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Any genre that exhibits men doing things--such as fencing, martial arts or gun slinging--is a welcome antidote to the countless scenes of men fleeing from things such as explosions, natural disasters or dinosaurs. One is easily bored by the obstreperous noise of typical cinematic detonation, but it would be hard to tire of a sound that needs little FX to boost its power: the metallic cling of a sword being pulled from its sheath. Therefore it is with a heavy heart that I tell you that the movie aiming to jump-start this exciting genre is the miserably deficient The Man in the Iron Mask. This hope for the swashbuckler--starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Jeremy Irons, John Malkovich, Gerard Depardieu and Gabriel Byrne, and directed by Randall Wallace, who wrote Braveheart--is a far cry from the Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Louis Hayward and even Richard Chamberlain versions of Alexandre Dumas' classic novel that came before. DiCaprio plays the petulant King Louis XIV of France, who succeeded to the throne in 1643. An evil and pompous ruler, Louis is cruel enough to imprison his twin brother Phillipe (whom only a select few know about) in the dungeons of the Bastille. He is challenged when an aged but still heroic trio again join forces for the good of France. They are the Musketeers. Having shed their careers of dangerous valor, the Musketeers are now leading quieter, less tumultuous lives: Athos (Malkovich) is a father raising his beloved son; Porthos (Depardieu) is a boozy whore-chaser who longs for the old days; Aramis (Irons) fulfills his lifelong dream of becoming a priest; and the mysterious D'Artagnan (Byrne) remains dedicated to the King, whom he obviously loathes. He is not alone. All of France despises King Louis, the Jesuits in particular. When they rebel, Louis entrusts Aramis with the task of killing the Jesuits' leader. Little does he know that it is Aramis himself who leads this revolutionary group--and that the Musketeer has developed a plan to redirect France. Calling together his former colleagues Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan, Aramis devises an ingenious plot to oust the intolerable Louis and replace him with one more honorable: Louis' twin brother, Phillipe. Phillipe has been living in a cell for six years with his head locked in an iron mask. Aramis hopes the king's brother can stir up a stealthy revolution that will be virtually unnoticeable to most of France. Though D'Artagnan vehemently declines involvement, both Athos (whose son was killed by Louis) and Porthos (who wants to feel young again) willingly agree. So begins the adventure of the three musketeers freeing poor, pitiful Phillipe, and facing off against D'Artagnan. The Man in theIron Mask is a messy, poorly acted spectacle. Wallace shows little flair for directing, and though there are some fun, stimulating and poignant scenes, they are not woven together into a cohesive whole. Neither the novel's theme of the fear of shedding what simultaneously shields and torments you (the mask) nor his thrilling sequences of action (the musketeers) are present. The able cast might have overcome such flaws, but it didn't. DiCaprio, looking like a 17th-century Axl Rose, makes an ineffectual King Louis and a mildly sympathetic Phillipe. As the king, he lacks the deviousness and depth necessary to make viewers truly hate him. He preens and flips his hair enough to express that, yes, this king is vain, but he does so lazily, as if there is nothing more subtly unlikable about him. And with his monotonous vocal cadence, DiCaprio cannot spout the "ye olde" language properly; he sounds more like a promising high-school thespian on his first stab at Shakespeare than the actor who supposedly tackled the Bard in Romeo and Juliet. Whatever happened to elocution lessons? Depardieu and Malkovich are simply god-awful. Depardieu, who is at least French, is forced to provide horrible comic relief via bathroom humor, and he's never been so annoying. Malkovich is worse. His trademark effeminate mannerisms and incessant need to SLOWLY ENUNCIATE EVERY WORD makes him more swishing than swashing. With one hand akimbo and the other wagging in some Frenchman's face, he looks and acts like Christopher Guest's Corky St. Clair in Waiting for Guffman, which would have been genius had this been a Mel Brooks picture. What does make the film palatable are the performances of Irons and Byrne. Though both actors must contend with stupid dialogue, they manage to spellbind by sheer countenance. In avoiding his typecast (and well typecast at that) sleaze, Irons makes a multifaceted Pietist--proving that yes, he does have a range beyond that of the pervert. Byrne, always a somewhat interesting presence, is the most mesmerizing aspect of this picture. His voice, eyes and body language are soulful, manly and downright beautiful. From catching a tomato with his sword to gazing amorously at Queen Anne, Byrne is not only a splendid, graceful actor, but also the exciting matinee idol one expects when walking into a swashbuckling picture. Alas, The Man in the Iron Mask is not really a swashbuckler: Leonardo DiCaprio is no Errol Flynn. The hope for the genre's redemption, then, is the underrated Antonio Banderas. Can Hollywood please speed up the release of Zorro? Please? |
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