Sink me, a dammed good movie about the Reign of Terror and the dangerous efforts of an Englishman known as the Scarlet Pimpernel, aka Sir Percy Blakeney, aka Leslie Howard, and his small band of colleagues to rescue at least a few aristocrats from the French guillotine.
The film has three themes going on at the same time: (1) Howard's constant trips to France to smuggle out the aristos; (2) the measures taken by the French ambassador to England (Raymond Massey, the one with the ineradicable sneer) to discover the hidden identity of the Pimpernel; and (3) the fact that Howard's wife is being blackmailed to pass that secret identity over to the French so they can capture him and lop off his head.
It's an unpleasant situation altogether. The French aristocrats and their neglectful king were bad enough -- though we hear only one guilty reference to some "mistakes" they made. But the Reign of Terror -- covered also in Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities" -- was worse, if possible. They lopped off the heads of everyone associated with the French nobility, including men, their families, their children, some of the servants, any rebellious anti-rebels, and -- well, just about anybody they wanted. One proud revolutionary, Condorcet, had to write a tract in support of the movement while hiding out himself from his fellow citizens under suspicion of harboring anti-revolutionary thoughts.
At the head of the French citizens was the dictator manqué Robespierre. I think his head wound up under the guillotine as well. So may that of M. Guillotine, the proponent of the device. Actually, Guillotine's neck remained intact but he must have worried about it when he was imprisoned. And what did the French revolution wind up with? Napoleon. Sometimes revolutions, or any social movements, can go too far. Read my forthcoming study of the subject: "Why All Revolutions Should Take Place Inside the Head."
The direction and photography are grand. Huge ballrooms crowded with fine ladies and gentlemen listening to Mozart. The score is by Arthur Benjamin, who also wrote "The Storm Cloud Sonata" for Alfred Hitchcock's "The Man Who Knew Too Much." A scene in which Leslie Howard, posing as a fop, appears to be sprawled asleep on a library chair while Raymond Massey (always dressed in dark garb as befits a villain) paces around waiting for the Pimpernel to stumble in. A scene in which Massey finally captures Howard in France and orders the firing squad to execute him, only to find out the squad belongs to Howard.
And here you can tell the novel was written by a woman. The firing squad don't kill Massey either. Under Howard's orders they just dump him into a wet hole in the floor and cover it with a heavy barrel while they escape. If the writer had been a man, he would have concocted a magnificent duel using swords and furniture, with the two men exchanging insults, and Massey fighting dirty. A final dramatic shot of Howard and his lovely wife, Merle Oberon, as they reach England and the key light fades from their smiling faces and they become silhouettes against a romantically fuzzy, yet still slightly ominous, backlight.
There's more intrigue than action in the story, and it doesn't carry with it Dickens' genuine concern for realism, but it pumps up the tension and we are always rooting for the hero who must play the humiliating part of the fool in the interests of justice. How the Scarlet Pimpernel must have wanted to tear off that lace and fling away that monocle-on-a-stick and declare himself for what he was. We may call this "the Clark Kent Problem." Speaking of Howard's being an English Baron and pretending to be a clothes-conscious fop -- one step removed from fairyhood -- I can't bring myself to believe that the writers of "The Mark of Zorro" weren't familiar with this tale.
The film has three themes going on at the same time: (1) Howard's constant trips to France to smuggle out the aristos; (2) the measures taken by the French ambassador to England (Raymond Massey, the one with the ineradicable sneer) to discover the hidden identity of the Pimpernel; and (3) the fact that Howard's wife is being blackmailed to pass that secret identity over to the French so they can capture him and lop off his head.
It's an unpleasant situation altogether. The French aristocrats and their neglectful king were bad enough -- though we hear only one guilty reference to some "mistakes" they made. But the Reign of Terror -- covered also in Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities" -- was worse, if possible. They lopped off the heads of everyone associated with the French nobility, including men, their families, their children, some of the servants, any rebellious anti-rebels, and -- well, just about anybody they wanted. One proud revolutionary, Condorcet, had to write a tract in support of the movement while hiding out himself from his fellow citizens under suspicion of harboring anti-revolutionary thoughts.
At the head of the French citizens was the dictator manqué Robespierre. I think his head wound up under the guillotine as well. So may that of M. Guillotine, the proponent of the device. Actually, Guillotine's neck remained intact but he must have worried about it when he was imprisoned. And what did the French revolution wind up with? Napoleon. Sometimes revolutions, or any social movements, can go too far. Read my forthcoming study of the subject: "Why All Revolutions Should Take Place Inside the Head."
The direction and photography are grand. Huge ballrooms crowded with fine ladies and gentlemen listening to Mozart. The score is by Arthur Benjamin, who also wrote "The Storm Cloud Sonata" for Alfred Hitchcock's "The Man Who Knew Too Much." A scene in which Leslie Howard, posing as a fop, appears to be sprawled asleep on a library chair while Raymond Massey (always dressed in dark garb as befits a villain) paces around waiting for the Pimpernel to stumble in. A scene in which Massey finally captures Howard in France and orders the firing squad to execute him, only to find out the squad belongs to Howard.
And here you can tell the novel was written by a woman. The firing squad don't kill Massey either. Under Howard's orders they just dump him into a wet hole in the floor and cover it with a heavy barrel while they escape. If the writer had been a man, he would have concocted a magnificent duel using swords and furniture, with the two men exchanging insults, and Massey fighting dirty. A final dramatic shot of Howard and his lovely wife, Merle Oberon, as they reach England and the key light fades from their smiling faces and they become silhouettes against a romantically fuzzy, yet still slightly ominous, backlight.
There's more intrigue than action in the story, and it doesn't carry with it Dickens' genuine concern for realism, but it pumps up the tension and we are always rooting for the hero who must play the humiliating part of the fool in the interests of justice. How the Scarlet Pimpernel must have wanted to tear off that lace and fling away that monocle-on-a-stick and declare himself for what he was. We may call this "the Clark Kent Problem." Speaking of Howard's being an English Baron and pretending to be a clothes-conscious fop -- one step removed from fairyhood -- I can't bring myself to believe that the writers of "The Mark of Zorro" weren't familiar with this tale.