Moses Ingram & Natalie Portman Spar In Lady In The Lake

In this 60s-era thriller, two women risk it all to tell (and sell) a story.

Cleo Johnson (Moses Ingram) makes two things clear from the start of Lady in the Lake, Apple TV Plus’s 60s-era drama based on the Laura Lippman bestseller of the same name: she’s dead, and she’s angry.

The object of her ire isn’t her murderer. It isn’t her crooked boss Shell Gordon (Wood Harris), a scion of the Black community in Baltimore who runs a “numbers game” and hired her to keep the books. It isn’t her husband, Slappy (Byron Bowers), an amiable comic whose dreams matter more to him than making enough money to help their sick child.

No, Cleo’s wrath focuses squarely on Madeline Schwartz, nee Morgenstern (Natalie Portman), a Jewish housewife who abandons a sedate and suburban life in Pikesville with a dull husband and resentful son to pursue her dream of being a reporter - and makes Cleo Johnson’s murder, which most of 1960s America was happy to forget — her pet project.

Making the murder victim your narrator isn’t exactly new; Joe Gillis did much the same in Sunset Boulevard back in 1950. But what sets Lady in the Lake apart (at first, anyway) is this explicit — and hostile — conflict over authorship between two women, both of whom are clawing, in ethically dubious ways, for control over their lives and over the story of their lives.

“They say until the lion tells its story, the hunter will always be the hero,” Cleo says as the camera follows a man rowing a boat and disposing of the body that will be known (until it is identified as Cleo’s) as the Lady in the Lake. It’s easy to miss at first that the “hunter” in Cleo’s proverb refers to the reporter. But in this story about changing relations between Jewish and Black communities in the 1960s, the origins of the lottery, Baltimore history, feminist awakenings, racism, fascism, parental abandonment and disgruntled sons, the real dramatic contest is over narrative supremacy.

That off-kilter setup pits two women against each other who might, in a more conventional production, have been written as allies. Or as standalone protagonists. This comes to feel typical of the stylish series; Lady in the Lake is not economical. More suggestive than precise, it makes the messier, less streamlined choice every time (sometimes to its detriment). For instance: having established its central mystery (Cleo Johnson’s death) in a cold open of sorts, the series immediately sets to introducing another — the disappearance of a young Jewish girl named Tessie Durst.

Created and directed by Alma Har’el, Lady in the Lake builds its world patiently, with polish and pizazz. Narrative strategies are unorthodox and wide-ranging. Parallels between Cleo and Maddie are generated via deliberately confusing and sometimes conceptually strained juxtapositions. There are flashbacks galore, and dreams. Also: sumptuously creepy shots featuring fish. Lambs, too, do more than their fair share of (vague) symbolic work, and the show at one point braids several of its bigger themes together via an extremely surprising dance number. It says something about the production’s confidence - and panoramic scope, and slightly cynical tone — that the first scene outside Cleo Johnson’s perspective begins not with Tessie (the little girl whose disappearance gets things going) but with a guy dressed up as Santa’s mailbox relieving himself in an alley before rejoining the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Splashy performances abound. Portman repels sympathy while ably channelling Maddie’s professional (and ideological) frustration — and fending off her own trauma as she tries to solve Tessie’s murder and (eventually) Cleo’s. Brett Gelman, the Marlon Brando of unappealing husbands, excels as Milton, the obnoxious, exacting spouse she abandons. Y’lan Noel brings a wry, clipped, roguish intelligence to Ferdie Platt, the Black detective who becomes Maddie’s love interest, and Jennifer Mogbock’s textured work as Dora Carter, Cleo’s longtime friend and a star singer at one of Shell Gordon’s establishments, saves a somewhat underwritten character.

But the biggest surprise is Ingram, whose star turn as Cleo — in an entertaining production stuffed with loud and charming choices — is notable for its grounded brilliance and restraint. Based on a Black woman named Shirley Parker whose body was found in Baltimore’s Druid Hill Park in the late 1960s, Cleo (in Ingram’s interpretation) is reserved. Understated. Pragmatic. Tactful. She’s firm, but not a troublemaker. Unique, though not a rebel. Smart, and slowly strangling under the constraints of her life — and just barely getting by as she plans, cautiously, steadily, for better things.

Cleo’s appeal grows with every level-headed second Ingram spends on-screen, making her imminent death — the frame for the whole story — increasingly intolerable. You find yourself leaning in to make sure you don’t miss a word. Ingram’s magnetism impinges on Portman’s: Cleo’s early broadside against Maddie keeps the latter from achieving the kind of moral high ground (and narrative centrality) she would need to erase the role her ambition plays in her dedication to getting Cleo justice.

Without getting into spoilers or twists, it’s safe to say the story ramifies in gratifyingly original ways while nailing some bread-and-butter basics — especially its portrayals of Cleo and Maddie’s families and home lives. The show comes across as more curious than didactic about the many social issues it raises; whenever ethics come up, motives get murky. That balance works well, even if the antagonists in this (ostensible) two-hander barely ever meet on-screen. Clocking in at a modest seven episodes, this adaptation manages to feel both expansive and propulsive; it might not feature as many points of view as the novel, but it still feels like a page-turner.

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