At turns compulsively intimate and uncompromisingly haunting, Crimson Peak is eventually Gothic, an affair that is torrid of century sensibility married into the contemporary trappings of love, death as well as the afterlife. A looming estate tucked away in the midst that reaches with outstretched hands to draw in the stories troubled figures like most works of Gothic fiction, there lies a dark fate at its centre. It could be seen on hundreds of paperback covers – The Lady of Glenwith Grange by Wilkie Collins, The Weeping Tower by Christine Randell to call a couple of – pressed right back from the night that is ominous apparently omnipresent; an individual light lit close to the eve or in the attic that is all knowing yet mostly foreboding. Their outside can be made from brick and mortar, lumber and finger nails yet every inches of the stark membranes were created in black blood, corroded veins and a menacing beast that aches with ghosts regarding the past.
Except author and manager Guillermo Del Toro (Pan’s Labyrinth) is not so much interested into the past while he is within the future; a strange propensity for a visionary whose flourishes evoke the radiance and decadence of the bygone age.