I was very surprised and saddened to read that writer-director Anthony Minghella has died. His adaptation of The Talented Mr. Ripley is both justly acclaimed and criminally under-appreciated: every shot, every line, every performance is dead on. Every time I watch it, I’m filled with envy and self-doubt — a strangely empowering combination when seen through the lens of Minghella’s needy and murderous hero.
Minghella himself couldn’t seem more different. The two times I sat down with him, he was funny, charming, and much too polite to make me feel stupid. Both occasions were award-season panels, potentially awkward sessions in which filmmakers are asked to talk about their movies in relation to each other. But I could only gush about how much I loved his work, and pitch him my plan to do a mash-up of the Aliens quadrilogy with his Ripley. (It’s still on the to-do list.)
Just this week, the trades announced that Minghella was doing a series with Richard Curtis based on No 1 Ladies Detective Agency, which had already shot its pilot in Botswana. Here’s hoping that project and his other work can make it to the screen. But I already miss all the other movies he won’t be making.