If the creators of the latest film version of Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo adapted Moby Dick, not only would the movie end with a triumphant Ahab fatally harpooning the great beast, but at the subsequent barbecue the crusty captain would also apologize to his Pequod crew—who've lived to tell the tale—for being so obsessive and crabby.

Adapting a massive novel into a faithful feature film is an unenviable job, but two notable successes in the last year have shown it's entirely possible. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was almost a scene-for-scene version of the book, while Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Rings seduced even rabid Tolkien fans with its stunningly persuasive re-creation of Middle Earth.

With The Count of Monte Cristo, of course, there's an added complexity: not just Dumas' novel itself to take into account but also a number of earlier film versions. In general, the more a classic has been adapted in various incarnations, the freer a movie or stage director feels to depart from the original. So adaptations of Shakespeare often take wild liberties—setting Romeo and Juliet in a garish city resembling Miami (Baz Luhrmann's 1996 version) or envisioning Hamlet's Denmark as a corporation in present-day New York (the 2000 film with Ethan Hawke).

When such bold reimaginings work, as these examples do, we don't carp about inaccuracies, because the adaptation has stayed true to the spirit of the original. At times, such an overhaul produces a film arguably better than its source. Forrest Gump is one example. The book by Winston Groom is meandering and ridiculous, featuring an ape as Forrest's best friend. The movie (winner of 1994's Best Picture Oscar) overcame these flaws.

But many movies that stray from their origins are not as well conceived, and it is difficult to understand the motivation behind the drastic changes. If the departures from the original seem capricious, out of touch with the heart of the work, even small discrepancies quickly become irritations, and radical changes become intolerable.

In this new Monte Cristo, directed by Kevin Reynolds (Waterworld, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves), Dumas' story serves only as a bare framework for the movie's plot: the good guy, Edmond Dantès, has everything going for him; jealous bad guys take it away; and the good guy returns as a new man to seek revenge. Except for character names and locations, the film more closely resembles 1998's The Mask of Zorro than it does Dumas' novel.

Why wouldn't the filmmakers have been content with the adventure, intrigue, and complex themes of Dumas' actual story? Granted, capturing the nuances of a novel like The Count of Monte Cristo would be a daunting challenge, but one wonders whether screenwriter Jay Wolpert read more than the first quarter of the book.

Some liberties are understandable (more action and fewer characters), and a few are entertaining additions (Napoleon gets screen time, for instance), but others (above all, the absurd Hollywood happy ending) sacrifice essential themes and meanings of the story. By changing the way Dantès executes his revenge and the consequences of those actions, this "reimagined" Monte Cristo consequently has different messages than Dumas' tale.

One of the most interesting differences is the way Dantès' faith journey is portrayed. This version places more emphasis on Dantès' Christian faith than most of its film predecessors—and in this sense, it might seem to be truer to the original than many previous adaptations. (It may be worth noting that Kevin Reynolds is the son of Baylor University past president and chancellor Herbert Reynolds, and Dantès is played by devout Catholic Jim Caviezel, who also starred in Frequency, another film with a religious dimension.) But the treatment of faith in the new film is ultimately strikingly different from that in the book.

In both the novel and movie, Dantès is the promising young captain of a shipping boat, and engaged to the beautiful Mercedes. But envious men, each with something to gain, conspire against him. He is jailed in an infamous prison for a crime he did not commit. Well into his 14-year stay, he meets Abbé Faria, a priest who teaches Dantès everything he knows, from languages to economics. When Dantès escapes, he uses the abbé's teachings and treasure to pose as the Count of Monte Cristo and make his enemies suffer as he did.

The book's Dantès is a believer whose faith is confused by his lust for revenge. His anger and need for vengeance blind him. In fact, Dantès begins to see himself as God's angel of divine justice. When Dantès finds the abbé's treasure, he views it as spiritual intervention, a gift from God enabling him to do his justice. For it, Dantès prays and gives thanks.

As Monte Cristo, Dantès tells victims that the punishment he delivers comes not from him but from God: he rewards the good and punishes the evil. He feels his power over life and death was earned by his suffering and "resurrection." Dantès carries out this job methodically and without emotion. However, in the end, he goes too far, and his traps lead to the death of a young boy.

In the final chapter, Dantès confesses that blinding revenge and newfound power led him to sin. In a letter to trusted friends, he writes: "Pray for a man who, like Satan, believed for one moment he was the equal to God, but who now acknowledges in all Christian humility that in God alone is supreme power and infinite wisdom."

In contrast, Caviezel's Dantès is an eager young Christian who turns his back on faith under the pressure of extreme hardship. On his first night in prison, he tells the ruthless atheistic warden that "God is all around, he is in everything." The warden mocks him bitterly, but this doesn't immediately buckle the sailor's faith. When despair tempts him to the brink of suicide, he's saved by staring at a carving on the wall, reading "God will give me justice."

For the next several years, Dantès continuously carves out the dull words until they are deeply chiseled into the stone. The saying drives him; his faith in God keeps him alive. But as before, he gradually loses his will to live. And with it this time goes his faith.

By the time the abbé (Richard Harris) meets Dantès, the young believer has become a bitter man, angry at God and thirsty for revenge. But the priest can see God's hand where Dantès doesn't. He tells Dantès, "Perhaps revenge has served God's purpose of keeping you alive."

As Dantès becomes more attached to thoughts of escape, so grows his need for vengeance. The dying priest acknowledges the passion that is driving the young man by saying, "Do not commit the acts for which you have served the time. Judgment belongs to God." The warning means nothing to Dantès, who coldly replies, "I do not believe in God."

From there, Edmond acts out his vengeance without mercy until an intense meeting with his former fiancée. An excellent exchange between the two shows the former Christian what he shut out in order to enjoy his vengeance. Mercedes tells Dantès that only love can heal his wounds.

"Do not rob me of my hate, it is all I have!" he shouts.

"God has offered us a new beginning," she pleads.

Dantès flinches and looks up. "God! Can I ever escape him?"

"No, he is in everything," Mercedes says.

Still, Dantès continues his plot to trap the men who imprisoned him, and only in the film's final moments does he return to God—after his vengeance is neatly tied up and all is well again. As he walks with Mercedes and their son in front of the former prison—which he has now purchased—he swears to God and the priest's spirit that he will now use his gifts for good and not hatred.

The recurring message of God's presence is a pleasure to see in a Hollywood film, but Dantès' return to faith is a tad too convenient. While the prison carving declared that God would give justice, Dantès himself dispenses justice as he pleases and only then returns to God. In this telling, faith seems like a coat that can be worn when you want it and shed when you have some sinning to do. This unintentional message of justified sin is underscored by an odd joke that occurs twice in the film. In prison, Dantès learns that the priest once lied to authorities about his treasure. Faria replies, "I am a priest, not a saint." Later when Dantès kills a man, he boldly states, "I am a count, not a saint."

Since Reynolds and Wolpert changed so much else from the book anyway, it is too bad their Dantès didn't just stop his Count of Monte Cristo ruse and say, "I am not a count, but I am sorry." Maybe his enemies would have done the same.

Todd Hertz is online assistant editor at Christianity Today magazine.

Copyright © 2002 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture magazine.
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