The BBC’s Ripper Street has garnered significant attention, and as a viewer intrigued by Victorian history and crime narratives, I approached it with considerable interest. The shadow of ‘Ripperology’ often casts a long and sometimes distorting shadow over our understanding of Victorian crime and policing. Initial concerns arose that a series titled Ripper Street might become overly fixated on the infamous, yet narrowly scoped, Whitechapel murders. Indeed, history offers a wealth of compelling, and perhaps more historically representative, criminal cases worthy of exploration beyond the well-trodden ground of Jack the Ripper.
However, the debut episode of Ripper Street adeptly allayed these initial anxieties. While ‘The Ripper’ undoubtedly served as a compelling initial hook to draw in audiences, the overarching message, subtly woven into the narrative for both viewers and the characters within the show, emphasized the critical need to move beyond an obsessive focus on one particularly gruesome series of murders. The subsequent episode further solidified this shift, guiding the narrative further away from the immediate shadow of the Whitechapel killings and into broader Victorian criminal investigations.
One of the notable strengths of Ripper Street lies in its intelligent use of detail to enhance the believability of its stories. The dialogue and speech patterns employed by the protagonists struck me as remarkably effective in recreating the linguistic landscape of Victorian England. The incorporation of accurate, contemporary vocabulary – terms like “snide notes,” “bullies,” and “derbies” – demonstrates a commendable commitment to linguistic authenticity.
Detective Edmund Reid and his team in a scene from Ripper Street TV Show, highlighting the show’s focus on Victorian era policing.
Furthermore, the series incorporates intriguing details that acknowledge the Metropolitan Police’s early adoption of emerging technologies. The inclusion of the telegraph and electric lighting, for instance, subtly underscores the forward-thinking aspects of Victorian law enforcement. The cultural context is also richly presented, from the depiction of bare-knuckle boxing matches held in the back rooms of pubs to the candid and often brutal methods of violence employed by the police, deemed effective within their contemporary understanding of law and order. The societal fascination with the burgeoning technology of photography is another detail that rings true to the era. The use of a belt buckle as a weapon in the second episode, a detail reminiscent of the practices of Manchester scuttlers (Davies 2009), further exemplifies the show’s attention to historical accuracy in depicting the realities of Victorian street life and violence.
However, Ripper Street is not without its problematic elements. The portrayal of misogyny, often presented with a lack of nuance, is a consistently disturbing undercurrent throughout the plots. This aspect has drawn criticism, notably from Jan Moir in the Daily Mail, raising questions about its suitability for modern audiences, even if historically accurate. While misogyny was undeniably a grim reality of life in Victorian London (D’Cruze 2000, D’Cruze 1998, Wiener 2006, Emsley 2005, Wood 2004), the crucial question is whether its explicit depiction, alongside instances of gratuitous violence, serves a narrative purpose beyond mere sensationalism for contemporary viewers. Certain details seem deliberately crafted to resonate with a knowing modern audience. The detailed dissection of a body, for example, is a trope readily familiar to modern crime drama viewers, and the thematic concern with pornography mirrors contemporary debates surrounding media and morality. While these elements contribute to the show’s accessibility and entertainment value, their anachronistic resonance is undeniable.
Moreover, Ripper Street occasionally suffers from plot contrivances that require a degree of suspension of disbelief. In one instance, the motivations of a photographer, possessing a revolutionary moving image camera, for remaining subservient to an aristocratic patron he clearly despises are weakly explained, particularly given the potential fortune his invention could generate independently. Similarly, the wealthy “toff’s” reliance on “snide notes” to procure a high-class prostitute seems unnecessarily risky when engaging a lower-class sex worker with untraceable currency would significantly mitigate the danger of exposure. Indeed, the risk of detection for passing counterfeit money likely outweighed the risk for murdering a poor prostitute in the Victorian era.
While such minor plot inconsistencies are often forgivable in engaging drama, the second episode of Ripper Street faltered more significantly due to a central, historically inaccurate premise. The narrative hinges on the idea that in 1889, a court would sentence a fourteen-year-old to death. Vic Gatrell’s seminal work, The Hanging Tree (Gatrell 1994), meticulously details the history of capital punishment, including the fact that the last execution of a teenager in England occurred roughly 50 years prior to the period depicted in Ripper Street. By the 1880s, even adult murderers frequently escaped the death penalty. Executions were not carried out swiftly after conviction, nor were they a commonplace occurrence. A competent and dedicated defense lawyer, such as the one portrayed in the episode, would have been acutely aware of these legal realities. However, the enduring popular misconception of Victorian justice as inherently draconian seemingly allows the show to convince modern viewers that the execution of a fourteen-year-old was plausible and easily staged.
Rectifying this fundamental historical error would have irrevocably undermined the central plot of the episode. Instead, the storyline appears to draw more from Hollywood tropes than the realities of Victorian London. The deployment of a Wild West narrative cliché, wherein police are besieged while protecting a prisoner from a lawless gang operating with apparent impunity, feels jarringly out of place. While certain areas of London posed dangers to lone constables, a large-scale, organized assault on police guarding prisoners was exceptionally rare. The closest comparable incident, the 1919 attack on Epsom police station by 400 Canadian soldiers seeking to free arrested comrades, occurred well outside the historical and geographical context of Ripper Street.
Whitechapel in the 1880s was a far cry from the Wild West. News of such a brazen attack in the East End would have swiftly reached the nearest police station via concerned citizens, many of whom had no vested interest in supporting criminal gangs. With a significant police presence throughout the area, reinforcements would have arrived rapidly.
Ripper Street’s narrative choices seem to cater, at least in part, to an American market. The inclusion of a freewheeling American Pinkerton agent in a pivotal role, coupled with detectives who exhibit a remarkably flexible approach to procedural regulations, contributes to this perception. The plot of the second episode, consequently, feels more akin to a narrative from Wyoming than Whitechapel. The episode culminates in a particularly illogical plot twist: the detectives allow a convicted murderer to emigrate (presumably to the USA), only to then arrest the woman who orchestrated the murder. By the time her trial commences, the sole witness capable of securing a conviction will be sailing across the Atlantic.
The fundamental challenge for any program maker lies in navigating the delicate balance between historical accuracy and crafting compelling storylines that resonate with a contemporary audience. Historians must acknowledge the necessity of compromise if they wish to contribute to popular entertainment. However, the second episode of Ripper Street represents a disappointing misstep. It panders to popular misconceptions of Victorian justice and embraces a Wild West narrative structure that feels incongruous with its setting. The realities of policing Victorian London offer a rich tapestry of genuinely exciting and novel narrative possibilities, but Ripper Street, in this instance, regrettably settles for inappropriate clichés.
Guy Woolnough is currently completing his PhD at Keele University, focusing on the policing of petty crime in Victorian Cumbria.
Website: www.guywoolnough.com Twitter: @GuyWoolnough
Bibliography
DAVIES, A., 2009. The gangs of Manchester: the story of the Scuttlers, Britain’s first youth cult. Wrea Green, Preston: Milo.
D’CRUZE, S., 2000. Everyday violence in Britain, 1850-1950; gender and class. Harlow: Longman.
D’CRUZE, S., 1998. Crimes of outrage sex, violence and Victorian working women. London: UCL Press.
EMSLEY, C., 2005. Hard men; the English and violence since 1750. London: Hambledon and London.
GATRELL, V.A.C., 1994. The hanging tree : execution and.
WIENER, M.J., 2006. Men of blood ; violence, manliness, and criminal justice in Victorian England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
WOOD, J.C., 2004. Violence and crime in nineteenth-century England; the shadow of our refinement. New York: Routledge.
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