The result is all ruff and no tumble. Surprisingly, given that Wallace wrote Braveheart, the blade clashes bore, and Dumas's tale of undying allegiance dulls into puerile farce and ludicrous derring-do. Byrne, Irons, and Malkovich are hopelessly vapid, and comic-relief Depardieu nuzzles his schnoz into too many hiked-up bosoms. Even the double dose of Leo won't keep the Tiger Beat crowd happy; his stubbleless cheeks, of course, spend much of the film behind heavy headgear.