Period Parody

Cartouche. Robin Hood, as history and Hollywood have depicted him, was a chump. He stole from the rich, gave to the poor, and what did he keep for himself? An invincible virgin named Maid Marian. Fortunately, they do these things better in France. According to this film, a fellow named Cartouche, the Robin Hood of 18th century Paris, stole from the rich, gave to the poor, and what did he keep for himself? Claudia Cardinale.

"All you need to be happy," Claudia murmurs at him seductively, "is hay." But Cartouche (Jean-Paul Belmondo) is not convinced. He is obviously fond of hay, but he is also fond of lettuce. In a series of dramatic robberies he acquires so much of it that he becomes a power in the kingdom: a state within a state, a law without the law. At his command men kneel and women lie down. "Paris is mine!" he cries.

Not all of Paris. Like most men who have everything, Cartouche wants something he can't have: the police chief's wife (Odile Versois). Poor Claudia is heartbroken, and of course Odile turns out to be a mantrap. At that point the gang is willing to let its leader hang, but good old Claudia lays down her life to save her friend, and at the fade Cartouche sets his face to the foe and prepares to join her in death.

No sniffling, please. This isn't a romantic tragedy. It's a costume comedy. It was made by Philippe de Broca, the same French director who recently employed Belmondo in a travesty of a thriller called That Man from Rio, and while Cartouche is seldom as funny as That Man, it nevertheless comes off as a careless but carefree and occasionally hilarious parody of a period piece.

In the way of parody the film wildly exaggerates the usual low jinks and high heroics--in one scene, for example, Belmondo insouciantly ignores a veritable army of pursuers to make cozy conversation with Cardinale. "My dear," he proposes tenderly as the bullets buzz about his ears, "you must give me a son." She smiles weakly and replies: "Later, if it's all the same to you." And on the side of spectacle the picture provides plenty of snazzy swordsmanship and some attractive Eastman Color. In the last reel, indeed, the screen divulges an image of luminous splendor: in death the pallid Claudia, swathed in red velvet and shimmering with stolen gems, lies sleeping in the moonlight in a golden carriage, lies sleeping like a princess in a legend while her glowing hearse rolls richly through the darkness and sinks down down down into the still black crystal of a forest pool.

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