versions of her story that co-exist in the novel. There’s McDermott’s account, there’s her account, there’s Kinnear’s account, there’s what happened in court. And what Margaret did in writing the novel was use each piece of factual evidence to weave together this story. So, the in between—it’s okay if it’s not clear.
“As women, we’re always in negotiation with how we’re being perceived versus how we feel.”
HB: It’s not your job to find an answer, but you do have to make some sort of convincing argument. How did you get there?
SG: Mary and I decided we were going to do different versions of Grace in the Simon and Grace interviews. We decided there was going to be the guilty Grace, the innocent Grace, and the more kind of neutral, guarded Grace. We did a take of every version, and then it was something she put together in the edit. That was a real exercise of trust, to say, “Okay, I’m going to hand over all these different performances and you’re going to piece them together.” I think that’s also in the writing. There are moments where she’s so clearly guilty, and then moments where she’s so clearly innocent. So, it wasn’t even something that we fabricated. It was more being honest to the writing. Then, in the flashbacks, it’s not about concealing truth. It’s about the experience of the young Irish girl who’s immigrated to Canada, and what is it like to have a best friend? What is it like to be afraid about your future, and your life? What is it to experience an abortion with somebody? All of those things are real, and all of those motivations are clear. So, as much as there’s the ambiguity in terms of her guilt, I feel like in the show, I get to experience a real kind of person, not an idea.
The new Netflix drama—an adaptation of the novel by Margaret Atwood—is must-watch TV for the current moment.
By Sophie Gilbert
In a scene in the second episode of Netflix’s Alias Grace, Grace Marks (Sarah Gadon) comforts her best friend, Mary Whitney (Rebecca Liddiard), who’s in extraordinary pain following an illegal abortion. Both are teenagers and servant girls in Upper Canada. Mary’s been abandoned by the wealthy man who promised to marry her but who now wants her to drown herself to spare him any shame. “Grace, I am so angry,” Mary says, shaking. “I am so very angry.” To comfort her, Grace talks about the political rebellion in Canada, where revolutionaries are demanding liberty and independence. “They don’t have it yet, but they will,” she says. “Because we didn’t lose. We just haven’t won yet.”
Alias Grace is the second TV adaptation of a Margaret Atwood book this year to uncannily predict the moment it landed in. The Handmaid’s Tale, Hulu’s luminous, Emmy-winning portrayal of a near-future dystopia where fertile women are forced into reproductive slavery, debuted in April, as many American women were considering their reproductive rights under the Trump/Pence administration. Alias Grace debuted on Canada’s CBC in September but arrived on Netflix last Friday, in the midst of one of the biggest confrontations of systematic sexual abuse and harassment in recent history. Women of all different ages, in a vast range of industries, are speaking openly, and angrily, about their experiences, often for the very first time. And these manifold stories, these abundant personal wounds, are coming together, piece by piece, to reveal a larger reality, like the construction of a patchwork quilt.
For those who’ve read the 1996 book, it might not seem like a perfect fit. Alias Grace is a story set in Canada in the middle of the 19th century, based on the real life of a convicted murderess, Grace Marks, and it rests on the ambiguity of whether she’s innocent or guilty, lying or telling the truth. But the veracity of Grace’s stories, Atwood seems to argue, is less significant than comprehending the fault lines of her life, and of the lives of women like her. Grace is tyrannized by an abusive father, works countless hours as a maid for a pittance, and is constantly forced to negotiate her own safety with little to trade. Even her first-person accounts—the most powerful form of currency she has—are undermined by the fact that she has to tailor them to best fit the preconceptions and predilections of her listeners.
The new miniseries is written and created by Sarah Polley, the Canadian director, actress, and activist who followed up a career as a child star (Road to Avonlea, Ramona) with the assured directorial debut Away From Her in 2006. In October, Polley contributed a first-person essay to The New York Times about her experiences as an actress, which included being propositioned by Harvey Weinstein. “On sets,” she wrote, “I saw women constantly pressured to exploit their sexuality and then chastised as sluts for doing so.” She recalls getting together with a group of performers to discuss an idea in which they turned their worst professional experiences into a comedy project. But when they detailed those experiences, the nature of them changed. “They were stories of assault,” Polley wrote. “When they were spoken out loud, it was impossible to reframe them any other way.”
This understanding that stories can not only shape but also redefine reality is the crinoline core to Alias Grace. In 1843, at the age of 16, Grace was convicted of the murder of Thomas Kinnear (Paul Gross), her employer, and Nancy Montgomery (Anna Paquin), his housekeeper and mistress. Like The Handmaid’s Tale, the story starts in the middle of Grace’s imprisonment, after she’s been incarcerated for more than a decade in Kingston Penitentiary. During the day she’s transported to the governor’s mansion, where she works as a maid, and where the mistress of the house has grown so fond of Grace’s meek and dutiful ways that she’s working to prove her innocence. As part of that effort, an American psychologist, Dr. Simon Jordan (Edward Holcroft), is hired to interview Grace, and to establish the truth of her story.
In the first scene Grace stares at her reflection in the mirror, considering all the things that have been written about her and trying to match her expression to the various personas that have been foisted on her: demon, innocent, temptress, idiot. “I wonder,” she thinks, “how can I be all these different things at once?” The tension of the next six episodes comes from determining which of them, if any, apply, since the authentic Grace, even in her personal narration to the viewer, remains elusive.
The show, though, is constructed from pieces of Grace’s story—how she left Ireland as a child to travel to Canada, how her mother died on the filthy and disease-ridden boat, how her violent father tried to rape her before sending her out to work. Dr. Jordan listens and makes notes as Grace recounts her life. At the end of the first episode, while she sews in her prison cell, she thinks about his interest in the case, and wonders why everyone seeks to probe and expose her. “It’s a feeling of being torn open,” she thinks. “Like a peach. And not even torn open, but being too ripe and splitting of its own accord.” The relationship between storyteller and listener is strange, voyeuristic, and symbiotic.
The adaptation rests on Gadon’s enigmatic and subtle performance as Grace. For the most part she’s restrained, muted, and bruised, but there are moments where Gadon gets to unexpectedly prove her range. Alias Grace is directed by Mary Harron (American Psycho, I Shot Andy Warhol), who’s long found rich territory in the intersection of internal and external selves. Viewers see right from the start that there’s a disconnect between what Grace thinks and what she tells Dr. Jordan. Her replies to him are convincing, but carefully arranged. And her defense rests on her assertion that she simply can’t remember the deaths of Montgomery and Kinnear, while we, the audience, repeatedly see flashes of the event: of bodies tumbling down staircases and droplets of blood.
Alias Grace is essentially a true-crime story, albeit one based on a 174-year-old case. But through the combined efforts of Polley and Harron, and with Atwood’s text as its base, it’s true crime filtered through the female gaze. Grace might be a murderer, but she’s also a victim. She’s abused and assaulted at home, at work, and in prison; she learns not to visit the outhouse alone at night, and to keep her bedroom door locked. “Once you are found with a man in your room, you are the guilty one, no matter how they get in,” she explains to Dr. Jordan. Grace is the interpreter for this world, and her viewpoint, however unreliable, is the dominant one. But Harron makes choices that also distinguish the show from other crime dramas. There are no slow creeps of the camera along the outlines of a female corpse, no graphic images of sexual violence. The only things we learn are the things Grace feels comfortable telling.
In all that, Alias Grace is discomfiting, compelling, deeply insightful television. It looks not to an alternate future, like The Handmaid’s Tale does, but to the past. And there, it finds sharp parallels with the current moment. “A girl of 15 or 16 is accounted a woman,” Grace explains to a teenage boy who’s courting her, in a moment that resonates uncomfortably with recent news. “A boy of the same age is still a boy.” She’s come to know all the various ways the world sees her. The thrill of this series is that she’s given the means to take control of the narrative.
“Alias Grace”, another triumphant Atwood adaptation
The Netflix miniseries is a study of truth and memory
THIS week, the Supreme Court paved the way for the execution of Vernon Madison, a 67-year-old from Alabama convicted of murdering a police officer three decades ago. Having suffered strokes, Mr Madison no longer remembers his crime, and is diagnosed with both dementia and amnesia. All nine justices agreed that discontinuity in a person’s coherence does not prevent the state from carrying out punishment.
“Alias Grace”, a new Netflix miniseries, is interesting to watch in light of this case. It too considers the overlapping spheres of memory and accountability. Grace Marks (played by Sarah Gadon) is an Irish maid sentenced to life imprisonment; Dr Simon Jordan (Edward Holcroft) is an early practitioner of psychiatry tasked with investigating her case. With Grace claiming to have no recollection of the crimes, Dr Jordan spends his mornings probing her subconscious for evidence of periodic amnesia. In a neat visual metaphor, Grace recounts her testimony while piecing together quilts, sewing almost without looking down. As she contradicts herself again and again, Dr Jordan becomes increasingly enthralled by her, ultimately losing his professional detachment.
Adapted from Margaret Atwood’s acclaimed novel, “Alias Grace” is itself based on the real-life murders of Thomas Kinnear and his housekeeper Nancy Montgomery in Upper Canada (now Southern Ontario) in 1843. Two servants of the Kinnear household were convicted of the crime. James McDermott, the stable-hand, was hanged while Grace received her controversial life sentence. Fifteen years later, no one can vouch for Grace’s sincerity and Dr Jordan—a fictional addition to the story—refuses to write the medical report which would invoke the temporary insanity plea and allow the granting of a pardon.
It is suggested that trauma, and something more intangible and otherworldly, are responsible for her lapses in memory. Before the murders Grace’s friend Mary, a maid in service in another household, is seduced by the eldest son. She obtains a backstreet abortion and bleeds to death. Grace believes she hears Mary’s voice whisper in the room where her corpse is lying on the bed, and rushes to open the window for her soul to depart. Her mind returns to that whispered moment, her inability to save her friend and the image of the closed window repeatedly; Grace has not been the same since. It is a fresh take on a piece of stock gothic imagery.
It is through flashbacks to these events, as well as to the murder and other scenes, that the texture of the narrative is gradually woven. Almost 30 years after her imprisonment, Grace is released and married at last. Idly happy in her own house, she is finishing the patchwork she has been sewing. Here Ms Atwood again undermines a clichéd narrative tool. Rather than a neat resolution, Grace’s inability—and, as a result, the viewer’s—to settle on a straightforward sequence of events haunts the narrative. “If we were all on trial for our thoughts, we would all be hanged,” she says, confessing that she thought of committing the murders, but leaving her participation a question mark.
It is a powerful adaptation, with Sarah Polley’s screenplay preserving the ambiguity of Ms Atwood’s novel. As with many of her works, “Alias Grace” is an inward-looking narrative, and the series is nourished and sustained by Grace’s poised voiceovers (as in the Emmy-award-winning “The Handmaid’s Tale”, which depended on Offred’s interior commentary). Grace may be the unreliable narrator par excellence but Ms Gadon’s nuanced performance brims with precision even while embodying the mercurial nature of truth.
Directed by Mary Harron (“American Psycho”), the cinematography draws out luminous scenes in the gloomy kitchens and cellars of Victorian manor houses. Replete with dark gothic undertones, it indulges in moments of pure horror (the murder itself, which recurs throughout the series, shows one victim thrown down the cellar stairs. The thud of a body hitting the hard floor is followed by the sound of a breaking neck). The visual language of the series chimes with its mood.
Uncertainty and doubt are essential elements of any drama, but “Alias Grace” puts relativism at its heart. Grace, the “celebrated murderess”, has a disarming and unnerving approach to truth; by the series’ close, the question of her innocence or guilt has almost ceased to matter. It weighs up the law, which always pushes for clarity, against the ambiguities and unknowable recesses of the mind.
‘Alias Grace’: How a True-Crime Drama Became the Most Relevant Show on TV
Why Netflix's stellar adaptation of Margaret Atwood's novel about a 19th-century murderess could not have come at a better time
For two decades, Sarah Polley has been desperately trying to adapt Margaret Atwood’s book about a young woman who was abused, mistreated and silenced in the mid-1800s. By the time the 38-year-old actor-turned-writer/director brought the author’s 1996 historical novel Alias Grace to the small screen – the six-hour miniseries began streaming on Netflix in early November – she had no idea she’d end up discussing the very same issues taking place in the 21st century. “I was imagining when I did press for [this], I would be introducing this as a conversation,” Polley says. “And now it’s the thing that I get asked about the most.” She’s referring to the recent Harvey Weinstein scandal and the deluge of similar accusations of sexual misconduct that have followed in its wake. “It’s an incredible shift to have witnessed. Suddenly, what happens to you, living in a society where you’re not allowed to have an authentic response to abuse, is a conversation that everybody’s willing to have.”
Alias Grace is, on the surface, a true-crime drama. Atwood based it on the real life of a poor, disenfranchised, long-suffering Irish-Canadian immigrant and maid who was found guilty of murder in 1843. No one really knows for sure whether the 17-year-old Grace Marks (Sarah Gadon) helped fellow servant James McDermott (Kerr Logan) shoot their employer, Thomas Kinnear (Paul Gross), and strangle his housekeeper/mistress, Nancy Montgomery (Anna Paquin). According to the novelist’s assiduous research, the story was basically the Making a Murderer of its day.
But beyond the story’s titillating mystery, Polley notes, is an ode to the power of the subjective female narrative as well as an exploration of the ripple effects of trauma. “My main objective was to track a woman’s journey through a man’s world where she’s endlessly harassed, abused – and expected to remain silent,” says Polley. Grace’s story unfolds in flashback, after 15 years in prison, during interviews with the fictional proto-psychiatrist Simon Jordan (Edward Holcroft). The series follows her treacherous sea voyage from Ireland to Canada, losing her mother along the way. [Minor spoilers ahead.] Grace soon leaves behind her younger siblings and sexually abusive father to work as a maid in a prominent household, where she develops a close bond with the charismatic, politically minded Mary Whitley (Rebecca Lilliard). Eventually, a tragedy involving an illegal abortion leaves Grace heartbroken and hardened. Every scene is somehow limned with the threat of violence, making it painfully obvious how little control girls of that era had over their fate.
Polley first approached the Canadian author for the rights to the novel when she was only 17, and best known as the star of Road to Avonlea and The Sweet Hereafter. Her compatriot turned her down. In the intervening years, the actor established herself as a deft storyteller, directing films like Take This Waltz(2011) and the autobiographical doc Stories We Tell (2012), both of which she says were heavily influenced by Grace. She continued to track the rights – and was briefly attached to another production company’s never-attempted adaptation – before finally securing them for herself.
“The truth was, I don’t think I was ready to make this before the moment I did,” says Polley, who wrote all six episodes. “As a 17-year-old girl, I would have really been writing it from a young Grace’s perspective. But I’ve had many years to obsess over it, and it oddly became a really big part of my psychoanalysis. I’ve used this book, this touchstone, to understand myself and the many people that women become when they’re forced to repress their response to horrible experiences.” (Polley recently wrote about her own appalling interaction with Weinstein for The New York Times.)
To her legions of fans, Margaret Atwood has never stopped being relevant. But the celebrated 77-year-old author has tapped into our collective psyche with uncanny precision this year: Hulu’s Emmy-winning The Handmaid’s Tale, based on her 1985 dystopian classic, premiered three months after Trump’s inauguration – at which point a story about women stripped of their rights and reproductive freedom no longer felt particularly fictional.
Knowing how much the story meant to Polley added a degree of intimidation to an already demanding role for star Sarah Gadon (Indignation). The very first shot opens with Grace looking in a mirror, her facial expression shifting ever so subtly from naïve to cunning. “The motif of a woman looking in a mirror is one that you see over and over again in film and TV, but that image is usually constructed by a male artist,” says Gadon. “Sarah said, ‘Grace is now going to sit with every claim that has ever been had over her identity, and she’s going to sit comfortably in them, which is going to deeply unsettle you.’ And that’s something that goes beyond the pages of Margaret’s book.”
Director Mary Harron (American Psycho, I Shot Andy Warhol) was similarly daunted. “It’s like directing three movies,” she says. “I loved the material, though I was kind of scared of it. You could say it’s a feminist reworking, but it’s not at all simplistic.” Polley says she handed over the directorial reigns because “the reader in me won out over the filmmaker. I was excited to see it come to fruition through the eyes of someone that I respected.”
Harron and Gadon prepped for several months ahead of the autumn 2016 shoot; in addition to learning a Northern Irish accent, the latter spent a week in a pioneer village learning how to churn butter and scrub farmhouse floors. (“I’m freaking sewing a quilt while I’m trying to keep all this heady psychological shit straight,” she recalls, laughing.) Together, they worked to determine how best to contrast thirtysomething Grace with her younger self, and effectively communicate the various interpretations of her story. “We developed a shorthand: Innocent Grace, Bad Grace, Neutral Grace,” explains Harron. “The Grace who is telling the story has this serene detachment, which comes from suffering. It’s almost as if she’s in the afterlife and she’s looking at the world and the things that have happened at some remove.”
(Gadon, on the advice of Atwood, won’t say whether she believes Grace is guilty or not. But she admits, “When women are oppressed, you want them to have agency … so as morbid as it might sound, I think there were more times when I wanted her to have done it.”)
Each take contained a slightly different character shading so that Harron could assemble a nuanced version in the editing bay: One minute the piety of Grace’s words are as calming as a lullaby; the next she utters an opinion with enough sharpness to cause whiplash. “I wonder how much sublimated rage she must have carried with her, this child harassed on every corner,” wonders Dr. Jordan, speaking to the kindly reverend (director David Cronenberg) who wants him to exonerate Grace. That question is one viewers are intended to ask as well. “Obviously there’s a lot more of Innocent Grace than Bad Grace,” says Harron. “But if you come to the conclusion that she’s guilty you would at least understand why she would have done it.”
This remarkable (and very Canadian) combination of talent resulted in a miniseries that not only demands to be quickly devoured, like so many successful true-crime offerings (“I consumed all of those series like a junkie,” admits Polley. “There’s all kinds of ethical implications that I’m not 100 percent comfortable with, but I have basically an endless appetite for these things.”), but also turns the act of simply listening to a woman tell her story into something far more meaningful. “Often, women’s voices are left out of their own stories,” says Polley. “I was more interested in the psychology of Grace than in the factual answer of what she did and how. All we have are theories, mostly from men, who had various agendas. What we don’t have is her voice.”
That a centuries-old murder could raise issues of class, gender and power that still resonate today is a testament to Atwood’s writing. But its resonance has become so much more acute recently in the midst of a watershed moment wherein hundreds of women (and men) are coming forward daily to share stories of sexual harassment and assault. Suffice to say, the outpouring that’s followed those initial Weinstein allegations took everyone involved with Alias Grace by surprise. “You work on things for years and years, and sometimes you hit the zeitgeist and sometimes you don’t,” says Harron. “This happened with American Psycho. I made it, and then people felt it was relevant five or 10 years after it came out.” (The 2000 film was originally criticized for its prurient violence; it has since been touted as a scathing capitalist satire.) She adds: “I usually expect that to happen.”
And Gadon is relieved that the miniseries can in some ways provide a counter-narrative to these upsetting revelations. “When women are in positions of power and authority, what is possible onscreen becomes so much more intimate,” she says. “In light of the current news cycle, which is so disturbing and disheartening, and has sometimes left me feeling hopeless, I think about what Mary and Sarah and Margaret have done, and I’m so proud of the show.”
For Polley, of course, the enduring appeal of Margaret Atwood makes perfect sense, especially right now. “This is the moment where we have the appetite for someone as clear-seeing and ruthless as Margaret, because we’re scared,” she says. “People know they need to look brutally and honestly at the world.”
Netflix’s Magnificent “Alias Grace”: Not Just of the Moment, But Urgently of All Time
The magnificence of Mary Harron and Sarah Polley’s adaptation of Margaret Atwood’s 1996 novel, Alias Grace, is multifaceted. Over six episodes crafted with the rich complexity of the novel, “celebrated murderess” Grace Marks (Sarah Gaddon) tells her own story, Scheherazade-style, to a doctor (Edward Holcroft) with the power to arrange for her pardon. It’s a superb entertainment, gripping and slippery, suspenseful right up until its final moments, that very gripping-ness itself urgently thematic: Just as the creators have to entice us to keep us watching, Grace has to keep the doctor fascinated, charmed, even. Harron, the director, cuts several times an episode to his eyes as Grace lays bare, with precise yet unfussy language, the hardships a female servant (and later a convicted killer) faced in mid-nineteenth-century Canada.
The more that handymen and masters of the house paw at her, the more she explains that “there are many dangerous things that take place in a bed,” the more the doctor seems to lean in, enchanted. He’s liberal-minded enough to be upset at hearing about what women endure every day, but not enough that he’d ever have noticed this himself, or thought to do anything about it. And there’s no doubt that he’s turned on by her account, by the thought of what this lissome beauty has lived through, by his certainty that he would have been — and still could be — better to her.
In short, he watches Grace the way many men will watch Alias Grace or Hulu’s The Handmaid’s Tale, also based on an Atwood novel but not as fully realized a work of art as what Harron and Polley have wrought. He watches while knowing that, in his own life, he probably could have done more — and maybe he shouldn’t be too into this.
Harron (I Shot Andy Warhol, American Psycho, The Notorious Bettie Page), working from a script by Polley (the writer and director of Away From Her, Take This Waltz, and Stories We Tell), offers a fuller evocation of what it might have been like actually to have lived in the past than what TV or movies usually bother with. Besides the carefully appointed larders and the vital attention paid to needlework and quilting, note how, in Alias Grace’s Toronto and countryside, the abundant flies bother nobody, that even a doctor neglects to wash his hands after plucking the gizzard from a chicken, and how a suffocating decorum prohibits people — especially women — from speaking the plain truth about the often brutal facts of life. “They took liberties, sir,” Grace says, with careful understatement, of the staff at the asylum.
Note, too, how often, in this faithful adaptation of a novel from two decades back, reimagining murders that scandalized the provinces in 1843, those facts of life echo today — right now. A code of silence still protects predatory men; what seems timely, here, is in fact eternal, unless we stop it in our own lifetimes.
That silence is complex. When the doctor presses her, in a later episode, about the specifics of those liberties taken at the asylum, Grace balks at the question. She has prided herself on telling her story with “vividness and mass of circumstantial detail,” but even a murderess fears too much for her reputation to admit to having lived through sexual assault.
At least, that’s what Grace wants him to think. It’s one of the great pleasures of the series to attempt to tease out just what Grace is feeling at any moment. She admits herself, in narration, that she lies sometimes to the doctor, that she arranges the facts of her case to interest him. By not answering the question, she forces him to face his own impassioned interest in the matter — and also to apologize to her for his own indelicacy. Alias Grace is at its heart always about storytelling, role-playing, the secret ways that women tell unmentionable truths: Grace does this through her embroidery, communicating with a quilt what has happened in a bed, but also through her pointed omissions, her habit of getting him to consider those “things they don’t print in the papers.”
For all its quiet fury, Harron and Polley’s Alias Grace is above all else a superior dramatic mystery, one whose surprises truly jolt and whose pieces, in the end, snap satisfyingly together. It’s mostly well acted, with the excellent Gaddon playing Grace in a variety of ages and perspectives: She’s thirtyish in the present-day scenes, telling the story, but in her mid-teens in the flashbacks, a somewhat naive girl hardened after years of abuse but still thrilled over fireflies and the chance to giggle with her more experienced friend (Rebecca Liddiard). Or that’s how she presents herself; occasionally, we see young Grace from the point of view of people testifying against her. Anna Paquin is arrestingly inconstant as a housemaid with more power than Grace, all smiles one moment and perverse cruelty the next; and Zachary Levi brightens an otherwise dark narrative as a traveling peddler who tries to sell young Grace on something too frightening for her even to envision — freedom.
Polley’s script dips often into Atwood’s prose, so this Grace speaks with rare power and sharpness, her phrasing shaped by a lifetime of scripture. Harron always shows us things worth regarding, and is especially adept at making toil interesting. Just as 12 Years a Slave performed the public service of helping us imagine the day-to-day terror of plantation life, Alias Grace captures the grind of a house servant, churning butter, husking peas, scrubbing nightclothes, tending to the business of the privy. The violence comes in garish flashes, never romanticized or celebrated, more the troubled memory of the act than the fully staged act itself. The lingering image of these five hours of television is Gaddon’s face, so pale you can see capillaries beneath the eyelids, as her Grace tells the doctor about the ways that women must forever navigate around the men in their lives — the truths he should have known already.
Review: Netflix’s Alias Grace Is a Triumph of Complex, Feminist Storytelling
In the earliest moments of Netflix’s new miniseries Alias Grace, an adaptation of a Margaret Atwood historical novel, the title character contemplates herself, thinking through all the different ways she’s been seen since her murder trial and shifting her appearance accordingly. As we meet her for the first time, Grace flickers between personae: one moment near-demonic, the next an innocent, docile creature in need of protection, then snobbish, then naive, then simply a fool.
The actress Sarah Gadon does more, in this minute-or-so-long-shot, as many prestige-TV stars do in a season. And that’s only the beginning. The show’s six episodes tell the story of the unfortunate Grace, an Irish emigrant to Canada who finds herself entangled in a bloody crime. All along, Gadon finds depth in the moments between personae, the times when Grace struggles to figure out exactly what side of herself to present.
We meet Grace some years after her 1843 conviction and imprisonment. She’s continued her old duties as a servant in the home of the prison’s governor, having escaped capital punishment for the murder of her former employer and his mistress. An early psychiatrist, or “alienist,” has been hired to deduce just how culpable Grace was in the crime. Her general history of good behavior as well as her moments deemed, in the parlance of the time, “hysterical” have raised questions about the case. Grace placidly works on her quilting while subject to questioning by Dr. Simon Jordan (Edward Holcroft), slowly spinning both a laboriously crafted blanket and a story whose particulars seem to entirely exonerate Grace.
Grace is at times wry and amused, at other moments passionately emotional recalling the injustices of her voyage from Ireland or the death of her dear friend Mary (Rebecca Liddiard). She seems fairly disaffected about the two people for whose deaths she’s lost her freedom (Paul Gross and Anna Paquin) or for the servant who either helped her do it or did it himself (Kerr Logan)—but then, her story has it that she was entirely uninvolved.
Whether to believe Grace’s story is a less compelling mystery than whether she believes in it, or just in her ability to tell a self-preserving lie. Gadon, an actress best known for her work in the surreal films of David Cronenberg, has her starmaking role here in a role every bit as subject to its own obscure but rigid rules. Whatever goes on between Grace’s ears is a matter we’re not immediately privy to—her face is expressive, but only of what she deems advantageous to show. For an uneducated former maid claiming to have been caught up in someone else’s plot, Grace is uncannily gifted at survival as, say, the protagonist of The Handmaid’s Tale, this year’s other televised adaptation of an Atwood book. That story drew upon history to imagine how badly women’s rights might regress in a dystopia; Alias Grace makes the case more explicit, showing just how dystopic the past really was. Grace is reflexively distrusted. That she so fervently trusts her own ability to carry on is her salvation.
The show’s direction, by American Psycho filmmaker Mary Harron, is elegant, and the script, by Away from Her writer/director Sarah Polley, is crisply modern in its understanding of characters’ psychological realities yet blurry enough on the margins to allow in delicious ambiguity. “I wonder,” Grace asks herself, as she’s toggling between expressions early on, “how can I be all these different things at once?” Her own time rejected complexity: Servant girls needed to be supplicatory and alleged murderers were automatically evil. Gadon, with able behind-the-scenes aid from Harron and Polley, forces complexity upon the Victorian era. She makes Grace something that’s not quite a heroine, but close enough that you won’t be able to stop yourself from rooting for her escape from a time unable to contain her.
Review: ‘Alias Grace’ Sews a Transfixing True-Crime Quilt
If Margaret Atwood didn’t already exist, 2017 would have had to invent her.
Earlier this year, Hulu’s Emmy-winning adaptation of her novel “The Handmaid’s Tale” looked to the near future for a story of women bound in servitude. Now, Netflix’s six-part mini-series version of her “Alias Grace,” looks back a century and a half to find a story that is much the same in theme, but transfixingly different in style.
“Alias Grace,” available to stream on Friday, is a true-crime mystery in the form of an elliptical interrogation. It opens in 1859, in Victorian Canada, where Grace Marks (Sarah Gadon), a household servant, has been imprisoned for the 1843 murder of a farmer (Paul Gross) and his housekeeper (Anna Paquin).
Grace is a sensation, a celebrity even, in large part because she’s a young, mild-mannered woman. That circumstance affects every aspect of her case.
The actual killer, a stable hand (Kerr Logan) accuses her of using her wiles to manipulate him and mastermind the crime. She attracts the paternalistic interest of benefactors who want to see her pardoned. They hire a progressive young doctor, Simon Jordan (Edward Holcroft), to question and hopefully save her — though his curiosity is laced with condescension.
Grace is simultaneously vulnerable and strong. She’s a prisoner, a poor Irish immigrant, in an era where servant women are subject to the whims, and sometimes lusts, of their employers. Yet there’s a power in the fascination that her case inspires. Dr. Jordan hangs on her every word, and those words are all she has.
This adds tension and calculation to the flashback narrative. As Grace traces her route from a childhood of abuse to her last fateful posting, she’s gauging what Dr. Jordan might want to hear, feeling his reaction, titrating her response.
Is she innocent, guilty, crazy? “Alias Grace” is less about finding the definitive truth than watching Grace feel her way to the answer that could save her.
“Alias Grace” is a story about storytelling — one character compares Grace with Scheherazade — which makes Ms. Gadon essential to its success. She is mesmerizing. She plays Grace convincingly as a timid child and a toughened inmate, and she brings both of them to Grace’s wary testimony.
The novel by Ms. Atwood (who has a bit part as “Disapproving Woman”) is a challenge to adapt visually. It’s as internal and retrospective as “Handmaid’s” is propulsive, though both protagonists are slyly defiant. The screenwriter, Sarah Polley (who adapted a story from the Canadian author Alice Munro into the film “Away from Her”), turns it into a sinuous, layered script that is constantly aware of what is being said, to whom and why.
Mary Harron (“I Shot Andy Warhol”) directs the series dynamically. In an early sequence, Grace’s meditates on the curious phrase “celebrated murderess” over quick cuts of the crime — a body tumbling to the floor, a strip of cloth tightening around a throat.
For all that, “Alias Grace” isn’t overly brutal. It’s an exquisitely woven fabric with blood staining the corners. The violence is often in the language, as when a servant woman describes a death scene — the result of an illegal abortion — as smelling like a butcher shop.
You could almost mistake the series for a nostalgic period piece, as when a bushy-bearded Zachary Levi (“Chuck”) enters as a silver-tongued peddler, or when Grace befriends Mary (Rebecca Liddiard), a feisty, politically aware servant who fatefully attracts the interest of one of her employer’s sons. (The series follows Netflix’s roughed-up “Anne With an E,” which surfaced the dark subtext of “Anne of Green Gables,” another story of 19th-century Canadian girlhood.)
The series is conscious of class — there’s a little primer on colonial Canadian populism — and of how patriarchy pits women against women, like Nancy Montgomery (Ms. Paquin), the housekeeper and jealous lover of Grace’s employer, who terrorizes the staff below her.
Above all, “Alias Grace” is about how men abuse power over women, and how that power is always present, even when the men aren’t. It’s present in something as innocuous as a wedding quilt, which Grace likens to a battle flag. A bed may seem like a place of rest, she tells Dr. Jordan, but “there are many dangerous things that need take place on a bed.”
It’s tempting to think of this series, like “The Handmaid’s Tale,” as especially timely, with today’s revelations of sexual abuse in places of power. But to say that would suggest that there have been moments when these ideas would not be timely.
That doesn’t seem to be the message of the Year of Atwood, with “Grace” and “Handmaid” standing like beacons centuries apart. Look back on the calendar, they say, and look forward. The year changes. The time does not.
Review: Netflix’s ‘Alias Grace’ is a harrowing and masterful mystery
Fans of The Handmaid’s Tale may just have a new obsession.
Netflix’s Alias Grace (streaming Friday, ???½ out of four) is the latest adaptation of a 1996 novel by the incisive Margaret Atwood: a shorter and more subtle story than Handmaid’s, but still an incredibly satisfying one.
Created by Sarah Polley (Away From Her), Alias turns its lens on the past instead of a dystopianfuture, focusing on Grace (Sarah Gadon), a 19th-century Irish immigrant in Canada who was convicted of murdering two people. The series retains Atwood’s interest in exploring the treatment of women, but it’s also a mystery steeped in mysticism and obscurity, a sumptuous and arresting costume drama with blood seeping through the surface.
Both the book and the series are fictionalized takes on the real Grace Marks, who served 30 years in prison for the double murder of her employer, Thomas Kinnear, and his housekeeper, Nancy Montgomery, before she was pardoned, relocated, and then disappeared.
This Grace is an enigma, incarcerated for 15 years when a charitable organization takes an interest in procuring her pardon. The group employs Dr. Simon Jordan (Edward Holcroft, Kingsman: The Golden Circle) to examine her and help prove her innocence. The series is framed by their interviews, in which Jordan presses Grace about her past, seen in flashbacks, and slowly leads up to the murders.
The series is superbly acted throughout, but no one outshines the stunning Gadon. Her Grace remains coy in the present and is emotionally laid bare in the past. The actress deftly seesaws between the young, naïve girl shown in flashbacks to the older, wizened prisoner accustomed to abuse and deception.
Alias also features strong supporting performances from Holcroft, who has a meatier role than his villainous rich kid in the Kingsman franchise; Zachary Levi (Chuck), as a sleazy peddler; Anna Paquin as the murder victim Nancy; and Rebecca Liddiard as Grace’s ebullient friend Mary Whitney.
Atwood’s commentary has a softer touch than Handmaid’s, and the two series reflect that. Alias’ focus remains the plight of women without rights, but its seen through the lens of a woman discovering she has power, not one who remembers a time when she did. It is not just that the women of the story are oppressed, it is that they (and especially their sexuality) are feared and reviled. Questions of who is good, who is evil and whether or not it matters are constant themes.
Perhaps the most satisfying aspect of Grace is how it smartly melds its costume drama aesthetics with its seedier underpinnings. It plays with viewers’ expectations about PBS Masterpiece-style television. Mary Herron (American Psycho), who directed all six episodes, frequently cuts to bloody scenes of the murder as Grace demurely talks about her past and sews quilts, its horror accompanied by a kicky, period score. The series has aspects of an Upstairs, Downstairs drama, but being a member of the upper class or its servants can mean the difference between life and death.
Is Grace guilty or innocent? Whatever the answer is, after watching an episode or two, you’ll likely be hooked.
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