A Cascade of Cardinals
May. 18th, 2011 08:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
selenakIf the trailer for the newest cinema version of The Three Musketeers is anything to go by, Hollywood is letting Richelieu plot the end of the world this time around. Which would be news not just to the historical Cardinal, but also to the Dumas variation. I mean, on one level I feel for Hollywood scriptwriters. They're used to certain ideas about what constitutes a villain, and I assume the reason for the extreme silliness of the 90s Musketeers version (that's the one with Tim Curry as Richelieu) as well as for this more recent plot is that the original script conference went thusly (err, spoilers for Dumas' novel):
Producer: So, that Cardinal fellow is the villain of the piece, right? How does he die?
Scriptwriter 1: Err, he doesn't. Well and alive at the end of the novel.
Producer: Eh. So he's deposed as, what's it, Prime Minister of France?
Scriptwriter 2: They didn't have the job title then, but that's what it amounted to. No, actually, he's not. As much in power as ever.
Producer: What? So, how does the audience know our heroes have won?
Scriptwriter 1: They execute a woman and D'Artagnan gets a promotion.
Producer: .... Okay, that won't do. So anyway, what's this Richelieu guy up to? Wants the throne, does he?
Scriptwriter 2: Nope. Even if he wasn't a priest, he's only of provincial nobility, bourgois on his mother's side, and there are about a gazillion princely families with a claim to the throne if if Louis XIII. croaks it. Not to mention Louis' brother who did plot to get the throne all the time. Also, everyone of the high nobility hated Richelieu's guts and the king was the guy keeping him in power, so he was really, really invested in keeping Louis around.
Scriptwriter 1: But he's totally plotting against the Queen in the novel! That's a dastardly scheme, right? He's trying to expose her affair with a foreign head of goverment.
Producer: Eh. Is he the main villain or a journalist hack? What else?
Scriptwriter 2: Getting that foreign head of goverment killed so the Brits won't interrupt the siege of La Rochelle. That, err, works out. Also La Rochelle surrenders.
Producer: Guys, this is getting worse and worse. How are we going to sell assassinations of foreign politicians as villainous when everyone does it, including us? What else?
Scriptwriter 1: Err, that's it. Wait! He's anti duelling!
Producer: The spoilsport. Just out of curiosity, why?
Scriptwriter 2: Dumas doesn't say, but I read a biography and it seems his father and older brother died in duels. He thought they were an exceedingly stupid and dangerous past time the French nobility was really better off without.
Producer: .... Right. There's only one thing for it. Throw the book away and invent a completely new character. A proper villain who wants the throne and/or the end of the world. Otherwise everyone will accuse us of realism!
Now, nobody has ever accused the great Alexandre Dumas of being very faithfull to history and/or being realistic. But he did write fun novels, with more of a sense of humour than your avarage action movie allows (which is why the Richard Lester versions are my favourites), and he also happened to like his antagonist very much. I'll leave you with two passages from the novel.
First the one where the captain of the Musketeers, Treville, is summoned before the king early on in the novel and has to explain the most recent skirmish:
M. de Treville entered the king's cabinet boldly, and found his Majesty in a very ill humor, seated on an armchair, beating his boot with the handle of his whip. This, however, did not prevent his asking, with the greatest coolness, after his Majesty's health.
"Bad, monsieur, bad!" replied the king; "I am bored."
This was, in fact, the worst complaint of Louis XIII, who would sometimes take one of his courtiers to a window and say, "Monsieur So-and-so, let us weary ourselves together."
"How! Your Majesty is bored? Have you not enjoyed the pleasures of the chase today?"
"A fine pleasure, indeed, monsieur! Upon my soul, everything degenerates; and I don't know whether it is the game which leaves no scent, or the dogs that have no noses. We started a stag of ten branches. We chased him for six hours, and when he was near being taken—when St.-Simon was already putting his horn to his mouth to sound the mort—crack, all the pack takes the wrong scent and sets off after a two-year-older. I shall be obliged to give up hunting, as I have given up hawking. Ah, I am an unfortunate king, Monsieur de Treville! I had but one gerfalcon, and he died day before yesterday."
"Indeed, sire, I wholly comprehend your disappointment. The misfortune is great; but I think you have still a good number of falcons, sparrow hawks, and tiercets."
"And not a man to instruct them. Falconers are declining. I know no one but myself who is acquainted with the noble art of venery. After me it will all be over, and people will hunt with gins, snares, and traps. If I had but the time to train pupils! But there is the cardinal always at hand, who does not leave me a moment's repose; who talks to me about Spain, who talks to me about Austria, who talks to me about England! Ah! A PROPOS of the cardinal, Monsieur de Treville, I am vexed with you!"
This was the chance at which M. de Treville waited for the king. He knew the king of old, and he knew that all these complaints were but a preface—a sort of excitation to encourage himself—and that he had now come to his point at last.
"And in what have I been so unfortunate as to displease your Majesty?" asked M. de Treville, feigning the most profound astonishment.
"Is it thus you perform your charge, monsieur?" continued the king, without directly replying to de Treville's question. "Is it for this I name you captain of my Musketeers, that they should assassinate a man, disturb a whole quarter, and endeavor to set fire to Paris, without your saying a word? But yet," continued the king, "undoubtedly my haste accuses you wrongfully; without doubt the rioters are in prison, and you come to tell me justice is done."
"Sire," replied M. de Treville, calmly, "on the contrary, I come to demand it of you."
"And against whom?" cried the king.
"Against calumniators," said M. de Treville.
"Ah! This is something new," replied the king. "Will you tell me that your three damned Musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and your youngster from Bearn, have not fallen, like so many furies, upon poor Bernajoux, and have not maltreated him in such a fashion that probably by this time he is dead? Will you tell me that they did not lay siege to the hotel of the Duc de la Tremouille, and that they did not endeavor to burn it?—which would not, perhaps, have been a great misfortune in time of war, seeing that it is nothing but a nest of Huguenots, but which is, in time of peace, a frightful example. Tell me, now, can you deny all this?"
"And who told you this fine story, sire?" asked Treville, quietly.
"Who has told me this fine story, monsieur? Who should it be but he who watches while I sleep, who labors while I amuse myself, who conducts everything at home and abroad—in France as in Europe?"
"Your Majesty probably refers to God," said M. de Treville; "for I know no one except God who can be so far above your Majesty."
"No, monsieur; I speak of the prop of the state, of my only servant, of my only friend—of the cardinal."
"His Eminence is not his holiness, sire."
"What do you mean by that, monsieur?"
"That it is only the Pope who is infallible, and that this infallibility does not extend to cardinals."
The "God/Cardinal" gag is one that Lester's script took over directly. Given that Dumas is having fun here at the King's expense, you'd think he'd be even more sarcastic once he lets Richelieu enter the scene, but no. Behold Alexandre D. going fanboy:
Standing before the chimney was a man of middle height, of a haughty, proud mien; with piercing eyes, a large brow, and a thin face, which was made still longer by a ROYAL (or IMPERIAL, as it is now called), surmounted by a pair of mustaches. Although this man was scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age, hair, mustaches, and royal, all began to be gray. This man, except a sword, had all the appearance of a soldier; and his buff boots still slightly covered with dust, indicated that he had been on horseback in the course of the day.
This man was Armand Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu; not such as he is now represented—broken down like an old man, suffering like a martyr, his body bent, his voice failing, buried in a large armchair as in an anticipated tomb; no longer living but by the strength of his genius, and no longer maintaining the struggle with Europe but by the eternal application of his thoughts—but such as he really was at this period; that is to say, an active and gallant cavalier, already weak of body, but sustained by that moral power which made of him one of the most extraordinary men that ever lived, preparing, after having supported the Duc de Nevers in his duchy of Mantua, after having taken Nimes, Castres, and Uzes, to drive the English from the Isle of Re and lay siege to La Rochelle.
Active and gallant cavalier? Moral power? One of the most extraordinary men who ever lived? Alexandre, don't you know you're supposed to write an evil vizier? No wonder Hollywood is frustrated.
Producer: So, that Cardinal fellow is the villain of the piece, right? How does he die?
Scriptwriter 1: Err, he doesn't. Well and alive at the end of the novel.
Producer: Eh. So he's deposed as, what's it, Prime Minister of France?
Scriptwriter 2: They didn't have the job title then, but that's what it amounted to. No, actually, he's not. As much in power as ever.
Producer: What? So, how does the audience know our heroes have won?
Scriptwriter 1: They execute a woman and D'Artagnan gets a promotion.
Producer: .... Okay, that won't do. So anyway, what's this Richelieu guy up to? Wants the throne, does he?
Scriptwriter 2: Nope. Even if he wasn't a priest, he's only of provincial nobility, bourgois on his mother's side, and there are about a gazillion princely families with a claim to the throne if if Louis XIII. croaks it. Not to mention Louis' brother who did plot to get the throne all the time. Also, everyone of the high nobility hated Richelieu's guts and the king was the guy keeping him in power, so he was really, really invested in keeping Louis around.
Scriptwriter 1: But he's totally plotting against the Queen in the novel! That's a dastardly scheme, right? He's trying to expose her affair with a foreign head of goverment.
Producer: Eh. Is he the main villain or a journalist hack? What else?
Scriptwriter 2: Getting that foreign head of goverment killed so the Brits won't interrupt the siege of La Rochelle. That, err, works out. Also La Rochelle surrenders.
Producer: Guys, this is getting worse and worse. How are we going to sell assassinations of foreign politicians as villainous when everyone does it, including us? What else?
Scriptwriter 1: Err, that's it. Wait! He's anti duelling!
Producer: The spoilsport. Just out of curiosity, why?
Scriptwriter 2: Dumas doesn't say, but I read a biography and it seems his father and older brother died in duels. He thought they were an exceedingly stupid and dangerous past time the French nobility was really better off without.
Producer: .... Right. There's only one thing for it. Throw the book away and invent a completely new character. A proper villain who wants the throne and/or the end of the world. Otherwise everyone will accuse us of realism!
Now, nobody has ever accused the great Alexandre Dumas of being very faithfull to history and/or being realistic. But he did write fun novels, with more of a sense of humour than your avarage action movie allows (which is why the Richard Lester versions are my favourites), and he also happened to like his antagonist very much. I'll leave you with two passages from the novel.
First the one where the captain of the Musketeers, Treville, is summoned before the king early on in the novel and has to explain the most recent skirmish:
M. de Treville entered the king's cabinet boldly, and found his Majesty in a very ill humor, seated on an armchair, beating his boot with the handle of his whip. This, however, did not prevent his asking, with the greatest coolness, after his Majesty's health.
"Bad, monsieur, bad!" replied the king; "I am bored."
This was, in fact, the worst complaint of Louis XIII, who would sometimes take one of his courtiers to a window and say, "Monsieur So-and-so, let us weary ourselves together."
"How! Your Majesty is bored? Have you not enjoyed the pleasures of the chase today?"
"A fine pleasure, indeed, monsieur! Upon my soul, everything degenerates; and I don't know whether it is the game which leaves no scent, or the dogs that have no noses. We started a stag of ten branches. We chased him for six hours, and when he was near being taken—when St.-Simon was already putting his horn to his mouth to sound the mort—crack, all the pack takes the wrong scent and sets off after a two-year-older. I shall be obliged to give up hunting, as I have given up hawking. Ah, I am an unfortunate king, Monsieur de Treville! I had but one gerfalcon, and he died day before yesterday."
"Indeed, sire, I wholly comprehend your disappointment. The misfortune is great; but I think you have still a good number of falcons, sparrow hawks, and tiercets."
"And not a man to instruct them. Falconers are declining. I know no one but myself who is acquainted with the noble art of venery. After me it will all be over, and people will hunt with gins, snares, and traps. If I had but the time to train pupils! But there is the cardinal always at hand, who does not leave me a moment's repose; who talks to me about Spain, who talks to me about Austria, who talks to me about England! Ah! A PROPOS of the cardinal, Monsieur de Treville, I am vexed with you!"
This was the chance at which M. de Treville waited for the king. He knew the king of old, and he knew that all these complaints were but a preface—a sort of excitation to encourage himself—and that he had now come to his point at last.
"And in what have I been so unfortunate as to displease your Majesty?" asked M. de Treville, feigning the most profound astonishment.
"Is it thus you perform your charge, monsieur?" continued the king, without directly replying to de Treville's question. "Is it for this I name you captain of my Musketeers, that they should assassinate a man, disturb a whole quarter, and endeavor to set fire to Paris, without your saying a word? But yet," continued the king, "undoubtedly my haste accuses you wrongfully; without doubt the rioters are in prison, and you come to tell me justice is done."
"Sire," replied M. de Treville, calmly, "on the contrary, I come to demand it of you."
"And against whom?" cried the king.
"Against calumniators," said M. de Treville.
"Ah! This is something new," replied the king. "Will you tell me that your three damned Musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and your youngster from Bearn, have not fallen, like so many furies, upon poor Bernajoux, and have not maltreated him in such a fashion that probably by this time he is dead? Will you tell me that they did not lay siege to the hotel of the Duc de la Tremouille, and that they did not endeavor to burn it?—which would not, perhaps, have been a great misfortune in time of war, seeing that it is nothing but a nest of Huguenots, but which is, in time of peace, a frightful example. Tell me, now, can you deny all this?"
"And who told you this fine story, sire?" asked Treville, quietly.
"Who has told me this fine story, monsieur? Who should it be but he who watches while I sleep, who labors while I amuse myself, who conducts everything at home and abroad—in France as in Europe?"
"Your Majesty probably refers to God," said M. de Treville; "for I know no one except God who can be so far above your Majesty."
"No, monsieur; I speak of the prop of the state, of my only servant, of my only friend—of the cardinal."
"His Eminence is not his holiness, sire."
"What do you mean by that, monsieur?"
"That it is only the Pope who is infallible, and that this infallibility does not extend to cardinals."
The "God/Cardinal" gag is one that Lester's script took over directly. Given that Dumas is having fun here at the King's expense, you'd think he'd be even more sarcastic once he lets Richelieu enter the scene, but no. Behold Alexandre D. going fanboy:
Standing before the chimney was a man of middle height, of a haughty, proud mien; with piercing eyes, a large brow, and a thin face, which was made still longer by a ROYAL (or IMPERIAL, as it is now called), surmounted by a pair of mustaches. Although this man was scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age, hair, mustaches, and royal, all began to be gray. This man, except a sword, had all the appearance of a soldier; and his buff boots still slightly covered with dust, indicated that he had been on horseback in the course of the day.
This man was Armand Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu; not such as he is now represented—broken down like an old man, suffering like a martyr, his body bent, his voice failing, buried in a large armchair as in an anticipated tomb; no longer living but by the strength of his genius, and no longer maintaining the struggle with Europe but by the eternal application of his thoughts—but such as he really was at this period; that is to say, an active and gallant cavalier, already weak of body, but sustained by that moral power which made of him one of the most extraordinary men that ever lived, preparing, after having supported the Duc de Nevers in his duchy of Mantua, after having taken Nimes, Castres, and Uzes, to drive the English from the Isle of Re and lay siege to La Rochelle.
Active and gallant cavalier? Moral power? One of the most extraordinary men who ever lived? Alexandre, don't you know you're supposed to write an evil vizier? No wonder Hollywood is frustrated.
no subject
Date: 2011-05-18 07:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-18 09:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-09 04:53 am (UTC)*chokes*
LOLOLOLOL! I may not know any history, but clearly Hollywood knows even less...
no subject
Date: 2020-09-09 08:51 am (UTC)