It's ironic that for an adaptation of the novel "The Count of Monte Cristo" by Alexandre Dumas that shortens the title to just "Monte Cristo" and that is silent that the film is actually verbose--filled as it is with too many loquacious title cards. Also seemingly contradictory is that the picture renders the spectacle of the novel, well, spectacularly when it's attempted, but the filmmakers also on several occasions falter in their visual transmutation of the text by telling instead of showing action. A title card informs us that Dantès is rescued by smugglers, for instance, and that he gains their confidence; we don't see it. This leads to the Count's staged rescue of Ferdinand, which also isn't visually depicted. Indeed, these bandits from the book don't appear until near the end with the capture of one of the targets of the Count's revenge. Adapted more so from stage versions than the original prose, too, the film features some peculiar deviations from what Dumas wrote, but, overall, it's rather faithful when compared to some other such films, including the 1934 "The Count of Monte Cristo."
We're fortunate, however, to be able to see "Monte Cristo" at all anymore. Fox releases during the silent era in particular have an atrocious survival record; 136 of their feature films exist in some form today, according to David Pierce (see "The Survival of American Silent Feature Films: 1912-1929"), while 683 of them are lost. Consequently, almost entire careers have largely vanished, like Fox's star vamp Theda Bara, or the acclaimed works of director Herbert Brenon, or most of the Westerns of cowboy Tom Mix. As with a good many Hollywood movies it seems, "Monte Cristo" only remains because of the preservation of a foreign cut at the Czech archive. "A single worn and choppy print," as the Flicker Alley DVD puts it. Moreover, that prints of Hollywood productions issued for foreign release tended to consist essentially of B-roll footage may explain some of the awkward moments in this adaptation, as may, perhaps, some missing parts from scenes in what appears to be a duplicated print. I don't know whether it helps explain an over-fondness in the picture for extreme long-view establishing shots, either, or if that was merely a choice to exhibit the production's admittedly opulent sets and lovely landscapes.
Maybe John Gilbert in the eponymous role wasn't as unremarkable in the domestic negative, although this was before he became a huge star at MGM--this film being re-issued in 1927 to capitalize after that fact--and his transformations of appearance as guileless sailor Edmond Dantès, as heavily-bearded prisoner of the Château d'If, under the disguise of priest Abbé Busoni, and as the avenging and fabulously rich Count of Monte Cristo are effective. I couldn't help but wonder while watching the film, however, what would've been made of the role by the "man of a thousand faces," Lon Chaney. Oh well. An impressive job is also done in making the Count's adversaries here look dastardly, especially Villefort, with his twirled mustache and a patch of hair on his labiomental groove. It doesn't take a lot of cinematic training for one look at this character to inform a spectator that he's the baddie. Early on, at least, he also has that desk toy that he manages to play with in a seemingly nefarious manner.
Yet, what they did to the story's female characters tends to be, let's say, unfortunate. Speaking of those verbose title cards, one of them goes taking from another play in Shakespeare's "Hamlet" for, "frailty they name is woman." Here, that refers to Mercedes marrying someone else after Edmond has been gone for a year or so and pronounced dead behind bars. Years later, she's still proclaimed "faithless." This considerably reduces any charm from the rewritten romantic ending, as does the newly-concocted romantic partnership for Haidee, the central figure of the book and the film's Orientalism, as well as the Count's slave (or "ward," as they say in the movie), which seems haphazardly thrown in for this adaptation.
Fidelity isn't a priority for me in adaptations, but it'd be nice if the alterations at least made logical sense within the reformatted narrative. Edmond's supposed to be innocent of the crime he's accused of, but unlike in the book he knows he's supporting the Bonapartist cause in delivering his captain's letter; in fact, he hand delivers it to Napoleon himself. It doesn't seem worth it to me to undermine the main predicament of the protagonist just so you can dress up a diminutive actor as the Emperor for a couple minutes of the two-hour movie. Later, one of the Count's nemeses is convicted by a "Chamber of Peers" on hearsay, and another demands proof in the courtroom, but seems to reside to the fact without being provided any. The latter might be due to missing footage, though, as I aforementioned suspect. Similarly, we don't see Dantès switch the bodies for the prison escape. But, then again, the filmmakers don't even seem to understand how duels work--the business of only one loaded gun, at least, is something I've never heard of, including from reading the book.
On the other hand, there remains a good deal of spectacle and even a duplicate and worn nitrate film looks pretty good when restored and presented well enough. We see Gilbert struggle free underwater (the other silent versions lack such submerged photography) and proclaim "the world is mine" against crashing waves. There's the requisite sword fight--this time with Villefort. The sets demonstrate the high production values. There's some nice lighting, including low-key and silhouettes, and tinting. Double-exposure visions are plentiful. Before the picture seems to overly rely on those establishing shots in the second part, the scene dissection is decent for the era, too. And even the adaptation is appreciable for how it retains some scenes that other versions don't, such as, say, the "ghost story" of the buried infant. Actually, there is some good use of flashbacks scattered about here, which makes the textual ellipses instead of visual depiction in other parts the more perplexing. The film is a mixed bag, but it's a happy ending that the film survives at all for us to see it today.
We're fortunate, however, to be able to see "Monte Cristo" at all anymore. Fox releases during the silent era in particular have an atrocious survival record; 136 of their feature films exist in some form today, according to David Pierce (see "The Survival of American Silent Feature Films: 1912-1929"), while 683 of them are lost. Consequently, almost entire careers have largely vanished, like Fox's star vamp Theda Bara, or the acclaimed works of director Herbert Brenon, or most of the Westerns of cowboy Tom Mix. As with a good many Hollywood movies it seems, "Monte Cristo" only remains because of the preservation of a foreign cut at the Czech archive. "A single worn and choppy print," as the Flicker Alley DVD puts it. Moreover, that prints of Hollywood productions issued for foreign release tended to consist essentially of B-roll footage may explain some of the awkward moments in this adaptation, as may, perhaps, some missing parts from scenes in what appears to be a duplicated print. I don't know whether it helps explain an over-fondness in the picture for extreme long-view establishing shots, either, or if that was merely a choice to exhibit the production's admittedly opulent sets and lovely landscapes.
Maybe John Gilbert in the eponymous role wasn't as unremarkable in the domestic negative, although this was before he became a huge star at MGM--this film being re-issued in 1927 to capitalize after that fact--and his transformations of appearance as guileless sailor Edmond Dantès, as heavily-bearded prisoner of the Château d'If, under the disguise of priest Abbé Busoni, and as the avenging and fabulously rich Count of Monte Cristo are effective. I couldn't help but wonder while watching the film, however, what would've been made of the role by the "man of a thousand faces," Lon Chaney. Oh well. An impressive job is also done in making the Count's adversaries here look dastardly, especially Villefort, with his twirled mustache and a patch of hair on his labiomental groove. It doesn't take a lot of cinematic training for one look at this character to inform a spectator that he's the baddie. Early on, at least, he also has that desk toy that he manages to play with in a seemingly nefarious manner.
Yet, what they did to the story's female characters tends to be, let's say, unfortunate. Speaking of those verbose title cards, one of them goes taking from another play in Shakespeare's "Hamlet" for, "frailty they name is woman." Here, that refers to Mercedes marrying someone else after Edmond has been gone for a year or so and pronounced dead behind bars. Years later, she's still proclaimed "faithless." This considerably reduces any charm from the rewritten romantic ending, as does the newly-concocted romantic partnership for Haidee, the central figure of the book and the film's Orientalism, as well as the Count's slave (or "ward," as they say in the movie), which seems haphazardly thrown in for this adaptation.
Fidelity isn't a priority for me in adaptations, but it'd be nice if the alterations at least made logical sense within the reformatted narrative. Edmond's supposed to be innocent of the crime he's accused of, but unlike in the book he knows he's supporting the Bonapartist cause in delivering his captain's letter; in fact, he hand delivers it to Napoleon himself. It doesn't seem worth it to me to undermine the main predicament of the protagonist just so you can dress up a diminutive actor as the Emperor for a couple minutes of the two-hour movie. Later, one of the Count's nemeses is convicted by a "Chamber of Peers" on hearsay, and another demands proof in the courtroom, but seems to reside to the fact without being provided any. The latter might be due to missing footage, though, as I aforementioned suspect. Similarly, we don't see Dantès switch the bodies for the prison escape. But, then again, the filmmakers don't even seem to understand how duels work--the business of only one loaded gun, at least, is something I've never heard of, including from reading the book.
On the other hand, there remains a good deal of spectacle and even a duplicate and worn nitrate film looks pretty good when restored and presented well enough. We see Gilbert struggle free underwater (the other silent versions lack such submerged photography) and proclaim "the world is mine" against crashing waves. There's the requisite sword fight--this time with Villefort. The sets demonstrate the high production values. There's some nice lighting, including low-key and silhouettes, and tinting. Double-exposure visions are plentiful. Before the picture seems to overly rely on those establishing shots in the second part, the scene dissection is decent for the era, too. And even the adaptation is appreciable for how it retains some scenes that other versions don't, such as, say, the "ghost story" of the buried infant. Actually, there is some good use of flashbacks scattered about here, which makes the textual ellipses instead of visual depiction in other parts the more perplexing. The film is a mixed bag, but it's a happy ending that the film survives at all for us to see it today.