Cast: Guy Pearce, JB Blanc, James Caviezel, Henry Cavill, Dagmara Dominczyk, James Frain, Luis Guzmán, Richard Harris, Michael Wincott
Director: Kevin Reynolds
Producers: Gary Barber, Roger Birnbaum, Jonathan Glickman
Screenplay: Jay Wolpert based on the novel by Alexandre Dumas
Cinematography: Andrew Dunn
Music: Ed Shearmur
U.S. Distributor: Touchstone Pictures
If one didn't know better, one would assume that this guy named "Alexandre Dumas" was some hack who wrote cheap adventure books Hollywood was making into movies. How else to explain the sub-par quality of recent adaptations of three Dumas endeavors: The Man In the Iron Mask, The Musketeer, and The Count of Monte Cristo? Of course, it's fair to say that these movies are not rigorous adaptations of the source material - in fact, much of what is interesting about the books has been swept away in the interests of developing motion pictures that will hold the attention of the average teenage boy. And that's about the level at which the latest version of The Count of Monte Cristo exists.
You'd think if the filmmakers were going to adapt this story again, they would do it right. Mais non. What we get is a cobbled-together rush-job that has less time for character development than it does for badly-edited sword fights. At least The Musketeer had a few visually interesting action scenes; The Count of Monte Cristo can't even boast that. The dialogue is peppered with horribly anachronistic idioms that make one wonder what screenwriter Jay Wolpert was thinking when he wrote the script. But the film's worst error comes in casting. With the lonely exception of Richard Harris, everyone is miscast. This is a case when the filmmakers couldn't have come up with worse choices if they had picked names out of a hat.
The movie takes place in early 19th century France. Edmund Dantes (James Caviezel) and Fernand Mondego (Guy Pearce) have landed on the island of Elba, where Napoleon has been exiled, to seek medical attention for their mortally ill captain. In return for the use of his personal physician, Napoleon extracts a promise from Edmund to carry a secret letter to France for him. Upon his return to Marseilles, Edmund receives a promotion and declares that, with his new position, he can now marry his beloved Mercedes (Dagmara Dominczyk). Fernand, jealous of Edmund's relationship with Mercedes and wanting her for himself, denounces his friend to the local magistrate, Villefort (James Frain), revealing that Edmund has carried treasonous correspondence from Napoleon to his agents. Edmund is whisked off to prison in the middle of the night. His family and friends are told that he has been executed. And, while Edmund wastes away in a dank dungeon, Fernand marries Mercedes.
But all is not lost for Edmund. In prison, he meets a feisty old priest, Faria (Richard Harris), who teaches him history, economics, reading, writing, and swordplay. All the while, the two gradually dig a tunnel that will lead them to safety. And Faria knows a secret - the location of a great treasure that, if Edmund can escape, will make him the wealthiest man alive and give him the financial wherewithal to achieve the revenge he craves against those who were involved in his betrayal.
For a tale of vengeance like The Count of Monte Cristo to work on a visceral level, only two things are necessary - empathy with the protagonist and a healthy hatred of the villain(s). In this movie, we have neither. Edmund is drawn so weakly, and portrayed with so little fire, that it's difficult to root for him to do anything. And the bad guys are more silly and comical than threatening. Consequently, the film's main aim turns into an exercise in futility. We spend more than two hours awaiting a payoff that we don't care about in the first place.
While the script must share some of the blame - it tries so hard to cram the events of the book into limited space that it loses sight of the characters - the lion's share belongs to the actors. James Caviezel, the young thespian who gained recognition with roles in films like The Thin Red Line and Frequency, plays Edmund in such a low-key manner that he too often fades into the background. There's no life or energy in Edmund - he's a whimpering bore. The exact opposite is true of Guy Pearce, who goes way over the top in trying to make Fernand a really nasty guy. Of course, he goes a little too far, resulting in a cartoon villain who often seems on the verge of having a seizure. I greatly admired Pearce's performance in the recent Memento; I will try to forget his work here as quickly as possible. The female lead, Dagmara Dominczyk, is as wooden as she is pretty. Luis Guzman, who plays Edmund's right-hand man, looks like he wandered into the wrong movie. Only Richard Harris seems at home as the grungy, grimy Faria.
For those who manage to endure the movie's too-long running time, there are some small pleasures. The scenes between Edmund and Faria are enjoyable, and things take a turn for the better once the Count of Monte Cristo makes his initial appearance. In fact, the movie improves immeasurably during those scenes when Guy Pearce is not chewing on the scenery. And it is beautiful scenery... director Kevin Reynolds (Waterworld) may not have a clear idea of how to handle his actors or tell a coherent story, but he has managed to craft a world that looks and feels like what we expect early-1800s France to look and feel like. The scene where the count arrives by balloon is impressive (although I kept thinking that having fireworks so close to a balloon is not a smart idea).
There is certainly no shortage of earlier versions of The Count of Monte Cristo to turn to for anyone who wants to see the novel dramatized. The best of these have been TV mini-series, where time constraints have not forced the massive condensations necessary to shoehorn the story into two hours. This latest version, made with the MTV generation in mind, is arguably the least impressive of the filmed Counts. But, sadly, its lack of quality earns it a place alongside those other two recent Dumas botch-jobs, The Man in the Iron Mask and The Musketeer.
© 2002 James Berardinelli