The Four Musketeers (The Revenge of Milady)

The second half of Richard Lester's Alexandre Dumas adaptation doesn't have the best start. The Four Musketeers (The Revenge of Milady) begins with a lengthy recap of the first part before plunging headfirst into a war between Catholic France and insurrectionist Protestants (backed by England) that has made allies out of former foes. This rough gear shift is matched by an assembly that makes enormous leaps in location; a structural restlessness that - if we're being generous - does echo the fidget energies that pour out of Michael York's D'Artagnan. When Lester's film does settle down, it finds itself more excited about charting the homicidal pettiness of Faye Dunaway's Milady than it does the adventures of a young swashbuckler. That this spy is capricious and vengeful is an understatement. She lives to be adored: Milady enjoying and luxuriating in the power imbalance that her beauty both implies and ensures. Perhaps there are deeper motives in play in The Four Musketeers when it comes to Milady's studied hatred of D'Artagnan and his mistress, Raquel Welch's Constance? If that is the case, we are not privy to them. 

A greater familiarity with Dumas' text might reveal some crumb of logic powering the murderous machinations of the literary Milady but the through line here seems to be pure spite. Dunaway's performance reeks of jealousy. She flattered the socially inferior D'Artagnan with her physical affections and is appalled that he not only rejected her (moments after having slept with her) but did so out of his desire for another woman. There's a sense that because D'Artagnan thwarted Milady in her attempts to overwhelm and intoxicate, that a correction is now demanded. Does she believe that the murder of Constance changes something in her and D'Artagnan's relationship? Will he finally submit himself wholly to her insidious charms? We see elsewhere the intended effects of the sexuality that Milady wields so effectively. Captured by the British, her heaving bosom is enough to ensnare a pompous and puritanical jailor, setting him up to be the useful idiot in a political assassination plot. Matching Dunaway for unexpected (and therefore enjoyable) turbulence is Oliver Reed as Athos. The actor glowers, suggesting a three-dimensionality of character largely through a nagging sense of distraction. He talks to the other Musketeers but never truly looks at them. He's staring off into space; his attentions elsewhere and, obviously, churning. 

As with the first instalment, The Three Musketeers, characters are dressed throughout in their finery, requiring that the actors puppeteering these enormous outfits exert incredible amounts of energy just to get the layered petticoats and embroidered tabards moving. Rather than shy away with rapid cutting, Lester embraces this awkwardness of motion, making it a key component in all of the film's lengthy and largely observed swordfights. Panting duellists must cope with the frustrations and exhaustions inherent to their ostentatious dress. Mishaps and accidents are equally allowed to exert themselves on the unfolding dramas, complicating and enhancing the film's exhilarating sense of drunken danger. That The Four Musketeers takes place during a war has constant purchase within Lester's mise en scene too, one that extends beyond the establishing shots of ruined chateaus or billowing cannon lines. The Three Musketeers featured a series of animated tableaus in which members of the thoughtless ruling class battered through the slogging efforts of a downtrodden (and mumbling) working class. Four Musketeers takes the same basic unexamined toil concept but tweaks the parameters, allowing for far more callous scenery. An absurd picnic, attended by Charlton Heston's Cardinal Richelieu and Geraldine Chaplin's Queen Anne, comes complete with a portable organ built into a horse carriage and, in the near distance, several Protestants dangling from a hanging tree. No reveller bats an eyelid. The beautiful people chat and snack on without interruption. It's a sight gag that wouldn't be out of place in Ken Russell's similarly excellent The Devils.