Imagine a time when all compliments are two-faced, when every
truth is tinged with irony, when insults are the currency of humor. We have
more in common with the 18th century than we might imagine. “Ridicule” is a
movie that takes place at the court of Louis XVI, circa 1783, but its values
would be at home around the Algonquin Round Table, or in modern comedy clubs.
Wit is all. Sincerity is an embarrassment.
The
movie tells the story of a provincial baron with a scientific cast of mind. The
people of his district are dying because of the pestilent waters, which breed
mosquitoes and disease. He has a scheme for draining the marshes and making the
land tillable. He needs the help of the king, and so he journeys to Versailles
to press his case. But the king values verbal wit above all, and lives mostly
to be entertained. If the baron cannot develop a savage tongue, he has no
chance.
The
baron, named Ponceludon de Malavoy (Charles Berling), is, like all provincials,
inclined to give his rulers credit for being better than they are. In
Versailles he witnesses shocking displays of public humiliation, which are all
part of the game. He seems to have no chance at all, but then he is taken under
the wing of the wise old Marquis de Bellegarde, played by Jean Rochefort, that
tall, long-faced master of sly intrigue. “Be witty, sharp, and malicious,” the
marquis tells him, “and never laugh at your own jokes.” The baron somehow
stumbles into success; his honesty plays like rudeness, and he doesn’t laugh
because he doesn’t know he has told jokes. He gains admission to court circles,
where he finds that in romance, as well as politics, wordmanship is more
crucial than swordsmanship.
“Ridicule”
has been directed by Patrice Leconte, a name not well known in this country
unless you have had the good fortune to see “Monsieur Hire” (1990) or “The
Hairdresser’s Husband” (1992). Those films were about erotic fixations carried
to uncomfortable extremes: about a little man who becomes solemnly obsessed
with the young woman he can see across the courtyard, and about a fetishist
(Rochefort) who loves hairdressers so much he marries one, and hums with bliss
every time she administers a shampoo.
In
“Ridicule” the characters are faced with the exquisite torture of seducing one
person while desiring another. The baron quickly falls in love with Mathilde
(Judith Godreche), the kindly marquis’ daughter, and she with him. But she is
determined to marry a distasteful old rich man (they are only waiting for his
wife to die) so that he can finance her research into diving bells. Meanwhile,
the baron, for matters of expediency, pays court to the powerful and beautiful
Madame de Blayac (Fanny Ardant), who can do him good at court.
She
likes him. Well, he likes her. She understands almost everything about the
motives of the people in her life, and at one point, while he is going through
the motions of wooing her, she looks at him in amusement and advises, “Learn to
hide your insincerity, so that I can yield without dishonor.” After all, she is
not a woman without stature; her own official lover is the abbot de Vilecourt.
The
kind old marquis sees all and keeps his counsel. He does not have the money to
support his daughter’s research, and sees how much she treasures her diving
bells. He rather prefers the baron as a son-in-law, but realizes that no swamps
are going to get drained that way. And the king? He has peepholes installed so
that he can secretly observe the real goings-on in his court, the better to
savor the ridiculous posturings of his petitioners when they come into his
presence.
“Ridicule”
reminded me of the equally fascinating “Restoration” (1995), with Robert Downey
Jr. as an ordinary man embraced by the king after he treats his beloved dogs.
It was set a century earlier at the equally colorful but somewhat less mannered
British court of Charles II. Both films show a monarch using his personal style
to set the agenda for his nation, and both are about lifestyles as a work of
art. Both, too, are about simpler men from scientific backgrounds, who find
that being straightforward gets them points at court that they haven’t really
earned.
What
is fascinating about “Ridicule” is that so much depends on language, and so
little is really said. The characters come and go, polishing their one-liners,
memorizing their comebacks, desperately walking the line between delectable
rudeness and offending the king. None of what they say means anything. It is
all words. The eyes carry the meaning. Watch the way the characters look at one
another, and you can follow the real plot, while they spin their tortured
fancies.
