Does actual truth exist?
Or is “truth” inevitably shaded by the perception and biases of the person claiming to present it?
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| Honoring a degree of chivalry neither man feels at this point, Jacques Le Gris (Adam Driver, left) and Jean de Carrouges (Matt Damon) clasp hands prior to the duel that will leave one of them dead. |
Scripters Nicole Holofcener, Ben Affleck and Matt Damon — adapting Eric Jager’s 2004 historical study of the same title — have taken a cue from Kurosawa, with their intriguing approach to director Ridley Scott’s lavish new film. The “last duel” refers to the last official judicial duel permitted by the French King (Charles VI, at the time) and the Parliament of Paris, which took place on Dec. 29, 1386.
(Let me pause, to acknowledge mild surprise; I’d have expected such duels to continue for many centuries beyond that date.)
The death match resulted from Norman knight Jean de Carrouges’s accusation that his wife, Marguerite, had been raped by squire Jacques Le Gris, who denied the charge. When existing legal options for redress were thwarted by Count Pierre d’Alençon — under whom both men served, but who favored Le Gris — Carrouges cleverly (rashly?) demanded a “trial by combat,” wherein the survivor’s version of events would be “sanctified by God’s judgment.”
Interesting times, the 14th century…
This era has been persuasively established by Scott, production designer Arthur Max, and cinematographer Dariusz Wolski. Everything looks and feels authentic: the harsh, unforgiving landscape; the massive, fortified castles and estates; costume designer Janty Yates’ myriad creations for nobles, commoners and serfs; and the boisterous, bedraggled, grime-encrusted cast of many, many hundreds (if not the iconic thousands).
Damon’s scruffy, hulking Jean de Carrouges is bold, rash and a formidable warrior. He’s also emotionally adrift, having lost his wife and only son to the plague. Uneducated and unable to properly manage his estate, he’s forever behind in the “rent” owed Pierre d’Alençon (Affleck, initially unrecognized beneath curly blond hair and beard), which annoys the count.
Carrouges and Le Gris (Adam Driver) began as neighbors and friends; the latter became godfather to Carrouges’ ill-fated son. They serve in bloody battle together, an example of which opens this film: a brutal, gory scrum of iron-clad men bashing each other to death. With horses, swords, daggers and battle axes.
Several such melees take place as the story progresses, staged for maximum impact by editor Claire Simpson, fight choreographer Troy Milenov and stunt coordinator Rob Inch. They’re not for the faint of heart.
As to where the relationship between Carrouges and Le Gris goes from there…
Holofcener, Affleck and Damon cheekily divide their narrative into three chapters, starting with “The truth according to Jean de Carrouges.” This first act is the longest — nearly an hour — as it establishes most of the events that ultimately lead to the duel. Because this chapter is told from Carrouges’ point of view, it puts him in a positive, if nonetheless flawed, light: noble but foolishly impetuous, gruff but devoted to Marguerite, once they marry.
Damon makes him sympathetic; how can we not admire the guy?
Carrouges soon becomes troubled, and ultimately dismayed, by the realization that he’s being cheated out of land and title by Le Gris and d’Alençon. Damon makes Carrouges’ hot-blooded response ill-advised but righteous; he’s being screwed, and has every right to his anger.
We naturally believe him, because Driver is so convincing as a manipulative villain; he wore those shoes superbly, in the recent “Star Wars” trilogy. (Actually, he’d better be careful, or he’ll be typecast forever.) Driver oozes faux sympathy early on, when Le Gris offers to “help” his so-called friend regarding the money owed d’Alençon. It just gets worse from there.
How can we not loathe Le Gris?
Later, following a weeklong trip to Paris, Carrouges returns home to find Marguerite withdrawn and troubled; she shakily explains that — one day, when left alone at the estate — she was visited by Le Gris, who brazenly defiled her.
And now we really hate the guy.
Marguerite’s confession is an unbelievably brave — and historically accurate — act, at a time when husbands often killed their wives for “submitting” to such a transgression, believing their “property” had been irrevocably soiled, like a mare mounted by the wrong stallion. Equally courageous is Carrouges’ similar decision to risk family honor by making a public accusation.
At which point, the second chapter presents “The truth according to Jacques Le Gris,” eventually followed by the third chapter’s “Truth according to Marguerite de Carrouges.” The notion of “truth” becomes increasingly hazy.
This approach is fascinating: not merely because of the subtle — and blatant — things that change, but also the degree to which much remains the same, if shaded slightly differently. And no, this isn’t an excuse for Scott to laboriously repeat sequences we’ve already watched. There is a touch of that — just enough to establish essential tweaks — but mostly Carrouges’ initial narrative is augmented by matters he was in no position to witness … and, subsequently, by Marguerite’s activities when neither man was present.
Comer’s performance is a masterpiece of subtlety. Damon shifts his interpretation of Carrouges ostentatiously, as the latter chapters unfold, his rage and bluster rising to the surface; Driver never really modifies his handling of Le Gris, who simply becomes more loathsome. But Marguerite’s behavior and bearing change ever so slightly, yet significantly, depending upon whether she’s viewed by either man, or simply by herself.
Comer unerringly nails all the crucial nuances. As just one example, Marguerite is radiant and eager to be wed in the first chapter, standing by obediently as Carrouges and her father, Robert de Thibouville (Nathaniel Parker), barter over the size of her dowry. Later, from her point of view, Marguerite is nervous and uncertain during this process, likely even a little ashamed to be treated like a piece of property.
This is wordless, in both cases; Comer conveys the distinction via expression, posture, and even breathing. Absolutely sublime.
Affleck is a hoot as d’Alençon, a shameless libertine who over-indulges in wine and women, thinking nothing of cheating on the wife who has borne him eight (!) children. Affleck gets all of the script’s best and snarkiest one-liners, which d’Alençon delivers with debased amusement. But there’s also a steely edge to Affleck’s gaze, which reminds us that d’Alençon is a powerful man who is not to be crossed, and is unforgiving of such transgressions.
Harriet Walter, an extremely busy actress recognized from Downton Abbey and The Crown, is icily waspish as Carrouges’ mother Nicole: forever dressed in black, and stalking about the estate like the equally chilly Mrs. Danvers, in Rebecca. But Nicole also is something of a puzzle, given her immediate antipathy toward Marguerite, and the deliberately cruel remarks she constantly hurls at the young woman; we wonder why. (Answers aren’t forthcoming.)
Alex Lawther is frankly terrifying as Charles VI, who ascended the throne at age 12, and is 18 during these events; the young man’s too-bright gaze and visible instability anticipate his transformation (years after these events) into “Charles the Mad.”
Bryony Hannah, late of Call the Midwife, is appropriately dutiful as Marguerite’s loyal maid, Alice. Tallulah Haddon has a key role as Marguerite’s best friend Marie, who proves somewhat less than loyal.
This is a fascinating slice of history, particular since these events were so famous — at the time — that they became legend, and have continued to resonate all these centuries later. Scott’s film is as accurate as likely is possible, but questions remain, and the debate rages on.
Perhaps the outcome was God’s will.
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