The Scarlet Pimpernel (directed by Harold Young, 1934)
Viewers watching the 1934 adaptation of The Scarlet Pimpernel, showing the events of France’s Reign of Terror in the 1790s, will find themselves on the edge of their seats, their minds racing with questions. Will the film’s dashing hero outwit the bloodthirsty officials of the Revolutionary Tribunal? Is it true that the beautiful Lady Marguerite Blakeney secretly denounced a family of French aristocrats and condemned them to the guillotine? And perhaps most of all: did men in the eighteenth century really wear such absurd-looking cravats?
The film doesn’t take long to plunge us into the action. The opening scenes show aristocrats —male and female, old and young— being led to the guillotine, while toothless old peasant women sit on the sidelines, knitting with gleeful fervour and cheering when each head drops into the basket. However, some of these aristocrats have the good fortune to be rescued by a mysterious stranger named the Scarlet Pimpernel who, with the help of cunning disguises and a band of devoted followers, whisks the victims out of Paris and across the English Channel to safety. Once there, we learn that the Scarlet Pimpernel is the alter ego of mild-mannered Sir Percy Blakeney, who averts suspicion of his secret activities by pretending to be a frivolous, empty-headed fop. Leslie Howard is now mostly remembered for his role in Gone With the Wind, but for my money Sir Percy is a much better use of his talents, particularly those moments when we witness the affable mask melt away and his narrow face become austere with resolve.
The greatest complication to Sir Percy’s secret identity is his marriage to the French former actress Marguerite St Just, played by Merle Oberon. Though she’s unaware of his dangerous activities, Marguerite is unhappy about the distance that she senses growing between her and her husband. She doesn’t realise that their estrangement stems from his suspicion that she is conniving with his enemies in France’s Revolutionary Tribunal. The misunderstandings between them only worsen when Marguerite’s old acquaintance, Citizen Chauvelin, appears in London. Chauvelin, brought to life in a wonderful performance by Raymond Massey, has been tasked with finding the Scarlet Pimpernel, and when he blackmails Marguerite into helping him the repercussions will put not only her marriage, but also her life at risk.
The film is based on a novel by Baroness Emma Orczy, a Hungarian immigrant whose family arrived in England in 1880 when she was a teenager. They had apparently left their estate in Hungary in order to escape a looming peasant revolt. This family history undoubtedly coloured Orczy’s perspective on the French Revolution, which sides entirely with the upper classes. Her novel The Scarlet Pimpernel was published in 1903, almost simultaneously with the release of a theatrical version. Both were a success, kicking off a series of eighteen books that continued to appear until the 1940s. Indeed, the 1934 film could already be considered a re-make, as there had already been no fewer than three silent films and one “talkie” featuring this dashing hero.
I first read The Scarlet Pimpernel when I was eleven years old, and I remember writing a highly critical book report about it. Decades have passed since, but I still think that my younger self’s criticism was essentially valid. The Scarlet Pimpernel is simply so clever, strong, and capable—or at least, he is described that way—that even in the direst situation, the reader never experiences much tension or doubt that he’ll come out of it safe and sound. The film doesn’t seem any more concerned than the book to provide the hero with realistic weaknesses. Though Chauvelin is nominally Sir Percy’s nemesis (and is the recurring villain throughout the book series), he never comes close to being his match, though their enmity is fun for other reasons. Theoretically, Chauvelin has been ordered by Robespierre to catch the Scarlet Pimpernel or face his own execution, but in Massey’s portrayal he enters the pursuit with a zest that feels much more personal. At moments I could even imagine some warmth to the relationship, such as when Sir Percy fixes Chauvelin’s cravat for him and receives a gratified smile. Perhaps in Chauvelin’s secret heart, he just wants the Scarlet Pimpernel’s attention and admiration.
Naturally, Marguerite Blakeney doesn’t realise that her husband is invincible for Narrative Reasons, so when she discovers his secret identity she’s terrified of what may befall him. Somewhat disappointingly, her frantic rescue mission to save him proves no more than an impediment to the well-oiled machinery of Sir Percy’s plans, and there are a few close shaves before everyone emerges unscathed. Indeed, Marguerite herself is Sir Percy’s only point of vulnerability, as he grapples with the inner turmoil of wondering whether the woman whom he plainly adores might be complicit with a murderous regime. This dilemma is the real source of narrative tension, and both the lead actors do a fine job of giving it emotional depth. The onscreen chemistry between Howard and Oberon is striking, and apparently translated into an offscreen affair despite the fact that Howard was a married man.
So much for the plot; but let’s return to the costumes, which in themselves are an excellent reason to watch this film. Given that being a fashion victim (or fop) is integral to hiding Sir Percy’s secret identity, I suspect that the film-makers made a choice to play up the elements of eighteenth-century dress that look most incongruous to modern eyes. Every scene sees him resplendent in tight knee-breeches, fantastical neckcloths, and very high, starched shirt collars. I had often read about starched shirt-points in books, but until this film I never had a visual to go with the phrase. Now that I do I can see why so many modern portrayals choose to gloss over this trend. With my hazy notions of historical fashions, I was a little surprised not to see any wigs worn by the Scarlet Pimpernel and his band of young heroes, but a quick online search informed me that these had started to go out of style in the 1790s, so naturally Sir Percy would rather be caught dead than wear one.
On the other hand, the evening gown that Marguerite wears to the Grenville ball —a scene filled with secret messages and assignations that are crucial to the developing intrigue— struck me at once as as anachronistic. The deep V of its décolletage, the bare arms, and still more tellingly the bare back belong more to the 1930s when the film was made, and probably speak to the costume designers’ desire to make the film’s leading lady appear glamorous to contemporary audiences.
But for most of us, accuracy isn’t the reason why we watch period dramas like these. This film, like the book it’s based on, is highly entertaining, with a mix of humour and derring-do provided by the two sides of Sir Percy’s dual identity. Some of my favourite moments come from Sir Percy’s child-like delight at having written a poem about the mysterious hero, which he insists on reciting to everyone from the tittering young women at the ball to Chauvelin himself:
They seek him here, they seek him there, Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in Heaven? Is he in Hell? That demmed elusive Pimpernel!
Besides making me laugh, the happy way that Sir Percy announces “The lines rhyme! So that makes it a poem!” struck a surprising chord. It captures the pride and pleasure that all writers should aspire to feel about their own work. Is it part of his act? Undoubtedly. But it hardly matters if the poet’s unselfconscious joy is less real than the steely nerve shown by this gallant trickster a few minutes later. The great fun of this film is that viewers get to enjoy them both.--Mary Thaler