The Duellists
(1977)
Ridley Scott’s debut, and you can be quite sure he wouldn’t
even consider making something as restrained, measured and thoughtful as this
today. Or even 20 years ago, come to that. The
Duellists announces him as a very different filmmaker to the one he has become.
Sure, there’s the ever-present painterly eye, but one would take from this a
director in thrall to the artistic sensibility rather than the commercial
trough he’s mostly fed from since. This is a picture I maybe didn’t appreciate
as much as I should have on first encounter, informed as I was by the more
instantaneous delights of Alien and Blade Runner. But The Duellists fully deserves to stand along side those two as
evidence of what Scott could do when he was still exploring his potential and
hadn’t become frightened by his failures.
Comparison has been made with Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon, not least by Scott himself (understandably, he was in
awe of the film’s cinematography). Really, though, they don’t share all that
much besides visual aplomb and a general sense of period (Lyndon ends 11 years before The
Duellists begins). Sure, there are themes of honour and dishonour, running
through both, but The Duellists
(which isn’t to slight it at all) feels like a well-worn joke; one that has got
more embellished with each telling while being fairly slight in essence. In
contrast, Lyndon really fulfils its expansive
remit of the rise and fall of Barry. Kubrick’s film is mockingly narrated as a
twisted black comedy. Where it falls short is with a lead actor who is such a
blank presence that, while Ryan O’Neal could be argued to both serve and reduce
the tale’s impact, it’s difficult not to conclude his presence is an entirely
commercial necessity rather than a particular asset.
Dr Jacquin: He fought a duel this morning.
Armand d’Hubert: Yes, He also fought a duel this afternoon.
The Duellists’
joke is ingrained in the premise. Two Hussars repeatedly duel each other over
several decades, but neither quite knows why. That’s enough, but one can’t help
but think someone other than Scott might have also mined the material (Joseph
Conrad’s novella, adapted by Gerald Vaughan-Hughes) for its humorous potential.
There’s the occasional amusing exchange (above), but Scott’s picture is a very
sombre one.
It’s also very well cast. Filling out the support are great
British actors like Robert Stephens, John McEnery, Tom Conti, and Albert
Finney. However, leading duties are reserved for two American actors, Keith
Carradine and Harvey Keitel. The narration would be provided by a third, Stacey
Keach (much more perfunctory and less florid than Michael Horden’s in Lyndon). It’s a break with expectations
(of English playing period, and period of any given nationality), and was
effectively decreed by Paramount, but it works as a means of focusing our
attentions on these two men apart. One has to wonder at the studio, however;
what must they have been taking to seriously think these two leads might put
bums on seats?
For Keitel, as Lieutenant Gabriel Feraud, this marked a
period where he would make all sorts of pictures as if on a whim, ones that
would frequently not pay off. Perhaps it was a consequence of being discarded
from another adaptation of Conrad immediately prior, Apocalypse Now. He’s a glowering, vituperative ball of aggression
throughout, perfectly cast on that level. We don’t need to interrogate further just
why he takes such a dislike to Carradine’s Lieutenant Armand d’Hubert. He’s the
kind of abrasive type who would pick a fight with anyone at the drop of a hat.
He lives to be offended, and to nurture his seething contempt. Scott and
Vaughan-Hughes presumably agree that little extra is required, as they
concentrate on d’Hubert.
Carradine, never quite as prominent as his brother David,
although he’s made more of an impact on TV in the past decade, initially
displays a certain bemusement at Feraud’s unchecked aggression. Feraud is,
after all, incredibly silly. But the realisation that these bouts aren’t going
to stop any time soon, and continued brushes with mortal peril, encourage a
diffidence only tempered by the code of honour requiring Armand, no matter
what, to meet his adversary’s challenge. All else falls in line before this,
including love and family. Carradine’s performance has a fragility to it,
particularly set against Keitel’s blunt force, and works for a character who is
nominally the hero, but only nominally.
As far as we can tell, Feraud’s beef is that d’Hubert was
unlucky enough to be the one ordered to place him under house arrest for (of
course) fighting a duel. He may also have perceived other slights; d’Hubert arrested
him at the house of a significant local lady, and he doesn’t respond quickly
enough to the suggestion that he’d allow an insult to the Emperor to go
undefended. D’Hubert’s reactions (“I see
no reason whatsoever for us to fight”; “This is too ridiculous”) become no more comprehending as time goes by;
he just becomes more resigned to the inevitable, seemingly fated to these
periodic encounters. He tells Dr Jaquin (Conti) “All in all, I’m far from certain myself” regarding the reasons for
the affront. Jaquin suggests, “Keep away
from him, keep ahead of him, put your trust in Bonaparte”.
Scott makes no bones about the duels being unpleasant ordeals.
Injuries frequently occur, but Feraud is only preoccupied with continuing this
aggression (“Next time, d’Hubert” he
bellows when his opponent has to demur after being stabbed). On their third
duel both are so exhausted they can hardly stand, until their seconds
eventually intervene. Reason, even from Feraud’s own associates, comes to
nothing; no one can assuage his belligerence.
And throughout, there is this curious sense of honour. “Sir, I cannot fight a man three times and
then tell tales on him” d’Hubert informs Brigadier-General Treillard
(Stephens). So the years pass, the military fashions change, and the mode of
engagement shifts too (in 1806 they duel on horseback, just to mix things up a
little). Another six years go by, and they reencounter each other during the
retreat from Moscow. Despite teaming up to fight off Cossacks (d’Hubert, to no
avail, perhaps thought he could break the ice amid the snow and ice), Feraud’s
parting shot is “Pistols next time”.
It isn’t until the political landscape changes and so do,
nominally, allegiances, that Feraud can actually claim some substance to his campaign.
Napoleon is exiled. D’Hubert marries into the aristocracy, and then joins the
king’s army after Waterloo. Feraud, who has declared d’Hubert a traitor, is
detained for his loyalty to Napoleon. Unbeknownst to Feraud, d’Hubert gets him
paroled (that honour again), which leads to the inevitable final meeting. With
pistols. D’Hubert has the drop on Feraud, and instructs him “I have submitted to your notions of honour
for long enough. You will now submit to mine”. Which entails d’Hubert now
owning Feraud’s life. Feraud broodingly capitulates to the instruction that he
will depart and conduct himself “as a
dead man”.
Joseph Conrad’s short story The Duel was based on an actual account, as Keach informs us during
the opening. The bare facts are remarkably faithful; Fournier took offence at
Dupont’s message and challenged him, leading to (at minimum), 30 duels over the
next 19 years (in that sense, Scott actually reins in the hyperbole) that were
only curtailed after Dupont bested Fournier in a pistol match.
Despite the casting of very modern actors, Scott maintains a
strong sense of period and manner. He touches on readily recognisable ideas,
such as how they become minor celebrities through their constant sparring.
There are also fanciful explanations for just why they are at each other’s
throats (“He suggested you’d both been
enemies in a previous life”). That’s no less plausible than the idea that The Duellists is a commentary on the
pointlessness of war (why was it necessary for them to fight again?); it may be in there, but Scott has never
been much good at developing subtexts, so it’s best to pick and choose it as
you will.
This is a good film for cameos too. Besides those mentioned,
Tom Howard from Howard’s Way (Maurice
Colbourne) seconds Feraud during one passage. Norma from The Royle Family (Liz Smith) gives a tarot reading, and Pete
Postlethwaite obliges Robert Stephens with a shave.
The picture marked the beginning of David Putnam’s prestige
period as producer (one that ended abruptly and decisively with the hubris of accepting
the position of studio head at Columbia), having previously dabbled in musical
tinged fare with mad Ken Russell, David Essex and Alan Parker (Bugsy Malone). For about 10 years he
would maintain generally strong form, although this was the first and last time
he worked with Scott (the same for composer Howard Blake and cinematographer
Frank Tidy).
As a Ridley Scott film, The
Duellists is a curiosity. It’s as non-representative of what would follow
as The Hunger was for his brother
Tony’s first feature. What it does have in common with the three films that
would follow, however, is a director allowing world building content to significant
degree. His early work allows the viewer to get lost in the conjured celluloid.
After a certain point, that is no longer the case. Scott now has his eye on the
economy of the edit and favours the monotony of an image that no longer
surprises, it merely repeats.
If you ask what attracted him to The Duellists, it was partly that it was public domain (he had
wanted direct a movie, but needed to get there with limited resources), and
then the Kubrick factor. Such lack of passion doesn’t adversely affect the film
itself, however. None of his later historicals, not (the flawed but fascinating)
1492, not the acclaimed Gladiator, the leaden Kingdom of Heaven, pointless Robin Hood or bafflingly conceived Exodus: Gods and Kings, measure up to
his first period piece. Scott was a much better director when he was exploring
the possibilities of the motion picture.
