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The Count of Monte Cristo

by Hope Madden

Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo has been made into 23 different films, plus a dozen or so mini-series. It’s popular, and with good reason. The 19th Century tale of vengeance, political intrigue, fated romance buckles more swash than you might imagine.

The epic Dumas tale hits big screens again with Alexandre de La Patellière and Matthiew Delaporte’s opulent adaptation.

At a full three hours, the duo’s film does justice to more crisscrossing details than most previous efforts, but their instinct for epic filmmaking ensures engrossed viewing. From the moments of intimacy that nurture vengeance of this scale to the brutal beauty of the adventure-scape to the lavish excesses of the wealthy, every image packs a purposeful wallop. Celia Lafitedupont’s editing emphasizes glamour without distracting from intrigue. The film’s pace allows for scenes to breathe but never drag.

At the center of the treachery and bloody righteousness is Pierre Niney (Franz), whose evolution from humble innocence to hardened vengeance never fails to convince. But who is the Count without his foes? De La Patelliére and Delaporte surround Niney with collaborators able to find something authentic in their characters while supplying just enough moustache twirling to do the job right. Laurent Lafitte and Patrick Mille are a particular delight as the dastardly Villefort and Danglars.

All of which must be balanced by innocence corrupted, and again, the ensemble soars. Julien De Saint Jean introduces uncommonly human layers to the Count’s godson, the “Prince”, and Vassili Schneider (The Vourdalak) as young Albert, innocent pawn in a grand scheme, injects his scenes with touching tenderness.

And of course, the love story—how could you accept all the Count is willing to put into place if you can’t get behind the love he has lost? Anaïs Demoustier’s (Smoking Causes Coughing) Mercedes is no fool, no innocent waif nor tragic beauty. Demoustier offers something genuine that allows the entire saga a note of authenticity.

The result is a rousing, gorgeously cinematic adventure and a reminder of what a movie can be.

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The Vourdalak

by Hope Madden

There is nothing in this world that cannot be undone by obedience and patriarchy.

Also, I just watched the maddest film about vampires—Adrien Beau’s The Vourdalak, based on Tolstoy’s 19th century tale that inspired Mario Bava’s Black Sabbath. In Beau’s hands, a darkly comic sensibility wraps around themes of oppression—classism, sexism, homophobia—to charge the old vampire lore with something wizened and weary about who becomes victims and why.

Fancy pants Marquis Jacques Antoine Saturnin d’Urfé (Kacey Mottet Klein, the picture of entitled cowardice in his powdered wig and pointy shoes)—a nobleman from the court of the King of France—finds himself lost in a formidable wood somewhere out Serbia way. His host has been murdered by marauding Turks. His only hope is that the primitive family in this rustic little farmhouse can offer him aid.

But the Marquis has arrived at quite a moment. The patriarch is gone to fight the Turks. He said he would return within six days, but if he returned any later than that, the family was not to let him in the house because he would no longer be their father. The Marquis has arrived on Day 6.

Klein’s comic delivery meets deadpan reaction from Ariane Labed (The Lobster, Flux Gourmet) playing the host’s lovely if melancholic daughter, Sdenka. The performances create a fascinating pairing, Klein instinctively enriching his character arc with their onscreen chemistry.

Vassili Schneider injects the film with aching tenderness that gives the horror a powerful sadness, even though there’s no denying The Vourdalak’s comedic sensibility.

Beau’s film delivers stagy fun that’s utterly hypnotic, using dance, melodrama, even  puppets as well as more traditional genre imagery to spin a bizarre and captivating horror.