Who Dies First In 'Crimson Peak'?

Man, Thomas Sharpe's death in 'Crimson Peak' is one of those moments that sticks with you—brutal, poetic, and so fitting for the Gothic horror vibe Guillermo del Toro crafted. He meets his end in the crumbling, blood-red halls of Allerdale Hall, the very house that symbolizes his family's decay. After a lifetime of manipulation and survival, it's Lucille, his sister and twisted lover, who ultimately kills him. She stabs him in a frenzied attack, driven by jealousy and desperation when she realizes he's truly fallen for Edith. The irony is thick here: the man who spent years luring women to their deaths for money dies by the hand of the one person he couldn't escape. The scene is drenched in symbolism, from the way he collapses into the crimson clay oozing through the floorboards to the way Edith watches, horrified yet freed. What gets me is how Thomas, for all his charm and calculated cruelty, is just another victim of the Sharpe family's legacy. He's not purely evil; there's a tragic layer to him, especially in those final moments when he pleads with Lucille. You almost pity him—almost. The way del Toro frames his death, with the house literally collapsing around them, feels like the earth itself is rejecting the Sharpe siblings' sins. It's a visually stunning end, messy and visceral, with Mia Wasikowska's Edith standing as the sole survivor amid the wreckage. Thomas's death isn't just a plot point; it's the culmination of every rotten thing festering in that house. And honestly, after all he'd done, part of me cheered when Lucille's blade found its mark.

The character of Thomas Sharpe in 'Crimson Peak' is such a fascinating, layered figure that it's hard to pin him down as a straightforward villain. At first glance, he seems like the archetypal Gothic romance hero—charming, mysterious, and tragically haunted. But as the story unfolds, you start peeling back those layers, and oh boy, does it get messy. He’s undeniably involved in some horrific acts, from the manipulation of Edith to the darker secrets of Allerdale Hall. Yet, there’s this palpable sense of tragedy clinging to him, like he’s as much a prisoner of his family’s legacy as Edith is. Guillermo del Toro does this brilliant thing where he makes you oscillate between sympathy and horror, and that’s what makes Thomas so compelling. What really blurs the line is his relationship with Lucille. Their dynamic is so twisted, yet you can see how trapped he is by it. There’s a part of him that genuinely seems to want to escape, to love Edith purely, but the weight of his past and Lucille’s influence drags him back into the abyss. It’s that push-and-pull that makes him more than just a villain—he’s a product of his environment, a man who’s done terrible things but isn’t entirely devoid of humanity. The way the film frames his actions, especially in contrast to Lucille’s sheer ruthlessness, makes you wonder if he’s more of a tragic figure than a true antagonist. And then there’s the way del Toro visually crafts Thomas. The decaying grandeur of Allerdale Hall mirrors his own moral rot, but there’s also this lingering sadness in his performance. You see flashes of genuine emotion, like when he’s painting or when he confesses fragments of the truth to Edith. It’s those moments that make him feel less like a monster and more like someone who’s been corroded by circumstance. So, is he the villain? Technically, yes—his actions are indefensible. But the film’s genius lies in making you feel the weight of that 'yes,' in making you mourn the person he could’ve been. It’s less about black-and-white morality and more about the shades of crimson, just like the title suggests.