The three musketeers, Aramis (Jeremy Irons), Athos (John Malkovich), and Porthos (Gérard Depardieu), now well past their prime, plan to replace the cruel king (Leonardo DiCaprio) with his imprisoned, and unknown twin brother (also Leonardo DiCaprio), who is hidden behind an iron mask. Opposing them is their old friend, D’Artagnan (Gabriel Byrne) who is the leader of the king’s guard.
When I watch a Swashbuckler, I like to see some “swashing,” or at least a bit of “buckling,” but none is to be found in The Man in the Iron Mask, an expensively produced, star-filled, train wreck, with a very, very slow train.
A major part of any good Swashbuckler is speed. To quote myself: “These are fast films, in all ways. The plot whips along, the swordfights streak across the screen, and the dialog is rapid fire.” But none of that is true here. The story creeps, with no sign of adventure. Its exceedingly long 132 minutes passes with barely a sword raised or gun fired. Only in its final quarter do the musketeers start doing what all good musketeers should, but even then, there’s five minutes of meaningless, wit-free gabbing for each thirty seconds of swordplay.
Writer/director Randall Wallace got this gig due to his successful screenplay for Braveheart, so as a first time director, it’s no surprise that he has no skill with pacing. But it is surprising that he is so lacking with dialog. How can anyone take seriously “to love you is treason against France; but not to love you is treason against my heart”? Or even worse “I wear the mask. It does not wear me”? And we are supposed to take these seriously. This is a heavy-handed melodrama that wallows in its importance. Lacking in light moments and humor, Wallace must have thought he was transcribing the word of God. Hey, it’s a Swashbuckler; it is supposed to be fun.
The cast, depending on your feelings on DiCaprio, should be good. The talent is there, so I have to point again at Wallace, who doesn’t know how to use it. For a start, he lets everyone use his own accent. It is quite distracting to have Depardieu and Anne Parillaud (as the Queen Mother) speaking with French accents, Irons chiming in with British, Byrne in full Irish mode, and DiCaprio displaying his Californian roots. Shouldn’t they all speak with the same accent (whichever they’d like, I’m not picky)? Choose a country.
But the accents make sense as none of these people are playing characters in seventeenth century France; they are playing themselves. Malkovich is playing Malkovich. Byrne is Byrne. And DiCaprio is teen-heartthrob DiCaprio. Never for a moment do I see them as musketeers, or as a king. As such, I didn’t care what happens to any of them and am only annoyed that their eventual fate comes so slowly.
The sets and costumes are of a quality dreamed of by directors of far better films. But the look of a castle and the draping of a gown are insignificant if the script and directing is flawed. This should have been an exciting, edge-of-your-seat, adventure yarn. It is a tedious melodrama.