My dear … you know I like PBJ, not cold cut sandwiches!
Assuming you can get a good print of it, The Scarlet Pimpernel (1934) is an interesting exploration of the subject of relative morality. It’s the time of the French Revolution, and French aristocrats are making their last trip to Madame Guillotine! But on the British side of the channel, a brave nobleman using an eponymous nom de guerre disapproves, for those of the nobility are often innocent – in his view.
But his brazen rescues and peerless costumes are viewed dimly by the morality-free men who have taken control of the French Revolution, which, historically, first chewed up its nobility, and then continued on to masticate the erstwhile leaders of said social upset. But enough of the history lesson! Our hero plays dual roles, the brave rescuer and the useless fop, a self-proclaimed fashion expert burdened with a beautiful French wife.
A French wife rumored to have denounced a French aristocratic family to the authorities, and leading to their deaths. Her name? Marguerite.
But a series of clues leads the French ambassador to suspect the fop, and he leans on Marguerite, using her as a lever to lure the Pimpernel into a rescue mission for Marguerite’s brother, cruelly taken, and as Marguerite scrambles to persuade the Pimpernel to go, she reveals that the family that she accidentally sent to their deaths through an incautious word, had they themselves consigned her to a prison for women of ill-repute, when their son had innocently fallen in love with her and proposed.
To the Pimpernel, they had shown a fair face, but to Marguerite they had shown something more foul.
But the leaders of the Revolution have scarcely better paint on their faces. The Pimpernel soon finds himself in a bind, but displays his coolness under pressure, and even if he’s going to his death, he’d prefer that he be … fashionable.
The problems of class bigotry are treated a little too lightly, even if they are acknowledged, but the Pimpernel himself is quite the delight. The adventure is a romp, although it lacks delightful sword play, but the reality in which it is set is grim, and it doesn’t hesitate to acknowledge those bloody realities.
Who deserves what? Did they get what’s coming to them? That’s the morass into which the incautious audience member will descend if they peek under the gaily decorated covers.
Recommended.
