You'll find a table of representative spar dimensions, including the variations from nation to nation, in Dr. Anderson's Rigging of Ships in the Days of the Spritsail Topmast. Not having the kit in front of me, I can't advise how far off the spar dimensions in it are - if at all. My recollection is that the topmasts are too long - but I could be mistaken about that.
It's supposed to be possible to install and strike the topmasts using the gear in the ship, without help from any equipment on shore. The topmast, therefore, has to be of such a length that it can be stood on the deck in front of the lower mast, without the head of the topmast bumping into the top (the round platform at the head of the lower mast). A pair of heavy tackles called topropes run over a pair of "sheaves" in the lower cap (the odd-shaped gadget that sits on top of the lower masthead), and run down through a pair of sheaves built into the heel of the topmast, then up the other side of the lower mast to be secured to an eyebolt underneath the other side of the lower cap. Heaving on the end of the toprope makes the topmast slide upward; its head passes through the round hole in the cap, and the topmast keeps going until the square portion at its heel slips into place in the square hole in the top. Then a wood fitting called a fid is hammered into a smaller, horizontal hole in the heel of the topmast, the topropes are slacked off, and the weight of the topmast is taken by the fid.
One characteristic of French rigging (which Dr. Anderson explains in much more detail) was the shape of the cap. A French cap has a big, distinct, round hump in its after half, with a pair of grooves in it. Those grooves form the "sheaves" over which the topropes passed. (In some cases there may have been a genuine sheave, with an axle, built into the cap.) The typical English cap was a simple oblong shape with a pair of holes in it (one square, for the lower masthead; one round, for the topmast) and four eybolts in its underside. Two of the eyebolts took the bitter ends of the topropes; the other two had big single blocks hooked in them, and the blocks performed the same function as the grooves over the tops of the caps in French ships. The English apparently were in the habit of setting up the topropes only when hoisting or striking the topmasts; French ships seem to have left their topropes set up all the time.
My recollection (which is old and unreliable) is that the Heller topmasts are so long that the topmasts won't fit between the deck and the tops. That obviously can't be right.
This sort of thing is pretty fundamental to understanding how the rigging of a ship works - the sort of thing that the people who designed the Heller kit apparently did not understand. (There's ample evidence in that kit that its designers simply did not understand the basic principles of rigging. They learned something about it before they designed their H.M.S. Victory, though the rigging diagrams in that kit have more than their share of silly, irrational mistakes.)
I say again: if you want to understand how the real thing worked, you just plain need to get at least one book about the subject and read it. In this particular case, the Anderson book is the one to get - maybe as a second book, after Campbell's Neophyte Shipmodeler's Jackstay.
For the record, in fifty years of ship modeling I've never built one in which "everything is measured accurately to ensure that the scale is perfect," or "everything is...as it was on its real counterpart," or "the colors are exact." (Nobody knows enough about pre-twentieth-century ships to establish their colors with the accuracy that airplane, armor, and modern warship modelers take for granted.) Nor would I claim for an instant that my "patience is impeccable." (To me, patience, per se, is a relatively minor part of the hobby. The guy who stands at a machine all day, month after month, stamping out thousands of identical parts has patience. The secretary who sits at a desk typing from dictation forty hours a week has patience. Ship modeling does involve some repetition, and that's the part of the hobby I like least. But it's a relatively small part of the total picture.) I'm not as easily pleased by ship models as some people, but a really good one has at least as much of a "wow factor" for me as it does for anybody else - maybe more. I have to accept the "historian" label; if I didn't, the state of North Carolina would be reluctant to pay my salary. But I know lots of outstanding scale modelers who wouldn't dream of calling themselves historians. It's difficult, if not impossible, to be a serious scale ship modeler without reading books, but the hobby most emphatically does not require a college degree in history.
It's certainly true that no kit is perfect. They all make compromises, either in order to be "buildable" by the average purchaser, or because of the limitations of the media, or because of financial considerations. That's largely why some modelers refuse to have anything to do with kits at all, claiming that the only "real" model is the scratch-built model. I obviously don't take that position.
The difference between a good scale model kit and a bad one is, obviously, largely a difference of degree. Each modeler has to decide just where the line between acceptability and unacceptability lies. To me personally, for instance, the Revell 1/32-scale Japanese Zero is an unacceptable kit; the Hasegawa one is better than acceptable; and the Tamiya one is outstanding. (Geez, I wish I could afford it.) I rather suspect that a large percentage of experienced aircraft modelers would agree with that assessment - though some would probably say I'm being too easy on Hasegawa. And the Heller Victory is better than acceptable. If I were interested in building a model of that ship, that's the kit I'd buy. (I'd certainly choose it over any of the dozen or so HECEPOB Victory kits.) The Heller Soleil Royal, on the other hand, lies considerably below the line. Again, I'm struck by the inconsistent standards of different genres within the hobby. It represents reality less accurately than that poor old Revell Zero does. It suffers from so many mistakes that it almost literally would be easier to start from scratch. And it's ludicrously obvious (now; I obviously didn't realize it when I bought mine, those many years ago) that the people who designed it simply didn't know what they were doing. That's why, knowing what I know now (and didn't know thirty years ago), I wouldn't consider buying such a thing.
I certainly agree that it would be nice if sailing ship modelers had the choices available to them that the aircraft, armor, and modern warship modelers do. (Who would have dreamed that the day would come when we could pick between 1/700 Essex-class carriers from three manufacturers?) If the plastic sailing ship kit had evolved like its counterparts in those other areas have, we'd have a beautiful, accurate Mary Rose, Sovereign of the Seas, H.M.S. Prince, H.M.S. Resolution, H.M.S. Centurian, Santissima Trinidad, Flying Cloud, Archibald Russell, and heaven knows what others to choose from. Tamiya and Dragon would be competing to see who could make the best 1/96-scale blocks and deadeyes, and the aftermarket companies would be deluging us with resin and photo-etched brass aftermarket parts specifically designed for the latest plastic ships to come on the market. And the Heller Soleil Royal, like the Revell Zero, would be regarded as a 30-year-old piece of garbage by comparison. And ship modelers would be dismissing it with the same sort of language they currently apply to the Heller 1/400 H.M.S. Hood (which was released at about the same time - and is, in most respects, slightly better in terms of accuracy). Unfortunately, the kit manufacturers have abandoned us. The difference between Grymm and me seems to be that he thinks that particular kit is worth buying and building anyway. I don't.