The Count Of Monte Cristo (2003) - Plot & Excerpts
This = long. But it's a long book. The spoiler-free short version: The Count of Monte Cristo is an extraordinary, long, complex (as in, takes a large chart to keep relationships straight) work with a very simple story idea: a young man is horribly wronged, emerges from prison with a new life and a vast fortune, and uses that plus his very good mind to wreak vengeance on the people who ruined his life. It's fantastic, in every meaning of the word; it's different from what I expected and from nearly everything I've read before; it's a great adventure yarn with a lovely little romance thrown in (almost entirely counterbalanced by wrecked relationships, but still lovely) … In fact …"Has it got any sports in it?""Are you kidding? Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles..."The giants and monsters are figurative in The Count, but they're in there – they are in there. There's actually very little fencing or fighting, and the torture is almost all mental, but … yeah. It's all there.The story is, at its heart, very simple. A strong and handsome and capable young man is well on his way to having a golden life, complete with the girl he loves, until jealousy in those around him has him sent to prison on false charges. There he sits for seventeen years as the world spins on without him, his only relief from the dark solitude a fellow prisoner who takes him on a mad journey to escape, teaching him everything he could ever need to know about everything while they work at it. When he finally does escape, he embarks on a mad quest of his own, to have a subtle, vicious revenge on everyone who harmed him. My review of said story isn't as simple. I began listening to the book almost a year ago (!), but this thing never coalesced. So, finally, here's what I've got, somewhat disjointed – more a collection of random scattered thoughts I jotted down during the read than what I'd actually call a review. Beware of spoilers. I listened to the Audible audiobook read by Bill Homewood, and had a wonderful time – he made 52 hours and 45 minutes seem like only four days. No, I kid – he gave a magnificent performance. The audio book I chose for a Goodreads Buddy Read is in 6 parts, totaling 52 hours & 45 minutes. In other words, two days, four hours, and forty-five minutes. Funnily enough, other versions were of wildly varying lengths – unabridged editions run between 45 hours and the one I picked, 52 hours and 45 minutes. There were also several abridged editions – from a dramatic presentation lasting an hour (how??) to a 17 hour abridgement – but despite its being the longest out there I liked the sample of this, and I think it was a good choice: Mr. Homewood is an excellent companion. I can only assume some translations were more succinct than others, or that where Mr. Homewood uses a different (extremely well done) voice for each character (resulting in different cadences), and gives each line its full dramatic weight, someone reading in one level tone might get through the material more quickly. For me a big part of the enjoyment was listening to the performance – he went all out on it, conveying real emotion and suspense and humor and dread in a magnificent one-man show. He deserves an award. Most actors' performances are one character in some fraction of a film or play or tv episode between one and three hours; this was 100% of nearly 53 hours, and fantastic. (I spent no little time marveling at how he kept the voices straight. I would be doing constant re-takes after reading Danglars's lines in Villefort's voice or some such.) (Not to mention the occasional cut to edit out my frustrated exclamations of "Wait, who the *&$! is THIS, now??")From the beginning I was surprised at the sense of humor that pervades the book. If I had taken a good look at the portrait Wikipedia uses for M. Dumas, I might not have been – the humor in that face is wonderful. But I suppose despite so much evidence to the contrary I still retain the expectation, formed in high school, for literature more than a hundred years old to be dull and stodgy, especially the Victorians. It isn't fair – it's not the books, but the teachers, who (present company excepted, as applicable) do the damage to Dickens and Shakespeare and company. But, still, even knowing that M. Dumas buckled the ultimate swash in The Three Musketeers, I thought the language would be dense and impenetrable.Which is so very much not the case.It all depends on the translation, of course, and in the case of an audiobook on the reader. The translation I listened to was colloquial – often feeling very modern and oddly British (the character of Albert in particular was hilarious, and in many ways – especially given Bill Homewood's reading of him – verged on Bertie Wooster) - and casual (everyone, in every situation, says "Thanks", never "Thank you") – and much, much more fun than I expected. Yes, there are moments that made me smile inappropriately, such as after several minutes of strenuous detail followed by the rather unnecessary summing up of "Dantès was free" or "The Abbé was dead"; it's a style quirk that always vexes me, just a little. Apart from that, this couldn't have been more accessible.(Another little vexation: I am tempted to find an online source for The Count and do a search for the word "Well". I would want to discount any with the meaning of "place to fetch water" or "good" or such, and just count the ones that begin sentences. At first I thought it was just Caderousse who started every single sentence with "Well!" – but then I came to entire conversations where sentence after sentence began the same way. (What word translated to that, I wonder?))Humans are strange creatures. Early on – before Dantès's arrest but after the plot against him has been conceived, if not born – M. Morrel turns to Danglars and repeats to him what Edmond had said about him: nothing bad, by any means; in fact, remarkably generous. Ah, I thought – he's going to feel a pang here, even though it might be short-lived: Dantès has nothing against him, or at the very least he said nothing against him to the owner. But no: his only response is to internally exclaim "Hypocrite!" I already knew he was a thorough Bad Guy – that was when I knew he was very far gone indeed.And Dantès … Hope keeps welling up in Dantès, at every opportunity. He plunges to the depths of despair – but any time there is the least hint of light he throws his entire self at it and clings till long past the point when it's actually dead. And then at the very bottom of the depths of despair he finds – if not hope, then peace; the knowledge that he has the power to take his own life at any time he wishes gives him strength to carry on.I wonder how different things would have been if one person besides the Abbé had held out a hand – at least, done so with Dantès' knowledge. His despair and the hardness that grew out of it hinged on the fact that he had been forgotten, that no one on earth knew or cared where he was. The second jailer did try to do something for him, but was thwarted; it seems he never told Dantès (wise, as it would have gotten hopes up fruitlessly). M. Morrel was constantly (until the final overthrow of Napoleon) trying to do something for him. But the gestures were ineffective and unknown to Dantès, and so his eventual escape is almost entirely his own doing. If a solitary person had aided him in any way, perhaps his determination on vengeance would not have been so hard and unyielding.I thought it was a bit remarkable that Dantès should sit at the deathbed of the Abbé and think about killing himself – possibly committing "suicide by cop" – so as to follow after his friend and find him in the afterlife. Dantès, apparently, received little Christian education; it's a basic tenet that, without very good justification in terms of mental illness (and even then, in your stricter periods), suicides go to hell. There would be no reunion with the Abbé. I wonder if that was a blind spot in Dumas or in Dantès.Except for one, the people of M. Dumas's world seem to fall into perhaps three categories: the good, the bad, and the weak. The good are unimpeachable – the Abbé, M. Morrel and his family, Edmond's father, Valentine; they are honest and long-suffering, would never take any unfair advantage to better their own lot. The bad are irredeemable – Danglars, Fernand, Villefort; they are fixed on their singular goal, and no young prodigy is going to get in their way. The weak, such as Caderousse and Mercédès, can be considered friends – but only trusted so far. They are slender reeds. Not much can be expected of them, so when they do their weak best it is to be rewarded. But in the end Caderousse reverts to form (I'll come back to him) and Mercédès is broken by her experiences and caught up in her misery (I'll come back to her too); any rewards they've received are squandered or outweighed.And then there's that one exception: Dantès. He is not purely good or bad, and certainly not weak; his thirst for revenge is understandable given what was done to him without provocation. But Abbé Faria did advise him to put vengeance aside … and Dantès was unable to do so, even eager as he was to please his friend. Before long he seems to have forgotten that the Abbé ever said anything of the sort to him, or even, it seems at times, that he ever existed. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, and Dantès takes upon himself not only that aspect of the power of God but the omniscient omnipotent rewarding of good as well. Toward the end he shocked me by saying outright, and in all apparent seriousness, "God needed me". Forsooth. He sees himself as the infallible arbiter of right and wrong – until his nose is forcibly rubbed in the unintended consequences of his actions.At one point he required Morrel (Jr.) to remember that he is talking to someone who "never uttered a falsehood and cannot be deceived." Forsooth. That's the sort of remark that makes me want to comb through the text to locate every lie and deception perpetrated by and on him. Money may not bring happiness, but lack of it breeds fear and uncertainty. To an extent, I loved the mindset with which Dantès approaches wealth: he is changing lives. For the worse, where deserved: Danglars and Fernand and Villefort were marked men from the moment Dantès left the Isle D'If – but also, markedly, for the better. Those who were able to help him, all unknowing, in his quest for information were more than generously rewarded; even small actions were richly rewarded. And I will say for him that the money stolen by Danglars (did we really need that much confirmation that he was an evil SOB?) from the widows and orphans (five million!) was restored to them.It's a little annoying that some 40% of the way into the story references are made that are – for me, at least, playing without an organizational chart or even an easily searchable hard copy of the book – obscure at best. (A chart of who is who and married to whom and killed by/the killer of whom does exist, but is, obviously, filled with spoilers.) I didn't realize, for example, that Franz, met at the Festival alongside Albert, is the son of the man killed by the father of Villefort. Albert's identity came clear a lot sooner on its own, but even there there was certainly no immediate lightbulb. And I kept getting Morcerf and Morrel mixed up, because Morcerf kept not ringing the Fernand bell.Silly me.The manipulations of the cast of characters are kind of wonderful. At any point, any of his enemies could have redeemed himself. Caderousse was given yard after yard of rope, and not only hanged himself with it, he hog-tied himself too; Madame de Villefort was merely provided with a phial and a piece of information, and people around her started dropping like flies. I do wonder what Monte Cristo would have done had anyone failed to live down to his expectations. Would he have been pleased that someone was a better person than he expected, or would he have been vexed? He can read a person's character almost instantly, and can judge just the temptation to put into their path like an unattended, booby-trapped bundle of catnip for an unsuspecting tabby.Morrel (Maximilien, that is) runs full tilt from what appears to be Valentine's deathbed to plead with Monte Cristo for help – and then takes two minutes by the iPod counter nattering away before he even asks to send Baptistan to check on her, and then insists on relating the whole story to Monte Cristo with more regard, it seems, for whether he should go to the police than to, as I expected, ask Monte Cristo to try and save the girl. I just don't know.The evolution, if I can call it that, of Caderousse is strange. He is introduced as an acquaintance, a neighbor, whom Dantès knows to be not quite trustworthy (he takes steps to protect the money). It's a terrible first impression – he is an obvious enemy from the beginning, with no real reason – jealousy because Dantès is young and handsome and beloved? Later, though, he is stricken with remorse, and doesn't like what is proposed for Dantès. He doesn't do anything to stop it or come forward once it's done, but he doesn't like it. When he is revisited later he is a hard-luck case, bitter and almost sympathetic – until abruptly he not only reverts to the initial bad impression but turns out to actually be one of the nastiest pieces of work I've read about in a while, and I felt like a sucker for believing he wasn't so bad.The "death" of Valentine … first, even knowing how cold and purged of feeling Monte Cristo was, I was shocked at his casualness over whoever was dying. Ah well, I've been watching gleefully as they fall one by one – who now, Noirtier? So what? Valentine? Oh well!Then the cruelty with which he tricks both Noirtier and Maximilien – was that absolutely necessary? Especially the pain he caused Max, one of the family on whom he was committed to the opposite of revenge. He breaks into Morrel's room – what, about seven minutes before he was about to eat his gun? It was obvious from Max's frantic visit to Casa Cristo how much in love he was with Val – How could MC not say to him, and say "here's the thing. I gave Valentine an elixir to feign death, so that I could flush out her killer and get all sorts of revenge on her father. She's ok. She's not really dead. If you can't hide that, please stay put in your rooms until she comes back to life, 'kay? I don't want to screw this up." But no. He just 'killed' her off, let Noirtier suffer abominably – a complete paralytic whose only joy in life, his only pleasure, really, was this girl, with no guarantee that the boy who loved her would ever even think of him again once she was gone? That's abominable. And letting Morrel suffer, stopping off at Danglars's office to rob him blind, dropping in at the burial and only then hunting up his little friend. Gosh, he's upset. Oops. I'll let him go off, though – oh no, he's headed for a bridge -! Oh, ok. And then he busts in at the house and literally busts into Max's room – and what if he had been further delayed? What if there had been traffic, or a line at the bank?I ... don't know. I was glad he began to see some light toward the end, began to become a little more human for a bit - and then he went back to the Chateau d'If, and where I would have hoped he would remember the Abbé's dismay at his thirst for revenge (ah, you remember the Abbé, Edmond? That good man who saved your life, saved your soul, and provided everything you now have? That man who hadn't been mentioned in a few hundred pages?), he hardened back up again and went after Danglars with blood in his eye. Which he had to do – Danglars deserved a comeuppance, and it was fun, I have to say – and he did let him live, sane and hopefully a better man for the experience (doubtful). But ... I just don't know. I don't think he actually forgave Mercédès - he continued to call her faithless to the very end; that whole aspect of the story bothered me a little.And I don't think he ever recovered from the grandiose view of himself as God's instrument of retribution. I think in the end he was every bit as self-absorbed as he was in the middle there; maybe a little less confident in his infallibility, but he did manage to shrug off a lot of responsibility that belonged to him. I can't remember his exact words, but it was along the lines that the Villefort poisoner was entirely on her own - when in fact she might not have ever had the courage and foundation to do what she did without his advice and his gift of a really awesome, irresistible poison. She might - but she might not. He seemed to acknowledge that his interference helped bring about Edouard's death (no loss, but still, he was just a little boy), but not that that same interference almost killed Valentine. And I'm just not happy with leaving Maximilien in misery for months. Was that some sort of test? If you're really still miserable on this date then I'll give you back your beloved? If not, if Max had shown up and said "Nope, I'm good!" - then what?That's exactly why it fell a little flat at the end for me. Monte Cristo leaves a string of broken and ended lives, with the exceptions of the Morrels and Valentine (and Noirtier, though it's almost accidental that he made it), and sails off with his young slave/former slave... It's a great story, but ... I guess, especially given the period when it was written, I was expecting a moral to the story. The only one I can come up with is "If someone wrongs you, take them down hard; collateral damage may occur, but there are very few people worth saving anyway". In the end it left a sort of empty feeling. It's an adventure, a huge sprawling rarely-dull tale … but I guess that just wasn't the ending I felt it needed.
What does it say about me as a critic when the best book I’ve read all year was first serialized in the 1840s? From start to finish thoroughly enjoyable, Alexandre Dumas’ 1200 page revenge epic The Count of Monte Cristo wastes little time in not thrusting the plot along, quite violently so at times, and includes within a brief, sketchy history of the return of Napoleon and his subsequent second defeat, a primer on hashish, and a proto-seed for the detective tale that would later blossom under Poe and Doyle.The story is less well known than that in The Three Musketeers, though the outline is familiar to anyone who’s spent time reading and watching noir fiction and movies. A young sailor, Edmond Dantès, engaged to be married to the beautiful Mercédès, is accused of a crime he has not committed by a man in love with his fiancée. The accuser, Fernand, is assisted in his perfidy by one of Dantès’ shipmates, Danglars, and an envious neighbor, Caderousse, as well as the political calculations of the young royal prosecutor Villefort. Cast into prison for fourteen years, Dantès befriends an Abbé written off by prison officials as crazy who bequeaths to him on his deathbed a hidden fortune. Escaping from prison, Dantès finds the treasure, buys himself the title of Count, and returns to France to put into effect his long-nurtured schemes of revenge.All of that takes place within the novel’s first 250 pages. The remaining one thousand allows the plot of slow-planned revenge time to stretch its legs, look about, and move forward with the inexorable pacing of Fate. Dantès, now in his persona of the Count (as well as in other various disguises such as the Englishman Lord Wilmore and the Italian Abbé Busoni), plots a revenge that capitalizes on each character’s weakness and vanity.Sensing the malevolence in Villefort’s young wife, he introduces her to a sleeping draught/poison of his own devising, with which she begins to poison members of the prosecutor’s family in an attempt to secure a sizable inheritance for her son by a previous marriage. Through one scheme after another he reduces the proud banker that Danglars has become to a penniless wreck. A similar betrayal in Fernand’s past is resuscitated in part by the Count and rises up to disgrace him permanently. Caderrouse destroys himself through his own base greed and cunning.All of this unfolds with delicious grace, and you relish each move the Count makes in his ongoing revenge, but underneath it all, a creeping note begins to sneak into the story. When Dantès himself was sent to prison, it was an action aimed solely at him by the three conspirators, and yet the ripples of this violence stretched outwards, consuming his fiancée Mercédès; crippling the business of his former employer Morrel, who never found a young captain equal to Dantès; and crushing the life out of Dantès’ father, who eventually died of starvation. The Count comes to see, through his friendships with the next generation of all the major players, how his actions cause grief and suffering that extend beyond the targets of his own revenge.This realization makes up the novel’s closing chapters wherein the Count mulls over the right of vengeance and the notion of redemption and comes to peace with his idea of a godly revenge. Partly this is inspired by an earlier episode when he is required to save the life of Villefort’s daughter as she is in love with (and is loved by) Morrel’s son Maximilian. But also a great deal of this has to do with Dantès’ love for Mercédès, as well as his newfound love for Haydée, a young Greek, daughter of the Ali Pasha, and his (Dantès’) slave.In fact, these are the twin threads around which the entirety of the story revolves, love and revenge. It is Fernand’s love for Mercédès that leads to his conspiracy against Dantès. It is Dantès love for Mercédès that keeps him alive in prison. It is Maximilian Morrel’s love of Valentine Villefort that saves her life, as much as it is Dantès’ love of Maximilian’s father. Likewise, Madame de Villefort’s love of her son directs her toward her poisoning scheme.And while it is Dantès’ revenge that brings every character to a reckoning, there is in each of the characters’ pasts delinquent accounts that eventually must be paid, a revenge against them by Fate of which Dantès is only the tool. Caderousse’s backstabbing and betrayals will eventually get the better of him; Villefort’s illegitimate child will also return to play havoc with his name and reputation; Danglars’ cupidity will trap him in a bandit’s layer; and Fernand’s own treachery will lead to his public humiliation.In this, it is as if Dumas is saying that all wicked men carry within them the seeds of their own destruction, carry it close to their hearts as part and parcel of who they are. Those who live to a ripe old age without a calling to the judge, jury, and executioner of Fate are only blessed in that they never double-crossed a Dantès.In part based on a true story, Dumas’ novel runs through its 1200 pages with a leonine hunger and rapidity. While he may have been paid by the line, the man was such an elegant craftsman that it is hard in thinking back through the novel to come up with any one part that could be successfully pared away without hurting much of the novel’s concerns and central conceits. To lose many of the complicated subplots would make a hash of not only Dantès’ schemes and plans, but would also fatally weaken Dumas’ central message of justified vengeance versus pure malevolence.If there is any part of the Count’s character that at times must give the reader pause, it isn’t his heartlessness toward his enemies or his financial profligacy en route to his revenge (he literally tosses around millions of francs), it’s that he lives so strongly for a certain structured effect. The scene of the Morrel family salvation, when Dantès, in his first act since coming to his wealth, rescues his former employer from ruin and suicide, plays itself out up to the very last second. This is no doubt Dumas playing suspense thriller with his readership, but it leaves somewhat of a bad taste. We are given a Count who prefers design to humanity, and while this is all very good for one’s enemies, a bit more heart toward one’s friends would be appreciated.It’s a minor enough quibble in well over a thousand pages that, let me repeat unequivocally, barely lets up or gives you time to turn your attention elsewhere. But it remains, long after other larger scenes have left my memory, as a kind of capricious cruelty. Perhaps we need to be somewhat frightened of the Count ourselves; perhaps it is a warning, slyly inserted well to the beginning of the revenge scenario. See, before you plot yourselves, the author seems to imply, see what inhumanity revenge can make you capable of. It is a haunting suggestion.
What do You think about The Count Of Monte Cristo (2003)?
Revenge is a dish best served cold. And unabridged. And translated from the French by Robin Buss.The greatness of this book can be illustrated by the following simple equations:( + ) < Whereas, the majesty of the Count of Counting added to the deliciousness of a Monte Cristo sandwich from Bennigans still does not overmatch the inherent kickass value of the Dumas novel [which is, it can therefore be said, greater than the sum of its parts, both obsessive-compulsive (The Count) and mouth-wateringly fattening (of Monte Cristo):]. Similarly:( + + ) = The coolness of Batman, once introduced into the equation, thus balances the scales, probably because the Count of Monte Cristo (character) is equal parts Wealthy OCD Recluse, Delicious Sandwich (um, metaphorically), and Batman-like avenger. QED.I don't know how I can be any clearer.Facebook 30 Day Book Challenge Day 16: Longest book you've read.
—j
“In quanto a voi, ecco tutto il segreto della condotta che ho tenuto verso voi: non vi è né felicità né infelicità in questo mondo, è soltanto il paragone di uno stato ad un altro, ecco tutto. Quegli solo che ha provato l’estremo dolore è atto a gustare la suprema felicità. Bisognava aver bramato la morte, per sapere quale bene è vivere. Vivete dunque e siate felici, figli prediletti del mio cuore, e non dimenticate mai che, fino al giorno in cui Iddio si degnerà di svelare all’uomo l’avvenire, tutta l’umana saggezza sarà riposta in queste due parole: Aspettare e sperare.” Sono ormai quasi duecento anni che Il conte di Montecristo si offre alla lettura, dapprima sotto forma di pubblicazione a rata, in seguito come romanzo; e sono dunque quasi duecento anni che se ne parla, che si critica – è uno dei romanzi della letteratura francese più negativamente criticati – che si dice tutto il dicibile, insomma. Potrei quindi decidere di apportare il mio contributo alla sfera di opinione pubblica riguardante questo colosso saccheggiando qua e là, riportando opinioni espresse da altri più o meno affini alla mia, concludendo col dirvi che si tratta di uno dei romanzi più belli che abbia mai letto, e che dovreste leggerlo tutti. Invece, per un atto di onestà intellettuale, nonché per tributare ai 36 giorni di lettura impiegati per conoscere tutte le vicende dell’enigmatico conte, ho deciso anche io di esprimermi quanto più a parole mie, richiamando di quando in quando note al libro curate da qualcuno più ferrato in campo di me – come Umberto Eco che ha curato l’introduzione dell’edizione Bur. Insomma, oggi sono qui a raccontarvi il successo duecentesco di un libro in cui i personaggi si nascondono dietro le tende, sono qui a dirvi perché dopo tutto questo tempo stia ancora in piedi un romanzo in cui tre personaggi sono interpretati dallo stesso e tutti vengano raggirati da questi mascheramenti e nessuno si accorga che tre persone che hanno lo stesso guardo e lo stesso tono di voce…. sono la stessa.Innanzitutto, è un romanzo prolisso, cosa che dovrebbe scoraggiare miriadi di lettori, e che riesce a farlo, ma in realtà sono più quelli che invece si imbarcano nella lettura. Il motivo è semplice: tutti, almeno una volta nella vita, hanno sentito nominarlo. Il conte di Montecristo in libreria è peggio di Gatsby alle sue feste, nessuno l’ha visto, ma tutti sanno che esiste. Quindi, in questo caso, anche chi non l’ha letto sa che esiste e che ci va di mezzo una vendetta. Grazie anche a tutta la trasposizione cinematografica esistente e ai vari ratti di trama che su questo libro sono stati effettuati. Dumas ha scritto uno dei libri più trafugati di sempre, ed è per questo che lo leggiamo tutti, perché ce lo ritroviamo ovunque, e prima o poi ci sentiamo quasi in dovere di leggerlo. E’ come un musulmano che visita La Mecca, un lettore si sente irrimediabilmente spinto e costretto a dirigersi verso Edmond Dantès, almeno una volta nella vita. Va da sé che esistano anche i meno ortodossi, quelli che non lo leggono per puro disinteresse. Ma sanno comunque che c’è e, almeno per sentito dire, di cosa parla. Calvino ce l’ha descritto benissimo in Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore questo processo: Libri Che Tutti Hanno Letto Dunque E’ Quasi Come Se Li Avessi Letti Anche Tu.Dunque, la fama lo precede. Ma smontando il mito della fama, cosa rimane? Un romanzo affascinante, illusorio.. E dietro ciò ancora, cosa rimane? Un romanzo mal scritto. Lo definisce così persino Eco (vi avevo avvertiti che un po’ a lui mi sarei rifatta). Già nei Moschettieri, di cui sin ora ho letto due episodi su tre, era palese che Dumas fosse tutt’altro che uno scrittore sopraffino. Dumas scriveva per soldi, e si vedeva. Più cartelle, più soldi.. Dunque, nella stessa frase, capita di trovare scritte quattro volte le stesse parole. Le ripetizioni fruttavano righe più lunghe, quindi qualcosa in più da mettere a tavola. La pubblicazione a rate importava che si dovesse sempre rispiegare ai nuovi lettori dove si era rimasti, e dunque ci sono vicende che vengono narrate anche tre volte con giri di parole che però, ad un lettore astuto, puzzano un po’. E allora, come ha fatto a entrare nell’Olimpo della letteratura mondiale di tutti i tempi?E’ semplice. La vicenda narrata, stretta intorno ad una vendetta pianificata a lungo, è geniale. Si parte da Marsiglia, si va a Roma e si approda a Parigi, passando ripetutamente per l’isola di Montecristo – uno dovrà anche andare al bancomat in tutto questo – senza che si perdano colpi, senza che si perda un colpo, senza che venga un colpo di noia, o la voglia di chiudere gli occhi. Perdoniamo a Dumas l’imperante morale maschilista e cattolica, le ridondanze palesi per il semplice fatto che questa storia è una droga, toglie il sonno, porta a patteggiare sempre per il giusto (configurato da Dumas eh, mica te lo scegli tu il giusto e sbagliato) e dopo, si soffre di una grave crisi d’astinenza. Gli scrittori dell’Ottocento avevano tra l’altro a disposizione un elemento, un asso nella manica che è mancato a tutti coloro che venivano prima, e a tutti coloro che verranno dopo, ossia il fatto di essere immersi a pieno in un secolo romanzesco. L’Ottocento è un tempo che sa di romanzo prima ancora di entrare, dentro un romanzo. Il duello, l’invito su una carrozza, i veleni, gli abiti, i titoli… Vivevano in un’epoca romanzata, e da questo traevano il prisma del loro fascino. Insomma, nell’Ottocento, si viveva di intrighi in feste a palazzo, son cose che non ci sono più. Gli amanti si parlavano attraverso una barriera e si contentavano di un bacio sulla mano in attesa dell’approvazione paterna… o almeno i più timidi. Perché poi, in realtà, anche allora ci si dava dentro, anzi, più si era cerimoniosi, più ci si dava dentro. Era un secolo teatrale, tutto era il contrario di ciò che appariva.Bene. Ora che abbiamo allestito il palco, mettiamoci sopra gli attori. Il perno di tutta la vicenda è l’uomo più ricco di sempre, più ricco di Onassis, Bill Gates e i politici italiani messi insieme. E si sa che, quando uno è ricco, può tutto. Se credete che l’amore, la speranza, e tante altre care cose siano quelle che salvano un uomo, vi sbagliate di grosso e Dumas – che già avevo visto all’opera nel cercare di aiutare i moschettieri a rimpinguare le finanze in tutti i modi – non lascia passare il messaggio trascurato: quello che ci vuole sono i soldi. Più se ne hanno, meglio è. E il personaggio di Edmond Dantès è il concretizzarsi di questa massima materialista, imparerà a proprie spese (molte, moltissime spese) che essere di buon cuore ripaga molto meno che avere un cuore d’oro: non in senso figurato, niente sensi lati, nel vero senso della parole. Dunque, i soldi. I soldi sono solo il mezzo, il fine è la vendetta. Una vendetta covata tanto a lungo che non potrà che essere malvagia, e Dantès sapeva bene la storiella del piatto freddo, così l’ha servita ghiacciata, anzi, ha servito una cena scaduta: il tempo era finito già da un bel po’ quando è tornato a riscuotere il proprio dazio. Un torto subito – oggi la Cassazione parlerebbe di diffamazione – divide il libro a metà, divide l’uomo Dantès a metà; ce lo presenta giovincello, arriso dalle fortune di una vita semplice, senza lussi, colma di amore, verso il padre e verso una donna, che ad un certo punto viene disilluso e che subisce una profonda trasformazione. Non credete che sia tutto così facile, il nostro Edmond era talmente buono che serviranno interventi divini a illuminargli la strada sul reale susseguirsi degli eventi. Così, da Dantès passiamo al Conte di Montecristo. La psicologia del personaggio cambia drasticamente. E di questo bisogna render conto a Dumas: non avevo mai subito così tanto il fascino di un mutamento. Un giovane, Marsiglia, un torto subito, la vendetta. Non a caso ci va di mezzo il mare, l’elemento naturale più inquietante, che può nascondere cose per sempre e risputarne altre al momento meno adatto. Ecco, intorno a quest’uomo di cui molte lettrici si innamorano, ruota una vicenda lunga 914 pagine. Gli altri personaggi, al confronto, meritano di essere nominati solo un gradino più in basso. E’ lui che tira le redini, che governa la storia, che dirige gli antri più oscuri.Dumas crea un personaggio quasi divino. Un dio vendicatore il cui potere principale è il denaro. Ora, capite perché sono duecento anni che questo libro viene letto? Chi di voi non sogna di essere ricco all’infinito e di potersi vendicare? Magari non avete subito quello che ha subito Dantès, ma voi, giovani ingegneri, cosa dareste per ripagarvi del professore che vi ha bocciato tre volte in Analisi 1? E voi, giovani giuristi, se foste ricchi, non vorreste tanto vendicarvi di quella professoressa che neanche vi guardava in faccia quando vi ha fatto andare via dall’esame di Diritto privato senza nemmeno un misero 18? …lo so, lo so. Al primo colpo d’occhio forse non vi verrebbe in mente di essere cattivi, ma se vi guardate dentro, se scrutate il vostro io più nascosto, state certi che qualche torto che vorreste vendicare lo avete di sicuro.Danglars, Villefort, Caderousse, Fernando non sono che ostacoli da rimuovere, non sono altro che pedine che il Conte vuole e deve far capitolare, seguendo questa missione di cui si è eletto governatore. L’immedesimazione è tale che non ci fermiamo a riflettere se esista una reale commisurazione della pena, chi stia effettivamente dalla parte del giusto.. Dumas ci presenta i fatti in un modo e noi li accogliamo come tali, da una parte il giusto, il giusto dumasiano, e per tanto, anche il nostro, dall’altra lo sbagliato dumasiano, e, inevitabilmente, anche il nostro. Qualche arguto che sfugge dall’ingranaggio c’è, ma la maggior parte di noi entra in questa rete binaria, e non ne esce. Poi, nel mio caso, non ne vuole uscire. Mi sta bene così, c’è un torto, un danneggiato, dei danneggiatori, la sentenza è chiusa. Solo, mi lascia perplessa questo ruolo di princeps adottato da Dumas, che al Super-Uomo dannunziano gli fa un baffo.Le donne di questo romanzo si dividono in due categorie: quelle che si danno da fare e quelle altre che invece sono ferme al davanzale, insomma, i prototipi perfetti di Bella di Twilight. Queste donne amano, distruggono, nell’intimità della casa maritale ordiscono trame inenarrabili e sopratutto, mandano puntualmente all’aria tutti i piani dei padri e degli uomini in generale. E, udite, udite, abbiamo una delle pochissime storie romanzate ottocentesche in cui appare una storia omosessuale. Non ne parlo come se il caso rientrasse nel museo delle curiosità, ma per far comprendere la modernità di Dumas e per rendergli grazie per questo tributo all’umanità che compie le proprie scelte almeno per una volta in veste femminile. Non pensavo che la misoginia di questo scrittore avrebbe mai permesso di entrare in scena ad una storia così poco comune e così, per l’epoca (e forse anche per ora, l’ottusità è restia a venir meno), scandalosa.Di Mercedes e Haydèe non parlerò. Gli affari sentimentali del principale personaggio sono cosa talmente soggettiva che nessuno dovrebbe indirizzare l’opinione altrui. Posso solo dire – per chi l’ha letto – che a fine romanzo avrei dato una pacca sulla spalla al nostro Dantès, conte di Montecristo. Solo voglio tributare nei confronti ad Haydèe una delle frasi-chiave del romanzo, tu, tu sei dappertutto, dice questa al nostro eroe enigmatico. Ed è facile capire che non si tratta di un complimento a caso, di una stucchevole dichiarazione d’amore, ma di uno dei tanti indizi dumasiani sparsi nel libro per farci comprendere l’essenza di ciò che Dantès è diventato. Egli può tutto, è dotato addirittura del dono dell’ubiquità.Insomma, tutto in questo romanzo sa di grandioso. Il titolo che Dantès decide di darsi, questo nome così tenebroso, parla da solo, richiama il tono divino che si è ben deciso a interpretare. Le due città nelle quali si dipana la vicenda, Parigi e Roma, sono tutt’ora due delle più imponenti al mondo. I cattivi son proprio cattivi cattivi, non ci sono sconti. Le donne sono le protagoniste di grandi tragedie. In nome di tutto ciò, perdoniamo le ripetizioni, sia di parole che di narrazione. Qualsiasi spiraglio di vicenda che viene aperto, si richiude, nulla è lasciato al caso, l’autore ha concluso qualsiasi avventura fatta iniziare. In nome del fatto che, anche secondo me, aspettare e sperare è il miglior metodo per migliorarsi per poi dare lo scacco matto al destino e alle persone che se lo meritano. In nome di tutto ciò chiudiamo l’occhio su certi espedienti del conte che può tutto, persino inscenare e poi rettificare la morte. In nome di tutto questo grandioso impianto, Il conte di Montecristo è uno dei romanzi più perfetti che io abbia letto.
—Luana
One of those books which you really should read the original, even though everyone knows the story from countless movie versions, etc. It's probably the best story of injustice and revenge ever told.2012 RereadOkay, really it's a first read, since I only read the abridged version as a child.Mon dieu! This was 53 hours as an audiobook, guys! I listened to the unabridged version of The Count of Monte Cristo in my car, and my commute isn't that long, so it took about two months.Don't make fun of Dickens' wordiness until you've read Dumas. He is wordy as heck and makes up a hundred little side-stories and indulges the reader who wants to know the final fate of every single minor character. But if you want to dive into a big thick juicy scheming revenge novel with a moral at the end, The Count of Monte Cristo is full of more adventure and spectacle than Dickens would ever deign to write. (Though Anthony Trollope's The Way We Live Now did for greedy scurrilous English bankers and hoity-toits what Dumas does for the French.)So, you probably know the bones of the story, because Edmund Dantes is the original Batman. No, his parents aren't murdered in front of his eyes, but two "friends" set him up as a traitor by sending an anonymous letter accusing him of being a Bonapartiste. (19th century French politics play a role here, as the first part of the novel is set during the period when Napoleon was confined to the isle of Elba, and then staged a dramatic return during which he briefly tried to regain the throne.) One of his friends wants his job, the other wants his girl, and Dante has the misfortune to go before a public prosecutor named Villefort, who initially wants to let Dantes go, realizing he's just a poor sap who was set up. However, when it turns out that Dantes unknowingly possesses evidence that Villefort's own father is a Bonapartiste, he instead consigns the hapless sailor to imprisonment in the Château d'If, an island prison off the coast of Marseilles. There, Dantes spends the next fourteen years, during which time he meets another prisoner, a "mad" priest who has been unsuccessfully trying to bribe his jailers to let him go with promises of a fantastic fortune he knows the location of.To make a long story short, Dantes escapes, after having spent fourteen years learning all worldly knowledge from the Abbé Faria. He goes and finds the Abbé's fortune, an ancient Roman treasure, and soon reemerges in Europe as the mysterious Count of Monte Cristo. He's fantastically rich, an expert with all arms, poisons, and finance, he has Muslim servants and a beautiful Greek princess as his slave/ward, and he's buddies with Italian bandits and Mediterranean smugglers. He's a master of disguise and he has an indomitable will. This former sailor now moves as easily among French aristocracy as he does among Italian brigands. Everyone admires and fears him.Seriously, guys, he's freakin' Batman.He spends years acting as an angel of mercy and vengeance, rewarding the deserving, while planning his revenge against the three men who sent him to the Château d'If. The plot is intricate and there are dozens of characters, some of whom wind up interacting in fantastically coincidental ways. Since Dantes has returned from prison as the Batman, of course all his former enemies, who were once just poor scrubs themselves, are now fabulously wealthy and powerful as well, the better for Monte Cristo to bring them down.It's an exceptional story, and a classic adventure. Kids should love it, if you can find a kid with the patience to read almost half a million words of flowery 19th century prose. Adults should also love it. But it's definitely over the top with all its coincidences and larger-than-life characters. Over the top, but a literary masterpiece. You get revenge and adventure and justice and a view of European high and low society in the post-Napoleon era. What elevates it above simple adventure and melodrama, besides the fine storytelling? It's not just Dantes getting even with those who did him wrong (which is how most of the movie versions portray it). In the end, his enemies undo themselves, and the Count of Monte Cristo finally faces the question of whether what he did was right and whether it was all worth it. Like Batman, he's never really going to find peace.This book is totally worth reading -- and don't wimp out with an abridged version. Read the great big whomping unabridged doorstopper. That said, I have to give it only 4 stars, because while it's a classic that deserves its place, I wanted to start a drinking game for every time Dumas describes an "indescribable" expression or someone expresses an "inexpressible" emotion.Okay, here's some word counts:Inexpressible: 3Ineffable: 5Indescribable: 20I don't know what French words they were translated from, but Dumas's writing does get quite purple by modern standards. Where Dickens crafted prosey, clever wordiness, Dumas is just wordy. And all those sordid coincidences! And entire chapters on the origins of various bandits and smugglers and where the asexual lesbian niece runs off to. And let's face it, an uneducated sailor spends fourteen years in prison and comes out as Batman? Come on now, guys. But it's still awesome.
—David
