In James Mansell’s short film about Jack the Ripper, Leviathan, we are transported to the flickering shadows of Victorian London, where three historical figures stand over a body and wrestle with ideas of truth, justice, and morality in the face of unspeakable horror.
This beautifully crafted short is set during the height of the Whitechapel murders and brings together a fascinating trio from history. Professor Joseph Bell, Arthur Conan Doyle, and journalist Margaret Harkness find themselves crowded around the lifeless form of a murdered woman, attempting to unpick the grim puzzle that surrounds her final moments. These are not the fictional detectives of penny dreadfuls or pulpy paperbacks. These are people grounded in historical fact, reimagined here with care, complexity, and a touch of theatrical flair.
Professor Bell, played with quiet brilliance by Matthew Lloyd Davies, is a man of science and method. His legacy as the real-life inspiration for Sherlock Holmes is handled with respect rather than gimmick, and Davies embodies the gravitas of a man who sees more than most. Alongside him is Rafe Bird as Arthur Conan Doyle, not yet the literary titan he would become, but still sharp, eager, and occasionally naive. Together, they form the logical backbone of the film, searching for sense in the senseless.
But it is Lauren Cornelius as Margaret Harkness who truly seizes the moment. Harkness, a former nurse and a fierce journalist, walks into the scene and immediately shifts the balance of power. In an era where women were expected to keep quiet, Harkness refuses to sit back. She brings a fiery intelligence to the investigation and a humanity the others risk leaving behind. Cornelius delivers a performance filled with bite and empathy, challenging the men at every turn and refusing to let the victim become just another name lost to the fog.
What is striking about Leviathan is how much it accomplishes with so little. The film takes place almost entirely within a single room, but that room pulses with tension. It never feels static or staged. The conversation is urgent, filled with sharp exchanges and quiet revelations, and the pace never falters. Rather than relying on visual shocks or gratuitous gore, the horror here is intellectual and emotional. We are not shown the brutality of the murder, yet we feel its weight through the reactions of those who study it.
Mansell’s direction is assured throughout, creating a world that is richly atmospheric without ever drawing attention to itself. The candlelit set, the period-perfect costuming, and the oppressive stillness of the mortuary all work together to create a sense of genuine unease. There is a quiet confidence in every frame, a trust in the story and performances to carry the audience through. And carry us they do.
The script, adapted from Bradley Harper’s novel A Knife in the Fog, is sharp and intelligent. It allows its characters to speak with eloquence and conviction while never slipping into pastiche. The dynamic between Bell, Doyle, and Harkness feels lived-in and real, full of subtle shifts and quiet power plays. At times, it feels like we are watching the pilot of a prestige television series, the first step in what could easily become a gripping period mystery. It is a short that leaves you wanting more, but not because it feels unfinished. Rather, it is because the characters and world are so well drawn that stepping away feels almost like a loss.
Special mention must go to Mat Hamilton’s haunting score, which underlines the dread without overwhelming it. The music creeps in, pulsing beneath the dialogue like a second heartbeat. It builds slowly, rising with the tension until the final notes echo in the silence, leaving a chill that lingers long after the credits.
Speaking of the credits, they are a delight in themselves. Stylised visuals and etchings fill the screen, suggesting the beginning of something bigger. It feels not like an end, but an invitation. There is clearly more story to be told, and one can only hope that Mansell, whose own family connection to Professor Bell adds a personal layer to the production, is given the opportunity to tell it.
Leviathan is not only a historical fiction, it is a meditation on truth, gender, class, and the stories we choose to tell about violence. It engages with the Ripper mythos without resorting to lazy shocks or tired tropes. It instead chooses to explore the people who stood in those rooms, who asked the questions, who saw the horror firsthand. It gives voice to those who were often ignored and it does so with a richness and intelligence that few short films manage to achieve.
This is a masterful piece of cinema that uses restraint as its greatest weapon. For those who enjoy historical drama with substance, period mystery with purpose, or simply appreciate finely made storytelling, Leviathan is not to be missed.
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