Reviews of The Count of Monte Cristo (1844) and related work

• Adaptation: The Count of Monte Cristo (1998)
• Adaptation: The Count of Monte Cristo (2024)
• Adaptation: The Count of Monte Cristo (2024)

The Count of Monte Cristo (1844)

Alexandre Dumas (writer), Auguste Maquet (writer).

Read in 2022.

The premier fantasy of social status and personally punitive justice. Appropriately, money plays a central role in that fantasy, because money is the most portable form of status. For the first thirteen chapters, the protagonist Edmond Dantès and the antagonists are all fairly respectable but ordinary people. None of them are wealthy. In the fast-forward sequence that takes up the remainder of volume I, Dantès and the three main villains—Danglars, Morcerf and Villefort—all become wealthy and enter the upper class. The fourth and last of the original villains, the relatively passive Caderousse, remains poor until Dantès deliberately tests his character, simply by giving him a valuable gem.

The protagonist’s personal title, “Count” of Monte Cristo, is bought. Playing another role, the man who bears that title says that a similar one may be bought “anywhere”. By extension, the ruling class is suspect. They are, as one character says of a charlatan pretending to be a prince in chapter 109, a “nobility of the rope”; an unsettled remnant after the French Revolution. This makes for a glamorous yet effective proto-noir setting where money is a constant subject of conversation. Money is the means of the banker Danglars’ destruction, and the reason for Morcerf to sell Haydée, which becomes part of Morcerf’s destruction, and the reason for Madame de Villefort’s murders, which is the main blow in Villefort’s destruction. Even Villefort’s own scheme to marry off Valentine to d’Épinay may be motivated by money, though that is not confirmed. The character traits, family connections and personal loyalties of the nouveau riche, including the bravery of Morcerf and the coldness of Villefort, are appropriately secondary to money.

Maquet and Dumas offer a vivid cross-section of Mediterranean life in the time between the exile of Napoleon and the initial expansion of the railway across Europe, in which fast-moving money continued to displace heredity. There are numerous allusions to cultural touchstones of the time like E.T.A. Hoffmann, John Polidori, Giacomo Meyerbeer and Giuditta Pasta. More unusually, cannabis edibles make an appearance, there’s a lesbian pairing, there’s the amazing Abbé Faria whose skill as a detective resembles that of Dupin in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” (1841), and there’s the even more amazing Noirtier, who rises from a marginal role in the betrayal of Dantès, at which point he’s a Girondin badass, via “the rupture of a blood-vessel on the lobe of the brain”, to what is surely the first major heroic role of an almost complete paralytic in literary history. The novel is long but the writers go the distance in their range and creativity, without losing focus on the main plot.

The most central dramatic motif resembles the myth of Jacob in Genesis (ca. 500–400 BCE), the man who is sold into slavery by his brothers and then pretends to be a god—with the help of a god—to torment those brothers. The way that Dantès takes on different roles in his “edifice” is even more narcissistic than the conceit of his finding a lost treasure. In fact, I detect a turn for the worse in the quality of the novel when, at the end of chapter 24, Dantès finds that treasure and begins to use it to build his edifice. Up to that point, Maquet and Dumas are obliged to provide credible details because, unlike hundreds of their imitators, they had to invent the sequence of events for the first time, and sell it to the growing crowds reading each new chapter aloud. With money, Dantès skips right past the sort of problems that challenged him and made the narrative credible. Therefore, the authors introduce sprawling subplots, love stories and unlikely connections between the minor characters, but they do keep the main plot running smoothly, apologizing for the occasional flashback that introduces new information.

In chapter 67, Villefort first begins to suspect the Count of Monte Cristo and has him investigated. However, despite interrogating two alter egos on the same day in chapter 69, Villefort and his investigators discover nothing that Dantès does not want them to know. Like the biblical Jacob, Dantès seem to have the protection of Yahweh, and he sometimes imagines he is doing the god’s work. The “Monte Cristo” of the title is a small island, but the name of it corresponds symbolically to Calvary, the “mountain” where the mythological Christ was temporarily killed. Therefore, Dantès is Christ-like, except that he gets things done. Near the end, he says to a suicidal young man:

Every career is open to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad ideas, be even criminal—but live.

With these words at the close of the dramatic narrative, Dantès opens up the scope to the epic and revolutionary, which is excluded in more opaque novels about money, such as Emma (1815). Dantès’s own actions were taken against the lower-class criminal Caderousse and individual upper-class representatives of corrupt finance, the military, and the legal system, but he ultimately rejects the petty and divine role of Jacob. His friend, Faria, teaches Dantès to sustain himself in prison through philosophy, like Boethius in Consolation (524). It is with the understanding that he was not truly doing Yahweh’s work that Dantès encourages a deeper, social change, overturning the world. In Paris, his alter ego the Count is known for many things—including his money of course—but most especially for the quality of his staff of servants. That makes sense, because Dantès does start the story as a captain’s mate, and is a leader:

He had by degrees assumed such authority over his companions that he was almost like a commander on board; and as his orders were always clear, distinct, and easy of execution, his comrades obeyed him with celerity and pleasure.

I like this detail; it balances the character between the two extremes of a man of the people—opposing a corrupt ruling class on the epic plane—and a man of destiny, opposing evil individuals on the dramatic plane. In the middle is Boethius, the thinking man with ideals and a rich inner life.

The novel has obvious heroes and villains, but unlike Genesis, it also has sincere and meaningful nuances, including that awareness of social change beyond punitive justice. Benedetto, the son of a villain, seems to be a villain by birth. Ironically, he does relatively well in jail, while Dantès and Faria suffered greatly at the Château d’If. This irony should apparently not be taken as a general condemnation of prisons, because Dantès does briefly imprison Danglars in the second-to-last chapter. Benedetto’s half-sister Valentine—a daughter of the same villainous father—is wholly good, while Eugénie is rather grey, etc. It is less fortunate from a moral perspective that Dantès does sail off into the sunrise with Haydée, an implausible combination of Oriental, Christian, daughter, lover, and slave, capping off this classic power trip. Such false notes notwithstanding, The Count of Monte Cristo is fine adventure fiction from a time when inventive popular entertainment was getting complex enough to be entertaining and socially relevant, but the world was still simple enough for the whole to age with dignity.

References here: “The Lord of Château Noir” (1894), The Scarlet Pimpernel (1905), Cabiria (1914), Batman (1940), The Stars My Destination (1956), Lady Snowblood (1973), Witches Abroad (1991), “The Darkness and the Light” (1997), Catfish (2010).

fiction text series

‣ The Count of Monte Cristo (1998)

References here: Les Misérables (1998).

fiction moving picture series adaptation

‣ The Count of Monte Cristo (2024)

Seen in 2025.

This is the TV mini-series directed by Bille August, not the feature-length adaptation from the same year.

This adaptation is surprisingly faithful, but I’ll outline the major differences in plot. August’s Dantès starts out as an older man, born in 1787 instead of the novel’s 1796. His only recurring alter ego is the Count of Monte Cristo, and he does not disguise himself in that role. Another major alter ego appearing in the book, the Abbé Busoni, is excluded from this adaptation, which reduces the amount of dress-up to almost nothing. Curiously, Giovanni Bertuccio is also absent, which results in the minor smuggler character Jacopo—who remains illiterate throughout—expanding out of proportion to take the functions of Bertuccio as well as being a complete confidant of Dantès’s true identity and purpose following a chance act of violence. Jacopo’s mute brother, Ettore, does a terrible job substituting for the novel’s mute Nubian Ali. Still more curiously, August adds another confidant. That is Caderousse, who is not tested as he is in in the novel.

The overall impact of all of those changes is twofold. First, they make the process of Dantès’s vengeance more chatty, which is easier for a disinterested audience to follow, and less believable. Second, by making Dantès less of an actor, August thankfully tones down the narcissistic theatricality from the original, which is surprising when you consider that this is television.

Though the Nubian Ali is out, Haydée is still in, albeit only as a timid witness against Fernand, for events occurring when she was five years old. Whereas in the novel, Dantès and Haydée stay together, in the ending of this version, he follows Mercédès to Marseilles. Taking away the enslaved love interest chips off another bit of distasteful narcissisism, but it leaves Haydée’s presence a bit hard to justify in the effort to clean up the novel’s sprawling plot. Interestingly, Haydée’s presence is the only bit that’s left of the Count’s air of Oriental mystery, but I doubt that’s why she made the cut. The role of Abbé Faria is not altered, but August inserts no notice of the real-world Faria’s pioneering role in the development of hypnotism in France, which would have saved a little of the menacing aura of the original Count.

The faint anti-classism of the original is reduced to the line “I’ve an aversion for authority”, which is a shame. On the whole, this version is satisfying, but flat. The actors vary greatly in quality, with Blake Ritson doing a particularly good job as Danglars. The shots on location in historic environments look too clean, lit by fat LEDs. Old Noirtier’s heroic moment is underplayed and undercut by a pathetic attempt to plant an injury for a later callback, and everybody wears too much makeup.

fiction moving picture series adaptation

‣ The Count of Monte Cristo (2024)

Seen in 2026.

This is the feature film directed by Alexandre de La Patellière and Matthieu Delaporte.

Unlike the August version from the same year, this one includes the dress-up with intradiegetic makeup, and it has dialog filmed in the appropriate languages, but the constraints of the runtime still force a lot of changes to the plot. Most of these are benign, such as a Lord Halifax replacing Dantès’s original English alter egos. Halifax owns a newspaper, making the not-so photogenic telegraph fraud unnecessary to film. There is no Héloise. Other changes are more puzzling.

There is no smuggler character who corresponds to the novel’s Jacopo. The production still cast the gorgeous Abde Maziane as someone named Jacopo, but this Jacopo has only the features and functions of the novel’s Ali. The casting shows some resistance to accusations of orientalism being leveled against keeping the novel’s Ali, and yet the character is renamed.

There is also no Noirtier, and no Captain Leclère. Instead of a Bonapartist father, Villefort has a Bonapartist sister who replaces both of the older men, and that same woman discovers and raises “Andrea Cavalcanti”, who in the novel—but not here—is named Benedetto. That is an indefensible coincidence for the sake of concision. Similarly, Caderousse, who refuses a gem from Busoni and is never a tailor or innkeeper, takes a role like Vampa’s when, for the sake of atonement, he helps steal Danglars’s ships. This Danglars is not a banker at all and was never a supercargo either; he starts out in Leclère’s role (minus the Bonapartism) and then buys out Morrel, staying in the shipping business. Caderousse, it seems, was his captain’s mate.

The altered Danglars makes his fortune in the slave trade, as if for extra moral dichotomy. However, it is the moral plane that sees the greatest changes of all, and it’s mostly in the other direction, away from dichotomy. As in most adaptations, the crucial indications of Dantès’s likability are omitted, as is Faria’s Boethiusness. Haydée, who is introduced in chapter 77 of the novel, plays a larger role here, including the roles of Dantès’s conscience and Albert de Morcerf’s love interest. Haydée objects to Dantès avenging himself upon the younger generation, particularly when “Cavalcanti” is shot for stabbing Villefort to death. In the novel, it’s Caderousse he stabs. In accordance with Haydée’s criticism, Dantès’s vengeance goes off the rails and he ends up in a duel with Fernand Mondego/Morcerf, who does not kill himself but instead meets an unknown fate. Haydée’s origin story is told in surprising detail, yet it does not come out to the public. Certainly she never ends up with Dantès. On the whole, although the very end is more faithful than the August version, this adaptation is more critical of Dantès’s project than the novel, which is fine by me.

The production is dramatically scored and lit. There is one scene with overblown CGI at a gun range. The architecture of the cells at the Château d’If improves the credibility of the tunneling there, which is too low in the August version. The acting is mostly good, with Julie De Bona’s Hermine (here renamed Victoria) being a notable, almost comically wide-eyed exception. Anaïs Demoustier does a good job as Mercédès throughout.

fiction moving picture adaptation