Before grubbing out an existence in the mosquito-infested
swamps of the Dombes, Le Marquis Grégoire Ponceludon
de Malavoy (Charles Berling) was raised in the palace of
Versailles.
Tired of seeing his people dying of malaria he ambitiously
plans to drain the marshes. His only problem is that he
lacks the funds. The king can perform miracles the peasants
believe, but Grégoire's scientific mind is more sceptical.
To him, any man can perform wonders, but in this age of
reason who is he to dash their hopes? Armed with his blueprints
and some dubious claims to nobility he heads straight for
the unwelcoming treasury, fails to secure a loan and gets
robbed.
Then serendipitously, or perhaps ill-fated, Grégoire
is rescued by a bumbling good samaritan - Le Marquis de
Bellegarde. After a prompt misdiagnosis, this charming and
aging doctor nearly bleeds him dry and during this process,
becomes a valuable friend.
Taken directly from a script penned by Remi Waterhouse
and never claiming to be a historical drama, Ridicule
is a far more ambitious project. From the outset, the film
struts onto the screen like a vicious peacock, dazzling
me with its brilliance and shocking audacity. As the cruelly
nicknamed Marquis de Clatterbang pays his last disrespects
to an aged man, I was pricked by a conscience that questioned
me as to why an elder revered for his intelligence should
be treated so harshly in his dying moments. As the story
unfolded, this time with a new victim, the riddle of this
clever tale was slowly revealed.
There are heroes of sorts in this carnival of harlequins.
Le Marquis de Bellegarde (Jean Rochefort), like an over-aged
schoolboy, delights in his joke book. I sensed that he truly
understands the wickedness of the court and yet it quietly
amuses him until his family are sucked in. His daughter,
Mathilde, naïve and intelligent, might just squander
her virginity in order to secure her studies as she desperately
explores a weed-strangled lake in her leaky diving suit.
The arrogant Abbé de Vilecourt (Bernard Giraudeau)
greases his way into Marie Antoinette's favour like a well-oiled
eel as he teases his rivals with nasty pranks. Meanwhile,
his ruthlessly acquisitive lover - the recently widowed
Comtesse de Blayac (Fanny Ardent) grooms his talent as she
uses the slippery priest to keep her affections warm. But
amongst them walks Grégoire, a genius with a spontaneous
wit that can only be undermined by three things: his provincial
vulgarity, his Voltaire-like compassion, or a well-timed
frottage beneath a tablecloth. Will he be able to resist
the madame's advances?
And it is his wit on which the people of the Dombes depend
because in the court of Louis XVI the tongue is swifter
than a sword. The king likes a joke and only a bon-môt
earns a good word, the passport to the royal table. The
aristocrats rely on their wits to win their battles and
swoop like harriers upon weaker prey. With the treasury
nearly bankrupt only the most malicious will secure the
slim pickings. So, in this world of vicious repartee, a
killing-joke takes on a sinister meaning as Grégoire
discovers when a disgraced courtier takes his own life.
And there are many faux-pas to ensnare a dullard - the demarcation
between brilliance and crudeness is razor-thin: playing
on words is permissible whereas punning is forbidden; one
never laughs at one's own jokes; but above all, timing has
to be perfect. So, armed with their rapier-tongues the duellers
strike their wicked jibes, eager for their strokes to draw
favour. But some of them are cheating, and not only on their
lovers.
Ridicule's script is like a guillotine, a sophisticated
device with a well-honed edge and the actors are like its
oil enabling the lines to be effortlessly delivered with
slick precision, time and time again. However, it always
serves its greater purpose, like the music in Amadeus
it is a servant to the plot and never usurps it. The lighting
effects also add to the drama. As if stepping from Flemish
paintings dark interiors are illuminated by shafts of piercing
gold contrasting by the naked footprints of Mme de Blayac's
powdered floor. Whilst in-doors may seem claustrophobic,
the verdant expanse of the palatial gardens gives room for
the characters to breathe. In their flamboyant garb they
strut like tight-lipped peacocks eager to crow yet fearful
of being heard. It is truly a beautiful film. Inspired by
Joshua Reynolds, the imaginative costumes designed by Christian
Gasc paint the characters with a series of delicate glazes:
scene by scene Mme de Blayac slowly transforms from a black
widow into a scarlet woman until even her dark lace lightens
up; Vilecourt forever clad in well-fitting priestly garb,
is adorned with superfluous pom-poms - an overt emblem of
his unnecessary vanity; and, Bellegarde, in his washed-out
mauve, looks like an older, more weathered version of Grégoire.
But of particular note is the fancy-dress ball with its
outrageous wigs fashioned from Brillo pads and leather-beaked
masks. It's as if grotesque turkeys have roosted menacingly
on the dancers' heads, eager to peck out the eyes of a passing
enemy. Gasc deservedly scooped one of the four Césars
won by this film.
Ridicule is a like compendium of games in that each
time I watch it I find new things to entertain me. Whilst
anyone with a penchant for 18th century France will have
to forgive the artistic license (feel free to moan about
the out-of-date fireplaces), they will enjoy it again and
again because the filmmakers didn't want this incredible
drama getting bogged down with trivial matters. It is witty,
mature, beautiful, and cleverly constructed; a work of true
sophistication, yet it retains a tension that the cruel
jokes are getting out of hand. Suddenly, the Revolution
seems like an act of kindness, sparing the aristocrats of
the anguish of fading notoriety. Perhaps losing face can
be worse than losing one's head.
Unfortunately for such a good film as this, the DVD is
depressinglylight on extra features with only a documentary
about the making of the film (also subtitled). It pays particular
homage to the wardrobe designer and composer as well as
interviews with cast and directors. Whilst informative,
it's standard fare.
Awards
César Award for Best Film
César Award for Best Director Patrice Leconte
César Award for Best Costume Design Christian
Gasc
César Award for Best Art Direction Ivan Maussion
BAFTA Award for Best Film not in the English Language
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Directed by Patrice Leconte
Produced by Frédéric Brillion
Philippe Carcassonne
Gilles Legrand
Written by Rémi Waterhouse
Michel Fessler
Eric Vicaut
Starring Charles Berling
Jean Rochefort
Fanny Ardant
Judith Godreche
Music by Antoine Duhamel
Cinematography Thierry Arbogast
Distributed by Miramax Films
Release date(s) May 9, 1996
Running time 102 minutes
Country France
Language French
Budget ~ 50,000,000 FRF
Gross revenue $2,503,829
Charles Berling Le Marquis Grégoire Ponceludon
de Malavoy
Jean Rochefort Le Marquis de Bellegarde
Fanny Ardant Madame de Blayac
Judith Godrèche Mathilde de Bellegarde
Bernard Giraudeau L'abbé de Vilecourt
Bernard Dhéran Monsieur de Montaliéri
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