Dear friend (for as such I beg leave to address you, my good reader),
As this is a review of a recent audio dramatisation of Choderlos de Laclos’ 1782 epistolary novel Les Liaisons Dangereuses, a tale which may justly be deemed one of the greatest novels of the eighteenth century, I have decided to set down my observations in the form of a letter, as an homage to the said novel, which is one of my favourite books of all time.
To begin: actress and writer Sian Ejiwunmi-LeBerre has adapted Laclos’ masterful study of intrigue, manipulation, and the ensuing emotional wreckage into an irresistible two-part audio drama (available on BBC Sounds). The script gallops along at a brisk pace — each episode is about an hour long —, and yet much of the original source material remains intact (which I am certain will delight my fellow Laclos devotees).
LeBerre’s take on the tale deftly balances this textual fidelity with a scintillating irreverence; the script is peppered with pertinent sounds which nod to both the 18th century and our own age, including phone notifications when rumours are made public, snatches of classical music to emphasize dramatic narrative twists, and most prominently, LeBerre as The Narrator, whose function is somewhat similar to that of Laclos’ fictional Editor, though she assumes a more active role here, engaging directly with the characters over the course of the narrative.
Speaking of the characters brings me to my next point — namely, the utter marvellousness of the cast.
Tanya Moodie’s Madame de Merteuil is wondrously serpentine, her cool, deliberate tones exuding cunning, sensual allure, and, most importantly, an overabundance of self-assurance, which proves her fatal flaw. LeBerre skillfully weaves in an amusing nod to our online cancel culture in Merteuil’s comeuppance.
Ray Fearon makes her co-conspirator Count Valmont thoroughly fascinating, yet detestable; his suave magnetism is equally weighed with his more loathsome aspects, in particular his seduction of Cécile.
LeBerre’s Narrator shines in this moment, furiously interrupting Valmont’s description of the deed; likewise, the ensuing brief dialogue makes Fearon’s portrayal especially despicable.
The Narrator is shocked to find that, after obtaining the key to Cécile’s bedroom, rather than engineer a rendezvous for the girl with her beloved Danceny, Valmont let himself into her room. ‘You did?’ she exclaims. He shushes her, then continues, describing his initial plan to pass himself off to Cécile as a dream while she slept, at which point the Narrator hisses: ‘We need to talk about consent!’
‘She consented,’ he counters insouciantly.
‘Not to you,’ the Narrator replies, which seems to hint at Cécile’s emotional commitment to Danceny (which caused her to give Valmont the key to her room in the first place so as to receive and reply to his letters clandestinely).
Valmont’s callous retort is chilling: ‘What’s the difference? She had no idea what she consented to.’
However, despite his evident cruelty, Fearon’s Count retains an alluring appeal; I couldn’t resist an amused smile at his beyond-the-grave gleeful crowing about his victory over Merteuil due to the publication of their correspondence.
Melody Grove offers a richly nuanced take on Lady Tourvel. She begins in tentative, thoughtful tones befitting the pious, pure, wide-eyed (lest we forget, Tourvel is only twenty-two, and thus still quite impressionable) wife. As she gradually becomes completely enmeshed in Valmont’s web of seduction and finally yields to him, her timbre shifts to a languorous, lyrical lilt; then after his desertion, she expires in gasps and moans of agonizing heartbreak. In short, Grove’s compelling portrayal skillfully depicts the inner turmoil of Laclos’ pathetic heroine.
In the role of Valmont’s other victim, the convent-educated naïf Cécile de Volanges, Nicola Coughlan is, quite frankly, a revelation. In most of the various adaptations of Laclos’ novel that I have encountered, Cécile’s adversities are given little consideration, since they are deemed pitiful, but dramatically inferior to Tourvel’s turbulent emotional torment — or, even more disturbingly, her misery is played for laughs and she is made a source of comedic relief, when in fact there is nothing amusing about a young woman’s seduction and manipulation. Coughlan’s Cécile, however, is something altogether more complex — she molds a character generally considered a supporting role into a fully-fledged heroine, albeit a considerably more malleable one than Tourvel.
Despite my familiarity with Laclos’ intricately-crafted characterisations, I had never considered that Cécile’s reason for entering the convent after Valmont’s death might in fact be the one which LeBerre’s adaptation gives her, namely, heartbreak for her seducer. I’d entertained various possible motivations for her taking of the veil, including shame at the loss of her virginity, a desire to seek solace for her trauma in faith, and misery at losing Danceny, but never the explanation this Cécile gives, moving in its childlike simplicity: ‘I miss Valmont! He made me laugh.’ It’s in keeping with Coughlan’s characterization of this young woman, who is (at the story’s outset) giggly, winsome, and hopeful; of course she would be drawn to someone who encourages her sense of humour. To reiterate: Coughlan’s portrayal of Cécile brilliantly encompasses the character’s journey from an endearingly giddy schoolgirl to a young woman in the throes of grief for her lost love.
Sid Sagar’s Danceny is suitably charming, impassioned, and (at the tale’s end) disillusioned; likewise, Juliet Cowan’s take on Lady Volanges, Cécile’s emotionally distant, status-and-appearance obsessed mother, is perfectly pitched in its blend of smugness and apprehension. Amanda Boxer, as Lady Rosemonde, offers a steady, worldly-wise counterpoint to the other characters’ calculations, carnality, and confusion.
To conclude: this is a thoroughly enjoyable adaptation, and I encourage you, dear friend, to give it a listen, even if you perhaps balk at its flippancy. LeBerre herself acknowledges her script’s cheekiness; she closes out both episodes reading the credits, beginning with ‘Dangerous Liaisons, by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, was disrespected in a new version by me, Sian Ejiwunmi-LeBerre.’ It’s a delectably disrespectful take on Laclos’ beloved novel.