Gladiator: Self-pity is not box-office

The 1950s were a time of great confusion for Hollywood. A government ruling forced the studios to relinquish their ownership of theaters, depriving them of a guaranteed showcase for their product. The House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), claiming subversive messages were being planted in Hollywood films, instituted a witch-hunt that gave birth to the still controversial “blacklist.” And a booming post WWII economy meant the American public could afford diversions other than movies, including television, which brought entertainment into the living room free of charge.

If Hollywood was powerless against the government and a vastly altered economy, it did meet the challenge of television. Cinemascope, a process that turned the once square movie screen into a huge rectangle, was introduced along with stereophonic sound. But Hollywood also needed blockbuster themes to fill that space, so they created the “spectacle.” You weren’t going to find a recreation of ancient Rome on I Love Lucy, or a slave rebellion on The Tonight Show, so the movies brought us The Robe, The Ten Commandments, and Ben-Hur.

The fact that most of these films had Biblical themes may have been a way for Hollywood to show HUAC that the industry was not as subversive as Senator Joseph McCarthy claimed, but it was also a way to sneak in something else TV couldn’t offer: SEX! Salome didn’t dance in a raincoat, and Bathsheba didn’t tempt David while wearing a flannel nightgown. "Historical accuracy” (as filmmakers loosely defined it) helped Hollywood slip a lot of cleavage past the censors.

Like any genre, the “spectacle” faded from view, partly due to changing tastes, but also due to economics. A "cast of thousands" actually cost millions, and so did all those sets and costumes. But in 1995, Braveheart showed how computer technology could turn an army of a hundred into an army of thousands. So now, at a still astronomical cost of $100 million, Dreamworks and Universal bring forth Gladiator, directed by Ridley Scott and starring Russell Crowe, a recent Oscar nominee for The Insider, but still better known as Bud White, the short-tempered cop of L.A. Confidential.

What's it about?

In his one of his essays on Hollywood, author Gore Vidal (an uncredited writer on Ben-Hur) let the screenwriter whom he called the Wise Hack, explain the ingredients for a successful movie. The writers of Gladiator haven't strayed from the formula one bit.

"First you identify your characters. Then you show us your problem. Then you bring on your hero. Then you kick him in the balls. Then you show how he takes that kick. Does he feel sorry for himself? Never. Because self-pity is not box-office."

The problem in Gladiator is that the Emperor is dying. As his successor, the Emperor chooses a Roman General named Maximus (yes, Maximus. Names like Bob and Ralph never caught on in ancient Rome). Maximus is our hero. Ah, but the dying Emperor has a son, Commodus, who believes he is entitled to the title. So, before Maximus' appointment is made public, Commodus (commode?), murders his father, proclaims himself Emperor, then provides our hero with a kick to the groin by sentencing Maximus to death.

So, how does our hero take that kick to the groin?

Pretty well.

Maximus escapes execution, is sold as a gladiator (ala Spartacus), and soon becomes a big hit with the bloodthirsty crowd, and never does he show self-pity. Can his revenge against Commodus be far behind?

When a movie's running time is in the neighborhood of three hours, yes, it can be, and is, far behind, but we know his revenge is inevitable. After all, this isn't the first movie we've seen.

Whether or not Gladiator's box-office success is inevitable is another matter, but as "spectacles" go, it is sufficiently spectacular. If it lacks the inflated dignity of Ben-Hur and the passion of Spartacus, it easily outstrips any of those made in Italy "spectacles" starring Steve Reeves. There's plenty of violence, including beheadings, the cutting off of hands, and other forms of carnage. These aren't the kind of things Fred Astaire described in the song, "That's Entertainment!" but Fred is dead, my friends, and brutality is apparently what the people prefer these days.

In those rare moments when heads aren't flying off of necks and the blood ceases to flow, Gladiator is often a feast for the eyes, but the role that computers played in the making of the film is obvious once too often. Even when it's not obvious, somehow the "spectacle" isn't as impressive when you know it was generated at a keyboard, rather than built brick by brick by human hands. The somewhat washed-out colors of the sloppily choreographed battle sequences suggest the influence of Saving Private Ryan (also a Dreamworks production), and the script shows the influence of spectacles past with one notable difference. If there is even one fleeting reference to Christianity or anything Biblical, I missed it. There's no longer a Senator Joe McCarthy to appease, and, besides, "political correctness" demands that every religion be given equal time. Self-pity isn't box office, and neither is alienating a ticket buying customer whose own beliefs, or lack thereof, do not gel with the storyline.

Russell Crowe is both strong and sympathetic in the lead role. In beefing up for the film, he wisely resisted the temptation to look like he just stepped out of a Beverly Hills health club. He manages to look like an authentic gladiator rather than a Playgirl centerfold. A good actor who has yet to achieve stardom, Crowe isn't likely to get a better shot at the big time than this.

The rest of the cast is also quite good. Certainly, any movie that finds room for both Richard Harris (as the dying Emperor) and the late Oliver Reed (who died during filming) already has much in its favor. Like Dennis Hopper, Bruce Dern, and Christopher Walken, Harris and Reed are born "characters," and, as such, don't need much assistance from the screenwriter. These two are almost always worth watching.

Even this early into the year 2000, I can safely say that Ridley Scott's film is not the best picture of the year. But since Hollywood loves an epic, it won't surprise me if the voting members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences smile broadly on Gladiator next year, just as it honored Mel Gibson's forgettable Braveheart in 1995. If Gladiator isn't worthy of the best picture Oscar, it's still a pretty good, generally thoughtful, if predictable, entertainment. In other words, it's exactly what Mr. Vidal's Wise Hack recommended.

For those of us old enough to remember the glory days of the "spectacle," the main appeal of Gladiator may be that it's kind of nostalgic. For younger viewers, it may provide a good introduction to the genre. It certainly beats another sequel to Scream.

Brian W. Fairbanks

Originally published at Paris Woman Journal
© 2000 Brian W. Fairbanks


BUY HERE

Joan Crawford: A dominatrix out west in Johnny Guitar

In his later years, the great Orson Welles often dined with author Gore Vidal. During one of their get-togethers, the film giant told the literary lion how humbling it was to hear French film critics suggest he was one of only three film directors worthy of consideration as a true artist. However, Welles also complained that these same critics who flattered him were also masters of what he called "the unexpected letdown." The letdown came when Welles discovered that the trio of which he was a part included not only D.W. Griffith, whom Welles greatly admired, but also Nicholas Ray, whom he did not.

Yes, Nicholas Ray, not Hitchcock, Huston, Kubrick, Ford, Lubitsch, or Wilder, but Nicholas Ray, the director of They Live By Night, Rebel Without a Cause, In a Lonely Place, the remake of King of Kings and the cult favorite Johnny Guitar. Francois Truffaut may have hailed Ray as "the poet of nightfall," and Martin Scorcese can gush over Johnny Guitar all he wants but, fact is, Welles was right to feel deflated. Ray may very well be an "auteur" whose films present a consistent personal vision, but he is not a great auteur on the level of the creators of Birth of a Nation and Citizen Kane. But Ray’s work is highly regarded by film buffs, and rightfully so. The 1954 western Johnny Guitar is a minor classic, not really a western at all but a bizarre psychological study laced with insightful social commentary.

The plot has Joan Crawford maintaining a powerful hold on a boom town where the railroad promises to bring even more boom. Crawford operates a casino on the outskirts of town and she’s buying more and more property, poised to become the West’s ultimate dominatrix. She’s also suspected of having led the robbery of a stagecoach, a crime that claimed the brother of Mercedes McCambridge who despises Crawford and wants to run her out of town. The reversal of gender roles is the most interesting aspect of this movie, the first western in which two women wear the pants and dominate the proceedings. The tension between these two is considerable, and it’s no wonder. Crawford, apparently resentful that there was another woman in the cast, allegedly did one of her Mommie Dearest numbers on her co-star, making life hell for the poor actress throughout the shoot.

The women’s strength is enhanced by the casting of two comparatively weak actors in the leading male roles. Sterling Hayden plays Johnny Guitar with that look of goofy detachment that was always his trademark. Hayden came into his own as an actor with Dr. Strangelove and The Long Goodbye in roles that capitalized on his considerable eccentricity (primarily showcased in a 1977 appearance on Tom Snyder’s Tomorrow program), but that was still a decade away. For now, even the quality films in which he starred, including John Huston’s The Asphalt Jungle, were treated like B films by their studios because Hayden was primarily a B actor.

Scott Brady is in a lesser league than Hayden, an actor whose name you recognize but whose face you can never seem to place, even when you’re staring directly at it. Like Hayden, Brady is wiped clean off the screen by Crawford and McCambridge.

The supporting cast is a little stronger. Western vets Ward Bond, Royal Dano, and John Carradine are on hand, along with a pre-Marty Ernest Borgnine. And, of course, you have Paul Fix. Hell, you always have Paul Fix. The man has been in almost every western ever made, usually appearing as a sheriff or doctor.

Johnny Guitar is visually beautiful. Filmed on location in gorgeous Sedona, Arizona in a process called Tru-Color ("by Consolidated," as the announcer excitedly shouts in the trailer), the colors are frequently so bright there’s an almost 3D quality at work. Joan Crawford’s overly red lips jump off the screen (yes, I know, it’s a frightening thought), and this effect is heightened by the contrast in the costumes. While the Crawford camp generally favor colorful attire, the forces led by McCambridge dress in black ("Funeral clothes," as Crawford calls them). Perhaps that’s director Ray’s way of suggesting that the supposed good guys are really the villains; dull, colorless people whose lives are ruled by a blind respect for law and order, and are intolerant of lifestyles that are in opposition to their own values. Crawford and company are suspected of misdeeds but the charges are never proven. The shadow of the McCarthy witch hunts hangs heavy over a scene in which a participant in the bank robbery is bullied into implicating Crawford.

The dialogue in Philip Yordan’s screenplay is frequently a hoot. When Hayden is asked for his name and he answers, "Johnny Guitar," Brady says, "That’s no name." That’s not funny in itself, but keep in mind that Brady is playing a character known only as "The Dancing Kid." At the conclusion, there’s also a fairly insipid title song performed by Peggy Lee who co-wrote it with the film’s composer, Victor Young.

Johnny Guitar is a lot of fun with a uniquely kinky touch. It may not be the work of a director worthy of being placed on a pedestal beside D.W. Griffith and Orson Welles but some sort of pedestal is in order for Ray. Rebel Without a Cause is a classic study of alienation with touching performances by James Dean and Sal Mineo. In a Lonely Place is unique because, like Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard, it puts the unsung hero of the cinema, the screenwriter, in the spotlight for a change. It also features one of Humphrey Bogart’s most complex performances. Nicholas Ray ranks somewhere on the level of Samuel Fuller as a director whose films are much more interesting than they were considered to be when first released, though they still fall short of competing with the works of a genius like Welles. And so it is with Johnny Guitar.

Brian W. Fairbanks

© Copyright 1999 Brian W. Fairbanks


BUY HERE