I watched this on Hulu Plus on my new Apple TV, and was really excited to find this adaptation (along with Number 13). I must say, I'm completely baffled-- not baffled at what happened in the story (although now that I think of it...), but baffled as to why anyone would set out to make a film version of an M.R. James story, then completely discard the story and write a new one that has nothing to do with the original. What on earth is the point of that? John Hurt is a great actor, the scenes were nicely filmed, and all that. But it had nothing to do with the James story-- no whistle, no Templar ruins, no really creepy and scary presence, no reference to "Whistle and I'll come to you, lad", no real point of reference to the story whatsoever. The apparition wasn't very scary (wrapped in a sheet on a beach in broad daylight), the ring (instead of a whistle) didn't really make sense, and the whole invalid wife subplot just wasn't very good or scary (except at the end when it leapt out and yelled "boo"). It was moody and atmospheric, and John Hurt is terrific, but why would anyone present this as an M.R. James story? What a missed opportunity.

This is a modern version of the classic MR James ghost story 'Whistle and I'll Come To You'. To his credit Neil Cross has tried to find a modern way into the story and has turned it into a tale about a man whose wife is lost to Alzheimer's. Unfortunately what emerges has little resonance (the Alzheimer's stuff is patently phony--sorry Neil all sufferers from the illness do not act like corpses)and also zero connection to the original. All that survives is a lonely hotel by the seaside, a lonely man and...well not much else. Not even the whistle remains. The writer might just as well have stopped trading on the classic name and author and done an original story . Except of course if he had it would never have been made. Nobody is saying we need a slavish copy. Jonathan Miller's earlier classic version was recognisably the same story but it was still changed to brilliant effect. Cross just grafts a mediocre ending on and leaves it at that. The result is quite atmospherically directed but all else goes for nothing. What exactly was the point?

It's many years since I read the M.R. James ghost story from which this production was adapted and so my familiarity with it has faded. I could only approach it then on its own merits whilst obviously recognising that the story had been relocated to the present-day. As such, whilst I did get caught up, to some extent, in the events which overtake John Hurt, who having just put his senile dementia-suffering wife into a care home, revisits, as he himself puts it, an old haunt of theirs, the story just had too many ambiguities to really leave me anything more than puzzled by the end.I found myself trying too hard to put together the relative significance of the various constituents of the plot devices employed, like the ring Hurt finds on the beach, the vaguely menacing statuette which sits in his boarding house room and the appearance of the apparition on the beach. No doubt the director's aim was to make manifest the inner turmoil of Hurt's character, haunted by the guilt of abandoning his wife's care to others and his own inner wish to be reunited with her, but I wasn't fully convinced that such a sane-seeming individual as Hurt would succumb to his demons as actually takes place.That said, the climactic scene itself did bring up the hackles on my neck, with it's effective use of close editing and background music, but for me, I couldn't afterwards tie up the loose ends as I felt I should.It's also been a while since I saw John Hurt in a TV role and nowadays his lived-in face is perfect for an anguished role like this. The rest of the cast is minimal in number, pointing up his isolation. The unnatural eeriness of him walking a deserted beach in broad day-light and being completely alone in the boarding house seems a little unnatural however and stretches credulity. The direction too is a little slow and grey and fails to convey Hurt's dread until the very end.A production then which for me lost something in the updating, and couldn't withstand the superimposition of modern-day post-traumatic psychology onto the source material of a hoary old Victorian ghost-story.

I think it's important to begin by saying that the BBC's efforts to bring the classic ghost stories of M.R. James to the small screen have, over the years, been a continual source of joy for lovers of old school horror such as myself. While not every adaptation has been as accomplished an approach to film-making as Jonathan Miller's iconic 1968 realisation of 'Whistle & I'll Come To You' and Lawrence Gordon-Clarke's memorable interpretation of 'A Warning To The Curious', even the comparatively more pedestrian entries have evoked not only the much-anticipated foreboding and supernatural atmosphere of the source material, but a good degree of faithfulness to their underlying themes. This, however, cannot be said for 2010's apparently necessary remake of 'Whistle And I'll Come To You', wherein the terms 'remake', 'intuitive understanding' and 'source material' are applied with the same degree of dubiousness as any arguments in support of the production's validity.For those unfamiliar, as indeed many still will be after watching the new Whistle, the plot of the original centres around the cocksure academic bachelor Professor Parkins (Parkins in the original text), who takes a vacation during the off-season at a remote Norfolk seaside village for golf and exploration, the latter prompted by a colleague's request that he inspect the remains of an old Templar preceptory to determine its archaeological worth. This he duly does, and within the crumbling ruins, discovers an ancient whistle, unable to resist putting its practical function to the test. From that moment on, Parkins is never alone, having awoken forces beyond description and quite beyond all human understanding. The heart of the story is the folly of arrogant presumption, that there will always be realms of understanding beyond mortal man, and to believe you can quantify existence is to invite downfall. James's overconfident scholar and protagonist is the perfect vehicle to deliver this message, and an archetype that the writer, who was himself a highly-accomplished academic, knew better than most. The rapid destruction of Parkins's self-assured, almost autistic world is almost as disconcerting as the unknown forces he has unleashed, for which we are given only fleeting glimpses and very little explanation.All of which clearly flew over the heads of the 2010 production team, who presumably felt that the core elements of the story were its beach setting, the university professor more inclined to the rational than the superstitious, and the general bleakness of his existence. So long as some vague continuity with these components was maintained, it seemed perfectly reasonable to completely rewrite both story and characterization to the point where the result was a pale shadow of its former self yet could still be legitimately broadcast under the same title.The Neil Cross teleplay, in which the action is relocated to the present day, sees a Professor James Parkin committing his wife, apparently suffering from advanced senile dementia, to a care home before taking a long overdue vacation on the Kentish Coast in order to come to terms with his loss. The seaside resort also happens to be one of their old stomping grounds, and the discovery of a ring in the sand dunes brings to life more than mere memories for Parkin. Something seems keen to communicate with him on the deserted coast, and it may not be as unfamiliar as it first appears.Cross's script quite spectacularly manages to miss the point of the James tale, retaining only superficial vestiges of its substance. Gone is the arrogant, antisocial university mandarin of the original. In his place is the more socially-capable doting husband whose rational worldview is in no way extreme and borne of great personal tragedy – again entirely caused by the most intimate of social interaction (the original Parkins wouldn't even know what to do with a woman). The character's ultimate fate is seemingly more extreme, yet far more simplistic and obvious, undercutting the psychological ramifications of his plight.The 'ghost' of the story is equally less subtle and, by the climax of the tale, extremely more quantifiable than its antecedent, of which one understands no more by the end than they did when it first appears. Its intangible mystery is precisely the point of its existence, being something so alien that not even the well-read professor can define it.The whole dramatisation is, in short, comprehensively dumbed down. The rapid departure from the original narrative is, according to those behind the camera, because Jonathan Miller had already dramatised the story so well that there seemed little point in retreading the same ground. The creative reigns are firmly in the grip of Marshall McLuhan's prophesied generation wherein the televisual medium has become the message for those who work in the industry. Television is its own reference point and must now be the source material for rehashing plots with diminishing returns. Heaven forfend that the book be the wellspring of inspiration instead. Telling the same story is surely the point of the exercise: if there is little point in retreading ground well-covered in the past, this, surely, is proof that the endeavour was unnecessary in the first place.Cashing in on a popular title is perhaps the greatest offence and indeed irony, since the Cross script under the direction of Euros Lyn does deliver its own chilling moments. Add to this the very capable cast headed by John Hurt and Gemma Jones and some excellent location shoots, and there is much to otherwise praise. More damage is done to it by being arrogant enough to masquerade it as something it is not, whereas a more favourable analysis would be quite easy if it were touted as a new work in its own right. It isn't, however, being instead an unwarranted 'Disneyfication' of a far darker psychological piece that a new audience will mistakenly equate with Britain's greatest master of the macabre. It is the same blind egotistical behaviour that Hollywood is typically blamed for. With them, however, such silliness is expected.