Blockbusters and the Ancient World: Allegory and Warfare in Contemporary Hollywood 9781788313117, 9781350105034, 9781350105010

Table of contents :
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgements
Introduction
A History of Meaning
Defining the Epic
Notes
Chapter 1: War and Empire: The Ancient World Epic, Combat Films and Genre
An American Empire?
The Epic and Empire
The Combat Film
Notes
Chapter 2: The Time of Achilles: Memory and Warfare in Troy (2004)
Adaptation
The Combat Film
The Storyteller
Notes
Chapter 3: The Dreamers Exhaust Us: Storytellers and the Combat Film in Alexander (2004)
Prometheus Unbound
Alexander as Allegory
The Combat Film
The Unreliable Narrator
Notes
Chapter 4: Is This Sparta?: War, Freedom and America in 300 (2007)
The Spartan Mirage
Analogy, Allegory or Propaganda
The Combat Film
Notes
Chapter 5: Body Politics: Gods, Men and Monsters in 300 (2007) and Greek Mythological Epics
Men and Monsters
The Unreliable Narrator
Gods and Monsters
Notes
Chapter 6: Land of the Free, Rome of the Brave: Faith, Torture and Imperialism in King Arthur (2004)
Roman Britain
King Arthur
Torture
Notes
Chapter 7: American Eagle: Imperialism in The Last Legion (2007), Centurion (2010) and The Eagle (2011)
Centurion
The Eagle
The Last Legion
Notes
Chapter 8: Rome on the Range: The Western in King Arthur (2004), Centurion (2010) and The Eagle (2011)
The Western
King Arthur
Centurion
The Eagle
Notes
Chapter 9: Religious Violence: Christianity and Extremism in Agora (2009)
Religious Conflict
Agora
Notes
Chapter 10: Passion Project: Faith, Horror and Propaganda in The Passion of the Christ (2004)
Directing Traffic
‘Torture Porn’
Supernatural
The Passion as Propaganda
Notes
Chapter 11: The New Wave: Tales of Hercules and the Return of the Biblical Epic
The Legend of Hercules
300: Rise of an Empire
Pompeii
Hercules
Noah
Exodus: Gods and Kings
Risen
Ben-Hur
Notes
Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
Filmography
Works Referenced
Index

Citation preview

BLOCKBUSTERS AND THE ANCIENT WORLD

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BLOCKBUSTERS AND THE ANCIENT WORLD

Allegory and Warfare in Contemporary Hollywood

Chris Davies

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2019 Copyright © Chris Davies, 2019 Chris Davies has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. The opinions expressed in this book are those of the author and do not reflect the views or policies of the BBFC. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. ix constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Terry Woodley Cover image: Olga Kurylenko as Etain in Centurion (2010) (© Entertainment Pictures / Alamy Stock Photo) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-7883-1311-7 ePDF: 978-1-3501-0501-0 eBook: 978-1-3501-0502-7 Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS List of Illustrations vii Acknowledgements ix INTRODUCTION 1 Chapter 1 WAR AND EMPIRE: THE ANCIENT WORLD EPIC, COMBAT FILMS AND GENRE 19 Chapter 2 THE TIME OF ACHILLES: MEMORY AND WARFARE IN TROY (2004)

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Chapter 3 THE DREAMERS EXHAUST US: STORYTELLERS AND THE COMBAT FILM IN ALEXANDER (2004)

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Chapter 4 IS THIS SPARTA?: WAR, FREEDOM AND AMERICA IN 300 (2007)

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Chapter 5 BODY POLITICS: GODS, MEN AND MONSTERS IN 300 (2007) AND GREEK MYTHOLOGICAL EPICS 95 Chapter 6 LAND OF THE FREE, ROME OF THE BRAVE: FAITH, TORTURE AND IMPERIALISM IN KING ARTHUR (2004)

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Chapter 7 AMERICAN EAGLE: IMPERIALISM IN THE LAST LEGION (2007), CENTURION (2010) AND THE EAGLE (2011)

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Chapter 8 ROME ON THE RANGE: THE WESTERN IN KING ARTHUR (2004), CENTURION (2010) AND THE EAGLE (2011)

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Chapter 9 RELIGIOUS VIOLENCE: CHRISTIANITY AND EXTREMISM IN AGORA (2009)

159

Chapter 10 PASSION PROJECT: FAITH, HORROR AND PROPAGANDA IN THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST (2004)

169

vi Contents

Chapter 11 THE NEW WAVE: TALES OF HERCULES AND THE RETURN OF THE BIBLICAL EPIC 185 CONCLUSION 209 Bibliography 213 Filmography 232 Index 239

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Figure 2.1 Figure 2.2 Figure 2.3 Figure 3.1 Figure 3.2 Figure 3.3 Figure 3.4 Figure 4.1 Figure 4.2 Figure 5.1 Figure 5.2 Figure 5.3 Figure 6.1 Figure 6.2 Figure 7.1 Figure 7.2 Figure 7.3 Figure 8.1 Figure 8.2 Figure 8.3 Figure 8.4 Figure 8.5

Achilles (Brad Pitt) drags Hector’s (Eric Bana) corpse behind his chariot in Troy 41 The citizens of Troy flee from fires, in Troy 45 Achilles (Brad Pitt) looks over the Greek beach landing in Troy 46 Philip (Val Kilmer) shows a young Alexander (Connor Paolo) a painting of an eagle pecking Prometheus’ liver in Alexander 62 The eagle flies over the opposing armies at Gaugamela in Alexander 64 Alexander (Colin Farrell) leads his army through the jungles of India in Alexander 67 Ptolemy (Anthony Hopkins) dictates his biography of Alexander’s life to his scribe, Cadmus (David Bedella), in Alexander 69 Gorgo (Lena Headey) addresses the Spartan Council in 300 79 Leonidas (Gerard Butler) in 300 86 Ephialtes (Andrew Tiernan) in his Persian uniform in 300 97 A Persian Immortal is unmasked in 300 100 Dilios (David Wenham) addresses the Spartans around the camp fire in 300103 Bors (Ray Winstone) mocks Horton (Pat Kinevane) in King Arthur118 Guinevere (Keira Knightley) is held prisoner in a dungeon in King Arthur124 Fireballs roll towards the Ninth Legion in Centurion132 Etain (Olga Kurylenko) and Gorlacon (Ulrich Thomsen) watch the Ninth Legion’s eagle standard burn in Centurion135 Marcus (Channing Tatum) and Esca (Jamie Bell) meet the Seal People in The Eagle139 The knights return to Hadrian’s Wall in King Arthur147 Marcus (Channing Tatum) and Esca (Jamie Bell) approach Hadrian’s Wall in The Eagle149 The Roman wagon train is ambushed by Woads in King Arthur150 Hadrian’s Wall under construction in Centurion153 Marcus (Channing Tatum) and Esca (Jamie Bell) exit the Roman hall in The Eagle156

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Figure 9.1 Figure 9.2 Figure 10.1 Figure 10.2 Figure 11.1 Figure 11.2 Figure 11.3 Figure 11.4

List of Illustrations

Cyril (Sami Samir) in Agora163 The camera rises up to give an overview of the religious riots in the streets of Alexandria in Agora166 Roman guards prepare to beat Jesus in The Passion of the Christ174 Satan (Rosalinda Celentano) and his ‘baby’ (Davide Marotta) in The Passion of the Christ178 Rhesus (Tobias Santelmann) is chained up and mocked, in Hercules194 Hercules (Dwayne Johnson) leads the army of Lord Cotys (John Hurt) into battle, with Iolaus (Reece Ritchie) to his left, in Hercules195 Malek (Isaac Andrews) in Exodus: Gods and Kings200 Ben-Hur (Jack Huston) and Messala (Toby Kebbell) are reunited with their loved ones and each other, in Ben-Hur 204

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The author and publisher gratefully acknowledge the permission granted to reproduce the copyright material in this book. The third-party copyrighted material displayed in the pages of this book are done so on the basis of ‘fair dealing for the purposes of criticism and review’ or ‘fair use for the purposes of teaching, criticism, scholarship or research’ only in accordance with international copyright laws, and is not intended to infringe upon the ownership rights of the original owners. This book is the product of many years of hard work, but could not have been completed without the input and encouragement of a number of people. I’d like to thank James Lyons, Helen Hanson, Phil Wickham, Joe Kember, Andrew McRae, Danielle Hipkins and all those at the University of Exeter who taught and guided me, and helped make this possible. Thanks also to Andrew Pepper and Gideon Nisbet for their input and support, and to all those at IB Tauris/Bloomsbury for turning my ambition into a reality. Special thanks go to Edward Lamberti for his friendship, humour and valued advice throughout the process of finishing my thesis and writing this book: one can never have enough study-breaks to discuss James Bond films! Huge thanks also to Graham Hill, Karen Myers, Jacob Smith and everyone at the BBFC for their kindness and assistance. My love and thanks go out to all my friends and family, especially my parents, who have encouraged, tolerated and stuck with me throughout the process of writing this book. You mean the world to me. Finally, thanks to Ridley Scott, Peter Jackson, Steven Spielberg, Oliver Stone and all the filmmakers whose work has inspired me, both in life and in the creation of this book. What you do in life echoes in eternity. Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologises for any errors or omissions in the above list and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.

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INTRODUCTION

These antiquarian extravaganzas are ultimately not about Abraham or Ben Hur, Spartacus or Maximus, or about anonymous Christian martyrs and converted centurions, but about ourselves, or, more precisely, about our ideals, conveniently presented in the flattering but distancing guise of armour and toga and confirmed by the authority of the past.1

Amelia Arenas’ vignette, quoted above, is emblematic of a commonly held view within scholarly criticism of ancient world epics in cinema. The presumption that films in this genre are as much, if not more, about the period and culture in which they are produced than about that which they depict has been repeated to the point that it could be mistaken for a truism. Jeffrey Richards, for instance, opens his monograph on the subject by stating, ‘Historical films are always about the time in which they are made and never about the time in which they are set.’2 In practice, however, the study of meaning in ancient world epics is rarely this straightforward. How one interprets a filmic text is influenced by the personnel involved in its production, its marketing, reception, contemporary zeitgeist, the motives of the author, the source material, and the viewer’s personal response. Adopting a multivalent perspective, this book assesses the extent to which recent ancient world epics engage with their present or else embody recurrent themes in history and the genre itself. In so doing, it explores how the films released after Gladiator (2000) have evolved, with particular emphasis on their relationship to the mid-twentieth-century epic cycle and the role of warfare in facilitating change. Ancient world epics possess a liminality whereby they exist as works of filmic art, products of the entertainment industry and, theoretically, as pieces of historical analysis. Their status as multivalent texts encompassing a cornucopia of topics has intrigued scholars from various disciplines. The research for this book, for instance, traversed aspects of ancient, modern and cinematic history, mythology, religion, politics, genre and auteur theory, reception studies and masculinity and the male body. To date, the majority of scholarship on the ancient world in cinema has been devoted to what is arguably the genre’s most iconic and popular period dating roughly from the release of Samson and Delilah in 1949 to The Bible: In The Beginning… in 1966. As sources differ on the exact dates of this period I refer to it simply as the ‘1950s–60s cycle’, which includes such films as Ben-Hur (1959), The Robe (1953), Spartacus (1960) and Cleopatra (1963). The ancient world epic’s popularity dissipated during the 1960s due to a confluence

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Blockbusters and the Ancient World

of factors, including the rising costs of production for Hollywood epics and a relaxation of censorship in the United States which spurred on a growing youth counter-culture drawn to a new group of filmmakers.3 The market had also been saturated with cheaply produced Italian muscleman epics that contributed to the ancient world epic becoming ‘kitsch’ and the subject of parody, most famously in Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979). The ancient world still found form across the 1970s and 1980s, in such productions as the television miniseries Masada (1981) and Martin Scorsese’s adaptation of Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel The Last Temptation of Christ (1988). Other genres likewise alluded to the ancient world epic, such as the sci-fi adventure Star Wars (1977) and its subsequent sequels and prequels. The films of the 1950s–60s cycle were also kept in the public consciousness through home media releases and repeated screenings on television; even today, Easter or Christmas in the United Kingdom is not complete without a screening of 1959’s Ben-Hur. The 1990s saw a resurgence of interest in the mainstream historical epic with the likes of Dances With Wolves (1990), Schindler’s List (1993), Braveheart (1995), Titanic (1997) and Saving Private Ryan (1998) paving the way for Ridley Scott’s Gladiator (2000). James Russell believes this cycle is the product of a group of filmmakers – including Kevin Costner, Steven Spielberg, Mel Gibson and James Cameron – whose identities were shaped as members of the post-Second World War baby-boom and, in the 1990s, they had become fathers and were nostalgically revisiting the genres of their own childhood.4 This theory can likewise be applied to current filmmakers such as J.J. Abrams and the Duffer Brothers who have cited their childhood love of 1970s–80s sci-fi films as an influence on their work in that genre.5 Furthermore, the baby-boom directors occasionally cited older epics and their viewing experiences while promoting their own films. For example, after a student was thrown out of a screening of Schindler’s List for laughing, Spielberg compared the incident to his being thrown out of Ben-Hur as a child.6 Similarly, Gibson cited Braveheart as a ‘natural successor’ to Ben-Hur and Spartacus, and while promoting The Passion of the Christ he punned that audiences may have ‘Ben-Hur before.’7 While the majority of historical epics released during the 1990s were aimed at teen and adult audiences the ancient world epic began to make its return among works aimed at younger viewers, including Disney’s animated Hercules (1997), the television series Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995–1999) and its spinoff Xena: Warrior Princess (1995–2001). However, the ancient world epic fully returned to cinema screens with the release of Gladiator. Scott’s epic is indebted to its generic predecessors, especially The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964) and Spartacus, but updated the former’s narrative and the genre’s aesthetic to appeal to contemporary audiences. Producer Walter Parkes said of the production that they wanted to ‘avoid connotations left over from movies with cardboard sets and men wearing skirts and sandals’.8 This included muting the gaudy colours of the 1950s–60s cycle, stripping back the pageantry in favour of character development, removing overt references to biblical narratives or Christianity, and ramping up the violence in the wake of Saving Private Ryan. Scott has cited the latter film as an

Introduction

3

influence on Gladiator’s action scenes, remarking that Spielberg ‘threw down the gauntlet with Ryan…. To me, that movie put everyone who makes films on notice that if you’re going to see battle, you had better take people right there and have metal whizzing past their ears. They better really get how unglamorous it all is.’9 In so doing, Scott created a visceral new way of depicting the ancient world on screen that foregrounded action and violence. Gladiator was a box office success and would go on to claim five Academy Awards, including Best Picture.10 The film’s influence on the genre will become evident throughout this book but the most immediate effect it had was reviving studio interest in the ancient world epic as a potentially viable commercial venture. Oliver Stone, the director of Alexander (2004), has acknowledged that his film only moved into production because ‘Gladiator made it possible. The film was such a … deservedly successful international hit it helped all ancient epics to be reborn as a genre.’11 Indeed, Gladiator’s place as the urtext that revived the ancient world epic has become an epithet that permeates most media stories and scholarship on the genre: Christine Haase, for instance, refers to Gladiator as the film that ‘singlehandedly resuscitated’ the ancient world epic, while American Cinematographer’s Debra Kaufman describes it as ‘reinventing the “sword-and-sandal genre”’.12 However, the pre-9/11 world in which Gladiator was produced and released differed greatly to that of its successors. As Russell states, ‘The epics made to capitalise on Gladiator’s success were produced and released during a period of far greater political turmoil [… 9/11] ushered in an ever-worsening climate of international ill will, distrust and opposition.’13 The influence this has had on American popular culture, especially cinema, has become a rich ground for exploration. Stephen Prince notes that in the immediate aftermath of the September 11 attacks, ‘Hollywood studios were understandably fearful about intruding into such emotion-laden territory, one where the recent imagery of 9/11 was so inherently upsetting.’14 As a response, numerous films featuring terrorists, aeroplanes or the Twin Towers were either postponed, re-edited or re-shot in order to avoid distressing audiences.15 By contrast, those that displayed American heroism such as Black Hawk Down (2001) had release dates brought forward and, in McCrisken and Pepper’s words, ‘tapped into a rich patriotic vein’ among US cinemagoers.16 Against this backdrop of reactionary nationalist fervour, public figures that attempted to explore the historical reasoning behind the hijackers’ actions rather than supporting the emergent ‘master narrative’ of an innocent country being attacked were labelled as ‘terrorist sympathisers’ or ‘unpatriotic’.17 As Hollywood considered how best to respond to the events of 9/11, the ensuing War on Terror crossed borders and enveloped nations as first Afghanistan and then Iraq were invaded and occupied by US-led forces. Terence McSweeney has surveyed changes in American cinema across multiple genres where the imagery and themes surrounding 9/11 and the ensuing conflicts have become integrated into cinema’s lexicon. This, he argues, has largely been facilitated through the use of allegory as a method of displacing the trauma of the event, allowing filmmakers to ‘articulate concerns, which, for a variety of reasons, become impossible to express explicitly in the climate in which they are made’.18

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Blockbusters and the Ancient World

Ismail Xavier defines allegory as embodying ‘a concept, an idea, or a moral’ concealed within a text.19 He argues that allegory’s ability to conceal or hide meaning in subtext has enabled the device to take on special significance during periods in which authoritarian powers exert control over the dissemination of images, texts and other forms of expression.20 It allows messages to be transmitted to a particular audience while those who may oppose the message are either unaware of or unable to prove their presence. However, in order for a message to be understood by the intended audience it requires a form of mutual awareness and comprehension from both author and reader. Daniel Herbert has noted that analysis of allegories is therefore problematic, namely identifying ‘whether texts are allegorical or whether texts become so through allegorical interpretation’.21 Allegory therefore corresponds to Barbara Klinger’s summation of how meaning is created in cinema, namely that it requires ‘chemistry between authorial intentions and the critic’s agenda’.22 Furthermore, allegory and analogy are not limited to narrative factors and can also be found in the mise-en-scène, soundtrack and editing, making deciphering meaning from these texts a multifaceted pursuit.23 For some, such as John Tuska, the study of allegory in film is a fruitless venture altogether. In his study of the western Tuska concludes that allegorical interpretations cannot be verified, are highly subjective and ultimately the viewer can only either ‘agree or disagree; beyond that, they have no real function and offer no real insight’.24 Tuska is being unfairly derogatory as allegorical analysis does not pretend to be the pursuit of a specific, verifiable interpretation of a text, just as any theory can be critiqued or supported in future studies as part of a wider academic dialogue. Instead, the study of allegory in historical films is an exploration of a film’s relationship to the world in which it is created and how a particular period of history or world event is seen as having relevance in the modern day. This latter point can be the catalyst for provocative discussion concerning the adage that history repeats itself: in using the past for allegorical or analogous uses, historical films create comparisons between past and present that can aid modern audiences in both comprehending historical events and better understanding the present and what may be to come. Pierre Sorlin asserts that ‘from the vast range of possible choices, filmmakers have singled out those characters, circumstances, and dates that have a direct bearing on contemporary circumstances. We could say that the past is narrated in the present tense, or that it is rebuilt on contemporary references.’25 In this respect, the study of allegory in cinema is a way to understand how filmmakers engage with the concerns of the day without depicting those events directly. As McSweeney has reasoned in relation to post-9/11 American cinema, One may argue that this displacement into allegory is evidence of the failure of American cinema to adequately confront the war on terror era directly, and this is certainly true. However, in displacement into allegory, American cinema often proves able to function as a site of sustained and interrogative discourse on the era.26

Introduction

5

As Western commentary on 9/11, the War on Terror, and the invasion and occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan has primarily centred around America, its actions and, to a lesser extent, Britain, this book focuses on Anglo-American films and their reception. One would also assume that domestic audiences in these markets would be most likely to recognise and comment upon any potential allegorical or analogous readings in mainstream films. While this could be regarded as simply ‘Reception theory’, Marnie Hughes-Warrington argues that ‘“Reception” is perhaps not the best description for film-watching activities, for viewers are not simply the receivers or consumers of films, but agents who draw films into their lives and use them to their own ends.’27 Examination of how a film is received is important in understanding which themes, characters or events resonate with audiences at a particular time. Burgoyne, for instance, refers to a shared American experience in the wake of 9/11 in which iconography from Gladiator, including Maximus’ helmet and his motto ‘Strength and Honour’, were appropriated in imagery commemorating fallen fire-fighters and in tattoos.28 It is impossible to assess the full impact that 9/11 and the War on Terror have had on America and its culture, but the concept of ‘shared trauma’ has been explored in relation to twenty-four-hour news channels, social media, newspapers and social discourse changing the way people respond to tragedies. It evokes Alison Landsberg’s theory of ‘prosthetic memory’ whereby an experience occurs through which the person sutures himself or herself into a larger history… . In the process that I am describing, the person does not simply apprehend a historical narrative but takes on a more personal, deeply felt memory of a past event through which he or she did not live.29

Using the events of 9/11 as an example, Landsberg suggests that those who witnessed the attacks on television and subsequently in documentaries, books, newspapers and narrative films can then recall images of the event and the emotions they evoked as if they were actually there, creating a personal memory through second-hand sources. One could therefore claim that America experienced a ‘shared trauma’ in 9/11 and should a fiction film, such as Steven Spielberg’s War of the Worlds (2005) or Zack Snyder’s Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016), allude to visual signifiers of the event – such as buildings being attacked, smoke rolling down the streets and people covered with ash and dust – audiences are primed to recognise those allusions and understand the connection: in effect, they are prepared to identify allegory. However, Marnie Hughes-Warrington warns, Talk of communities as remembering, visualising, suffering from trauma or being in a state of denial is at best metaphorical. … We cannot assume that viewers of a film form a cohesive interpretive community and that they will use a text for the same ends.30

This is an important distinction to make and an integral part of appreciating the arguments put forward by this book. The films explored in the following chapters operate as small case studies that build to create a view of the genre at

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Blockbusters and the Ancient World

large as recurrent themes, tropes and motifs become apparent. In approaching each text multiple perspectives and interpretations of the films derived from their promotion and reception will be considered, as not all audiences identify or accept an allegorical reading of a text in the same way – or even at all. Rather than offering a straightforward conclusion that recent ancient world epics reflect a ‘national psyche’ in post-9/11 America, the book attempts to explore the ways in which these films have utilised the conventions of genre – often hybridising the ancient world epic with other genres – to allude to contemporary events while their overall messages are timely if not always specific to contemporary society. This adheres to Richard Maltby’s assertion that Hollywood filmmaking, driven by financial incentives, typically buries ‘meaning’ in relative ambiguity so as not to deter potential audiences.31 The same is true for the epics of the 1950s–60s cycle and their response to the Cold War, whereby tyrannical powers such as the Roman Empire can be equated to Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy, Imperialist Japan, and even American itself, as I discuss below. For some commentators the events of 9/11, the War on Terror and the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq have replicated many of the social and political conditions that informed American culture – and cinema – from the late 1940s to the 1960s. Robert Burgoyne, for instance, has argued that in the aftermath of both the Second World War and 9/11 America displayed a preoccupation with ‘American exceptionalism’ informing an ‘Us vs Them’ mentality that permeated the political rhetoric of the Second World War, the Cold War, and now the War on Terror.32 Frank Krutnik et al. have similarly compared the Bush administration to the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) during the 1940s and 1950s, arguing that after 9/11 it revived the concept of ‘Un-Americanism’ for those who opposed its actions.33 This mentality is most readily evident in the oft-quoted statement from George W. Bush in a speech to Congress following 9/11 in which he stated, ‘Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists.’34 It is perhaps significant, then, that a genre cycle contemporaneous with the HUAC hearings and early years of the Cold War has resurfaced during the initial decade of the War on Terror. McSweeney has similarly noted that a number of 1950s sci-fi films commonly regarded as Cold War allegories were remade in the years following 9/11, including The Thing From Another World (1951), The War of the Worlds (1953) and Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956).35 While the revival of the ancient world epic may simply be synchronicity derived from Gladiator’s financial success, it begs the question as to whether the current cycle of ancient world epics could be read allegorically in the same manner as The Robe and its contemporaries, or indeed their predecessors, as the genre has a long-established relationship to allegory.

A History of Meaning Films depicting the ancient world date back to the foundations of cinema in the early 1900s. They would often utilise sources familiar to audiences – including

Introduction

7

plays, novels, myths and biblical stories – to display cinema’s ability to recreate the past while also validating the new medium through association with the prestige qualities of classical antiquity.36 Many of these films, especially those depicting Greco-Roman history and mythology, were French or Italian productions with American filmmakers favouring biblical stories.37 As the medium progressed into the 1910s, historical epics pushed the boundaries of visual spectacle and cinematic technology, including the use of large-scale sets and crowd scenes, longer running times, editing within scenes and revolutionary camera movements.38 Italian epics led the way, such as the extraordinary sets and tracking shots seen in Cabiria (1914) which in turn inspired D.W. Griffith’s Babylon sequences in Intolerance (1916). Griffith’s film ambitiously interwove a number of storylines – including the crucifixion of Christ – across various periods of history united by the film’s titular theme. One of the settings was Griffith’s America and the use of a contemporary story as a parallel for an ancient narrative became a recurrent feature of epics in the 1920s, including The Ten Commandments (1923) and others. The paralleling of ancient and modern stories enabled filmmakers to create analogies and allegories within their narratives, providing a moral message for cinemagoers while revelling in historic spectacle. However, the genre was taken from its ‘adolescence to adulthood’, to quote Derek Elley, in Cecil B. DeMille’s The King of Kings (1927), wherein the parallel contemporary story was omitted in favour of allowing audiences to draw their own conclusions as to the ancient story’s relevance to modern life.39 With the introduction of sound to cinema and the Great Depression hitting America, Hollywood produced fewer epics during the 1930s, although those that were made contained material reflective of the times. Cecil B. DeMille’s Cleopatra (1934), for instance, mirrored the social concerns which pervaded the gangster films of the era while Elley believes Alexander Korda’s The Private Life of Helen of Troy (1927) is permeated by ‘sophisticated twenties wit’.40 Indeed, Hollywood studios often favoured dialogue filled with the language and idioms of the then-present day even when depicting the past. Various allusions, analogies and allegories to modern American life and world events were also emphasised in interviews and publicity features, such as a study guide tie-in accompanying DeMille’s Cleopatra that asks children how far the film’s depiction of the ancient world is like contemporary America. DeMille himself stated in an interview promoting The Sign of the Cross (1932): Do you realize the close analogy between the conditions in the United States and the Roman Empire prior to the fall? Multitudes in Rome were then oppressed by distressing laws, overtaxed and ruled by a chosen few. Unless America returns to the pure ideals of our legendary forebears, it will pass into oblivion as Rome did.41

The Sign of the Cross would come to reveal the malleability of analogous readings. The film was reissued in 1944 with an additional prologue and coda featuring allied planes flying over Rome. Here, the implied analogy equates the allied forces with the Christians who opposed Nero/Mussolini’s totalitarian regime; a

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Blockbusters and the Ancient World

suggestion which reverses DeMille’s self-promoted reading of the film from 1932 in which he compares the Roman Empire to America.42 In both cases, however, Rome is negatively perceived. This was not always the case, as in 1937 Mussolini’s government had itself backed an Italian-produced epic, Scipione l’Africano, which depicted the Roman defeat of Carthage as an analogous piece of propaganda for Mussolini’s desire to annex North Africa.43 In the post- Second World War years America’s role in the allied victory over three fascist superpowers, the return of soldiers to domestic life, a ‘baby-boom’ and the instigation of the Cold War and subsequent ‘Red Scare’ would form the backdrop of a new cycle of ancient world epics. The motif of ‘freedom versus tyranny’ ran through much of the cycle, echoing the terminology used by President Truman at the beginning of the Cold War in 1947. Religion also became a significant factor in the films and political rhetoric of the period, with Eisenhower stating in 1953 that belief in God was an integral part of being an American, setting the nation apart from the communist opposition.44 In 1954 the phrase ‘One nation under God’ was added to the pledge of allegiance recited daily by American schoolchildren and by 1960 church membership had risen to 69 per cent of the US population.45 Seemingly in response to this growing religious fervour, Hollywood epics such as Quo Vadis (1951), The Robe (1953) and its sequel Demetrius and the Gladiators (1954), Ben-Hur (1959) and Spartacus (1960) promoted Judeo-Christian values alongside themes of family and freedom. As Maria Wyke summarises, The films’ narratives were also thought capable of matching their spectacle and appeal, offering subjects that were prestigious yet familiar, seemly uncontroversial, educational, spiritually uplifting, and of immense relevance to conservative America’s self-portrayal during the Cold War era as the defender of the Faith against the godlessness of Communism.46

DeMille sought to make this clear in his 1956 version of The Ten Commandments. Publicity for the film emphasised its supposed historical accuracy, with photos depicting a studious DeMille surrounded by books and pictures, and a tie-in volume was even produced compiling various pieces of research the filmmakers had utilised which was published by the University of Southern California Press to add an additional layer of scholarly credence.47 Despite this apparent commitment to historical verisimilitude, DeMille still drew parallels between his film and contemporary America. Prior to The Ten Commandments’ opening scene, he appears on screen to lecture the audience on its meaning, stating: The theme of this picture is whether men are to be ruled by God’s law or whether they are to be ruled by the whims of a dictator like Rameses. Are men the property of the state or are they free souls under God? This same battle continues throughout the world today.48

The film’s release coincided with the Suez crisis in 1956, unintentionally mirroring the conflict between Jews and Egyptians. Melani McAlister regards DeMille’s

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statement as ‘a comment on the contemporary struggle by Americans against what DeMille had in other venues referred to as “Red Facism” – totalitarianism exercised by either the Left or the Right’.49 Indeed, depictions of ancient Rome from the 1950s–60s regularly feature iconography more reminiscent of Nazis – martial parades, salutes, eagles – than communist Russia.50 The problems in interpreting these films and identifying potential allegories, analogies or allusions is best illustrated in a short case study surrounding Henry Koster’s 1953 film The Robe. For those interested in the history of cinema The Robe is perhaps best remembered as the first film to utilise CinemaScope technology. However, a number of academics including John Belton and Jeffrey Richards have interpreted the film as an allusion to the infamous HUAC trials that targeted communists in the entertainment industry.51 HUAC persecuted a number of figures beginning with the initial ‘Hollywood Ten’ in 1947 and encouraged witnesses to ‘name names’ of further communist sympathisers.52 Those believed to show allegiance to the Communist Party were then ‘blacklisted’ by the major studios in a decree known as the Waldorf Statement, whereby blacklisted figures were refused pay and employment.53 This narrative of a powerful government persecuting its people for their beliefs and encouraging others to turn informant is echoed in The Robe: Roman Tribune Marcellus Gallio oversees Jesus’s crucifixion and is then sent back to Jerusalem by Emperor Tiberius to gather names of adherents to the fledgling Christian religion. Like America’s ‘Red Scare’, Tiberius confesses his fear of Christianity ‘infecting the legions, rotting the empire’ and gaining popularity among the plebeians and slaves. Following Tiberius’s death, Caligula ascends the throne and puts Gallio – now a convert to Christianity – to death for refusing to renounce his faith and give up his fellow believers. While a popular mainstream film, this reading attributes a radical subtext to The Robe in which the honest, caring Christians are equated to the communists while HUAC is synonymous with the tyrannical Roman Empire and its rulers. The final script of The Robe was authored by Philip Dunne, a noted liberal who spoke out against the HUAC hearings, although his screenplay redrafted an original by Albert Maltz (itself adapted from Lloyd Douglas’s novel) who finished his version a year before he was blacklisted in 1947 as part of the original Hollywood Ten. The political affiliations of its authors would appear to support readings of The Robe as an allegory for HUAC, but Jeff Smith has sought to challenge these ‘zeitgeist’ readings.54 He argues that Tiberius’s desire for ‘names’ originated in Maltz’s draft which predates the HUAC trials and blacklisting.55 Therefore, while the film may reflect the developing Red Scare in America, the idea that it contains specific allusions to the trials is highly debatable. For Smith, zeitgeist readings also ignore alternate allegorical interpretations, such as reading The Robe as a critique of how Mussolini’s regime treated communists during the Second World War – something that would appear in Maltz’s subsequent work.56 Other details in The Robe also predate the HUAC trials as they derive from Douglas’s novel, while Dunne’s redraft omits material that would have actually heightened the film’s analogous credentials.57 Ultimately, Smith cites the ‘problem of revision’ as an impasse from which one cannot state with any certainty where specific details originate and how they were intended to be read.58 Indeed, Dunne’s

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later interest in making ‘another The Robe’ by adapting George Orwell’s 1984 would suggest that The Robe is actually an anti-communist film in which Rome represents Soviet Russia rather than America.59 Smith concludes not by attempting to prove a specific interpretation of The Robe but by disproving the idea that there is one: By equating Rome’s persecution of Christians with a more generalized notion of political repression, Maltz’s dramatic concept was flexible and capacious enough to support myriad readings depending on who one identifies as oppressor and oppressed.60

This notion of an allegorical reading being ‘flexible and capacious’ to support multiple interpretations has informed much of what follows in this book. The Robe’s critique of government persecution of an individual’s freedom of belief can be identified and appreciated by audiences from different backgrounds at different times. The ancient world epic is, in many ways, a timeless genre in the way it uses history to embody universal themes. Significantly, when Gladiator revived the genre in 2000 it maintained the genre’s propensity for allegory: the film displays the power of popular culture to influence public opinion, with the arena becoming a symbolic battleground as Maximus and Commodus fight to ‘win the crowd’. Although the Colosseum sequences create direct parallels to modern sporting events they also encompass cinema’s ability to deliver enjoyable spectacle to a mass audience. Gladiator received criticism from some academics and critics for its perceived historical inaccuracies, with the film’s historical advisor even requesting that her name be removed from the credits.61 However, the changes Scott and others made were in the service of creating art and thrilling cinemagoers. Setting aside the obvious discussion of violence as spectacle (‘Are you not entertained?’), the film’s most telling scene is its recreation of the Battle of Carthage in the Colosseum. The announcer, Cassius, introduces Maximus’s small band of gladiators as Hannibal’s ‘barbarian hoard’, which is set to be massacred by the chariots of Scipio’s Roman legions. Maximus then amazes the crowd and even the emperor (‘I rather enjoy surprises’) by defeating the Romans. In subverting expectation and changing history Maximus creates an unexpected crowd-pleasing display which acts as a metaphor for the film itself: Gladiator’s historical ‘inaccuracies’ are conscious decisions to create spectacle and entertain a mass audience. Unlike the epics of the 1950s–60s cycle, Gladiator readily acknowledges its own manipulation of the past and the constructed nature of cinematic history. As will become apparent, the theme of storytelling and the recording – and corruption – of history has become a motif of the ancient world epics released after Gladiator. Given its allegorical lineage and archetypal features the ancient world epic is what David Eldridge terms a ‘usable past’; a particular period of history adopted by filmmakers to suit a theme or message they wish to convey.62 As Derek Elley similarly states, Each period has its own rules and call-signs, and audiences have learnt to recognise these over the years: basic manners, attitudes and speech persist from

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film to film, the realities of dress, behaviour, and make-up in ancient times reflect a film’s own era as much as its story’s, and history and fact are adopted to accommodate current taste and its receptiveness to allegory.63

In the case of ancient world epics the often fragmented nature of the source material allows filmmakers a certain degree of artistic licence and increases the options available for allegorical material to be woven into the historical tapestry. The genre’s settings, primarily ancient Greece and Rome, allow for the inclusion of such subjects as imperialism, Christianity and religious conflict, warfare between nations, occupation of a foreign territory, torture, terrorism, guerrilla warfare, cultural and personal identity, and national exceptionalism. As such, the genre is the perfect vehicle for filmmakers to explore issues dominating mainstream media and political debate during the first decade of the War on Terror. Andrew Elliot even goes so far as to argue that the epic came back because, simply, we needed it back; we needed it to serve a purpose it had once fulfilled as a convenient series of metaphors to critique the present, and the complex industrial, commercial, creative and demographic conditions for its return just so happened to have fallen into the place at the turn of the millennium.64

Elliot’s statement is somewhat problematical, however, in that it places the industrial aspects of the genre’s revival secondary to its allegorical use. This omits the fact that not all the films in the cycle, including some of the most successful, have been identified as analogies or allegories by critics or audiences, and many of the developments have been driven primarily by industry economics, as will be discussed. Either way, the epic has returned and demands exploration.

Defining the Epic It is common to find scholarly works on ‘historical films’ or ‘epic’ cinema devoting lengthy passages to how the author believes the terms should be defined and utilised. As there is no definitive definition, it is helpful to establish here how the genre is being understood moving forward. As some films in this book depict fictional stories, fantastical myths, or mix history and fantasy, the term ‘historical epic’ will largely be omitted to avoid lengthy digressions and qualifiers as to what counts as ‘historical’. However, ‘epic’ itself is a broad term, the meaning of which Joanna Paul has termed ‘shifting and elusive.’65 The American Film Institute (AFI), for instance, cited ‘epic’ as one of its top ten ‘classic American film genres’ and defined it as ‘a genre of large-scale films set in a cinematic interpretation of the past’, including both ancient (Ben-Hur (1959), Spartacus (1960)) and comparatively modern-set films (Schindler’s List (1993), Saving Private Ryan (1998)).66 Steve Neale notes that the marketing of films as ‘epics’ rose in prominence during the 1950s–60s, where it was used interchangeably to describe both large-scale productions as well as

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Blockbusters and the Ancient World

films set in the ancient world.67 He adds that epics often shared thematic tropes, namely a ‘concern with political and military power … where it found articulation on national, international and sometimes global and cosmic scales’ – features the recent cycle of epics conform to.68 Scope is similarly important in defining the genre. Vivian Sobchack has described the epic as a ‘spectatorial invitation to indulge in wantonly expansive, hyperbolic, even hysterical acts of cinema’, while Johnathan Stubbs regards them as the ‘staging of momentous events on a large scale’.69 Paul defines the epic as ‘a mainstream film, large scale in both production values and budget, set in antiquity, with a historical or mythological narrative (or both)’.70 My definition concurs with Paul’s, with the proviso of discounting budget as an indicator of scale. From an industry perspective, budgets are not always accurately advertised nor are they necessarily reflective of the ‘size’ of a film. Indeed, relatively smallscale films may have big budgets depending on their cast, marketing or other factors. Furthermore, how a viewer defines ‘spectacle’ can vary: as much has been written about the ‘spectacle’ of the human body or the ‘epic’ landscape as about the recreation of ancient cities or battles. Certain films in this book are comparatively small in budget compared to others but could nonetheless be termed ‘epic’. Centurion (2010), for instance, reportedly cost $12 million whereas Troy (2004) cost $175 million, but both are set in the ancient world, both utilise sweeping wide shots of landscapes and both include battles between what appears to be thousands of people. In such cases Russell has argued that one must also consider how a film is marketed, discussed by its makers, and received by an audience.71 A prime example is Dances With Wolves (1990), which was a relatively low-budget film ($22 million) but as its distributors perceived there to be audience animosity towards the western genre it was marketed foremost as an ‘epic’, or at the very least as an ‘epic western’.72 While ‘epic’ usefully encapsulates a broad range of films including those set in antiquity, Marnie Hughes-Warrington has noted that identifying a film as an ‘epic’ or a ‘historical drama’ is complicated by the range of subgenres and divisions scholars, critics and publicity teams create.73 For example, one oft-cited subgenre of the ‘epic’ is the ‘biblical epic’, which Babington and Evans have further subdivided into the ‘Old Testament Epic’, the ‘Roman/Christian Epic’ and the ‘Christ Film’.74 Monica Cyrino and William Fitzgerald both term Roman epics as ‘toga films’, while American Cinematographer’s Debra Kaufman cites Gladiator as a ‘sword-and-sandal’ film.75 Furthermore, in Leon Hunt’s essay on masculinity in the epic he defines Spartacus (1960) and El Cid (1961) as ‘male epics’.76 As such, one could describe Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ as (deep breath) an ‘ancient historical biblical Christ-film sword-and-sandal male toga epic’. To avoid such absurdities I have settled on defining the genre simply as ‘ancient world epics’. This nomenclature acknowledges the general era in which the films are set and is inclusive to those depicting historical events, mythology, or aspects of both. While I occasionally group specific films under a heading, such as ‘Roman Britain epics’, this is not an attempt to introduce a new subgenre but simply to clarify which films are being referenced in making a particular point.

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While my choice of films largely falls into the mainstream, I have not attempted to apply a strict approach as to which films qualify as Hollywood or even American films as financing, production and distribution are often multinational. In selecting which films to explore, my criterion was simple: the films needed to be set in the ancient world and have been released theatrically in the United States and/or United Kingdom after 9/11. The latter event was an obvious starting point as it was a catalyst that has affected American cinema and foreign policy. However, selecting an endpoint was not as clear, at least initially. Beginning this research in 2011 the epic cycle was ongoing and has continued to expand. However, following the release of Wrath of the Titans in 2012 there was a brief hiatus without further entries to the cycle until 2014. As the US-led occupation of Iraq began and (officially) ended within the confines of this cycle I have predominantly focused on those films released after Gladiator leading up to Wrath of the Titans. In the final chapter I assess the new wave of ancient world epics that arrived in 2014, as well as two 2016 releases – Ben-Hur and Risen – that were thematically and aesthetically influenced by the return of the biblical epic in 2014. The final chapter explores how this new wave of epics differed from those produced during the Iraq War period, and how they evidence the continued thematic and aesthetic evolution of the genre. As the research for this book developed, particular themes and tropes began to emerge. In such cases previous films were revisited to assess whether these features were indigenous to an individual film or were recurrent across the genre. Each film is therefore examined as a single case study with the intention of building the correlations between them, first within the overall period they depict (Greco or Roman history), then within the cycle, and then within the genre itself. It was through this layered analysis that the significance of warfare became evident. The epics of the 1950s–60s would typically involve faith as the catalyst for change but in the post-Gladiator cycle this trope has broadly been secularised and replaced by violence, specifically in the context of warfare. In order to evidence this change, Chapter 1 establishes the generic conventions of the ancient world epic stemming from the 1950s–60s cycle as well as the evolution of the combat film from the 1950s onwards. In so doing, the evolution of the ancient world epic since 9/11 can be paralleled to that of the combat film in order to highlight genre hybridisation. The rest of the book is divided roughly into three parts: Greek epics, Roman epics and religious epics. While these distinctions help in terms of clarity when discussing the films and enabling easy comparison, they also follow three broad distinctions in terms of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and the broader War on Terror: the three main Greek epics discussed in this book, Troy, Alexander and 300, all depict narratives focused on invasions; the Roman epics King Arthur, The Last Legion, Centurion and The Eagle all largely depict narratives about occupation; and the religious epics Agora, The Passion of the Christ, Noah, Exodus: Gods and Kings, Risen and Ben-Hur all deal with faith and religious conflict. More specifically, Chapters 2 and 3 examine the influence of the combat film on the war-driven narratives of Troy and Alexander, while Chapter 4 extends this analysis to 300. Chapter 5 expands the discussion on 300 to assess the film’s status as a graphic novel adaptation and its influence on the resurgence of Greek

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Blockbusters and the Ancient World

mythological epics, including Immortals (2011), Clash of the Titans (2010) and Wrath of the Titans (2012). Chapter 6 begins the analysis of Roman epics by exploring the role of torture and imperialism in King Arthur, while Chapter 7 looks more closely at the relationship between the combat film and Roman Britain films Centurion, The Eagle and The Last Legion. Chapter 8 then considers King Arthur, Centurion and The Eagle’s genre hybridisation from an alternate perspective, assessing the influence of the western on their portrayal of frontier narratives. Chapter 9 moves the focus to religion, analysing the depiction of terrorism and religious violence in Agora (2009), before Chapter 10 provides a case study on The Passion of the Christ (2004) and its debt to the horror film. Finally, Chapter 11 assesses the second wave of ancient world epics that arrived in 2014, including the continuation of the peplum-influenced Greek epic with The Legend of Hercules, Hercules, and 300: Rise of an Empire, the Roman disaster movie Pompeii, and the return of the biblical epic with Noah and Exodus: Gods and Kings which paved the way for Risen and Ben-Hur in 2016. In analysing this latter group of films together it creates a clear picture of how the genre has evolved thematically and aesthetically since the end of the Iraq War. Collectively, this book presents an extensive look at the revival of the ancient world epic in the wake of Gladiator, exploring its relationship to the social and political climate in which these films were created, examining their relationship to the 1950s–60s cycle as well as to other genres, and considering how they engage with debates on historical films as history. In so doing, it seeks to contribute to notions of film as art, as industry, and as history, and how they intersect in cinematic depictions of the ancient world.

Notes 1 Amelia Arenas, ‘Popcorn and Circus: Gladiator and the Spectacle of Virtue’. Arion, Third Series, 9, no. 1 (Spring–Summer 2001): 8, accessed 18 July 2013, http://www. jstor.org/stable/20163824. 2 Jeffrey Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds (London and New York: Continuum, 2008), 1. 3 Alastair J.L. Blanshard and Kim Shahabudin, Classics on Screen: Ancient Greece and Rome on Film (London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011), 217. 4 James Russell, The Historical Epic and Contemporary Hollywood: From Dances with Wolves to Gladiator (New York and London: Continuum, 2007), 111–6. 5 Rebecca Nicholson, ‘The Duffer Brothers: “Could We Do What Spielberg Did in the 80s and Elevate It Like He Did?”’, The Guardian, 14 October 2017, accessed 28 May 2018, https​://ww​w.the​guard​ian.c​om/tv​-and-​radio​/ng-i​ntera​ctive​/2017​/oct/​14/du​ffer-​ broth​ers-s​pielb​erg-8​0s-st​range​r-thi​ngs; Krista Smith, ‘Q&A: J.J. Abrams on Steven Spielberg’s Influence in Super 8 – And Where Leonard Nimoy Is Hidden’, Vanity Fair, 8 June 2011, accessed 28 May 2018, https​://ww​w.van​ityfa​ir.co​m/hol​lywoo​d/201​1/06/​jj-ab​ rams-​super​-8. 6 Russell, The Historical Epic and Contemporary Hollywood, 47. 7 Jenny Cooney and Simon Crook, ‘The Passion of the Christ’, Total Film, Issue 88, May 2004, 70; Russell, The Historical Epic and Contemporary Hollywood, 22.

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8 Christopher Noxon, ‘The Roman Empire Rises Again’, Los Angeles Times, 23 April 2000, accessed 21 May 2018, http:​//art​icles​.lati​mes.c​om/20​00/ap​r/23/​enter​tainm​ent/c​ a-224​10/3.​ 9 Noxon, ‘The Roman Empire Rises Again’. 10 Unless otherwise stated, all references to box office takings derive from Box Office Mojo (boxofficemojo.com). 11 ‘Fight against Time: Oliver Stone’s Alexander’, dir. by Sean Stone, featured on Alexander: The Ultimate Cut, dir. Oliver Stone (2004; Warner Home Video, 2014), Blu-ray. 12 Debra Kaufman, ‘Wam!Net Eases Transatlantic Production’, American Cinematographer (May 2000): 40; Christine Haase, When Heimat Meets Hollywood: German Filmmakers and America, 1985–2005 (Martlesham: Boydell & Brewer, 2007), 90. 13 Russell, The Historical Epic and Contemporary Hollywood, 218. 14 Stephen Prince, Firestorm: American Film in the Age of Terrorism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), 2. 15 Terence McSweeney, The ‘War on Terror’ and American Film: 9/11 Frames per Second (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2014), 3. 16 Trevor McCrisken and Andrew Pepper, American History and Contemporary Hollywood Film (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2005), 203. 17 McSweeney, The ‘War on Terror’ and American Film, 5. 18 Ibid., 20. 19 Ismail Xavier, ‘Historical Allegory’, in A Companion to Film Theory, ed. Toby Miller and Robert Stam (Malden: Blackwell, 1999), 339. 20 Xavier, ‘Historical Allegory’, 344. 21 Daniel Herbert, ‘“It Is What It Is”: The Wire and the Politics of Anti-Allegorical Television Drama’, Quarterly Review of Film and Video 29 (2012): 193. Emphasis in original. 22 Barbara Klinger, Melodrama and Meaning: History, Culture and the Films of Douglas Sirk (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1994), 17. 23 Xavier, ‘Historical Allegory’, 337. 24 John Tuska, The American West in Film: Critical Approaches to the Western (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1985), 7–8. 25 Pierre Sorlin, The Film in History: Restaging the Past (Totowa: Barnes and Noble, 1980), 71. 26 McSweeney, The ‘War on Terror’ and American Film, 20. 27 Marnie Hughes-Warrington, ‘Introduction’, in The History on Film Reader, ed. Marnie Hughes-Warrington (Oxon: Routledge, 2009), 6. 28 Robert Burgoyne, The Hollywood Historical Film (Malden and Oxford: Blackwell, 2008), 82. 29 Alison Landsberg, Prosthetic Memory: The Transformation of American Remembrance in the Age of Mass Culture (Chichester: Columbia University Press, 2004), 2. 30 Marnie Hughes-Warrington, History Goes to the Movies: Studying History on Film (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 82. 31 Richard Maltby, Hollywood Cinema, 2nd ed. (Malden and Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), 305. 32 Burgoyne, The Hollywood Historical Film, 154. 33 Frank Krutnik et al., ‘Introduction’, in ‘Un-American’ Hollywood: Politics and Film in the Blacklist Era, ed. Frank Krutnik, Steve Neale, Brian Neve and Peter Stanfield (New Brunswick and London: Rutgers University Press, 2007), 17.

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Blockbusters and the Ancient World

34 George W. Bush quoted in David Ryan, ‘“Vietnam”, Victory Culture and Iraq: Struggling with Lessons, Constraints and Credibility from Saigon to Falluja’, in Vietnam in Iraq: Tactics, Lessons, Legacies and Ghosts, ed. John Dumbrell and David Ryan (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 124. 35 Terence McSweeney, ‘Introduction’, in American Cinema in the Shadow of 9/11, ed. Terence McSweeney (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017), 3–4. 36 Kristin Thompson and David Bordwell, Film History: An Introduction, 3rd ed. (New York: McGraw-Hill, 2010), 24; Gideon Nisbet, Ancient Greece in Film and Popular Culture, 2nd ed. (Exeter: Bristol Phoenix Press, 2008), 38. 37 Jon Solomon, The Ancient World in the Cinema, 2nd ed. (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2001), 3–5. 38 Johnathan Stubbs, Historical Film: A Critical Introduction (New York and London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 63. 39 Derek Elley, The Epic Film: Myth and History (London: Routledge, 1984), 45–6. 40 Arthur J. Pomeroy, Then It Was Destroyed by the Volcano: The Ancient World in Film and on Television (London: Duckworth, 2008), 34; Elley, The Epic Film, 61. 41 Cecil B. DeMille, New York American, 15 June 1932, quoted in Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 48. 42 Maria Wyke, Projecting the Past: Ancient Rome, Cinema and History (New York and London: Routledge, 1997), 133–4. 43 Wyke, Projecting the Past, 21, 51–2. 44 Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 57. 45 Ibid., 57. 46 Wyke, Projecting the Past, 28. 47 Stubbs, Historical Film, 29–30. 48 The Ten Commandments, dir. Cecil B. DeMille (1956; Paramount Home Entertainment, 2006), DVD. 49 Melani McAlister, Epic Encounters: Culture, Media, and U.S. Interests in the Middle East since 1945, 2nd ed. (Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 2005), 45. 50 Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 61. 51 John Belton, American Cinema/American Culture (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1994), 247; Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 68. 52 Belton, American Cinema/American Culture, 243. 53 Ibid., 239–42. 54 Jeff Smith, ‘Have You Now or Have You Ever Been a Christian? – The Strange History of The Robe as Political Allegory’, in ‘Un-American’ Hollywood – Politics and Film in the Blacklist Era, 3–4. 55 Smith, ‘Have You Now or Have You Ever Been a Christian?’, 4. 56 Ibid., 4–5. 57 Ibid., 6–8. 58 Ibid., 7–9. 59 Ibid., 10. 60 Ibid., 13. 61 David Winner, ‘A Blow to the Temples’, Financial Times, 28 January 2005, accessed on 21 May 2018, https​://ww​w.ft.​com/c​onten​t/95c​a7faa​-702f​-11d9​-b572​-0000​0e251​1c8. 62 David Eldridge, Hollywood’s History Films (New York and London: I.B. Tauris, 2006), 79, 81. 63 Elley, The Epic Film, 2.

Introduction

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64 Andrew B.R. Elliott, ‘Introduction’, in The Return of the Epic Film: Genre, Aesthetics and History in the 21st Century, ed. Andrew B.R. Elliott (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2014), 7. 65 Joanna Paul, ‘Oliver Stone’s Alexander and the Cinematic Epic Tradition’, in Responses to Oliver Stone’s Alexander: Film, History and Cultural Studies, ed. Paul Cartledge and Fiona Rose Greenland (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2010), 15. 66 AFI Press Release, ‘American Film Institute Brings the Best of Hollywood Together to Celebrate “AFI’s 10 Top 10” on the CBS Television Network, 17 June 2008’, AFI, June 2008, accessed 16 May 2018, http:​//www​.afi.​com/D​ocs/a​bout/​press​/2008​/AFI1​0_top​ _10_r​eleas​e_Jun​e08.p​df. 67 Steve Neale, Genre and Hollywood (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 85. 68 Neale, Genre and Hollywood, 85. 69 Vivian Sobchack, ‘“Surge and Splendor”: A Phenomenology of the Hollywood Historical Epic’, Representations 29 (Winter 1990): 24, accessed 12 May 2013, http:// www.jstor.org/stable/2928417; Stubbs, Historical Film, 135. 70 Paul, ‘Oliver Stone’s Alexander and the Cinematic Epic Tradition’, 15. 71 Russell, The Historical Epic and Contemporary Hollywood, 8–10. 72 Ibid., 54–5, 68. 73 Hughes-Warrington, History Goes to the Movies, 36–7. 74 Bruce Babington and Peter William Evans, Biblical Epics: Sacred Narrative in the Hollywood Cinema (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1993), 4. 75 Kaufman, ‘Wam!Net Eases Transatlantic Production’, 40; Monica Silveira Cyrino, Big Screen Rome (Malden and Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 58; William Fitzgerald, ‘Oppositions, Anxieties, and Ambiguities in the Toga Movie’, in Imperial Projections: Ancient Rome in Modern Popular Culture, ed. Sandra R. Joshel, Margaret Malamud and Donald T. McGuire Jr. (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 23–49. 76 Leon Hunt, ‘What Are Big Boys Made Of? Spartacus, El Cid and the Male Epic’, in You Tarzan: Masculinity, Movies and Men, ed. Pat Kirkham and Janet Thumin (London: Lawrence and Wishart Ltd., 1993), 66–7.

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CChapter 1 WAR AND EMPIRE: THE ANCIENT WORLD EPIC, COMBAT FILMS AND GENRE

While American cinema certainly did not experience some sort of monolithic change in the post-9/11 era, it is clear that a sustained set of changes in emphasis can be observed, a foregrounding of tropes that may have been existent in prior decades but that were often presented rather differently after 9/11.1

As indicated by Terence McSweeney’s vignette, the influence of the War on Terror on cinema can best be identified by comparing the changes within genres before and after 9/11. However, in the case of the ancient world epic only Gladiator (2000) had been released in the years immediately prior to 9/11, meaning the tropes of this cycle had not been firmly established prior to the event. It is therefore necessary to return to the 1950s–60s cycle to establish the core thematic and structural signifiers of the genre in order to recognise how the genre has evolved. As cinema itself has evolved in the decades separating these cycles, a wider awareness of corresponding genres is required to best identify how they have reflected 9/11 and the War on Terror to recognise similar motifs within the ancient world epic. In later chapters the specific similarities between certain epics and other genres – such as the comic-book movie, western or horror – will be discussed, but the influence of the combat film on the ancient world epic is prevalent throughout this cycle. Indeed, the overriding difference between the recent cycle of ancient world epics and that of the mid-twentieth century is the newfound prevalence of war narratives, specifically those concerning invasion and occupation in the context of ‘empire’. In order to facilitate this change, the ancient world epic has repeatedly been hybridised with the combat film and has even mirrored the latter genre’s evolution in recent years. This chapter serves the dual purpose of outlining the tropes of the ancient world epic and combat film as two seemingly disparate genres, and the role of ‘empire’ in becoming the unifying theme between them.

An American Empire? America responded to the September 11 attacks by invading Afghanistan in October 2001 through a combination of aerial strikes and assistance from

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indigenous ground forces.2 Despite the target being an organisation located within that territory, the Bush administration publically associated al-Qaeda with both the Taliban and Afghanistan as a whole, refiguring their military action to appear less like the Vietnam War and more like the Second World War, a war between nations.3 On 1 November 2001 Donald Rumsfeld even cited the attacks on Pearl Harbor and the retaliatory Doolittle Raids (as seen in Michael Bay’s Pearl Harbor (2001), released earlier that summer) as an analogy for 9/11 and the invasion of Afghanistan.4 However, despite American efforts in Afghanistan the lack of identifiable successes led pundits in Newsweek and the New York Times to liken the first month of the conflict to the ‘quagmire’ of Vietnam.5 In 2003 the United States led an invasion of Iraq, in part because the country and its regime were believed to support acts of terrorism, including 9/11, but also because Saddam Hussein had failed to adequately comply with UN weapons inspections which was deemed evidence that he possessed Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) which presented a potential threat to the United States, United Kingdom and their allies.6 On 20 March 2003 a ‘Coalition of the Willing’ consisting of forty nations entered Iraq and by 9 April had driven the ruling regime from power, with President Bush declaring an end to major combat operations on 1 May.7 Although the invasion was a military success the subsequent occupation of the country proved problematic. The US-led coalition was unable to quickly install a new government and provide the various resources the Iraqi people required, including electricity, gasoline, food and medicine.8 Deborah Gerner and Philip Schrodt have argued that the initial invasion and occupation of Iraq was conducted by an inadequate number of troops to effectively enforce order and stability in the country following the removal of Saddam Hussein’s regime.9 Mary Ann Tétreault has similarly blamed the levels of instability on a series of actions taken by the occupying forces: The violent implosion of Iraq was hastened by ill-conceived policies such as excluding Baath party members from jobs, disbanding the 300,000-strong Iraqi army, and failing to sequester arms and weapons located in dumps all over the country and in the hands of the disbanded soldiers.10

Many of these disbanded, and therefore jobless, soldiers joined the Fedayeen, with continued fighting in Fallujah, Ramadi and Sadr City resulting in heavy civilian casualties and climbing American losses.11 Arthur Goldschmidt has argued that the escalating violence and revelations of American-perpetrated prisoner abuse at sites such as Abu Ghraib discredited the war for many Americans.12 What originated as an aggressive, forward-moving invasion descended into a prolonged period of occupation. As David Ryan summarises, ‘Beyond regime change there was little positive planning for the post-war period. The specific military mission and its objectives were achieved with relative ease. The broader objectives relating to the stabilisation of Iraq let alone those of the war on terrorism remained vague, undefined and therefore difficult to achieve.’13 David Altheide has likewise written critically of the invasion of Iraq and the War on Terror. He points out that many members of what would become the Bush



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administration including Colin Powell, Paul Wolfowitz and Dick Cheney had been involved in the Project for the New American Century (PNAC), which laid out a plan for regime change in Iraq ten years prior to the 2003 invasion.14 Altheide believes the invasion was part of a wider plan for the United States to become a hegemonic power on the global stage, quoting David Armstrong’s 2002 essay in Harper’s in which he states that the plan ‘calls for the United States to maintain its overwhelming military superiority and prevent new rivals from rising up to challenge it on the world stage. It calls for dominion over friends and enemies alike. It says not that the United States must be more powerful, or most powerful, but that it must be absolutely powerful.’15 Whether Bush’s foreign policy was indeed informed by PNAC and furthered the concept of an American ‘empire’ has been the subject of much debate. David Holloway has charted the rise of interest in the American ‘empire’ theory, citing the early influence of Samuel P. Huntington’s ‘Clash of Civilisations’ concept put forward in the 1990s in which he posits that America’s place as a global superpower would ultimately meet resistance from ‘non-Wests’, especially those in Muslim countries.16 Holloway argues that after 9/11 the ‘clash of civilisations’ theory went ‘mainstream’.17 He writes, The concept of American empire often occupied the centre-ground in discussion about the causes and consequences of 9/11, and about the underlying motivations and historical drivers of the war on terror. The Bush administration denied that America had an empire to maintain or enlarge. But after 9/11, on this and related issues, the administration looked increasingly out of step. … Newspaper articles and popular histories compared the US to classical Rome and nineteenth-century Britain, describing ‘empire denial’ as a contemporary American pathology. After 9/11 commentators of many political stripes and persuasions suddenly agreed that something that could legitimately be described as an American ‘empire’ did exist after all.18

In an influential essay for the New York Times in the months prior to the invasion of Iraq, Michael Ignatieff similarly proposed, ‘What word but “empire” describes the awesome thing that America is becoming? … a global hegemony whose grace notes are free markets, human rights and democracy, enforced by the most awesome military power the world has ever known.’19 He coined the term ‘empire lite’, reasoning that America is undoubtedly a globally influential superpower but differs from classical empires in that it must nevertheless make concessions to appease its allies and avoid provoking its most powerful opponents. However, Ignatieff employed further comparison to ancient imperialists as a word of caution: To call America the new Rome is at once to recall Rome’s glory and its eventual fate at the hands of the barbarians. A confident and carefree republic – the city on a hill, whose people have always believed they are immune from history’s harms – now has to confront not just an unending imperial destiny but also a remote possibility that seems to haunt the history of empire: hubris followed by defeat.20

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As illustration he asks his readers to recall America’s involvement in Vietnam as a potential analogy for the outcome of America’s ‘nation-building’ strategy in Iraq, concluding that despite American military superiority ‘empire is no match, longterm, for nationalism’.21 His words proved prophetic, as in the years following the invasion of Iraq the conflict was repeatedly compared to that of Vietnam and, as discussed below, the similarities between the conflicts would be mirrored through their respective combat films. These themes – imperialism, hubris and defiance in the face of an empire – are pre-established tropes of the ancient world epic, but they found new form in the cycle of epics that followed Gladiator through the introduction of predominantly war and combat-orientated narratives. To recognise this, it is first worth establishing the tropes of the genre prior to the release of Gladiator.

The Epic and Empire During the 1950s–60s Hollywood generally favoured Roman and biblical epics over those set in ancient Greece. Gideon Nisbet theorises that this is due in part to Greece lacking an easily recognisable mise-en-scène when compared to Rome, while its iconography carries connotations of athletics and philosophy rather than the blood-sports, debauchery and power politics of Rome.22 Nisbet also cites the social geography of Greece as being practically impenetrable for lay audiences, consisting of a multitude of culturally diverse city states (poleis) with complex and shifting political systems, alliances and rivalries.23 By contrast, cinema’s Rome frequently (and misleadingly) simplifies its constitution down to an all-powerful emperor who dominates the senate. Blanshard and Shahabudin also suggest that homosexuality (to use a modern term) infiltrates cinematic depictions of Greece regardless of filmmakers’ designs, summarising that ‘widespread knowledge about Greek homosexuality ensures that every sign of male intimacy and friendship is potentially miscoded’.24 Sodomy laws did not begin to change in America until the 1960s, meaning overt depiction of homosexual relationships in the 1950s– 60s cycle was practically non-existent (though occasionally implied). Despite these potential roadblocks, the recent cycle of ancient world epics has featured a surprising number of Greek epics wherein depictions of warfare have been used to circumnavigate potential issues. However, homophobia still sadly exists, leading Oliver Stone to claim that it damaged the financial and critical success of Alexander (2004) among US audiences.25 Cinema’s Rome shares few of the issues that hamstring Greek epics, and the setting’s resonance for US audiences is not limited to associations of violence and spectacle but has rather more symbolic connotations concerning ‘empire’. During the Revolutionary War colonial rhetoric equated Britain with Imperial Rome as both were regarded as oppressive totalitarian regimes.26 Following the war’s conclusion in 1783, the newly independent America utilised elements of Republican Rome, such as the duty-based ideology of romanitas and Roman architecture and statuary, to create a sense of shared identity among its varied



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states and immigrant communities.27 In 1840 Haratio Greenough even produced a sculpture of George Washington wearing a toga and bearing a Latin inscription.28 However, as the decades progressed and America expanded its frontiers west, parallels to Republican Rome diminished in favour of Imperial Rome.29 Nevertheless, Roman epics – including novels and films – regularly condemned imperialism through reference to America’s colonial history with Britain. The antagonistic emperor in films set during the imperial period is conventionally portrayed by a British actor, such as Peter Ustinov’s Nero in Quo Vadis (1951). Even those set in the Republican period feature a power-hungry Roman aristocrat with political and military influence in a similar role, as with Laurence Olivier’s Crassus in Spartacus (1960).30 Maria Wyke has termed this casting convention the ‘linguistic paradigm’, whereby the elite English voices of Roman oppressors become synonymous with America’s experience under British imperialism.31 This would contrast to the heroic lead that would typically be played by an American actor retaining his native accent.32 Not only did this appeal to US history but it also gained contemporary significance in the wake of the Second World War, with America’s role in the victories over Germany and Japan and the emergent threat of Soviet Russia. In Roman epics, as Wyke explains, ‘A hyperbolically tyrannical Rome stands for the decadent European Other forever destined to be defeated by the vigorous Christian principles of democratic America.’33 Hollywood’s preference for Roman epics also derives in part from the late 1800s and early 1900s, as numerous films were adapted from Roman-set plays, novels and pyrotechnic productions produced during the Victorian period. Some, such as Lew Wallace’s Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ, published in 1880, and Henryk Sienkiewicz’s Quo Vadis, first published as a serial in 1895, had sold millions of copies worldwide. Not only did this increase a film adaptation’s potential viewership due to audience interest or affect for the material, but due to the new medium’s limitations – such as its brevity and the absence of sound – filmmakers benefitted from adapting well-known stories. Unlike ancient Greece, Rome also forms the backdrop to stories that foreground New Testament narratives and Christian characters. Safe in the knowledge that their religion would outlast the empire’s corruption, American Christians could simultaneously enjoy an epic film as a morality tale while revelling in the spectacle of Roman decadence.34 This duality of identification and revulsion has typified cinema’s relationship with the setting. As Nisbet summarises, ‘Rome delivers the ultimate Hollywood combo: Sex and the City.’35 While many of the semantic elements of the ancient world epic such as costumes, props, sets and iconography were present in films produced over the first half of the twentieth century, the 1950s–60s cycle arguably secured the genre’s syntactic features over a relatively concise period of time and production. This included a particular narrative trend that runs through most ancient world epics, especially Roman epics, in which a disenfranchised group (e.g. slaves, Christians, Jews, subjects of an invaded/occupied country) are being persecuted by an imperial, tyrannical, totalitarian regime (e.g. Persian, Greek or Roman Empire). Conflict and drama then derives from the oppressed group’s rejection of imperialist

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rule. Michael Wood suggests that this is essentially an archetype of American storytelling, amounting to ‘the colonies against the mean mother country … it seems natural that American moviemakers should, no doubt unconsciously, fall back on a popular version of their country’s birth’.36 This concurs with the aforementioned use of the linguistic paradigm and Hollywood’s preference for Roman or faith-based epics paralleling American history. The latter were particularly prominent during the 1950s–60s and regularly featured a ‘conversion narrative’, whereby protagonists are conventionally men of status serving in the Roman military (Marcus in Quo Vadis, Marcellus in The Robe), affiliated with Rome (Judah in Ben-Hur (1959)), or else part of a similarly oppressive totalitarian power (Moses’ Egypt in The Ten Commandments (1956)). They are often veterans of a recent conflict who encounter a representative of an oppressed group (Christians, Hebrews, slaves) who is either a biblical figure (God, Jesus, a disciple) or one of their followers (a beautiful woman). This representative inspires the hero’s conversion, causing them to undergo a period of transition and reflection – sometimes involving miraculous events and instances of violence – in which they gain newfound sympathy for the oppressed. Realising the corruption and brutality associated with imperialism and totalitarian rule, the protagonist rejects their affiliation with the oppressive power and the violent life it entails in favour of the freedom, peace and love promised by faith (usually Christianity). This redemptive conversion sometimes entails the hero’s death, as in The Robe, but in so doing they become a martyr for the Judeo-Christian cause. Fitzgerald also suggests that the motif in 1950s–60s epics of a military figure falling in love with a Christian woman contained ‘contemporary resonances in the theme of the roughedged soldier returning from the wars and encountering a self-possessed woman who demands the domestication of his martial instincts’.37 Indeed, we rarely see scenes of warfare in these films, with military spectacle primarily appearing in the form of a Triumph: a gaudy parade marking the end of a conflict, such as in the opening scenes of Quo Vadis. Across the genre the theme of anti-imperialism is prominent, with films typically climaxing in a symbolic rejection of tyranny. Elena Theodorakopoulos has identified this as a final motif of the Roman epic in especial, whereby Christian morality and condemnation of imperialism are enforced in the protagonists ‘turning their backs, physically or metaphorically, on Rome and its depravity’.38 This may occur through death, literally walking away from the city, or simply finding a new life away from Roman rule. In the recent cycle of ancient world epics the hero’s rejection of imperialism generally remains, but the biggest differences are the removal of faith as an instigator of change and replaced with the influence of warfare as a means of oppression. This development has been facilitated through the introduction of narrative points and visual motifs common in combat films, especially those depicting the Vietnam War. This process of genre hybridisation is not an unusual practice, as Altman states, ‘It is simply not possible to describe Hollywood cinema accurately without the ability to account for the numerous films that innovate by combining the syntax of one genre with the semantics of another.’39 In shifting the emphasis of the ancient world epic from



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one of faith-based struggle against imperialist ideology largely confined to Rome itself to narratives of empire, invasion and occupation the recent cycle has not only continued but expanded on the genre’s anti-imperialist themes. However, this development cannot be directly linked to 9/11, as its origins in the cycle can be seen in Gladiator. Unlike the majority of 1950s–60s epics that primarily focus on Judeo-Christian ideological opposition to a Roman Empire seemingly at the height of its avarice and power, Gladiator’s closest narrative reference point is The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964), a film chiefly concerned with Rome’s downfall derived from militaristic expansionism and political corruption. Gladiator, as with The Fall of the Roman Empire, opens with the culmination of a military campaign in Germania as Maximus leads his legions against a small German tribe. Over the course of the film Maximus’ journey leads him home to Roman-occupied Spain (Maximus becomes known as the ‘Spaniard’) and then to the Roman province of Zucchabar in North Africa. In each of these three sites Roman imperialism instigates violence and death: the massacre of the German tribe, the murder of Maximus’ family, and the gladiatorial contests in Zucchabar. Through his journey – a metaphorical katabasis – Maximus witnesses the realisation of Marcus Aurelius’ fear that his reign ‘has brought the sword … nothing more’. When Maximus finally arrives in Rome, a place he had previously regarded as the ‘light’ of the empire, he finds that it is politically and morally corrupt. While Maximus is pitted against overwhelming odds, his defiance inspires others – including Lucilla and Senator Gracchus – to hope that Rome can be saved from its corruption. Gladiator culminates on a hopeful note as Maximus (echoing his rewriting of the Battle of Carthage in the arena) kills Commodus and seemingly restores the Republic, ending the empire’s tyranny. Compared to the ancient world epics that would follow, Gladiator only hints at how aggressive expansionism and oppression of other nations can be the catalyst for an empire’s decline. Scott would even explore this theme in his subsequent epics Kingdom of Heaven (2005), Robin Hood (2010) and Exodus: Gods and Kings (2014), as well as through more metaphorical means in American Gangster (2007) and Body of Lies (2008) wherein each narrative depicts warfare as a key feature of imperial decline. It is therefore necessary to outline where the combat film itself operates on the issue of imperialism to best exemplify the close correlations between it and the ancient world epic over the coming chapters.

The Combat Film James Russell has noted that a number of post-9/11 epics have ‘focused quite directly on the politics of empire and historical clashes between East and West’, including The Last Samurai (2003) and Kingdom of Heaven.40 While these latter films were large-budget forays into their respective historical periods they were ultimately isolated cases compared to the larger revival of the ancient world epic. The propensity for films set in classical antiquity to utilise motifs of empire and conflict between nations (especially East and West) has informed many reflectionist

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readings of the genre. However, warfare was rarely a feature of Hollywood ancient world epics in the 1950s–60s. Roman epics, as noted above, focused predominantly on internal conflict such as that between Rome and Christianity or rebellious slaves. Hollywood’s few Greek epics were a notable exceptions, as Alexander the Great (1956), Helen of Troy (1956) and The 300 Spartans (1962) each depict armed conflict resulting from imperialist expansion by a powerful empire, and perhaps unsurprisingly each has been retold in the current cycle as Alexander, Troy (2004) and 300 (2007), respectively. The ancient world epic and combat film are not dissimilar, sharing a fascination with masculinity, the male body and the spectacle of violence. However, the recent cycle’s integration of specific details more commonly associated with the combat film is a site of potential meaning in forming allegorical or analogous interpretations. In her study of combat films Jeanine Basinger has discussed the evolution of the genre since the beginning of the Second World War, identifying 1943 as the year in which certain tropes solidified into the basic model subsequent films would follow.41 Pat Aufderheide has described this model as featuring ‘a group of diverse men, symbolic of America’s pluralism, whose individual heroics are dedicated to group survival, whose sacrifices are justified, and whose battles and objectives are clearly defined’.42 Basinger and Lynda Boose both note that the group is typically led by a ‘father figure’ such as John Wayne’s Sergeant Stryker in Sands of Iwo Jima (1949), Sergeant Dane in Bataan (1943), Sergeant Kinnie in Battleground (1949), or Captain Nelson in Objective Burma (1945).43 This slightly older or veteran soldier would take on a patriarchal role in the group to ensure the soldier-sons would perform their duty with a sense of moral integrity and professionalism even if, as McCrisken and Pepper argue in relation to Stryker, he is not always a ‘flawless’ individual himself.44 While the father figure does not always survive in these films, his influence remains and embodies the patriarchal institutions of government and military that guide and watch over the soldiersons, some of whom will go on to become fathers themselves. This symbolic representation of a father/son dynamic was particularly applicable during the Second World War. McCrisken and Pepper have described the conflict as America’s ‘Good War’ as the country was, arguably, morally justified in confronting fascism and imperialism, while the Allied victory also instigated a period of economic prosperity in the United States.45 During the post-war years the Second World War combat film continued to be produced and although scenes of combat grew comparatively more realistic than those produced during the war the father-figure motif remained.46 The same tropes – along with minor additions such as increased ethnic diversity among the soldiery – were then applied to films on the Korean War.47 The lack of development in the genre was, in Basinger’s opinion, due in part to American audiences not being exposed to graphic war footage, as bulky cameras and the limitations of broadcasting technology inhibited easy transmission of first-hand material.48 Media outlets therefore still relied on the US government to provide footage of the war, which concealed much of the reality of the conflict. This was to change during the 1960s when the Vietnam War became the first conflict to be extensively televised.49 Unlike the Second World War and



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Korea, where combat films were produced while the conflicts were ongoing, the constant coverage of Vietnam on US television largely negated the need for combat films depicting the war to be made in tandem.50 The exception was John Wayne’s The Green Berets (1968) which essentially repeated the well-known tropes of the Second World War film with Wayne once again playing the patriarchal leader. As the 1960s progressed and the Vietnam War intensified America’s objectives became less obvious and events such as the My Lai massacre threw the war’s morality into question. Basinger summarises that ‘there were heroes and villains, but they all seemed to be on the same side’.51 While few films broached the Vietnam War directly, signs that the conflict was influencing the combat film genre could be seen in Robert Aldrich’s The Dirty Dozen (1967). Lee Marvin’s Major Reisman acts as the patriarchal figure to the titular twelve, consisting of murderers, rapists and condemned men, and he largely keeps them in some form of moral order. However, the film’s climax subverts the expectations of American soldiers behaving honourably by depicting the unit completing their mission by murdering a number of unarmed German officers and their partners. This moral ambiguity descended into the degradation of the father figure in the late 1970s with the first wave of Vietnam War films. In Apocalypse Now (1979), Martin Sheen’s Willard is confronted by the deranged Colonel Kurtz, a father figure whose Vietnam experience has destroyed his sense of morality. Without a guide, Willard becomes an abandoned soldier-son who turns to violence and murders Kurtz. Similarly, in The Deer Hunter (1978) and Coming Home (1978) the father figure is notably absent leaving the soldier-sons abandoned and either physically or emotionally crippled. McCrisken and Pepper have described this development across the 1970s as evidence that ‘something of a revolution had taken place in American filmmaking … that challenged old values, traditions and styles while reflecting the self-doubt, alienation, dissolution and confusion that seemed to grip the American psyche in the wake of Vietnam and Watergate’.52 The Deer Hunter and Apocalypse Now paved the way for the 1980s cycle of Vietnam War combat films, including Platoon (1986), Hamburger Hill (1987), Born on the Fourth of July (1989) and Casualties of War (1989). The soldier-sons of these films are victimised by their environment, by enemy tactics, by PostTraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and in their abandonment by the US military and government. This dislocation between youths and the patriarchal institutions that are supposed to guide them reflects the sentiment of the counter-culture movement of the 1960s–70s. In Aufderheide’s words, ‘Anti-authoritarianism is a strong tradition in American popular culture, but the anti-authoritarianism that suffuses these films is of a special sort. It has nothing to say about authority badly wielded and evidences, instead, a collapse of faith in ‘the authorities.’ Distrust of politics in general is the corollary to that collapse of faith.’53 This collapse of faith is encapsulated in the Vietnam combat film by the disappearance of the father figure. Aufderheide notes that in these films, ‘The noble grunts are often children … and their vision of the world reflects it. They are often, in fact, abandoned children, with bad or absent fathers.’54 Boose expands on this argument, stating, ‘Most of the footage of combat units in Vietnam films suggests a total vacuum of authority.

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In a film like Casualties of War or Apocalypse Now or Full Metal Jacket, the war is a chaotic moral landscape with no fathers on hand, a war fought by boys led by boys, a space abandoned to the rule of frightened and lethally armed adolescents.’55 These combat films account for the atrocities perpetrated by US soldiers by laying blame with the patriarchal institutions of government, state and military who failed to give them guidance or clear objectives. This is supported by psychiatrist Jonathan Shay’s extensive work with Vietnam veterans suffering from severe PTSD. In assessing the causes of their condition he highlights the role that upsetting a soldier’s concept of fairness or ‘what’s right’ can have on his psyche, especially when that upset derives from his government or military superiors.56 Shay notes that ‘many veterans have a well-developed “stab in the back” theory … that the war could have been handily won had the fighting forces not been betrayed by home-front politicians’.57 The father figure/soldier-son motif is fitting when compared to Shay’s analysis of the treatment of soldiers: The vulnerable relationship between child and parent is a metaphor for the relationship between a soldier and his army. It is also more than a metaphor when we consider the formation and maintenance of good character. The parent’s betrayal of thémis [the ancient Greek concept of moral order or ‘what’s right’] through incest, abuse, or neglect puts the child in mortal danger. … The child’s inner sense of safety in the world emerges from the trustworthiness, reliability, and simple competence of the family. Similarly, the child’s acquisition of selfcontrol, self-esteem, and consideration for others depends upon the family.58

In breaking down this parent/child bond, the soldier-son loses his sense of moral guidance which can lead to acts of shocking brutality. The fall-out of America’s costly campaign in Vietnam lingered during the late 1970s and 1980s until, in the aftermath of the First Gulf War in 1991, President George H.W. Bush proudly stated that America had ‘kicked the Vietnam syndrome’.59 As the 1990s progressed and the country celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the ‘Good War’, the father figure returned to the Hollywood combat film and with it came a restored sense of US morality. In Saving Private Ryan (1998), for instance, concessions are made to the graphic violence and acts of brutality the Vietnam War introduced to the combat film. However, the central squad ultimately retain their morality thanks to the patriarchal figure of Tom Hanks’ Captain Miller. In one scene, discussed by McCrisken and Pepper, the soldiers consider shooting an unarmed German prisoner but Miller intervenes and restores the ‘natural order’.60 This is also evidenced in combat films set after the Second World War in which American military action is predicated on humanitarian grounds. In these films, US soldiers retain their morality thanks to the guidance of the restored paternal figure: examples include Black Hawk Down (2001), in which Sam Shepherd’s General Garrison oversees the US intervention in the Somalian genocide; Behind Enemy Lines (2001) in which a US serviceman exposes a Bosnian genocide while Gene Hackman’s Admiral Reigart fights to get him to safety; and Tears of the Sun (2003), in which Bruce Willis’ Lt. Waters guides his men on a rescue mission in



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Nigeria. The father figure is even transposed into the Vietnam War in We Were Soldiers (2002), in which Mel Gibson’s Lt. Col. Hal Moore is both a father to his children and a metaphorical father to his soldiers (emphasised yet further by his contrast to the grandfatherly Second World War veteran Sgt. Maj. Plumley). In depicting a battle at the beginning of the war before America’s reputation and morality was publically called into question, Moore’s role as a moral guardian is enforced even if the spectre of Vietnam remains. As Cynthia Weber summarises in relation to Behind Enemy Lines and Black Hawk Down: In very different ways, each film reclaims the moral character of its aimless postVietnam era son/soldier by reclaiming the morality of his mission. Each film suggests that, in the 1990s as today, the most moral of missions is not to fight for God and for country; it is to fight for humanity, in whatever country, loyal to whichever God. Humanitarian interventions, then, are key to morally justified (or at least morally justifiable) interventions. As such, they are also the key to rescuing America from the moral morass that is its post-Vietnam legacy.61

McCrisken and Pepper argue that in the wake of 9/11 Black Hawk Down ‘tapped into a rich patriotic vein’ among American audiences and the film went on to become a box office success.62 In his autobiography former Navy SEAL Chris Kyle, the subject of Clint Eastwood’s American Sniper (2014), stated that in order to get the recruits ‘psyched up’ for the toughest week of training he and his comrades were treated to a triple bill of Braveheart (1995), Black Hawk Down and We Were Soldiers.63 In each case the heroes fight not for purely personal reasons but to help others. To quote Weber, ‘It should come as little surprise, then, that both the first two battles in the war on terror – in Afghanistan and in Iraq – were justified by the Bush administration in part on humanitarian grounds.’64 Indeed, the administration appeared to be making efforts to avoid comparisons to Vietnam. Donald Rumsfeld’s paralleling of 9/11 and Afghanistan to Pearl Harbor and the Doolittle Raids attempted to equate the new conflict with the ‘Good War’ and justify the invasion as a retaliatory action rather than an unprovoked act of aggression.65 Similarly, the administration drew attention to the plight of Afghan women under the Taliban to market the invasion as a moral action.66 Similarly, by portraying the invasion of Iraq as a defensive measure to prevent Saddam Hussein using WMDs the Bush administration appeared to be deflecting attention from its aggressive – arguably imperialistic – actions. Furthermore, popular opinion and mainstream media coverage in America was largely favourable during the initial invasion of Iraq and supported the Bush administration’s actions.67 This may in part have derived from the perception of the war as it was broadcast, as media outlets were reliant upon the US military and Bush administration to supply illustrative materials, such as CG graphics of weapons and strategies, footage of aerial strikes, interviews with retired generals offering (favourable) analysis of tactics, and the option of ‘embedding’ journalists with the troops.68 By influencing the dissemination of imagery and information the administration could, to some degree, control the media’s portrayal of the

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war and prevent a repeat of the Vietnam War’s coverage.69 Nevertheless, critical perspectives on Iraq and Afghanistan emerged via alternate outlets, including the internet and in documentaries like Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 (2004).70 These often featured videos shot by soldiers using digital cameras or mobile phones and uploaded to blogs and file-sharing sites such as YouTube, allowing viewers an unmediated perspective of the conflicts that ran counter to that of the mainstream media.71 However, with the revelations of prisoner abuse at sites such as Abu Ghraib in 2003, the widespread publication of images from the prison in spring 2004, and reports on atrocities including the 2006 rape and murder of an Iraqi teenager at Mahmudiya by US soldiers, popular support for the wars diminished among large swathes of the US population: David Ryan has cited a series of Pew polls conducted in the United States which revealed that 93 per cent of respondents supported US actions in Iraq in 2003 but by early 2005 this had shrunk to 54 per cent.72 As Weber summarises, When, in the spring of 2004, images of US soldiers abusing Iraqi prisoners circulated in the global media, any credible claim the United States made to an enlightened, humanitarian we for its post-Vietnam era band of brothers (and, in this case, sisters) was lost. … As far as the wider world was concerned, the United States, which always claims the moral high ground, had exposed its “true” moral character to the world.73

From the invasions being pseudo-humanitarian or retaliatory/defensive actions, the worsening reputation of American forces, absence of WMDs, rising casualty rates, and the growth of discussion surrounding the American ‘empire’ led some commentators to begin comparing the Bush administration’s foreign policy – as Ignatieff had predicted – to Vietnam. Of these, Marilyn Young has presented a concise and considered argument, acknowledging that the conflicts are different in many ways but their thematic elements align. She writes, The history of Iraq, its demography, topography, resources, culture, and the nature of its resistance and insurgency are radically different from Vietnam. Vietnam haunts the war in Iraq in part because it has begun to smell like defeat but more significantly, I think, because the task the US has taken upon itself is similar: to bend a country about which it knows little, whose language and history are unknown to its soldiers, to its will.74

Young’s suggestion that Vietnam ‘haunts’ the war in Iraq (and arguably Afghanistan) is notably visible in combat films produced during the Iraq War years. Esther MacCallum-Stewart has called 9/11 a ‘cut off point for the modern war film, after which historical events also intervened to change the ways that warfare is currently regarded.’75 However, while 9/11 set subsequent events in motion, the themes and tropes of combat films remained relatively consistent between the late 1990s until around 2004 with the release of Tears of the Sun. Around this time, the widespread media coverage of prisoner abuse, rising casualty rates and no clear sign of victory



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or an exit strategy in Iraq appeared to radically alter the combat film. A new cycle emerged roughly between the years 2005–2008 that can be identified by its repetition of tropes previously synonymous with 1980s Vietnam War combat films. Redacted (2007), Battle for Haditha (2007), In the Valley of Elah (2007) and Stop-Loss (2008) portray the Iraq War as a conflict without a clear moral cause, set in a hostile environment in which the enemy are indistinguishable from civilians and use guerrilla tactics. Against these odds, the US soldier-sons and daughters are abandoned by their government and military superiors: a situation that is encapsulated by the disappearance of the father figure. Martin Barker believes the films suggest US servicemen and women are not inherently corrupt but have been driven to commit immoral acts by the conditions in Iraq and their desertion by their superiors/father figures.76 Similar to Vietnam films such as The Deer Hunter and Born on the Fourth of July, a common narrative device in these films sees the main characters return to America following their tour of duty only to relive their combat experiences through flashbacks. They are suffering from PTSD, visualised through war footage shot using helmet-mounted cameras, camcorders or camera-phones. In some cases characters physically replay these videos in a process Garrett Stewart has termed ‘flashback as digital playback’.77 In so doing, the films attempt to create a (narratively) unmediated perspective on the Iraq War experience similar to those of real soldiers. These films encourage viewers to question the version of the war being provided – and recorded – by the government, military and mainstream media. Similar motifs extend to combat films and television series set prior to the twenty-first century. The HBO miniseries The Pacific (2010), for instance, is a brutally violent portrayal of America’s war against Japan in the Second World War. Its predecessor, Band of Brothers (2001), reiterated the father-figure tropes and morally respectable soldier-sons of combat films produced prior to the invasion of Iraq. By contrast, The Pacific depicts Japanese and American soldiersons committing barbaric acts of cruelty in the absence of strong father figures, such as Band of Brothers’ Captain Winters. The horrors of the Pacific campaign are relayed through the eyes of a small group of US soldiers, two of whom would later record their experiences in the memoirs upon which the series is based. Similarly, Clint Eastwood’s Pacific War film Flags of Our Fathers (2006) depicts the context surrounding the iconic photograph (and later statue) of the flag-raising on Iwo Jima. The film’s protagonists all suffer from PTSD upon their return and experience flashbacks to the battle. In so doing, the film explores how the cruel reality of war is memorialised or transformed into nationalistic propaganda. Eastwood further explored the themes of memory and recording history in his companion piece, Letters from Iwo Jima (2006), which depicts the battle for Iwo Jima from the Japanese perspective. Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds (2009), while stylistically and tonally different to Eastwood’s films, probes the role of cinema in shaping, and misshaping, our knowledge of history and war. The climax of the film takes place in a cinema during a screening of a propaganda film that wildly exaggerates the deeds of a Nazi soldier to entertain and inspire the German audience. The cinema is then

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destroyed in an orgy of violence in which Hitler himself is killed by Jewish soldiers as symbolic revenge for Nazi persecution. As with Gladiator’s rewriting of the Battle of Carthage, Tarantino rewrites history to shock and entertain while simultaneously warning his audience not to believe everything they see in ‘historical’ films – or government-controlled war narratives and propaganda. Collectively, these films demonstrate the degeneration of the moral, humanitarian US soldier. This is symbolically reflected in the absence of the father figure, leaving the abandoned soldier-sons/daughters to lose their way and either become victims or descend into immorality: sometimes both. In each case, the absence of clear ideological or strategic objectives behind military intervention refigures the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan into occupation narratives that suggest the conflicts had no long-term purpose other than expanding American influence and dominance into a new territory. In recalling the tropes of the Vietnam War films, these films visually and thematically link the conflicts to suggest that America is repeating its past failures and that attempting to invade, occupy and control another territory is leading to the corruption of America and its values, represented by the abandonment of its soldier-sons/daughters and their moral and physical degradation through warfare. In adopting such a critical perspective on American foreign policy it is perhaps unsurprising that the majority of these films were unsuccessful at the US box office, leading to the genre being dubbed ‘toxic’ by Martin Barker and ‘box office poison’ by Bill Everhart.78 The ancient world epic was therefore a ‘usable past’ with which to explore the same themes through a distancing guise that had the potential in the wake of Gladiator to be a more commercially viable genre. As with the Vietnam and Iraq war combat films’ allusions to the concept of American ‘empire’ building, so the ancient world epic has continuously been interpreted as a reflection of America’s own interactions with empires and imperialism throughout its history. The epic genre allows for narratives that depict the invasion and occupation of foreign nations, the corruptive influence of imperialism on the enacting empire and its people – especially its soldiery – and the justification of nationalistic opposition to expansionism. As will become evident in the chapters to follow, the importance of recording history, specifically warfare, and the political bias and counter narratives that surround them are motifs of post-9/11 ancient world epics, while topical issues including torture, prisoner abuse and religious-motivated violence are similarly recurrent features. The problem, however, is assessing whether these changes are a response to contemporary political events or a reaction to genre trends and other commercially successful films. The next chapter therefore focuses on Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy (2004), one of the first major ancient world epics to be released after Gladiator and the first to present a predominantly war-driven narrative.

Notes 1 McSweeney, The ‘War on Terror’ and American Film, 23–4. 2 Ryan, ‘“Vietnam”, Victory Culture and Iraq’, 115.



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3 Cynthia Weber, Imagining America at War: Morality, Politics, and Film (London and New York: Routledge, 2006), 22, 26–7. 4 Bob Woodward, Bush at War (London: Simon & Schuster, 2003), 285. 5 Marilyn B. Young, ‘The Vietnam Laugh Track’, in Vietnam in Iraq, 35; Woodward, Bush at War, 256. 6 Prince, Firestorm, 178; Gary Berkowitz, ‘Oliver Stone’s Alexander as Political Allegory’, The Classical Outlook 84, no. 3 (Spring 2007): 109, accessed 4 May 2018, http://www. jstor.org/stable/43939437. 7 Arthur Goldschmidt Jr., ‘The Historical Context’, in Understanding the Contemporary Middle East: 3rd Edition, ed. Jillian Schwedler and Deborah J. Gerner (Boulder and London: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2008), 80. 8 Goldschmidt Jr., ‘The Historical Context’, 80. 9 Deborah J. Gerner and Philip A. Schrodt, ‘Middle Eastern Politics’, in Understanding the Contemporary Middle East, 89. 10 Mary Ann Tétreault, ‘International Relations’, in Understanding the Contemporary Middle East, 166. 11 Goldschmidt Jr., ‘The Historical Context’, 80. 12 Ibid., 80. 13 Ryan, ‘“Vietnam”, Victory Culture and Iraq’, 123–4. 14 David L. Altheide, ‘Fear, Terrorism, and Popular Culture’, in Reframing 9/11: Film, Popular Culture and the ‘War on Terror’, ed. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York and London: Continuum, 2010), 12–13. See also: Lloyd C. Gardner, ‘The Final Chapter? The Iraq War and the End of History’, in Vietnam in Iraq, 8–30. 15 David Armstrong, ‘Dick Cheney’s Song of America: Drafting a Plan for Global Dominance’, Harper’s, October 2002, accessed 17 April 2014, http:​//har​pers.​org/a​rchiv​ e/200​2/10/​dick-​chene​ys-so​ng-of​/amer​ica/.​ 16 David Holloway, 9/11 and the War on Terror (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008), 9. See also: Samuel P. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (London: Simon & Schuster, 1997). 17 Holloway, 9/11 and the War on Terror, 7–8. 18 Ibid., 12–13. 19 Michael Ignatieff, ‘The American Empire: The Burden’, New York Times, 5 January 2003, accessed 14 May 2018, https​://ww​w.nyt​imes.​com/2​003/0​1/05/​magaz​ine/t​he-am​ erica​n-emp​ire-t​he-bu​rden.​html.​ 20 Ignatieff, ‘The American Empire’. 21 Ibid. 22 Nisbet, Ancient Greece in Film and Popular Culture, 7, 39. 23 Ibid., 1–44. 24 Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 103. 25 Sharon Waxman, ‘Breaking Ground with a Gay Movie Hero’, New York Times, 20 November 2004, accessed 27 July 2012, http:​//www​.nyti​mes.c​om/20​04/11​/20/m​ovies​/ Movi​esFea​tures​/brea​king-​groun​d-wit​h-a-g​ay-mo​vie-h​ero.h​tml. 26 Wyke, Projecting the Past, 15. 27 Ibid., 15. 28 Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 3. 29 Wyke, Projecting the Past, 15. 30 Elley, The Epic Film, 109. 31 Wyke, Projecting the Past, 23.

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32 A notable exception is Richard Burton in The Robe (1953), although this furthers metaphorical readings of the film wherein Rome is analogous for America and HUAC. 33 Maria Wyke, ‘Projecting Ancient Rome’, in The Historical Film: History and Memory in Media, ed. Marcia Landy (London: Athlone Press, 2001), 131. 34 Fitzgerald, ‘Oppositions, Anxieties, and Ambiguities in the Toga Movie’, 23. 35 Nisbet, Ancient Greece in Film and Popular Culture, 38. 36 Michael Wood, America in the Movies, 2nd ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989, first published in 1975), 184. 37 Fitzgerald, ‘Oppositions, Anxieties, and Ambiguities in the Toga Movie’, 35. 38 Elena Theodorakopoulos, Ancient Rome at the Cinema: Story and Spectacle in Hollywood and Rome (Exeter: Bristol Phoenix Press, 2010), 167. 39 Rick Altman, ‘A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre’, in Film/Genre, by Rick Altman (London: BFI, 2010), 221. 40 Russell, The Historical Epic and Contemporary Hollywood, 217. 41 Jeanine Basinger, The World War II Combat Film: Anatomy of a Genre (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), 62–82. 42 Pat Aufderheide, ‘Vietnam: Good Soldiers’, in Seeing through Movies, ed. Mark Crispin Miller (New York: Pantheon Books, 1990), 99–100. 43 Basinger, The World War II Combat Film, 136; Lynda Boose, ‘Techno-Masculinity and the “Boy Eternal”: From the Quagmire to the Gulf ’, in Hollywood and War: The Film Reader, ed. J. David Slocum (New York and Oxon: Routledge, 2006), 280. 44 McCrisken and Pepper, American History and Contemporary Hollywood Film, 92. 45 Ibid., 89–125. 46 Basinger, The World War II Combat Film, 124–5. 47 Ibid., 176–7. 48 Ibid. 49 Judy Lee Kinney, ‘Gardens of Stone, Platoon, and Hamburger Hill: Ritual and Remembrance’, in Inventing Vietnam: The War in Film and Television, ed. Michael Anderegg (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1991), 156. 50 Basinger, The World War II Combat Film, 202. 51 Ibid., 176, 202. 52 McCrisken and Pepper, American History and Contemporary Hollywood Film, 94. 53 Aufderheide, ‘Vietnam: Good Soldiers’, 94. 54 Ibid., 97. 55 Boose, ‘Techno-Masculinity and the “Boy Eternal”’, 280–1. 56 Jonathan Shay, Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character (New York: Scribner, 2003), 3–5. 57 Shay, Achilles in Vietnam, 8. 58 Ibid., 32. 59 George Bush, ‘Remarks to the American Legislative Exchange Council’, The American Presidency Project, 1 March 1991, accessed 8 February 2016, http:​//www​.pres​idenc​ y.ucs​b.edu​/ws/?​pid=1​9351.​ 60 McCrisken and Pepper, American History and Contemporary Hollywood Film, 119. 61 Weber, Imagining America at War, 56. 62 McCrisken and Pepper, American History and Contemporary Hollywood Film, 203. 63 Chris Kyle, Jim DeFelice and Scott McEwen, American Sniper: The Autobiography of the Most Lethal Sniper in U.S. History (New York: HarperCollins, 2014), 31. 64 Weber, Imagining America at War, 56.



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65 Lawrence H. Suid, Guts and Glory: The Making of the American Military Image in Film, 2nd ed. (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2002), 669; Weber, Imagining America at War, 22, 26–9. 66 Lisa Taraki, ‘The Role of Women’, in Understanding the Contemporary Middle East, 367–9. See also: Woodward, Bush at War, 32. 67 John Keegan, The Iraq War (London: Hutchinson, 2004), 122; Patrick Cockburn, The Occupation: War and Resistance in Iraq, 2nd ed. (London and New York: Verso, 2007), 34. 68 Prince, Firestorm, 178–9, 204–5. 69 Tony Williams, ‘Narrative Patterns and Mythic Trajectories in Mid-1980s Vietnam Movies’, in Inventing Vietnam, 121; Weber, Imagining America at War, 156. 70 Prince, Firestorm, 190. 71 Martin Barker, A ‘Toxic Genre’ – The Iraq War Films (London: Pluto Press, 2011), 34. 72 Ryan, ‘“Vietnam”, Victory Culture and Iraq’, 127. 73 Weber, Imagining America at War, 89. 74 Young, ‘The Vietnam Laugh Track’, 39. 75 Esther MacCallum-Stewart, ‘Battleground: Storming the Beaches – Recent Popular Culture and the Representation of Warfare’, in Under Fire: A Century of War Movies, ed. Jay Slater (Hersham: Ian Allen Publishing, 2009), 275. 76 Barker, A ‘Toxic Genre’, 98–9. 77 Garrett Stewart, ‘Digital Fatigue: Imaging War in Recent American Film’, Film Quarterly 62, no. 4 (Summer 2009): 51, accessed 19 January 2011, http://www.jstor. org/stable/40301356. 78 Barker, A ‘Toxic Genre’; Bill Everhart, ‘Summer Comes Earlier to Movie Season’, Berkshire Eagle, 1 May 2009, accessed 28 November 2015, http:​//www​.berk​shire​eagle​ .com/​artsa​ndthe​ater/​ci_12​27037​3.

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CChapter 2 THE TIME OF ACHILLES: MEMORY AND WARFARE IN TROY (2004)

Of course, we didn’t start saying: Let’s make a movie about American politics… . But while we were working on it we realized that the parallels to the things that were happening out there were obvious … this direct connection between Bush’s power politics and that of Agamemnon in the Iliad, this desire to rule the world, to trample everything underfoot that gets in your way, that became evident only during filming. Only gradually did we realize how important Homer still is today.1

The above quote derives from an interview with Wolfgang Petersen to promote his 2004 film Troy, one of the first major ancient world epics to be released after Gladiator (2000). Critics were divided in how to interpret the film, with some acknowledging the contemporary relevance of the narrative while others dismissed it as vacuous spectacle. These pluralities of interpretation are rich ground for exploration, especially in relation to Troy’s depiction of warfare as Petersen and screenwriter David Benioff were only loosely inspired by the most famous narrative of the Trojan War, Homer’s Iliad. Instead, they utilise the characters and premise of the ancient story to create an epic that more closely resembles a Second World War combat film. That is not to dismiss the significance of Petersen’s quote, however, as the role of the director in shaping meaning is not confined to a film’s production. While filmmaking is a largely collaborative process it is common to read features, reviews and academic works that cite the director as shorthand for the guiding creative force. A director can likewise be used as a marketable addition to a film’s promotional campaign and some utilise this public platform to espouse their own interpretations of a work – what Bordwell calls the ‘interference or distortion’ of filmmakers.2 While promoting Troy, Petersen and his cast repeatedly cited parallels between the film’s narrative and America’s involvement in the Middle East, but in reviews Troy’s deviations from Homer, its scale, battles and the performance of Brad Pitt were the foremost topics of discussion for critics.3 This chapter assesses conflicting interpretations in the film’s reception, Petersen’s influence in how we interpret it, and the role of genre hybridity in Troy’s depiction of warfare.

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Adaptation Troy is a retelling of the Trojan War, in which an alliance of Greek kingdoms under the command of the Mycenaean king, Agamemnon, laid siege to the city of Troy. In the film, the catalyst for the conflict comes when Paris, a Trojan prince, elopes with Helen, the wife of the Spartan king Menelaus. Agamemnon uses the event as a thinly veiled pretext for instigating a war against the Trojan king, Priam, and expanding his empire. Despite the efforts of Priam’s eldest son, Hector, the Greeks successfully land at Troy thanks to the martial skill of the Greek warrior Achilles. He takes Briseis, a Trojan priestess and cousin of Paris and Hector, as his prisoner but the two quickly fall in love. Agamemnon then claims Briseis as his spoil of war, causing Achilles to abandon the conflict as an act of defiance. However, when Hector accidentally kills Achilles’ cousin, Patroclus, he returns to the fray, kills Hector, and desecrates his corpse by dragging it behind his chariot (see Figure 2.1). Achilles and Odysseus then infiltrate Troy hidden inside a large wooden horse offered as a sign of surrender by the Greeks, and under cover of night they open the gates of Troy for the waiting Greek army and the city is razed to the ground. Amidst the destruction Achilles is shot to death by Paris who then escapes with Helen and Briseis. Priam and Agamemnon are killed, the Trojans massacred, and the film concludes with Odysseus overseeing Achilles’ funeral. The Trojan War has been adapted for the screen multiple times, including one major Hollywood release during the 1950s–60s cycle in Helen of Troy (1956). Directed by Robert Wise, the film was often overlooked during the promotion and release of Troy despite the two sharing a number of similarities in their treatment of the ancient narrative. Both present a euhemeristic take on the Trojan War, jettisoning the gods and rationalising some of the more fantastical elements of the myth such as Achilles’ heel. The opening act of Helen of Troy dwells longer in Greece and lends greater narrative and dramatic weight to Helen and Paris’ love story than Troy, but ultimately their relationship also amounts to little more than a catalyst for Menelaus’ (rather than Agamemnon’s) imperial ambitions. The biggest difference between the two is that in Helen of Troy, like Homer’s Iliad, Agamemnon and Menelaus survive, Paris is killed, and Helen is returned to her husband. Troy also exhibits the influence of Gladiator and nowhere is this more evident than in the similarities between Maximus and Hector. The films continue what Arthur Pomeroy has identified as the ancient world epic’s propensity to utilise historical settings to depict a traditional form of masculinity synonymous with violence, rural life and/or manual labour.4 As Monica Cyrino has argued, Gladiator revived this for contemporary audiences as ‘Maximus reaches back to an idea of masculine bravery and goodness defined as more old-fashioned, by both modern American and ancient Roman standards’.5 However, Gladiator subtly subverts the trope of the Roman epic in which the soldier returns from war to find a wife, start a family, and settle into peacetime as Maximus already has these things and longs to return to them. In Troy’s first act, Hector returns from peace talks with Sparta to his wife and son and, like Maximus, is then reluctantly thrust into violence. Both characters are intelligent military commanders and efficient



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killers, and both will ultimately die in a duel with their adversary. Maximus and Hector, unlike Achilles, operate under father figures for much of their respective narratives; Marcus Aurelius and Proximo become paternal figures for Maximus, while Hector follows the command of his father, Priam, even when questioning his wisdom. The casting of Hector further mirrors Gladiator, with the bearded, darkhaired Australian actor Eric Bana evoking Russell Crowe’s Maximus. Similarly, the casting of former hell-raiser Peter O’Toole as the bearded, white-haired Priam who imparts wisdom to his soldier-sons echoes Richard Harris’ Marcus Aurelius and Oliver Reed’s Proximo in Gladiator. Such borrowings were likely designed to aid in marketing the film to similar audiences to Scott’s film while encouraging audience identification with Hector. Given the problematical history of ancient Greece in Hollywood cinema it was a somewhat unexpected decision to follow Gladiator with a Greek epic. Nevertheless, the Trojan War is one of the most iconic stories in Western literature and, as with the ancient world epics of the early 1900s, utilising a narrative familiar to many viewers would in theory aid in marketing and audience comprehension. Troy also exhibits a series of subtle choices in its construction that tackle or sidestep those areas which have conventionally hamstrung Greek epics. For instance, while Troy references various Greek kingdoms its narrative does not require knowledge of their geography or sociopolitical connections to follow the action as the central conflict is essentially delineated to Greeks versus Trojans. Within this (somewhat anachronistic) depiction of a unified Greece under the command of Agamemnon the key political relationships between kingdoms are further explained through personal relationships: Paris (Troy) insults Menelaus (Sparta) by taking Helen, so Menelaus asks his brother Agamemnon (Mycenae) for help; Odysseus (Ithaca), Ajax (Salamis) and Triopas (Thessaly) go to war as they are duty-bound as subservient kingdoms, while Achilles joins to achieve fame. Unlike Roman epics, Greek epics rarely use the ‘linguistic paradigm’ and therefore Troy is free from preconceived audience expectation to represent the various regions of Greece through a multitude of dialects. In so doing, the use of accents alludes to the scattered geography of the Greek city states without requiring extensive exposition: Agamemnon is Scottish, Menelaus is Irish, Odysseus is a Yorkshireman, Achilles is American and the Trojans speak in something resembling English theatre’s Received Pronunciation. While there are brief scenes set in Greek locations such as Sparta the miseen-scene is relatively basic, with the film’s visual focus largely belonging to the characters and Troy itself. The city’s sprawling urban landscape as it appears in the film contains material from various ancient cultures and dwarfs the archaeological evidence for the real Troy, but it nevertheless provides the urban spectacle one often associates with Rome and confines much of the action to a single location. As we will see in relation to Alexander (2004) and 300 (2007), Troy also combats Greece’s reputation for being ‘intellectual’ by focusing entirely on a war between nations with resulting bloody action. Likewise, in portraying one of the most famous heterosexual love affairs in literary history with Helen and Paris, Troy attempts to bypass associations between the setting and ‘Greek love’. Nevertheless, some

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critics attacked the film for portraying Achilles and Patroclus as cousins rather than lovers: Emmanuel Levy complained that the filmmakers were ‘playing it safe’ so as not to ‘offend any segment of the potential public’, while The Guardian’s Alex von Tunzelmann described the approach as a ‘radical straightening process’.6 Levy, von Tunzelmann and others were apparently unaware that Homer does not refer to the two as lovers, and there is continued debate as to whether they were or were simply ‘brothers in arms’.7 The latter informs Jonathan Shay’s reading, in which he suggests the bond between Achilles and Patroclus was one forged through shared experience of combat rather than a homosexual relationship.8 Critics were nonetheless quick to judge Troy through its comparisons to Homer. The film’s screenwriter, David Benioff, has stated that his script ‘ransacks’ a wide range of sources and should not be regarded solely as an adaptation of the Iliad.9 Indeed, the film’s credits state that it is ‘Inspired By’ rather than ‘Based On’ the eighth century BC epic.10 Despite this clear delineation, critics – including von Tunzelmann – mocked the film for its deviations from Homer as if they were made through ignorance rather than active choice.11 Such changes included condensing the Trojan War’s ten-year chronology down to approximately three or four weeks – although the Iliad itself only takes place over a two-week period within the larger ten-year chronology of the war. In simplifying the time frame, Troy presents a clear chronological narrative motivated by cause and effect rather than a specific moment in a larger narrative which would require extensive exposition to contextualise. Furthermore, in the Iliad Achilles spends the majority of the narrative sulking in his tent. Condensing the entire war into a shorter time period allowed Troy to appeal to a wider audience unfamiliar with Homer’s text, while also enabling it to include the iconic ‘Trojan Horse’ (built by the Greeks) which does not appear in the Iliad. Perhaps the greatest difference between Troy and the Iliad, though, is the film’s killing of a number of characters who survive in most ancient literary accounts. While this could be interpreted as a concession to mainstream cinemagoers who desire closure, redemption or catharsis from their films, the changes appear to have a greater symbolic significance, as is argued below. Troy reiterates the argument made by James Russell that the revival of the epic cycle in the 1990s was driven by filmmakers revisiting the films of their childhoods.12 In Petersen’s case numerous features and reviews noted that the director, born in Germany in 1941, had studied the Iliad in ancient Greek while at school.13 Conversely, it may have been this much-repeated connection to Homer that led critics to mistakenly assume that Troy was an adaptation of the Iliad rather than a free retelling inspired by multiple sources. These included archaeological evidence on the historical site of Troy promoted by an online production diary which was set up during filming and included information on the excavations.14 This was seemingly devised to support the euhemeristic approach taken by Petersen and Benioff, although they never went so far as to bill the film as being ‘based on a true story’. Troy was released worldwide in May 2004. Reviews were generally average, with recurrent topics of both compliment and complaint being the look and performance of Brad Pitt, the use of CGI, the cast, deviations from Homer, and unfavourable



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comparisons to Gladiator. Empire’s Will Lawrence and The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw, for instance, compared Troy to the infamous wooden horse concluding that both are ‘hollow’.15 Despite the steps Troy appeared to have taken to avoid the pitfalls of the Greek epic its US box office takings failed to reflect the promise of its cast, spectacle and budget: indeed, despite a reported budget of $175 million – $72 million more than Gladiator – the film took less at the US box office than Scott’s Roman epic, although it fared slightly better in foreign territories. Within this slightly muted response some critics and academics regarded Troy as containing material analogous to contemporary events. Monica Cyrino interpreted Agamemnon’s use of Helen’s abduction to conceal his motives for war as paralleling the threat of WMD and connections to 9/11 that served as the pretext for the invasion of Iraq.16 MaryAnn Johanson similarly remarked that Agamemnon ‘is basically the Dubya [President Bush] of his day, Helen his WMDs (though of course she does actually exist), and Achilles … his Haliburton contractor’.17 David Edelstein likewise paralleled the politics of Bush and Agamemnon, arguing that both sent men into combat ‘to serve a grotesquely private, power-mad agenda – something to do with making a show of his might to scare the whole world into submission’.18 Others alluded to events in Iraq when describing Troy’s depiction of ancient warfare. Edward Rothstein, for instance, saw Achilles’ maltreatment of Hector’s corpse as evocative of the Iraqi abuse of four Blackwater employees in March 2004 in which their charred corpses were dragged through the streets of Fallujah and hung from a bridge.19 However, while this allusion serves to suggest a comparable act of unnecessary wartime brutality it does little to suggest that Troy should be read as an analogy for the conflict: the film’s production schedule negates its inclusion as an allusion to Fallujah, and more obviously the scene is a central moment in Homer’s text which reveals the pinnacle of Achilles’ wrath and instigates his meeting with Priam.20 Similarly, the argument that Helen’s abduction was a pretext for expansionist politics is not indigenous to either Troy or Helen of Troy, as the ancient Greek

Figure 2.1  Achilles (Brad Pitt) drags Hector’s (Eric Bana) corpse behind his chariot in Troy. Source: Troy, directed by Wolfgang Petersen © Warner Bros. 2004. All rights reserved.

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Blockbusters and the Ancient World

historian Thucydides had also suggested that Agamemnon’s empire-building instigated the war.21 However, modern critics can be forgiven for approaching Troy with the expectation that it would carry contemporary relevance. Joanna Paul has described the Trojan War as the ‘archetypal conflict between East and West’, making it a distinctly ‘usable past’.22 The war’s narrative has been continuously adapted and altered to suit a given storyteller’s needs over the centuries, including American authors using it as an analogue for US involvement in the Second World War, Korea and Vietnam.23 Perhaps because of the narrative’s history of application to America’s wars, Anglo-American critics may have been primed to read analogous or allegorical material into the film regardless of the filmmakers’ intentions. That said, Petersen drew an analogy similar to those above in an interview with a German news outlet, stating, ‘Just as King Agamemnon waged what was essentially a war of conquest on the ruse of trying to rescue the beautiful Helen from the hands of the Trojans, President George W. Bush concealed his true motives for the invasion of Iraq.’24 Petersen’s reasoning for discussing contemporary relevance to Troy is less clear than the analogy he draws. One could hypothesise that because the film was being marketed as an epic tale of love and war, with big-budget spectacle being released during the blockbuster season, he and the cast were concerned that the film would be dismissed as unworthy of serious contemplation. In drawing attention to its contemporary relevance they may have been trying to entice audiences who typically ignore blockbuster films, aided by eye-catching headlines such as BBC News online’s ‘Pitt Compares Troy with Iraq War’ that would further publicise the film. While the pitfalls of the ancient Greek epic arguably contributed to the film’s lacklustre box office performance and reviews, one may equally suggest that Petersen and the cast’s Iraq War allusions actually deterred audiences. Petersen’s comments directly equated the antagonists in the film with American involvement in Iraq during a period of rising violence in the country and shortly after the publication of images from Abu Ghraib. His analogy had the potential to offend those loyal to the Bush administration and/or the soldiers on active duty, as they associated the US government’s invasion of Iraq with empire-building expansionism predicated of a falsehood. Arriving during the closing phase of a combat film cycle in which America was associated with moral interventionism, such as in Black Hawk Down (2001), allegorical readings of Troy were at odds with the prevalent portrayal of America at war.

The Combat Film As Troy is evidently a film about war it begs the question as to whether it should be regarded as an ancient world epic or a combat film. The close relationship between the two genres is facilitated through the omission of the Greek gods: their removal from the narrative enables Troy’s characters to be in charge of their own fate and not at the mercy of interfering deities.25 This speaks to Christine Hasse’s analysis of Petersen’s recurrent themes. In relation to Outbreak (1995) she argues that the film’s climax – wherein the power to make the decisive judgement



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is given to a random character rather than the protagonist – is a reflection of Petersen’s rejection and condemnation of Kadavergehorsam, which she defines as ‘blind obedience to orders and the belief in “my country, right or wrong”’.26 Hasse suggests that Petersen’s upbringing in Germany in the years following the Second World War instilled in him a belief that ‘everyone is responsible only to their own conscience – soldiers in particular, especially in times of pressure and emergency, given the destructive possibilities of their professional position’.27 Troy is therefore an ensemble piece in which characters on both sides of a conflict endure a brutal and bloody war for which they are responsible for their actions. Petersen’s work, including Enemy Mine (1985) and The Perfect Storm (2000), regularly depicts groups of characters, often from opposing sides or different backgrounds, facing shared hardships. Nowhere is this more relevant than in 1981’s Das Boot, based on the semi-autobiographical novel by Lothar-Günther Buchheim following a German U-boat crew in the Second World War. In focusing on characters that are typically regarded as ‘the enemy’ in Anglo-American productions, Petersen brings a new perspective to the conflict by depicting the German sailors as easily relatable characters. The crew are portrayed in a similar manner to how American and British servicemen and women are depicted in war films: they operate primarily to survive and protect the men alongside them, and they perform their duties to the best of their abilities. While they encounter those who are staunch supporters of Nazi ideology, the film’s protagonists are largely critical of it and its ideologues. However, Das Boot’s enervating depiction of submarine warfare culminates in a despairing finale whereby the sailors survive a horrific ordeal at sea only to be killed or wounded by an air attack once they reach port. Hasse believes Petersen’s career showcases an ‘aesthetic of hybridity’ wherein he mixes traits of both German and Hollywood filmmaking.28 In the case of Das Boot, she states that the film ‘juxtaposes a well-worn human-triumph-against-allodds Hollywood ending with a second, realist ending of total devastation’ derived from German art-cinema sensibilities.29 In so doing, Petersen undercuts the heroic ‘Hollywood’ ending with a simple yet brutal comment on the senselessness of war. Petersen returns to these themes with Troy, where his ensemble cast embody a range of recognisable characteristics and reasons for going to war: Achilles seeks fame and glory; Agamemnon, power and land; Menelaus, revenge; Hector defends his country and family; Paris fights for love; and Odysseus because he is ordered to. Each then suffers a moral – even ironic – fate: Menelaus meets a quick demise for his pursuit of vengeance; Agamemnon is killed by a woman he regarded as a spoil of war; Achilles is killed in an inglorious fashion by a man exposed as a coward; and Hector’s sense of morality leads to his death and the desecration of his body. Priam romanticises war in telling Paris that fighting for love makes ‘more sense’ than any other reason, but Paris then survives the war and must live with the inevitable guilt of having caused the destruction of his city, the death of his family, and the genocide of his people. Bleak and downbeat endings are surprisingly common for Hollywood’s Greek epics: Alexander the Great (1956) and The 300 Spartans (1962) end with their eponymous characters’ deaths, while Helen of Troy climaxes with Paris’ death as the

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city is sacked. Indeed, ancient world epics often conclude with their protagonists dying, but conventionally – at least for Roman epics – the heroes become martyrs for a cause such as freedom or faith. To an extent this is applicable to the Trojans, as they are resisting invasion and subservience to imperialist Greece as Hector makes evident when he tells Agamemnon: ‘No son of Troy will ever submit to a foreign ruler.’ Stephen Prince has equated this to the insurgency in Iraq, adding that the film differentiates ‘the rightness of defending one’s homeland against foreign invasion and the rapacity of those political leaders who launch invasions of foreign lands. Mapping this distinction onto the Iraq War makes the film into an allegory that is critical of this projection of US power’.30 However, Prince has failed to take into account the production schedule of the film limiting the extent to which it could incorporate direct parallels to contemporary events in Iraq, nor does he concede that being critical of imperialist empires is a trope synonymous with the ancient world epic. Furthermore, compared to films such as Braveheart (1995), King Arthur (2004) and 300, the term ‘freedom’ is rarely employed in Troy, meaning the ideological dichotomy between the two forces is not so overt as to prohibit audience identification or empathy with at least some of the Greek characters, such as Achilles, Patroclus or Odysseus, despite the imperialist power they represent. In so doing, the film’s anti-war message is reinforced by either side suffering casualties whose deaths capture the sense of hopelessness and futility that permeates Troy’s portrayal of war. When Hector willingly faces Achilles out of a sense of moral accountability for killing Patroclus, his death embodies the cyclical nature of violence: Achilles’ quest for vengeance leads to his own death at the hands of Paris, who is himself avenging Hector. This is reinforced in the film’s climax which echoes that of Das Boot, wherein the Trojans’ elation in surviving the war is cut short by a devastating surprise attack. Troy’s critique of warfare is compounded by its casting. In 300 and Alexander there is a clear visual dichotomy between East and West, whereas in Troy the conflict resembles a civil war through the use of Caucasian stars from Europe, America and Australasia. The Greeks and Trojans worship the same gods and, as Priam confirms when reclaiming Hector’s body from Achilles, they have the same funeral customs. This sense of shared identity divides audience sympathy between both sides. The Trojans are reluctantly thrown into war, with Hector acting as the moral exemplar of his people: he is a father, a son, a brother, a husband, and he fights to defend his home and those he loves. He is, at first, the antithesis of Achilles, but over the course of the narrative Achilles evolves and learns the ramifications of his actions and comes to fight for those he loves rather than personal glory. Although the film predominantly directs audience sympathy towards the Trojans, the Greek army nevertheless contains sympathetic characters such as Odysseus who, like the U-boat commander in Das Boot, does not endorse Agamemnon’s plans for conquest but is duty-bound to partake in the war and respects codes of honour. Despite its contemporary parallels, Troy emphasises racial and cultural similarities between its combatants in a manner similar to Das Boot. This evokes Basinger’s reading of race in Second World War combat films, wherein those set



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in the European theatre often identify the German military as similar or sharing character traits with the Allies due to their Caucasian physicality, whereas those set in the Pacific theatre depict the Japanese as wholly Oriental or ‘Other’.31 McCrisken and Pepper note that in many Anglo-American combat films ‘racism determined the way the Japanese were both depicted and treated’; something that could be extended to numerous Vietnam War films and subsequently to Iraqis and Afghans in contemporary combat films.32 Troy’s links to the Second World War may have derived from Petersen’s influence as director, or else the script was a serendipitous union of film and filmmaker. Not only had Petersen prior experience of portraying the Second World War on screen, but Frederick Ahl and Christine Hasse have both argued that Petersen’s national identity and childhood in post-war Germany have influenced his filmmaking and treatment of war. For example, in the wake of Nazi Germany’s corruption of its people Hasse has identified Petersen’s ‘penchant for challenging the establishment and depicting the distrustful and shadowy side of national and individual power politics’ across his films.33 Troy reflects this in Agamemnon’s use of Paris’s affair with Helen as propaganda for instigating war, although in reality the conflict is predicated on his imperialist ambitions. Similarly, Ahl believes Petersen is particularly attuned to understanding war from the perspective of a defeated nation which, unlike America, has in living memory experienced its cities and countryside becoming battlegrounds.34 Indeed, one could easily associate the sequence in which Troy is burnt to the ground as an allusion to the firebombing of Dresden in 1945 (see Figure 2.2). Although I have found no statements from the filmmakers to suggest this was his intention, given Petersen’s sympathetic portrayal of the harsh realities of war for German people in Das Boot it is possible that he drew upon similar inspiration in depicting the destruction of Troy. The camera is often positioned at street level to observe much of the destruction from the perspective of civilians fleeing for their lives. Multiple shots of burning buildings and collapsing structures are then intercut with images of Trojans being stabbed

Figure 2.2  The citizens of Troy flee from fires, in Troy. Source: Troy, directed by Wolfgang Petersen © Warner Bros. 2004. All rights reserved.

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or clubbed to death by the Greeks. The sequence crescendos with Agamemnon standing in the city’s main square below the burning Trojan horse yelling at his army to ‘Let it burn! Let Troy burn!’ The version of this scene in the Director’s Cut release also includes babies being hurled into burning buildings, men being hanged from upper windows and rooftops and women being raped. While the latter edit is more graphic and conveys the barbarity in greater detail, both versions use dialogue, shot composition and mise-en-scène to emphasise the civilian trauma of the attack as much as, if not more than, the soldiery. Much of Troy is concerned with the effects of war on its combatants, primarily the social elites, but the climax shifts this focus to detail the impact of war on civilians, who likewise suffered during the firebombing of Dresden. Furthermore, Ahl argues that Troy is indebted to the Second World War combat film in how it portrays battle scenes. In the Greek ships hitting the Trojan beaches (see Figure 2.3) Ahl identifies a series of allusions to the D-Day landings as depicted in The Longest Day (1962) and the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan (1998).35 The latter received criticism for only showing the American experience of the Normandy landings and Ahl suggests that Troy alludes to this combat film cliché of US martial dominance in portraying the American-accented Achilles and his Myrmidons taking the Trojan beach almost single-handed.36 Indeed, Achilles’ path from leaving his ship under heavy enemy fire, passing through the beach defences and sacking the Temple of Apollo – a large stone structure overlooking the beach – mirrors the course of Captain Miller’s assault on Omaha beach and taking of a German bunker in Saving Private Ryan. Ahl concludes that in Troy’s case, ‘The same script, updated, could work for a film set in Europe between June 1944 and May 1945.’37 However, the Second World War is not the sole influence on Troy’s depiction of warfare. Achilles’ infamous hubris and quest for glory is tempered by a contemporary awareness of post-traumatic stress disorder. In one scene, he undercuts his fame as an unstoppable warrior by confessing to Patroclus that

Figure 2.3  Achilles (Brad Pitt) looks over the Greek beach landing in Troy. Source: Troy, directed by Wolfgang Petersen © Warner Bros. 2004. All rights reserved.



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he is haunted by the ghosts of the men he has killed. In Homer’s Iliad, Patroclus himself comes to visit Achilles after his death, which Jonathan Shay parallels to visions of ‘unanchored dead’ haunting Vietnam veterans.38 Troy’s Achilles, in echoing Homer’s, recalls the absent father-figure motif familiar from Vietnam combat films, which is itself evocative of Shay’s metaphorical betrayal of sons by fathers in Vietnam.39 Shay specifically equates Agamemnon’s theft of Briseis to the upsetting of a soldier’s moral order, adding that Achilles’ ‘experience of betrayal of “what’s right,” and his reactions to it, are identical to those of American soldiers in Vietnam’.40 Troy’s Agamemnon is initially in a position to become a surrogate father figure to Achilles but instead uses and betrays him, itself a continuation of Petersen’s thematic distrust of the ‘establishment’. Although Achilles leads his men in the beach landing he is not a true father figure himself but rather squints and scowls like James Dean, a counter-culture youth rebelling against the authorities in his flashy display of selfish arrogance. When he fights, Achilles epitomises the morally lost soldier-son committing atrocious acts, such as beheading Apollo’s statue and allowing his men to murder Trojan priests, but after the death of his closest comrade, Patroclus, he enters – what Shay terms – the ‘berserk’ state and becomes animalistic in desecrating Hector’s corpse.41 While the latter event originates in Homer’s Iliad, its inclusion in Troy’s war narrative could conceivably be read as an allusion to the behaviour of US soldiers in Vietnam. As with the 1990s cycle of combat films, however, Achilles eventually gains some form of composure and moral code after his encounter with the fatherly figure of Priam and the restoration of trust between a father/son in wartime. The motif of soldiers gaining newfound knowledge and understanding of war and imperialism from a personal interaction with their enemy is a feature of multiple epics in the recent cycle, and it largely occurs through the influence of a love-interest, as we shall see. Whereas in the 1950s–60s cycle a beautiful woman may lead the militaristic hero to find religion, in the recent cycle it is more common to see a female member of the ‘disenfranchised’ group – such as that being threatened with invasion or occupation – who teaches the hero of the cruelty and immorality of imperialism. In Troy, Achilles learns this from Briseis: he issued the order that led to the priests and patrons of the Temple of Apollo to be killed, with Briseis being one of the few survivors. She is his prize, but he views her first with pity. When Agamemnon attempts to claim her for his own what initially appears to be an insult to Achilles’ pride gives way to his feelings of shame, having failed to protect her. In his wrath he later murders her cousin, Hector, and in her grief she rejects him which sets him on the course of realising the consequences of his actions that is finally affirmed by the intervention of Priam. While Briseis’ character may not be progressive, largely existing to serve Achilles’ arc, her role is nonetheless vital to his maturation and the film’s wider anti-war and anti-imperialist message derived in part from these allusions to Vietnam War movie tropes. It is unsurprising that Troy features aspects of both the Second World War and Vietnam War films, as it arrived during a transitional period between the interventionist combat films of the late 1990s and early 2000s and the re-emergence

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of the 1980s Vietnam combat film tropes in reaction to the Iraq War. Troy’s preproduction would have predated the invasion of Iraq as much of the actual filming took place during 2003 and there is little information with which to contest Petersen’s claims that the film did not start with the intention of being an analogy for contemporary events. Nevertheless, in removing the gods and providing rational explanations for mythic events Troy simplifies the Trojan War narrative as described by Homer, gives agency to its human characters and utilises an ensemble cast to reflect a multitude of wartime experiences. In this respect, the film is not an analogy for a specific conflict but instead becomes an anti-war allegory wherein its themes and the actions of its characters can be applied to different conflicts throughout history – including those happening at the time of its release.

The Storyteller Our appreciation of Troy as a war film derives in part from viewing it through the prism of Petersen as a storyteller, but within the film’s narrative we must also consider the role of the storyteller or, specifically, the narrator in the creation of meaning. Most ancient world epics of the 1950s–60s cycle begin with a spoken prologue, usually by a male narrator, informing the audience of the period and location of the action and highlighting the key themes of the narrative. Elena Theodorakopoulos states that the device ‘is almost always characterised by its authority and by a certain finality in its outlook – it makes it clear to the viewer that there can only be one way of interpreting history’.42 As illustration she cites the prologue to Quo Vadis (1951) as a prime example: Imperial Rome is the centre of the Empire and undisputed master of the world. But with this power inevitably comes corruption. … On a Roman cross in Judaea a man died to make men free; to spread the gospel of Love and Redemption. Soon that humble cross is destined to replace the proud eagles that top the victorious Roman standards. This is the story of that immortal conflict.

Troy and other recent epics convey similar contextual material in their prologues utilising either spoken narration or title cards. However, the manner in which the spoken narration is used differs from the previous cycle primarily because the speaker is now usually a character within the narrative rather than the disembodied voice of ‘history’. Even in the cases where the narration of a 1950s– 60s epic was performed by a cast member – such as Richard Burton in The Robe (1953) – the information is still delivered in the same tone of certainty or finality as in Quo Vadis. In the recent cycle, however, the narrator more commonly adopts the perspective of the character’s present, in which they ruminate on the future and wonder how their story will be remembered. As we shall see in future chapters this is often associated with the recording of history, but in the case of Troy the narration is slightly more ambiguous. The film opens on a map of ancient Greece accompanied by a Gladiator-style title card establishing the setting and



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key players. We then cut to a wide shot of a Thessalian landscape over which Odysseus intones: Men are haunted by the vastness of eternity. And so we ask ourselves: will our actions echo across the centuries? Will strangers hear our names long after we are gone, and wonder who we were, how bravely we fought, how fiercely we loved?

Maximus’ ‘What we do in life echoes in eternity’ speech from Gladiator hangs over Troy’s dialogue as Odysseus’ melancholy narration speaks of his fear of being forgotten in the passage of time. This is a central thematic concern of the film, especially in Achilles’ quest for fame and glory. Soon after Odysseus’ speech we are introduced to Achilles as he is called upon to fight the Thessalian champion Boagrius. A boy comments that he would be too afraid to fight the giant, leading Achilles – the ancient equivalent of a modern celebrity such as Brad Pitt – to respond: ‘And that’s why no-one will remember your name.’ At the end of the film, Odysseus comes to measure his own life against the achievements of Achilles in his closing narration. He has borne witness to the Trojan War and his personal connection to the events is evident through his repetitious use of ‘I’ replacing the generalised ‘we’ of his introduction: If they ever tell my story let them say that I walked with giants. Men rise and fall like the winter wheat, but these names will never die. Let them say: I lived in the time of Hector, tamer of horses. Let them say: I lived in the time of Achilles.

Odysseus is not only a witness but an active participant in the Trojan War who, in keeping with Homer, survives to return home. The motif of a survivor looking back on the war in which he fought has appeared in myriad combat films before. In the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan, for example, we see an elderly Ryan with his family walking through a vast war cemetery until he is overcome with the emotion of his memories and we, like his thoughts, are transported back to 1944. As with Odysseus’ narration, this opening scene conjures up concepts of identity, memory, the passage of time and ultimately death as Ryan passes row upon row of tombstones. However, when we return to this scene at the film’s conclusion Ryan, like Odysseus, has moved from the general to the specific as he now kneels before the specific grave of Captain Miller. He then asks his family if he has lived a good life and earned the sacrifice Miller made to save him. In the closing moments of both Saving Private Ryan and Troy the survivor honours the dead, remembers their name and acknowledges the passage of time. Odysseus’ role in introducing and concluding the film by exemplifying its central themes suggests that he could be interpreted as the film’s narrator – even that the narrative that unfolds between his monologues are his own construct. Indeed, in Homer’s Odyssey Odysseus is characterised as a cunning trickster (in Troy this is hinted at when we see him devising the wooden horse ruse) and a storyteller, which has led Hanna Roisman to suggest that his tales of adventure and fantastical creatures may be pure invention designed to entertain his diegetic

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(and non-diegetic) audience.43 With this in mind, a viewer aware of Odysseus’ role in ancient literature could therefore question the ‘facts’ of the Trojan War as given to us in Troy. Was Boagrius as large as he appears on screen? Could Achilles really have despatched him so quickly and gracefully? How does Odysseus know of these events if he wasn’t there? While Troy presents its narrative as if it is history, over the course of the film we see the foundations of the Trojan War myth, such as Achilles’ heel, being laid – possibly by Odysseus himself. Joanna Paul is supportive as such readings, as she has likened Odysseus’ narration to the oral tradition upon which Homer’s account of the Trojan War is built, while Achilles’ quest for fame and glory are precisely the attributes a storyteller, or bard, could bestow through memorialising one’s actions in a song, poem or story.44 This ‘everlasting fame’ derived from storytelling is termed kleos, and Paul proposes that Troy and later 300 ‘not only incorporate epic performance and the theme of kleos into their internal diegetic narrative, but also function as performance texts themselves, and so are part of the tradition of epic performance’.45 Troy is essentially a war story being conveyed to us by a veteran who, having witnessed the devastation of war, is presenting an anti-war argument while acknowledging the need to memorialise the dead. To call Troy an analogy for the invasions of Iraq and/or Afghanistan is to ignore the universality in the film’s depiction of warfare. Troy’s version of the Trojan War the film’s depiction of warfare does not specifically equate to contemporary events, and the allusions it does draw are predominantly to the Second World War and its representation in combat films, most notably those depicting the 1944 D-Day landings. These similarities may have been influenced by Petersen’s prior experience making Das Boot and his upbringing in the aftermath of the Second World War, although they equally just appear prominent to us as viewers because of his previous work. Most likely, it is a combination of both. While the themes of memory and the depiction of warfare are arguably synonymous with the combat film, in using the bleak realities of war to critique Agamemnon’s empire-building the film ultimately fulfils the core thematic motif of the ancient world epic as well. Troy achieves this, in part, by portraying Achilles as an emotionally scarred and immature soldier-son who comes to learn of the immorality of imperialism, seamlessly hybridising the ancient world epic and combat film through the anti-imperialist rhetoric of the 1980s Vietnam War combat film. In eradicating the gods and heightening Achilles’ relationship with Briseis, a member of the ‘disenfranchised’ or threatened group, Achilles’ arc is essentially that of a conversion narrative. Unlike Roman epics where their discovery of God/Christianity leads the protagonists to reject their affiliation or allegiance to an imperialist empire and reform their moral identity, in Troy it is Achilles’ combat experiences and newfound understanding of the horrors of imperialism through his relationship to Briseis and later encounter with Priam that instigates his conversion. In drawing on the Second World War and Vietnam combat film tropes, Petersen, Benioff and the makers of Troy create an allegory that is applicable to multiple wars throughout history: including, but not specific to, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.



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Notes 1 Wolfgang Petersen quoted in Martin M. Winkler, ‘Introduction’, in Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic, ed. Martin M. Winkler (Malden and Oxford: Blackwell, 2007), 8. 2 David Bordwell, ‘Observations on Film Art: Zip, Zero, Zeitgeist’, David Bordwell’s Website on Cinema, accessed 18 July 2015, http:​//www​.davi​dbord​well.​net/b​log/2​014/0​ 8/24/​zip-z​ero-z​eitge​ist/.​ 3 Ian Youngs, ‘Pitt Compares Troy to Iraq War’, BBC News, 14 May 2004, accessed 2 November 2012, http:​//new​s.bbc​.co.u​k/1/h​i/ent​ertai​nment​/3712​037.s​tm; ‘Press Reviews: Troy’, BBC News, 14 May 2004, accessed 2 November 2012, http:​//new​s.bbc​ .co.u​k/1/h​i/ent​ertai​nment​/film​/3714​139.s​tm. 4 Pomeroy, Then It Was Destroyed by the Volcano, 37. 5 Cyrino, Big Screen Rome, 229. 6 Emanuel Levy, ‘Troy’, Emanuel Levy – Cinema 24/7, 4 August 2004, accessed 8 October 2015, http://emanuellevy.com/review/troy-2/; Alex Von Tunzelmann, ‘No Gods or Gay Men but a Whole Lot of Llamas’, The Guardian, 28 August 2008, accessed 10 October 2015, http:​//www​.theg​uardi​an.co​m/fil​m/200​8/aug​/28/b​radpi​tt.tr​oy. 7 Robin Fox, The Tribal Imagination: Civilization and the Savage Mind (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 2011), 223. 8 Shay, Achilles in Vietnam, 42. 9 Winkler, ‘Introduction’, in Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic, 9. 10 Due to a number of ancient world epics using the BC/AD format of dating years I have done the same to avoid changing the format as it appears in the films, and for consistency I have applied it to references to historical dates also. 11 ‘Press Reviews: Troy’. 12 Russell, The Historical Epic and Contemporary Hollywood, 111–6. 13 Winkler, ‘Introduction’, in Troy, 5. 14 Kim Shahabudin, ‘From Greek Myth to Hollywood Story: Explanatory Narrative in Troy’, in Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic, 109. 15 Will Lawrence, ‘Troy’, Empire, n.d., accessed 10 October 2015, http:​//www​.empi​reonl​ ine.c​om/re​views​/revi​ewcom​plete​.asp?​DVDID​=1025​4; Peter Bradshaw, ‘Troy’, The Guardian, 14 May 2004, accessed 14 September 2015, http:​//www​.theg​uardi​an.co​m/fil​ m/New​s_Sto​ry/Cr​itic_​Revie​w/Gua​rdian​_Film​_of_t​he_we​ek/0,​4267,​12159​11,00​.html​. 16 Monica S. Cyrino, ‘Helen of Troy’, in Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic, 136. 17 MaryAnn Johanson, ‘Troy (Review)’, Flick Filosopher, 14 May 2004, accessed 13 September 2015, http:​//www​.flic​kfilo​sophe​r.com​/2004​/05/t​roy-r​eview​.html​. 18 David Edelstein, ‘War Is Hellenic: The Blood and Eroticism of Troy’, Slate, 13 May 2004, accessed 13 September 2015, http:​//www​.slat​e.com​/arti​cles/​arts/​movie​s/200​ 4/05/​war_i​s_hel​lenic​.html​. 19 Edward Rothstein, ‘Connections: To Homer, Iraq Would Be More of the Same’, New York Times, 5 June 2004, accessed 2 November 2012, http:​//www​.nyti​mes.c​om/20​ 04/06​/05/m​ovies​/conn​ectio​ns-to​-home​r-ira​q-wou​ld-be​-more​-of-s​ame.h​tml. 20 Homer, The Iliad, 22.396–405. 21 Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, 1.9–14. 22 Paul, ‘Oliver Stone’s Alexander and the Cinematic Epic Tradition’, 21. 23 Winkler, ‘Introduction’, in Troy, 2; Frederick Ahl, ‘Troy and Memorials of War’, in Troy: From Homer’s Iliad to Hollywood Epic, 171.

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24 Wolfgang Petersen quoted in Rothstein, ‘Connections: To Homer, Iraq Would Be More of the Same’. 25 Ahl, ‘Troy and Memorials of War’, 174. 26 Haase, When Heimat Meets Hollywood, 87. 27 Ibid., 87. 28 Ibid., 78. 29 Ibid. 30 Prince, Firestorm, 289. 31 Basinger, The World War II Combat Film, 28. 32 McCrisken and Pepper, American History and Contemporary Hollywood Film, 91. 33 Haase, When Heimat Meets Hollywood, 85. 34 Ahl, ‘Troy and Memorials of War’, 166, 170. 35 Ibid., 181–2. 36 Ibid., 167, 180–1; in Martin M. Winkler’s introduction to this volume (p.2), he notes that one edition of Homer’s Iliad (Stanley Lombardo (trans). Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1997) actually features a photograph of the D-Day landings on its front cover. For criticisms of Saving Private Ryan’s focus on the American experience of the D-Day landings, see: ‘Veterans Riled by Ryan’, BBC News, 19 March 1999, accessed 21 June 2018, http:​//new​s.bbc​.co.u​k/1/h​i/ent​ertai​nment​/2997​84.st​m. 37 Ahl, ‘Troy and Memorials of War’, 183. 38 Shay, Achilles in Vietnam, 7. 39 Ibid., xx–xxi, 3. 40 Ibid., 3. 41 Ibid., 77, 81–94. 42 Theodorakopoulos, Ancient Rome at the Cinema, 30. 43 Hanna M. Roisman, ‘Verbal Odysseus: Narrative Strategy in the Odyssey and The Usual Suspects’, in Classical Myth and Culture in the Cinema, ed. Martin M. Winkler (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 51–71. 44 Joanna Paul, Film and the Classical Epic Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 67. 45 Paul, Film and the Classical Epic Tradition, 67–8.

CChapter 3 THE DREAMERS EXHAUST US: STORYTELLERS AND THE COMBAT FILM IN ALEXANDER (2004)

While Petersen’s Troy (2004) alluded to thematic tropes of Vietnam War movies its clearest visual influences derived from the Second World War combat film. This was arguably a result of Petersen’s personal connection to the conflict and his previous experience in portraying it on screen. In the case of Oliver Stone’s Alexander (2004) it is the aesthetic of the Vietnam War that becomes prevalent, similarly resulting from Stone’s first-hand experience of fighting in the conflict and later depicting it in his semi-autobiographical combat film Platoon (1986). In creating parallels between Vietnam and the ancient conquests of Alexander the Great, Stone, perhaps unintentionally, allowed for similar parallels to be drawn between his film and events in Iraq and Afghanistan. However, in pursuing such singular readings one disregards the wealth of symbolic, historical and allegorical meaning permeating the film’s layered storytelling, imagery and depiction of ancient warfare and empire-building. Alexander is an ambitious attempt at depicting the eventful life of the eponymous conqueror within the confines of single narrative film. Despite its maker’s obvious fascination and love for the subject Alexander was met with disappointing box office figures and an often savage response from critics. The film has since been the subject of numerous academic works, especially those deriving from classicists responding to Stone’s attempt at imbuing his film with copious amounts of historical detail. The purpose of this chapter, however, is to analyse the film in relation to its director and his filmography rather than the historical figure of Alexander the Great. Stone is a politically outspoken and often controversial filmmaker whose body of work is predominantly concerned with history and twentieth-century American society. Alexander is therefore something of an anomaly among his filmography, but through exploration of its themes, structure and visuals it is evident that it is a quintessential Oliver Stone film.

Prometheus Unbound Stone is another ‘baby-boom’ director who has written enthusiastically about his childhood memories of watching Hollywood’s ancient world epics. He has

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described how he ‘eagerly lined up’ for Helen of Troy (1956), The 300 Spartans (1962) and Alexander the Great (1956) which he loved ‘more for their blend of costume, sensual behaviour, and worship of strange gods than their success as dramas’.1 His fascination with ancient culture carried forward into his education, which included studying classical texts at school and taking a class on Greek mythology while at NYU’s Film School in the early 1970s following his service in Vietnam.2 Many of Stone’s films prior to Alexander contain references to ancient world epics and classical antiquity, such as the 1959 production of Ben-Hur playing on a TV and being cut to during a sequence in Any Given Sunday (1999) and a scene in The Doors (1991) in which Jim Morrison sees a bust of Alexander the Great reflected when he gazes into a mirror. Stone was first approached to make a film of Alexander’s life in the late 1980s but chose to postpone the project until he had further developed his skills as a filmmaker in the hope of making Alexander his ‘masterpiece’.3 During the 1990s and early 2000s he meticulously researched the topic while numerous other Alexander the Great projects circulated in Hollywood, helmed by the likes of Martin Scorsese, Baz Luhrmann and Mel Gibson.4 However, following the success of Gladiator Stone finally secured funding – largely from European backers – and moved Alexander into production in September 2003.5 Working closely with Oxford historian Robin Lane Fox, who had authored a renowned biography of Alexander’s life in the 1970s, the film’s sets, costumes and armour are littered with historical detail. Stone also embraced practicality, his personal imagination, and previous cinematic perceptions of the ancient world in reconstructing the past: for example, while in pre-production he screened the Babylon sequences from D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance (1916) for his designers to inform their creation of the Babylon set.6 While few academics will ever be wholly satisfied with filmic history, Alexander’s blend of historical detail, nostalgia for the gaudy extravagance of earlier ancient world epics, and contemporary filmmaking techniques makes it one of the most visually rich films in the recent cycle. Following the shoot, though, Stone’s editing process was rushed due to studio desires to release the film in the United States in November 2004 (January 2005 in the United Kingdom), perhaps intending it to be an Oscar contender in a similar vein to Gladiator.7 As would become apparent in later edits released on home media, the theatrical release of Alexander did not represent Stone’s intended structure and likely contributed to the film’s poor reception. Despite Stone’s commitment, passion and knowledge of his subject, Alexander was savaged by the majority of critics who mocked the use of accents, its length and pacing, and the treatment of the eponymous figure’s sexuality.8 Many critics appeared to criticise the film without any apparent understanding of the history being depicted or what Stone was trying to achieve. For example, the use of English, Irish, Scottish, Welsh and Eastern European accents was, like Troy, designed to denote the characters’ regional identity, while issues with pacing and structure, while subjective, varies in subsequent edits. In one interview, Stone described feeling ‘destroyed’ by Alexander’s reception in the United States, quoting some of the harsher reviews: ‘Puerile writing … confused plotting … limp acting … weak



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script … shockingly off-note performances … disjointed narrative … acted at a laughably hysterical pitch … it has wonderful highlights, but most of them are in Colin Farrell’s hair.’9 Alexander was, in part, a victim of social events at the time of its release. Similar to Achilles and Patroclus in Troy, the portrayal of Alexander’s relationship with Hephaestion, a childhood friend and later one of his generals, came under fire. Historically, Hephaestion may or may not have been Alexander’s lover but reviews, depending on the audience, criticised the film as either too coy or too overt in its depiction of Alexander’s ‘bi-sexuality’ (to use a modern term).10 Stone described the reaction in rather blunt terms, stating, ‘The gays lambasted me for not making Alexander openly homosexual, and in the Bible belt, pastors were up in the pulpit saying that to watch this film was to be tempted by Satan.’11 The issue of Alexander’s sexuality garnered particular traction due to extensive US media coverage of eleven American states banning same-sex marriage (some by large margins) less than twenty-five days before the film’s US release, in what Jon Solomon describes as ‘a period of homophobic frenzy’.12 While promoting the film in Britain in early 2005, Stone blamed Alexander’s critical and commercial failure in the United States on homophobia within the American electorate, concluding, ‘On JFK [1991] I gambled on the audience’s intelligence and won. Here, I lost.’13 Some critics regarded Alexander as too effeminate or emotional to inspire awe in his command, and when questioned Stone reasoned that ‘Americans, particularly teenage boys, were made uncomfortable by it, preferring their leads to be cast in the macho mold of Russell Crowe in Gladiator and Brad Pitt in Troy’.14 An additional difficulty Alexander faced is the social status of the protagonist. In most ancient world epics, especially Roman epics, the hero is a cog in a larger (imperialist) machine, but breaks free from this system to support a disenfranchised group. While Greek epics differ to Roman epics in a number of ways, Troy and 300 both see heroic groups defending their freedom from a larger invading army. Alexander, however, is a king who on questionable grounds invades another empire to build and shape his own. Although he urges his men at Gaugamela to fight for ‘the freedom and glory of Greece’, Thomas Harrison has questioned what ‘freedom’ Alexander is referring to: Contemporary heroes – even, or especially, in US movies – are the small man fighting against the system … no matter how one emphasises Alexander’s happygo-lucky spirit or the vast size of the Persian forces arrayed against him, it is hard … not to see him as a bully without a (sufficient) cause.15

Reames echoes this sentiment, comparing Alexander to Gladiator’s Maximus and The Lord of the Rings’ (2001–2003) Frodo and suggesting that most viewers ‘prefer the underdog, the common-man hero, the one without pretensions … not the man who thinks himself the son of a god’.16 Gary Crowdus has since summarised the reception to Alexander as ‘at best … a major disappointment, and at worse … a cinematic disaster’.17

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Until recently, the hyperbolic negativity surrounding the film’s release has eclipsed its myriad points of interest. Stone conceded that in the theatrical cut he ‘failed to communicate [Alexander’s] story properly’.18 This inspired him to re-edit the film for its DVD release, releasing a shorter, restructured Director’s Cut alongside the theatrical cut which replaces some material with previously unseen sequences. In 2007 Stone then released Alexander Revisited: The Final Cut, which combines footage from both previous edits with further restructuring to provide the longest version of the film to date. Thereafter deciding to refine this edit, in 2012 Stone issued Alexander: The Ultimate Cut which follows the same structure as the Final Cut but is slightly shorter. For the purposes of this chapter references to Alexander will be to the theatrical cut unless otherwise stated. The chief difference between the theatrical cut and the subsequent cuts is in the film’s structure. All versions open on Alexander’s death in Babylon before cutting to the elderly Ptolemy, another of Alexander’s generals and childhood friends, as he dictates a biography of Alexander’s life to his scribe in Alexandria, Egypt. In the theatrical cut this leads into Alexander’s childhood until skipping forward in time to the Battle of Gaugamela, the defining encounter in which Alexander defeats the Persian king Darius III and enters Babylon to become king of Persia. The film then follows Alexander’s campaigns further East, across the Hindu Kush and into India until he is forced to turn back. While in India, Alexander murders one of his generals, Cleitus, which instigates a flashback to the murder of Alexander’s father, Philip. The weakness of this structure is that the film appears to begin as a chronological account of Alexander’s upbringing in Greece but then leaps forward to Gaugamela and his later life while skipping over much of his invasion and conquest of Persia – events which arguably earned him the epithet ‘the Great’. However, in the subsequent cuts Stone’s intended structure becomes clearer: in the Ultimate Cut, Ptolemy’s opening narration leads directly into the Battle of Gaugamela and what follows becomes a clear chronological narrative about Alexander’s later life and expansion East leading to his demise. During this narrative there are occasional flashbacks to scenes from his youth which mirror events during the later chronology and suggest why, as an adult and a king, he made the choices he did. Stone has called these scenes of Alexander’s upbringing in Greece ‘parallel stories’ and through this device we see the influence Alexander’s warring parents had on shaping the man he would become, whereas in the theatrical cut these scenes are top-loaded into the opening forty-five minutes of the film. While the parallels between Alexander’s early and later life can still be deciphered from this structure, it is made clearer and easier to follow in subsequent edits, especially The Ultimate Cut. Gideon Nisbet has argued that Stone’s film is indebted to Robert Rossen’s Alexander the Great, calling Alexander a ‘quasi-remake’ and a ‘remake-in-denial’.19 Rossen’s film, like Stone’s, was also written by its director and produced during a turbulent period of American history. In 1951 Rossen appeared before HUAC and was blacklisted after refusing to cooperate. In exile he began researching Alexander’s life and, during the early scripting stage, returned to the committee in 1953 and confessed his prior involvement with the Communist Party and ‘named



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names’ of other Communist sympathisers in Hollywood.20 Against this backdrop Alexander the Great has been read allegorically, with Kim Shahabudin concluding that the film is Rossen’s ‘comment on the failure of contemporary political ideals to fulfil their aims as they became twisted by the corruptions of power and the weakness of men’.21 Nisbet believes that both Rossen and Stone’s films dwell on Alexander’s youth in Greece and foreground Alexander’s relationship with his father as the predominant influence on his ambition and violent temperament. In fairness to Nisbet both works possess similar scenes, such as Philip’s drunken banishment of Alexander after they argue at Philip’s wedding to Eurydice. Some of the dialogue also plays with similar themes: in Alexander the Great Philip warns a young Alexander that a king must ‘trust no-one and learn to be alone’, while in Alexander he advises, ‘A king must know how to hurt those he loves. It’s lonely.’ However, as both writer-directors researched extensively it is somewhat unfair to claim plagiarism when they are depicting scenes and ideas recorded in Alexander’s historical biographies. Structurally, the two films are remarkably different, even when just compared to the theatrical cut of Alexander. Almost half of Rossen’s film is set in Greece while only around forty-five minutes of Stone’s (considerably longer) film takes place there. Rossen then focuses on Alexander’s conquest of Persia, including the battle of the Granicus River, a montage containing the siege of Tyre, the Gordian knot, and culminating with the defeat of Darius III at Gaugamela. Alexander’s campaigns thereafter, including his passage into India, are covered in the final twenty minutes of running time before the film comes to an abrupt end with Alexander’s death. In contrast, Stone’s film omits Alexander’s invasion of Persia prior to Gaugamela and dedicates the rest of the running time to his campaign further East. In so doing, Stone’s film is primarily concerned with how Alexander’s ambition and expansionism post-Gaugamela led to his downfall in a clear antiimperialist message, while Rossen’s is chiefly concerned with the conquest of Persia itself and the concept that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Furthermore, Rossen’s Alexander is preoccupied with surpassing his father’s goals, and though Stone’s is motivated to go ‘further than my father ever dreamed’ it is in order to explore and unite various cultures rather than simply ruling them. Considering their respective structures, characterisations and motivations, Nisbet’s reading of the similarities between the two films is understandable but overly reductive. If Stone has indeed borrowed from previous adaptations of Alexander’s life he has drawn more from Terrence Rattigan’s Adventure Story than Rossen’s film. Televised in 1961 and starring a pre-James Bond Sean Connery, Adventure Story begins, like Stone’s film, with a delirious Alexander on his deathbed as his generals press him to name a successor. From this point the narrative unfolds through a series of extended flashbacks beginning with Alexander’s visit to the Oracle at Siwah before covering his political and personal movements from the Battle of Issus to Gaugamela. The film develops the role of Darius III and his family to a greater extent than Stone’s film, but nevertheless features a number of similarities, including Ptolemy suggesting alterations to the historical record surrounding Alexander’s decisions, Alexander walking over a map of Gaugamela as he

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announces his battle plan, comparisons between Cleitus and Philip, Alexander’s isolation and loneliness, and his overriding need to prove his legitimacy and earn his father’s respect. However, despite Alexander’s similarities to previous adaptations of the conqueror’s life, to fully appreciate the film one must first view it in relation to Stone’s filmography.

Alexander as Allegory The life of Alexander the Great is undoubtedly a ‘usable past’ for exploring conflict and cultural difference in post-9/11 interactions between East and West. Its themes, geography and protagonists could all be said to parallel contemporary events but the history of Alexander is also a complex and multifaceted tale that – as with so much of history – is still being debated. In broad terms, Alexander’s life can be summarised as follows: in fourth century BC Alexander’s father, Philip II, united the various tribes of Macedon and created a disciplined army. While Alexander was in his teens Philip defeated an alliance of the Greek city states thereafter uniting Greece and Macedon in a league with the intention of invading Persia, liberating the Greek cities of Asia Minor and exacting revenge for the Persian destruction of Athens in the fifth century.22 However, before the campaign began Philip was murdered by a member of his bodyguard resulting in Alexander becoming king at the age of nineteen. He then led a Pan-Hellenic army into Persia and beyond, creating an empire that would encompass much of modern Bulgaria, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Egypt, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, parts of Uzbekistan, Tajikstan, Libya and, at its furthest Eastern point, Pakistan.23 However, it was in Pakistan (or India, as it was), that Alexander was forced to turn back due to illness, injury, and/or the threat of mutiny. Returning to Babylon, he died of either sickness or poisoning aged thirty-two. Alexander remains a controversial figure, sometimes characterised as a genocidal conqueror that destroyed cultural landmarks, killed thousands, forced Hellenic culture onto the East, and advocated mass rape through cross-cultural marriages.24 Others regard him as an idealist who, in Stone’s words, ‘furthered multiculturalism and globalism to a degree never seen before in the history of the world’.25 To his supporters, Alexander liberated Persian-controlled Greek cities in Asia Minor, restored Persian and Greek temples, allowed Persians to join his army, spread literacy and Greek education, built cities, and supported cross-cultural marriages in an attempt to protect Persian women from abandonment when the Greco-Macedonian soldiers returned home.26 Alexander was also an impressive military strategist who supposedly never lost a battle and fought alongside his soldiers as he expanded his empire by force. While most would regard this as imperialism, Stone reasons, ‘I would call him not an imperialist, as present fashion would have it, but rather a ‘proto-man’, an enlightened monarch naturally in search of one land, one world – the unity, so to speak, of the womb.’27 Alexander’s (and Alexander’s) narrative essentially sees a Western power supplanting an Eastern ruler who is then put to death by his former subjects while



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the invading forces become entangled in a prolonged guerrilla war in the mountains of Afghanistan. The contemporary parallels to US involvement in the Middle East are evident and Alexander seemed fated to be read as an analogy regardless of Stone’s intentions. Some critics, such as The New Yorker’s Anthony Lane, compared Alexander’s actions to those of the Bush administration claiming Alexander is ‘a strident argument in favour of unilateral aggression against foreign powers, on the grounds that – guess what – it’s good for ‘em. The battle of Gaugamela … was, in essence, the launch of Operation Persian Freedom.’28 Russell similarly concludes that Alexander ‘talks of liberating the people he invades; repeatedly, his men question the wisdom of an endless colonial war in a manner that seems to link Alexander’s hubris to George W. Bush’s attempts to “liberate” the same peoples of Afghanistan and Iraq over 2000 years later’.29 Specific details in Alexander’s narrative support such readings: similar to Helen’s abduction in Troy, Alexander’s invasion of Persia was predicated on the grounds that it was in retaliation to former Persian assaults on Greek soil as well as claims that the Persian king, Darius III, was behind Philip’s murder (others believe it was Alexander’s mother, Olympius, or even Alexander himself who had arranged it).30 This recalls the argument that the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq were predicated on the belief that the countries were connected to 9/11, harboured terrorists and presented a threat to the United States and its allies.31 Furthermore, Gary Berkowitz has noted that in Joint Resolution 114, signed by President George W. Bush in October 2002, one of the cited reasons for the use of armed forces against Iraq is that Saddam Hussein’s regime had attempted to assassinate Bush’s father in 1993.32 Stone is well aware of cinema’s ability to employ history as allegory and analogy. During an interview for Time magazine in 2007 he discussed plans to make a film about the My Lai massacre in the Vietnam War after further revelations of prisoner abuse being perpetrated by the US military in the War on Terror came to light, stating, ‘Sometimes the best way to reflect on something is through parallel history. Patton came out during Vietnam; Little Big Man came out during Vietnam; M*A*S*H* came out during Vietnam. They were all about other wars. Sometimes you can tell more about a war now by paralleling a previous war.’33 In his documentary miniseries The Untold History of the United States (2012) he even cites Gladiator as an allegory for American society in the late 1990s. However, it would be strange for Stone to equate Alexander, a figure he evidently idealises, to someone he reportedly dislikes: in one interview he said of President Bush that he ‘couldn’t despise a man more’ and that analogous readings of Alexander equating the two are ‘facile’.34 He repeatedly denied that the film was intended as an analogy for contemporary events, but conceded that the film’s reception in America ‘has a lot to do with the war in Iraq. … There is something very strange going on in this country at the moment. It is like the whole value system has gone awry. We want only clearly defined heroes and villains, no subtleties in between.’35 As with Petersen and Troy, Stone explained that contemporary events overtook the production: I started this thing before all this nightmare came down, this morass … . It’s ironic, and I think there is a coincidence that’s far beyond my understanding,

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Blockbusters and the Ancient World but I would certainly not limit this to the current situation. This is an older situation, East vs. West. This is pre-Muslim, and there was always a conflict between Persian and Greek.36

Stone often confronted the supposed parallels between Alexander and Bush by emphasising the differences between them. He praised Alexander for integrating conquered armies into his own and offering them education while criticising Bush for disbanding the Iraqi army following the invasion: a decision that led many of the newly unemployed Iraqi soldiers to join the Fedayeen and fight against the United States.37 In other interviews he stated that Alexander was willing to change as he went East. As he went East, he became more Eastern. Whereas Bush is intractable, unable to evolve, to understand the Eastern mentality. Of course, he’s not a frontline leader as Alexander was.38 Alexander was not a materialist; he wasn’t, despite any protestations of freedom, seeking to loot the resources of the East, such as oil, and gold, to bring to the West. Alexander is the only conqueror that I know of who stayed with the people that he conquered. To see this multiculturalist as a figure of maniacal proportions staggers me with its cynicism.39

Stone’s distinction between Alexander as a front-line commander compared to Bush raises an issue Jonathan Shay has highlighted in Vietnam veterans – of which Stone is one – that encapsulates their feeling of betrayal. Compared to earlier conflicts, including the Second World War, commanders in the US military during the Vietnam War largely remained far away from combat zones while the lower ranks were exposed to the full horrors of the conflict, creating a feeling of unfairness and even betrayal among the common soldiery.40 Having lived through this inequality, it is understandable that Stone will respect Alexander’s involvement in the front line and disparage Bush’s distancing from combat. As with Brad Pitt’s support for Petersen’s analogous reading of Troy, star Colin Farrell (Alexander) defended Stone’s position, affirming that, ‘the film was never made for the purposes of a correlation or to say anything about today’s present state’.41 This is echoed by Robin Lane Fox who states flatly: ‘At no point is his film a comment on what critics have described as ‘Stone’s USA’, or on contemporary events.’42 ‘Stone’s USA’ is a term derived from the director’s propensity to explore social and political issues relating to America and its history including war, the media, popular and sporting culture, fame, greed and violence. His protagonists are often white men in positions of power and Stone exhibits an apparent fascination with what creates, motivates and ultimately destroys them, as is evident in Wall Street (1987), JFK, The Doors and Nixon (1995). An awareness of Stone’s reputation as a filmmaker could therefore lead viewers to presuppose that Alexander is an analogue for contemporary America. Stone, however, has argued the antithesis, stating in an interview that he chose to make a film about ancient Greece because ‘I think American culture is uninteresting and dead. Let’s explore other cultures because, frankly, I prefer those worlds right now.’43 In an interview for Cinéaste in



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2005 Stone looked back on Alexander, again stating, ‘The process helped raise me out of the morass of the present world. It took me back in time to an ancient place where men had higher ideals and strived to execute them.’44 Gary Crowdus similarly identified Stone’s fascination with the past over the then-present, reasoning, One suspects that for Stone – as a member of the generation politically and culturally radicalized during the Sixties and whose adult lives have been defined by a sense of alienation from the US Government and most of its political leaders and policies – Alexander functions as a vehicle for his frustrated sense of idealism.45

Although Alexander took Stone to a different time and culture its themes are still quintessentially his. Parent/child relationships are a prominent feature of Stone’s work, as seen in Platoon (1986), Wall Street, Nixon, W. (2008) and Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps (2010). While Stone’s protagonists are often young males, their actions are influenced by their fathers, father figures or occasionally mothers. For example, the protagonists of Platoon and Wall Street (both played by Charlie Sheen) are each torn between contrasting father figures: Elias and Barnes, and Carl and Gordon, respectively. The former of each pairing represents morality while the latter is its antithesis, with conflict ensuing as the young hero wavers between the two. In Nixon and W. (the latter about George W. Bush), the eponymous leaders are each depicted during difficult and defining periods of their presidencies, with Nixon facing Watergate and Bush the invasion of Iraq. As the narrative of these events progresses the films intercut the chronological events with scenes from the characters’ younger days where the actions of Nixon’s mother and Bush’s father account for whom each would become. Alexander proceeds in a similar style, whereby the scenes set in Greece – whether as parallel stories or a chronological sequence, depending on which cut is being seen – depict the conflict between Alexander’s parents while the post-Gaugamela narrative reveals how Alexander’s upbringing affected his motivations and decision making. Stone portrays the young Alexander as devoted to his mother, Olympias, who in turn attempts to manipulate him into being ruthlessly ambitious. His father detests Olympias and fears the influence she exerts over Alexander, but Philip is also a womanising, short-tempered drunk who publically insults Olympias and banishes his son for defending her. Stone has stated that the portrayal of Alexander’s parents and his relationship with them is inspired by his own fractious relationship to his parents.46 In a scene of Stone’s invention Philip shows a young Alexander a series of cave paintings depicting famous scenes from Greek mythology to teach him about life and kingship (see Figure 3.1), including the aforementioned lesson about the loneliness of kingship and Philip’s paranoia and distrust of others, especially women. As Philip discusses his first experience of battle we deduce that his alcoholism may be a result of combat trauma: indeed, Shay lists common symptoms of PTSD in Vietnam veterans as ‘persistent expectation of betrayal and exploitation … alcohol and drug abuse … despair, isolation, and meaninglessness’.47 Establishing Philip’s damaged psyche in this scene acts as forewarning of what awaits Alexander as

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Figure 3.1  Philip (Val Kilmer) shows a young Alexander (Connor Paolo) a painting of an eagle pecking Prometheus’ liver in Alexander. Source: Alexander, directed by Oliver Stone © Warner Bros. 2004. All rights reserved.

his own combat experiences grow. The cave scene also introduces the motif of mythological narratives mirroring Alexander’s later life, such as his replaying the Oedipus myth when he marries Roxana, who looks and speaks like Olympius, and murders Cleitus, who was one of his father’s closest generals. Chief among the mythological influences is Alexander’s relationship to Prometheus. Stone associates Alexander’s introduction of Greek culture to Persia and India as synonymous with Prometheus’ civilising mission of bringing fire to man, in line with Stone’s view of Alexander as trying to unite nations through culture. Again, this could be read as an allusion to America and its allies bringing ‘democracy’ or ‘freedom’ to Iraq and Afghanistan, but its layered significance within Alexander suggests that such a basic, pro-Bush reading was never Stone’s intention. In the myth, Prometheus’ gift to man is tempered by punishment whereby he is chained to a rock to have his liver pecked out by an eagle. The myth acts as a warning that suffering accompanies great ambition, which is the moral heart of Alexander. While Stone praises Alexander’s intention of bringing cultural exchange and unity to Persia and beyond, it is arguably his use of military force to enact his ambition that leads to his downfall.

The Combat Film It is here that we begin to see Stone hybridising the ancient world epic with the combat film. The story of Alexander the Great will always be something of an anomaly in the epic genre for the aforementioned reason that its hero can easily be regarded as an imperialist and as such cannot undergo a conversion narrative. Furthermore, ancient Greek religion does not easily equate to monotheistic religions such as Christianity and its values, and as such the standard use of faith in God as the catalyst for change in a conversion narrative is not typically available in Greek epics. However, Alexander, like Troy, employs aspects of the combat film to



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use the experience of warfare and combat trauma to inspire Alexander’s change. In uniting aspects of both genres, Stone appears to draw – perhaps subconsciously – not only on his own war experiences but also on the tropes of the 1980s Vietnam War film; a cycle of which he created two of the defining texts in Platoon (1986) and Born on the Fourth of July (1989). One notable trope that Alexander incorporates into the epic is the abandoned soldier-son and absent father figure. Tying Alexander’s story to the Prometheus myth relates his suffering to the image of the eagle, which in Greek culture was a symbol of Zeus and was used on the first coins Alexander issued in Asia.48 Accounts of Alexander’s life, such as that by Lane Fox, reference his apparent belief (or projected image) that Zeus was his real father.49 Stone, however, utilises the symbol of Zeus’ eagle and allusions to Prometheus to further explore Alexander’s relationship to Philip. The eagle first appears when Alexander is a child and tames his horse, Bucephelus, to the rare delight and pride of his father. According to Lane Fox it was Philip’s creation of the disciplined Macedonian army and its revolutionary weapons and formations that were ‘the most immediate reason why Alexander ever became great’.50 This is symbolised when the eagle is next seen flying over the Gaugamela battlefield observing the troop formations and Alexander’s tactics (see Figure 3.2). In his victory at Gaugamela Alexander effectively achieves Philip’s dream of conquering Persia, but he then decides to push even further and expand his empire. When he stands on its borders in the mountains of the Hindu Kush – observing a rock formation believed to have been where Prometheus was chained – the eagle deserts him. Once abandoned, Alexander becomes the lost soldier-son as he crosses into India and his army’s morale crumbles under the conditions, culminating in Alexander being wounded in battle and shattering any illusions that he is the son of Zeus. When he emerges weak and injured from his tent and gives the order to return home his army cheers in jubilation, but Alexander is devastated. As Philip warned in the cave, so Alexander has learnt that being king is indeed to be alone. In this moment of melancholia and realisation the eagle returns and Alexander glimpses his father’s ghost offering a nod of acceptance and understanding. Kristen Moana Thompson has interpreted the image of the eagle gliding over the battlefield of Gaugamela as an allusion to contemporary warfare in which highaltitude cameras mounted on satellites and unmanned drones observe activity on the ground.51 However, Stone implores viewers to take a different perspective: Too easily, with our twenty-first-century point of view, we also forget that war was different. Soldiers killed soldiers; generally, cities and civilians were spared. … But today, war has become such a hideous affair of chemical and biological horror, and remote high-altitude-bombing destruction, wherein populations are destroyed in order to win them over. … It requires mental discipline to keep Alexander in the context of his own time.52

Alexander’s battle scenes nevertheless carry elements which are evocative of other wars. In the patriarchal connotations of the eagle and its interactions with Alexander’s military campaigns the film evokes Vietnam War films in how it

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portrays ancient combat. Despite the multitude of battles and sieges that Alexander fought only two are included in Stone’s film. The first was the turning point in the campaign against Darius III when, after defeating him at the Battle of Issus, Alexander’s small army met the largest army it would ever face at Gaugamela and defeated Darius a second time, causing the Persian king to flee the battlefield only to be killed later by his own men. The victory granted Alexander entry to Babylon, the Persian crown, control of the empire, and in the film it marks the high point of Alexander’s life – and the beginning of his decline. To depict Alexander’s skill as a commander and strategist Stone’s camera soars into the clouds alongside the eagle to reveal the scale of the encounter and Alexander’s tactics in action. The editing cuts between the ‘bird’s-eye view’ and scenes of ground-level combat where Stone chokes the screen with clouds of dust and sand punctuated by blood spurts and hacked limbs. Unlike the battle sequences in Troy and some previous epics where the terrain is a backdrop to the human carnage, Stone portrays the battlefield as an invasive entity that impacts how the soldiers fight. While a victory, Stone eschews glorifying Alexander’s achievement at Gaugamela and instead concludes the battle with his frustration at being unable to pursue Darius due to a crumbling left flank. In the aftermath, the new king of Persia is shown mournfully walking through the field of corpses to emphasise the human cost of his war. Ptolemy’s narration that runs throughout the film alludes to the guerrilla war Alexander fought in the mountains of Afghanistan, but after Gaugamela the next (and final) battle sequence in the film comes in the jungles of India. Unlike Gaugamela, this sequence is not a reconstruction of a specific historical encounter but a composite of several battles. The jungle setting creates a marked visual contrast to the barren desert of the first battle (the use of heavy foliage was designed to limit the amount of extras and CGI needed for the sequence), and while elephants would have historically been used at Gaugamela Stone saves them for this encounter.53 In the battle Alexander leads a cavalry charge against a war elephant and is wounded by an arrow, at which point the screen becomes bathed in red light as Stone and cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto employ infrared

Figure 3.2  The eagle flies over the opposing armies at Gaugamela in Alexander. Source: Alexander, directed by Oliver Stone © Warner Bros. 2004. All rights reserved.



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film stock to represent Alexander’s shock and disorientation. The battle then becomes increasingly bloody as he is lifted out of the mêlée on Achilles’ shield. Stone’s portrayal of the India campaign is visually and thematically reminiscent of his depiction of the Vietnam War in Platoon, as well as other Vietnam War films such as Forrest Gump (1994) and Hamburger Hill (1987). Over establishing shots of Alexander’s army in India Ptolemy’s narration emphasises the difficulties they faced in coping with the environment (see Figure 3.3). We see thick jungle where pouring rain turns the ground into a quagmire and lightning strikes a group of soldiers in an explosion of sparks similar to Platoon’s falling mortar rounds. Ptolemy proceeds to describe the illnesses and snake bites suffered by Alexander’s men, driving them to drink undiluted wine in the absence of clean water – something which leads to Cleitus’ murder during a drunken argument. The misery of the campaign leads the army to mutiny prior to the battle, and they are only subdued after Alexander has the ringleaders executed. This vividly recalls Platoon’s depiction of American servicemen in the mud and heat of the Vietnamese jungles, including their in-fighting and increasing reliance on drugs or alcohol to cope with the stress. Investigative reporter Neil Sheehan has similarly written of the actual Vietnam experience for the US military by 1969: It was an Army in which men escaped into marijuana and heroin and other men died because their comrades were ‘stoned’ on drugs. … It was an Army whose units in the field were on the edge of mutiny, whose soldiers rebelled against the senselessness of their sacrifice by assassinating officers and non-coms in ‘accidental’ shootings and ‘fraggings’ with grenades.54

The battle scene itself continues the parallels as the Indian army emerges suddenly out of the undergrowth and Alexander’s cavalry are picked off by archers concealed in that trees like Vietcong. As with the dust and sand of Gaugamela, Stone’s depictions of Vietnam and the battles of Alexander the Great show how soldiers fought not only the enemy but the environment around them. Alexander also echoes Taylor’s relationship to the antithetical father figures of Elias and Barnes in Platoon. Elias takes new-recruit Taylor under his wing and is a protective paternal figure until he is ‘fragged’ by the cruel and vicious Barnes. The ensuing tension builds until Taylor takes revenge on Barnes, killing him in an illustration of the film’s thesis that in Vietnam America fought itself. In the published screenplay for Platoon Stone describes Elias and Barnes in suitably classical terms, as ‘the angry Achilles versus the conscience-stricken Hector, fighting for a lost cause on the dusty plains of Troy’.55 Alexander likewise has multiple fathers: in a flashback to his assassination we see Philip embrace Cleitus and tell the young Alexander to ‘treat him as you would me’. During the Battle of Gaugamela, with the eagle overhead, Cleitus saves Alexander’s life remarking ‘Your father still watches over you, boy!’ During the India campaign, as Alexander and his men become increasingly drunk, Cleitus’ xenophobic rant against the Indians and Persians builds to an embittered crescendo when he compares Alexander unfavourably to Philip. The editing assumes Alexander’s inebriated perspective wherein there is a split-second image of Philip

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standing in Cleitus’ place. When Cleitus then insults Olympias, as Philip had done years prior, Alexander erupts into a violent rage and stabs him: fulfilling the Oedipus myth but also destroying the cruel father figure as Taylor killed Barnes. Alexander and Taylor are further linked through their katabatic narratives. The katabasis originates in classical Greek storytelling and can be seen in numerous ancient texts including Homer’s Odyssey. Its literal meaning is ‘going down, a descent’ and typically describes a character’s journey into the underworld in order to rescue someone or else obtain an object or piece of knowledge. Holtsmark’s summary of the katabasis is worth quoting in full as it best describes the narrative’s component parts: The entryway to the other world is often conceived as lying in caves or grottos or other openings in the earth’s crust into the nether regions, such as chasms or clefts. Further, since that other world lies beyond a boundary separating it from our realm, such natural topographical delimiters as rivers, bodies of water, or even mountain ranges may be the physical tokens of demarcation. It is well known, for instance, that the underworld of classical mythology is penetrated by a number of rivers, most notably Styx and Acheron, which have to be crossed in a skiff punted along by the old ferryman Charon. The lower world is generally dank and dark, and the journey usually takes place at dusk or during the night. The realm itself is inhabited by the wealthy king and queen of the dead and by the innumerable spirits of the dead, by monsters (e.g., Cerberus) and evildoers (e.g., Tantalus) … . The katabatic hero is often accompanied and helped by a companion [psychopompos] (who may be female) or by a loyal retinue of retainers, some or all of whom may be lost in the course of the journey so that the protagonist returns alone.56

Holtsmark describes how this feature has been used in a variety of film genres including the sci-fi, western and combat film. In discussing the classical influences on Stone’s films Sheramy Bundrick argues that Platoon is essentially a katabasis narrative in its depiction of Taylor’s descent into the hell of Vietnam.57 Alexander echoes this, with the Hindu Kush marking the boundary of his descent, the quagmire of India being the underworld, the mutineers and Indian army the evildoers, and the elephants being the monsters. A number of his men die in the campaign and the experience culminates when he – like Taylor – is stretchered from the battlefield having gained an important piece of knowledge: in understanding the limitations of his ambition and the loneliness of kingship Alexander is finally reconciled with his father. While his relationship with Philip is uneasy, during Alexander’s youth he nevertheless has his father present and ready to offer advice. Following Philip’s assassination Alexander still has surrogate father figures in the form of Cleitus and Parmenion, Philip’s generals. However, the fatherly eagle abandons him when he begins his katabatic narrative, and it is around this time that Alexander has Parmenion killed (fearing he was involved in an assassination plot) and once in India he murders Cleitus too. As Alexander descends into the metaphorical ‘underworld’ of India he is therefore deserted by all father figures and resorts to increasingly reckless behaviour as befits the abandoned soldier-son. As with



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Figure 3.3  Alexander (Colin Farrell) leads his army through the jungles of India in Alexander. Source: Alexander, directed by Oliver Stone © Warner Bros. 2004. All rights reserved.

Platoon and Vietnam, the India campaign sees the men fighting among themselves, threatening to mutiny, embattled by the terrain and the enemy, and unable to find a worthwhile reason for their sacrifice. Alexander essentially becomes his father due to the effects of PTSD, sharing in his despair, isolation, paranoia, use of alcohol and explosive rage. A number of Iraq and Afghanistan War combat films released over 2005–8 drew similar parallels to the Vietnam War and reiterated the abandoned soldierson/absent father figure trope. In depicting a historical East–West conflict partially set in an area of contemporary conflict with similar parallels to the American experience in Vietnam, it is understandable that Alexander can be read metaphorically. However, Alexander’s production history began before 9/11 when Stone was researching and writing his screenplay and, as with Troy, the film would have been mid-way through pre-production and/or production as the situation in Iraq began to resemble Vietnam. Therefore, a logical conclusion is that the apparent allusions to Iraq or Afghanistan are unlikely to be intentional and Stone has repeatedly argued thus. Nevertheless, in Stone’s depiction of the katabasis section of the film the similarities to Vietnam combat films are writ large. Regardless of whether Alexander’s campaign into India is viewed as a ‘civilising mission’ or imperialist expansion, the katabasis sequence reveals the damaging effects of war on soldiers especially, as occurred when America entered Vietnam, when they are operating in a remote country with alien terrain and are trying to impose their culture and values on an indigenous people willing to resist occupation.

The Unreliable Narrator Stone’s fascination with historical figures and his research into them has led him being likened to a historian as well as a dramatist.58 Alexander’s Ptolemy is therefore something of an avatar for Stone as he too is recording a biography

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of Alexander’s life. Historically, Ptolemy shared in his campaigns and after Alexander’s death became Pharaoh of Egypt and authored a biography on Alexander which has been lost to time, although some of the information contained therein has reached us through references in subsequent biographies (though his wording was likely changed).59 The ambiguity surrounding the details of Ptolemy’s biography allowed Stone a degree of artistic licence with his depiction, including the fact that few ancient biographers were interested in the childhood of their subjects.60 As discussed above, the influence of parental relationships during childhood is an important subject for Stone, and while Alexander continues this motif it differs to his previous films in its use of the narrator as an additional storytelling device. Stone and his producer, Thomas Schühly, decided to utilise a narrator after observing similar biographical films of larger-than-life characters and noting how a mediator enables the audience to relate to the eponymous protagonist, such as Salieri’s role in Amadeus (1984) and Leland in Citizen Kane (1941).61 The film opens with Alexander’s death in Babylon surrounded by his generals, including the younger Ptolemy. As Alexander’s hands fall he drops the ring given to him by Hephaestion which shatters on the floor – in an allusion to Citizen Kane’s snow-globe – as the scene cuts to the elderly Ptolemy in the library of Alexandria as he dictates the biography to his scribe, Cadmus (see Figure 3.4). Alexander’s Ptolemy guides the audience through the conqueror’s life and the historical context surrounding it while simultaneously raising questions about the nature of historiography by relating events in a symbolic, non-linear fashion. As has become increasingly clear over Stone’s evolving edits of the film, the ‘parallel stories’ depicting Alexander’s early years offer what Lane Fox calls a ‘running psychological commentary’ on the conqueror’s development.62 Ptolemy’s (or Stone’s) achronological approach heightens the viewer’s awareness of the selective process of writing history and encourages them to consider the significance of the moments in Alexander’s life Ptolemy is choosing to relate. The main action of the film is therefore a visualisation of Ptolemy’s biography as it is being written and constructed. At times Ptolemy appears to be conflicted as to whether Alexander is man or god and as he works through this dichotomy we see how the myth of Alexander is being formed. Ptolemy skirts over controversial issues such as the destruction of Thebes and Persepolis and, as Ian Nathan states, ‘judges the frailties of the real man before carefully omitting such details from the record’.63 Ptolemy is not even present to account for certain scenes, such as Philip and Alexander in the caves under Pella, which in turn excuses Stone’s own invention of such non-historical moments. The influence of Ptolemy’s storytelling permeates the earlier scene, however, as surrounded by the paintings of the myths the young Alexander promises Philip: ‘One day I’ll be on walls like these,’ a promise that finds fulfilment in the Alexandrian library where a large mosaic of Alexander adorns Ptolemy’s wall. The inclusion of the mosaic, cave paintings and other forms of storytelling alludes to Stone’s usual aesthetic wherein he mixes rapid editing, canted angles, various film stocks and pseudo-documentary and archive footage in provocative



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and thought-provoking ways to prompt the viewer into questioning what they are seeing. This led to controversy surrounding the release of JFK when critics raised fears that Stone was misleading audiences through his use of documentary and archive footage to blur the lines between ‘fact’ and fiction. However, as Robert Burgoyne writes, By focalizing the investigation … through an individual character, the powerful pseudo-documentary sequences that fill the film are rendered mainly as individual hypotheses, speculative possibilities, filtered through the mindscreen of an individual character. … This is not to suggest that these sequences should be considered ‘lies’, but rather that they unfold under an explicit narrative indication that they are speculative and hypothetical, that they are scenarios of what may have occurred.64

Using pseudo-documentary footage was not an option for Alexander without appearing wildly anachronistic, as Stone concedes.65 However, the issues of perspective, hypothesis, interpretation and unreliability are raised in Ptolemy’s narration as he becomes the embodiment of recorded history. Kim Shahabudin points out that during his opening monologue Ptolemy stands next to a statue of Hermes, the Greek god of communication, and the sequence is set in a library where oral, textual and pictorial methods of recording history are stored.66 Ptolemy’s account of Alexander’s life is what Stone calls the ‘official version’ of history, written by wealthy elites who have the time and resources to record and disseminate their accounts.67 Stone’s filmography exhibits a continued wariness surrounding ‘the power of corruption to rewrite history’.68 His Ptolemy confesses to joining the other generals in poisoning Alexander in Babylon, before telling Cadmus to delete the revelation from the historical record and replace it with a statement that Alexander died of fever. As Joanna Paul states, ‘Stone dramatizes,

Figure 3.4  Ptolemy (Anthony Hopkins) dictates his biography of Alexander’s life to his scribe, Cadmus (David Bedella), in Alexander. Source: Alexander, directed by Oliver Stone © Warner Bros. 2004. All rights reserved.

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instead of denying, one of the key features of the modern world’s relationship with antiquity – the difficulty of uncovering verifiable truth under the layers of receptions piled up over the centuries.’69 Alexander’s life as we see it in the film is not that of the historical Ptolemy but rather Stone’s. Indeed, when questioned about Alexander’s destruction of Thebes and Persepolis Stone quoted the defence his Ptolemy gives in Alexander almost verbatim.70 In depicting Ptolemy as an unreliable narrator and an author of history Stone is encouraging his audience not only to challenge the version of events we are presented by history and in the mainstream media but also to question his own work. As with McCrisken and Pepper’s analysis of JFK, in Alexander Stone ‘calls upon audiences to take to task official versions of history and ask whether alternative versions might exist and, in fact, be more convincing’.71 Even in his version of ancient history, densely laden with historical detail as it is, Stone’s Alexander still contains a message relevant to contemporary society. As he advises, ‘Never base your views on one movie, one historian, one ideology, or one perception, no matter how seductive or convincing the messenger. Life is far too ambiguous.’72 Alexander can easily be understood as a timely message about believing the ‘official’ account of the War on Terror being propagated by the US government and media around the time of the film’s production. Indeed, in its portrayal of a Western army invading and replacing an Eastern regime as part of an empirebuilding expedition masked as a retaliatory act of vengeance it almost invites comparison to contemporary events. However, when considering the production schedule, Stone’s views towards the war, President Bush and his repeated claims to the contrary when asked about seemingly analogous content in the film we have to conclude that Alexander was not intended to be an allegory for the Iraq War. As with Troy, the film’s portrayal of ancient warfare is clearly influenced by actual and filmic depictions of twentieth-century conflicts, but its themes are universal in portraying what war – especially those fought in the pursuit of empire-building – does to the soldiers who fight them. Perhaps because of Stone’s first-hand experience of combat, his focus remains largely with the soldiery rather than showing the effect of war on civilians, as Petersen does in Troy. In focusing on Alexander’s downfall through his expansionist expedition into India rather than his rise to greatness culminating in Gaugamela, as Rossen’s film does, Stone fulfils the ancient world epic’s recurrent motif of condemning imperialist expansion even if he sees merits in Alexander’s personal motivations for empire-building.

Notes 1 Oliver Stone, ‘Introduction’, in The Making of Alexander, by Robin Lane Fox (Oxford and London: R+L, 2004), i. 2 Jon Solomon, ‘The Popular Reception of Alexander’, in Responses to Oliver Stone’s Alexander, 46–7. 3 Robin Lane Fox, The Making of Alexander (Oxford and London: R+L, 2004), 12.



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4 Lane Fox, The Making of Alexander, 7; Jeff Goldsmith, ‘Creative Screenwriting: Christopher McQuarrie – Valkyrie Q&A’, interview with Christopher McQuarrie, Creative Screenwriting, podcast audio, 7 March 2010, https://huffduffer.com/filmflam/15431. 5 Lane Fox, The Making of Alexander, 7. 6 Ibid., 123. 7 ‘Fight against Time: Oliver Stone’s Alexander’, dir. Sean Stone, featured on Alexander: The Ultimate Cut. 8 For examples, see Michael Fleming, ‘Stone Redraws Battle Plans’, Variety, 26 December 2004, accessed 27 July 2012, http:​//var​iety.​com/2​004/f​i lm/n​ews/s​tone-​redra​ ws-ba​ttle-​plans​-1117​91541​5/; Stella Papamichael, ‘Movies – Alexander (2005)’, BBC, 7 January 2005, accessed 29 July 2012, http:​//www​.bbc.​co.uk​/film​s/200​4/12/​14/al​exand​ er_re​view_​2004_​revie​w.sht​ml; Victor Davis Hanson, ‘Gay Old Times?: Oliver Stone Perpetuates a Classical Myth’, National Review, 16 December 2004, accessed 27 July 2012, http:​//www​.nati​onalr​eview​.com/​artic​le/21​3158/​gay-o​ld-ti​mes-v​ictor​-davi​s-han​ son; Anthony Lane, ‘War-Torn: Oliver Stone’s Alexander’, The New Yorker, 6 December 2004, accessed 27 July 2012, http:​//www​.newy​orker​.com/​magaz​ine/2​004/1​2/06/​war-t​ orn; Peter Bradshaw, ‘Alexander Review’. The Guardian, 31 December 2004, accessed 27 July 2012, http:​//www​.theg​uardi​an.co​m/fil​m/200​4/dec​/31/1​. 9 Olga Craig, ‘I Have Let Alexander Down’, The Telegraph, 3 January 2005, accessed 23 June 2018, https​://ww​w.tel​egrap​h.co.​uk/cu​lture​/film​/3634​344/I​-have​-let-​Alexa​nder-​ down.​html.​ 10 For examples, see Fleming, ‘Stone Redraws Battle Plans’; Papamichael, ‘Movies – Alexander (2005)’; Davis Hanson, ‘Gay Old Times?’; Elaine Dutka, ‘Will Alexander Be Greater on DVD?’, Los Angeles Times, 19 July 2005, accessed 27 July 2012, http:​// art​icles​.lati​mes.c​om/20​05/ju​l/19/​enter​tainm​ent/e​t-dvd​19; Mike Clark, ‘Alexander the Great: Barely Even Mediocre’, USA Today, 23 November 2004, accessed 27 July 2012, http:​//usa​today​30.us​atoda​y.com​/life​/movi​es/re​views​/2004​-11-2​3-ale​xande​r_x.h​tm; Waxman, ‘Breaking Ground with a Gay Movie Hero’. 11 Craig, ‘I Have Let Alexander Down’. 12 Solomon, ‘The Popular Reception of Alexander’, 43. 13 Oliver Stone quoted in Fleming, ‘Stone Redraws Battle Plans’. 14 Dutka, ‘Will Alexander Be Greater on DVD?’. 15 Thomas Harrison, ‘Oliver Stone, Alexander, and the Unity of Mankind’, in Responses to Oliver Stone’s Alexander, 233. 16 Jeanne Reames, ‘Fire Bringer: Oliver Stone’s Alexander’, n.d., accessed 22 January 2016, http:​//jea​nnere​ames.​net/H​ephai​stion​/revi​ew2.h​tml. 17 Stone quoted in Crowdus, ‘Dramatizing Issues That Historians Don’t Address: An Interview with Oliver Stone’, Cinéaste 30, no. 2 (Spring 2005): 12, accessed 18 July 2015, http://www.jstor.org/stable/41689838. 18 Fleming, ‘Stone Redraws Battle Plans’. 19 Gideon Nisbet, ‘“And Your Father Sees You”: Paternity in Alexander (2004)’, in Philip II and Alexander the Great, ed. Elizabeth Carney and Daniel Ogden (London: Oxford University Press, 2010), 218, 223. 20 Kim Shahabudin, ‘The Appearance of History: Robert Rossen’s Alexander the Great’, in Responses to Oliver Stone’s Alexander, 102–3. 21 Shahabudin, ‘The Appearance of History’, 104–5. 22 Robin Lane Fox, Alexander the Great (London and New York: Penguin, 2004), 93. 23 Hugh Bowden, Alexander the Great: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 3.

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24 Golnaz Esfandiari, ‘Iran World: Oliver Stone’s Alexander Stirs Up Controversy’, Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, 28 January 2005, accessed 2 August 2012, http:​//www​.rfer​ l.org​/cont​ent/a​rticl​e/105​7143.​html;​ Stephen Hunter, ‘Alexander: A Crying Shame’, Washington Post, 24 November 2004, accessed 27 July 2012, http:​//www​.wash​ingto​ npost​.com/​wp-dy​n/art​icles​/A897​1-200​4Nov2​3.htm​l. 25 Stone quoted in Crowdus, ‘Dramatizing Issues That Historians Don’t Address’, 15. 26 Lane Fox, Alexander the Great, 122–3, 127, 129, 248–9. 27 Oliver Stone, ‘Afterword’, in Responses to Oliver Stone’s Alexander, 340. 28 Anthony Lane, ‘War-Torn’. 29 Russell, The Historical Epic and Contemporary Hollywood, 220. 30 Lane Fox, Alexander the Great, 24. 31 Berkowitz, ‘Oliver Stone’s Alexander as Political Allegory’, 109. 32 Ibid., 109. 33 Oliver Stone quoted in Kay Johnson, ‘Oliver Stone Goes Back to War’, Time, 7 September 2007, accessed 2 September 2012, http:​//con​tent.​time.​com/t​ime/a​rts/a​rticl​ e/0,8​599,1​65992​8,00.​html.​ 34 ‘Oliver Stone on Hardtalk 2/2’, YouTube video, 8:54, posted by ‘WOOODDDDDDYAMOVIES3’, 9 August 2012, accessed 6 August 2012, https​:// ww​w.you​tube.​com/w​atch?​v=UUe​iydDH​t-I; Stone, ‘Afterword’, in Responses to Oliver Stone’s Alexander, 337. 35 Craig, ‘I Have Let Alexander Down’. 36 ‘The Links between Alexander and Bush: Are the Parallels Just a Coincidence or Did Stone Intend Them?’, Today, 22 November 2004, accessed 27 July 2012, http:​//www​ .toda​y.com​/id/6​55978​6/ns/​today​-toda​y_ent​ertai​nment​/t/li​nks-b​etwee​n-ale​xande​r-bus​ h/#.V​kcf5u​KKZ2A​. 37 Stone quoted in Crowdus, ‘Dramatizing Issues That Historians Don’t Address’, 15; Keegan, The Iraq War, 210; Ann Tétreault, ‘International Relations’, 166. 38 Ric Gentry and Oliver Stone, ‘Another Meditation on Death: An Interview with Oliver Stone’, Film Quarterly 60, no. 4 (Summer 2007): 57, accessed 19 January 2011, http:// www.jstor.org/stable/4621439. 39 Stone quoted in Crowdus, ‘Dramatizing Issues That Historians Don’t Address’, 22. 40 Shay, Achilles in Vietnam, 10–14. 41 ‘The Links between Alexander and Bush’. 42 Lane Fox, The Making of Alexander, 7. 43 ‘Fight against Time: Oliver Stone’s Alexander’, dir. by Sean Stone, featured on Alexander: The Ultimate Cut. 44 Stone quoted in Crowdus, ‘Dramatizing Issues That Historians Don’t Address’, 14. 45 Crowdus, ‘Dramatizing Issues That Historians Don’t Address’, 14. 46 Craig, ‘I Have Let Alexander Down’. 47 Shay, Achilles in Vietnam, xx. 48 Lane Fox, Alexander the Great, 131–3. 49 Ibid., 131–3. 50 Ibid., 72. 51 Kristen Moana Thompson, ‘“Philip Never Saw Babylon”: 360-Degree Vision and the Historical Epic in the Digital Era’, in The Epic Film in World Culture, ed. Robert Burgoyne (New York and London: Routledge, 2011), 55. 52 Stone quoted in Crowdus, ‘Dramatizing Issues That Historians Don’t Address’, 15. 53 Rachael K. Bosley, ‘Warrior King’, American Cinematographer, November 2004, 37–8; see also Stone quoted in Crowdus, ‘Dramatizing Issues That Historians Don’t Address’, 21.



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54 Neil Sheehan, A Bright Shining Lie: John Paul Vann and America in Vietnam (New York: Random House, 1988), 741. 55 Oliver Stone, ‘Introduction’, in Platoon: Oliver Stone, Salvador: Oliver Stone and Richard Boyle – The Screenplays (London: Ebury Press, 1987), 9. 56 Erling B. Holtsmark, ‘The Katabasis Theme in Modern Cinema’, in Classical Myth and Culture in the Cinema, 25–6. 57 Sheramy D. Bundrick, ‘Dionysian Themes and Imagery in Oliver Stone’s Alexander’, Helios 36, no. 1 (2009): 85, 91. 58 McCrisken and Pepper, American History and Contemporary Hollywood Film, 131. 59 Lane Fox, Alexander the Great, 11. 60 Ibid., 43. 61 Lane Fox, The Making of Alexander, 12. 62 Lane Fox, The Making of Alexander, 41; Stone, ‘Introduction’, in The Making of Alexander, i. 63 Ian Nathan, ‘Alexander’, Empire, 14 October 2015 (last updated), accessed 28 October 2015, http:​//www​.empi​reonl​ine.c​om/mo​vies/​alexa​nder/​revie​w/. 64 Burgoyne, The Hollywood Historical Film, 131, 132. 65 Oliver Stone quoted in ‘The Total Film Interview – Oliver Stone’, Total Film, 1 November 2003, accessed 3 November 2014, http:​//www​.game​srada​r.com​/the-​total​ -film​-inte​rview​-oliv​er-st​one/.​ 66 Shahabudin, ‘The Appearance of History: Robert Rossen’s Alexander the Great’, 107. 67 Oliver Stone, ‘Stone on Stone’s Image (As Presented by Some Historians)’, in Oliver Stone’s USA: Film, History, and Controversy, ed. Robert Brent Toplin (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2000), 47. 68 Stone, ‘Stone on Stone’s Image’, 58. 69 Paul, ‘Oliver Stone’s Alexander and the Cinematic Epic Tradition’, 24. 70 Stone quoted in Crowdus, ‘Dramatizing Issues That Historians Don’t Address’, 16. 71 McCrisken and Pepper, American History and Contemporary Hollywood Film, 145. 72 Stone, ‘Stone on Stone’s Image’, 46.

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CChapter 4 IS THIS SPARTA?: WAR, FREEDOM AND AMERICA IN 300 (2007)

Due to an unfortunate confluence of factors Alexander (2004) was not a commercial or critical success, and following the disappointing domestic takings of Troy (2004) and King Arthur (2004), the initial series of epics that had sought to capitalise on Gladiator’s success had opened the door for an alternative approach to the genre. Zack Snyder’s 300 (2007)1 is a chimeric creation, a hybrid of genres and aesthetics that became a surprise hit at the worldwide box office and marked a turning point in the renaissance of the ancient world epic. While visually stylised and nominally an adaption of a graphic novel, the film is also an ancient world epic that marries many of the genre’s classic motifs to those of a combat film in a similar manner to Troy and Alexander. 300 is therefore a multilayered text that combines the historical connotations and symbolism of Spartan culture with those of multiple cinematic genres. This amalgamation of different sources of meaning contributes to how we interpret the film in terms of contemporary society. To some extent the film Romanises – or more specifically Americanises – the Spartans, inspiring analogous and allegorical readings of the text as a reflection of East/West tensions during its period of production and release. Due to the number of influences that shape 300’s meaning my analysis is divided over two chapters. Each contributes to a unified appraisal of the film, but for clarity they are split roughly along the lines of genre hybridisation. This chapter discusses the film’s depiction of Spartan culture and how the influence of the combat film Americanises the Spartans, while the next chapter focuses on 300’s aesthetic and comic-book iconography, their meaning and the film’s influence on subsequent ancient world epics.

The Spartan Mirage Based on Frank Miller and Lynn Varley’s 1998 cult graphic novel of the same name, 300 is a reimagining of the 480 BC Battle of Thermopylae in which a small Greek force attempted to defend a narrow coastal path from Persian invasion.2 The conventional account of the battle cites a series of religious celebrations occurring in Greece at the time of the invasion which forbade large numbers of soldiers from leaving their respective cities. However, a small army of a few thousand men (numbers vary between sources) led by a Spartan king,

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Leonidas, and his bodyguard of three hundred men took a defensive position at Thermopylae to delay the Persian advance until the Greeks had assembled their full army. Estimates of the size of the Persian force led by King Xerxes vary wildly but sources generally seem consistent in stating that it greatly outnumbered the Greeks.3 Nevertheless, the Greek defence repelled the Persians for almost three days. Their demise came when they were betrayed by a local man, Ephialtes, who informed the Persians of a path that led to the rear of the Greek position and enabled the defenders to be surrounded. Although most of the Greeks retreated when Ephialtes’ betrayal was discovered, the surviving Spartans and a few Greeks stood fast and fought to the death. Almost immediately after the event, the defence of Thermopylae – and specifically the Spartan role in the battle – became enshrined as a heroic final stand that has echoed throughout history in events such as the fall of the Alamo and the Battle of the Little Bighorn: an article in the New York Herald of 12 July 1876, for instance, said of Custer: ‘The deeds of our young captain are worthy of as much honour as those of Leonidas and will be remembered as long.’4 More recently, the Spartan defence of Thermopylae is cited by the protagonist of The Last Samurai (2003) during a similar final stand made by a small, outnumbered force. To quote Nisbet, Thermopylae ‘has famously stood as the West’s all-purpose ennobling analogy of military confrontation against the odds’.5 References to Sparta have been a recurrent feature of Western thought for centuries, largely owing to what the French scholar François Ollier dubbed le mirage Spartiate, or the ‘Spartan mirage’.6 This is an idealised verging on mythical representation of ancient Sparta promulgated in art and literature which arguably began with the so-called ‘father of history’ Herodotus. Writing shortly after the Persian Wars he glorifies and aggrandises the role the Spartans played in the defence of Thermopylae and repeatedly praises their fighting prowess. Even against the elite Persian troops, the Immortals, Herodotus writes that the Spartans ‘made it quite clear that they were the experts, and that they were fighting against amateurs’.7 Herodotus’ history derives from oral and poetic traditions with many sections likely presented as lectures before being written down.8 The roots of his text residing in public performance and Herodotus’ clear admiration for the Spartans led his description of Thermopylae being, to quote David C. Ryan, ‘replete with hints of the Homeric’.9 John Dillery has suggested that the praise Herodotus’ gives to the Spartans at Thermopylae is the result of ‘cognitive dissonance’, whereby the eventual Greek victory in the war against Xerxes retrospectively attributes each prior encounter as contributing to the end result.10 Herodotus can therefore depict Thermopylae as a moral(e) victory which helped inspire the Greeks to fight on against the Persians despite the battle itself being a defeat. Historians are still aggrandising the defence of Thermopylae as not only a decisive battle in the Persian Wars but also in world history. Paul Cartledge suggests that had Xerxes conquered Greece in 480 BC Western civilisation as we know it may not exist, while Nobel prize-winning author William Golding remarked that ‘a little of Leonidas lies in the fact that I can go where I like and write what I like. He contributed to set us free.’11 These responses are somewhat hyperbolic, but



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the Spartan role in defending Thermopylae has nonetheless become associated with the founding of Western culture by enabling Greek culture to flourish. One particular element of the Thermopylae narrative that has captured scholarly and philosophical attention is whether Leonidas and his Spartans knew, or suspected, that they were going to their deaths. If so, the battle becomes additionally symbolic as an act of willing self-sacrifice in the defence of Greek, and therefore Western, ideology. Cartledge cites this topic as becoming especially relevant in the wake of the ideological suicide of the 9/11 hijackers, whose actions were regarded as an attack on Western culture and its values.12 The details of Thermopylae have been extensively questioned and debated by historians. Christopher Matthew has responded directly to Cartledge’s analysis of the battle by arguing that Thermopylae was not a ‘token position’ designed to stall the Persian advance but rather to halt it indefinitely.13 Citing Diodorus and Herodotus, Matthew believes Leonidas intended to defend Thermopylae until reinforcements arrived but his small force was overwhelmed sooner than expected.14 He also argues that attributing the limitations on the size of the Greek force to festivals such as the Carneia was a later addition to historical accounts intended to disguise the miscalculation of numbers consigned to the defence by the Congress of Corinth.15 Matthew calls the idea of Leonidas taking his personal bodyguard of three hundred men ‘a prime example of a “romanticised” legend replacing historical fact’, reasoning that the chosen men had male heirs because they were older and more experienced soldiers and not because they needed someone to continue their lines in the likely event of their death.16 Furthermore, he notes that there are multiple references to units of three hundred Spartans performing a ‘special assignment’ across Greek history, making the number more likely to be a unit reminiscent of a contemporary Special Forces team than Leonidas’ personal bodyguard.17 Nevertheless, while historians debate the minutiae of Thermopylae the conventional narrative of the battle and the ‘Spartan mirage’ has endured. Sparta’s reputation and mythos as a militaristic superpower has been appropriated by numerous groups: prior to the Second World War the Nazi Party had likened itself to Sparta as they shared an adherence to martial culture and eugenics, while in Britain similar comparisons between Sparta and the Nazis were drawn to condemn the latter’s militaristic, fascist views.18 Elsewhere in the political rhetoric of the post-Second World War years Soviet Russia was likened to Sparta, although this was largely a by-product of self-analysis by American commentators who compared their nation to Athens during the Peloponnesian Wars.19 However, others at that time also equated Sparta’s militarisation with the American militaryindustrial complex.20 Some interpretations of 300’s Spartans evoke this period: Jeffrey Richards, for example, argues that the film’s depiction of exposure (leaving babies to die in the wilderness if they do not appear to be healthy), training boys as soldiers from a very young age and the focus on displaying the athletic male form recalls the Nazi programme of eugenics, the Hitler Youth and the Aryan ideal of masculinity, respectively.21 Frank Miller, aware of Sparta’s connotations, stated of his depiction:

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In embracing the dichotomy between historical Sparta and the ‘Spartan mirage’ Miller’s 300 differs from one of its key inspirations: Rudolph Maté’s The 300 Spartans (1962). Miller cites Maté’s film as a key influence not only on 300 but his work in general, vividly recalling how he was profoundly affected by the film as a child when he saw that the heroes of a story could die.23 Despite its unconventional ending, The 300 Spartans was nevertheless a Hollywood production that reiterated numerous tropes from the ancient world epic, namely the heroic group threatened by a tyrannical empire. However, the film is unlike many of its Roman counterparts in that it depicts actual warfare rather than a symbolic conflict, such as that between Christians and Rome in The Robe (1953). The 300 Spartans has attracted analogous and allegorical interpretations, with Blanshard and Shahabudin as well as Richards arguing that the film must be viewed in relation to the Cold War.24 The 300 Spartans sees the American-accented Spartans side with the English-accented Athenians to fight an Eastern superpower in order to safeguard their freedom: a basic analogy for America and Britain’s alliance against Russia.25 The central conflict can also be read allegorically as embodying the fight for freedom against a totalitarian power.26 This is summarised in the film’s closing narration where Thermopylae is said to evidence what ‘a few brave men can accomplish when they refuse to submit to tyranny’. The symbolic importance in The 300 Spartans and 300 to freedom from slavery and tyranny is somewhat ironic. The Persian Empire was, in many ways, remarkably free during the Achaemenid Empire as it was essentially a multicultural empire wherein the people lived by their own beliefs and practices and their only obligations were adherence to laws, payment of taxes and contributing to the king’s army.27 Although the historical Sparta did not buy and sell slaves like other Greek cities, they instead relied upon an enslaved local population, the helots, for manual labour.28 With the helots performing the agrarian tasks, the Spartans were afforded the time to train for war – something that would occasionally be required to put down helot rebellions and maintain their subjugation. The omission of the helots in 300 and The 300 Spartans aids in simplifying the complexities of Spartan society for audience comprehension while enabling greater sympathy for them from modern societies averse to slavery. These alterations to history also circumvent many of the pitfalls Nisbet listed as commonly associated with the Greek epic. For example, historically Sparta was ruled by a complex mixed-constitution designed to prevent any single person or body from having absolute power. The state had two kings drawn from opposing households who were ultimately answerable to the Ephors, a respected and elected body of five elders and not the decrepit creatures seen in 300. The kings and Ephors relied on the support of the Gerousia, an elected group of twenty-eight officials who would make decisions before the Assembly.29 The 300 Spartans embraces this concept of duel kingship but both Miller’s and



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Figure 4.1  Gorgo (Lena Headey) addresses the Spartan Council in 300. Source: 300, directed by Zack Snyder © Warner Bros. 2007. All rights reserved.

Snyder’s 300 depicts Sparta as having a single king (although Theron in Snyder’s film fills the role of a rival Spartan king, if not by title). Snyder’s Leonidas acts as a figure-head, similar to a president, who adheres to a small group of elders and a body of representatives in a ‘council’ that is depicted in the film as resembling a Roman (or American) senate. Similarly, while women in historical Sparta could own land and were arguably given greater freedom than those in other Greek states they were still subservient to patriarchal dominance.30 Those in The 300 Spartans and 300 appear to be respected if not viewed entirely equal, but in the case of Snyder’s Gorgo she is able to have her voice heard in the political arena (see Figure 4.1). The little we know about Gorgo derives from Herodotus, who praises her ingenuity and influence over Sparta’s leaders.31 The expansion of Gorgo’s character in Snyder’s film compared to the novel counterbalances some of the hyper-masculinity and seems designed to appeal to female audiences. By removing many of the historical restrictions on her lifestyle, modern Western viewers are more likely to identify with Gorgo and her situation: a woman fighting for influence in a patriarchal society. This appeared to work in the film’s favour, as after test screenings with female audiences proved overwhelmingly positive 300’s US distributor, Warner Bros., bought advertising space during primetime shows with principally female fan-bases, such as Grey’s Anatomy (2005-).32 Gorgo’s relationship to Leonidas in Snyder’s 300 engages with the issue of Hollywood epics portraying homosexuality. Although debates still surround the exact politics of Spartan sexuality Cartledge describes the Spartan system as including pederastic relationships between young males undergoing the agoge (the training regime) and slightly older males who were in limbo between completing the agoge, marrying and being initiated into the military.33 The 300 Spartans, like Rossen’s Alexander the Great (1956), completely omitted any suggestion of homosexual relationships between the Greeks. 300, however, arguably revels in its homoeroticism as unlike the armour-clad soldiers of history Miller’s source novel glorifies the male body by depicting the soldiers

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training and fighting nude. His inspiration came from the Greek tradition of ‘heroic nudity’, with Miller stating, ‘What I did was an evocation. It was not a history piece. I stylized the living hell out of it. I made the Greeks look like they do on the sides of their bowls.’34 In bringing this to the screen, Snyder’s Spartans are physical exemplars of the athletic male body (see Figure 4.2), with Time’s Lev Grossman even suggesting that the imagery was designed to attract homosexual audiences.35 Critic Mark Kermode similarly regarded the film as homoerotic with its depiction of ‘well-oiled men in their pants shouting at each other’, while Richard Corliss jokingly dubbed the film a ‘romp in Homer eroticism’.36 However, 300 is also contradictory and appears at times desperate to assert the heterosexuality of the Spartans, such as Leonidas dismissing the Athenians as ‘philosophers and boy-lovers’. Before he leaves for Thermopylae there is an extended sex scene between Leonidas and Gorgo which is only implied in the graphic novel. In the commentary track on the DVD, Snyder states that his aim in the choreography of the sex scene was to make it like a wrestling match; the strength of will and desire for control in each character being reflected in their ferocious lovemaking.37 By contrast, Xerxes’ use of make-up, jewellery and his request for Leonidas to kneel and submit to him carries homoerotic connotations that Snyder claims were intended to make young male heterosexual audience members feel uncomfortable.38 When later questioned, however, Snyder stated that he regards 300 to be neither homophobic nor homoerotic, but that audiences can interpret it however they wish.39 This sense of ambiguity and, as we shall see, the film’s focus on martial culture and violence appeared to be enough to attract audiences who rejected Stone’s Alexander. Snyder’s refusal to support a specific reading of the film was also evident when he was questioned about its depiction of East/West conflict. Unlike Stone and Petersen, Snyder remained ambiguous on his film’s message but despite his best intentions the history of meaning that has accrued around the Thermopylae narrative cannot be easily ignored.40 Snyder’s film obviously draws from Miller’s novel, including aspects that aided in adapting the historical story for lay audiences: 300’s simplification of history, for instance, could be construed as either circumventing the issues of political and geographical complexities commonly associated with Greek epics, or else it could be a product of the graphic novel’s need to transmit its narrative through a limited amount of images and accompanying text. Nevertheless, Snyder’s 300 is only one stage in an ongoing process of remediation (the transfer of a story from one medium to another), in that it is based on a graphic novel, which is based on a film, which is based on historical sources, which are based on an oral tradition derived from an event, all of which have been subjected to various shifting ideologies and cultural values which have altered or accumulated over time. To quote Monica Cyrino: ‘Snyder’s film is simply one more stratum in the process of a reception that is hundreds of years in the making.’41 With this weight of symbolic, ideological, analogous and allegorical meaning invested in representations of Sparta, it is little wonder that audiences, scholars and critics seemed primed to look for subtextual meaning in Snyder’s 300.



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Analogy, Allegory or Propaganda Discussion of 300 at the time of release was not restricted to its aesthetic or its approach to genre. Some commentators, including Richard Corliss, Tom Holland and Gideon Nisbet, have interpreted aspects of the film as reflecting US involvement in Iraq, while the cultural advisor to Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Javad Shamaqdari, regarded the film as anti-Iranian US propaganda.42 The film has a clear ethnic and cultural dichotomy between the opposing forces, the Greeks’ semi-nude appearance emphasises their white skin compared to the black or Hispanic actors portraying the Persians who are dressed in a variety of ethnically ‘Other’ styles of Asian and African clothing. Furthermore, the Persian Empire in 480 BC encompassed present-day Turkey, Jordan, Israel, Iraq, Iran, Syria, Egypt and parts of Afghanistan, allowing for obvious parallels to contemporary conflicts. The simplified historical narrative of 300 drawn from Miller’s novel also concurs with the basic ‘narrative’ of the invasion of Iraq, to quote Richard Corliss: ‘Over the protests of the highest government (the Ephors or the UN), a commander-in-chief goes to war with an undersize army against a formidable Middle-Eastern power.’43 Equating Iraq to a ‘formidable Middle-Eastern power’ somewhat overestimates the country’s military strength at the time of the invasion. In 2003 the Iraqi army potentially outnumbered the coalition but following the calamitous war against Iran in the 1980s and the First Gulf War Iraq’s military was badly antiquated and unable to mount a proper resistance to the technologically superior American military and its allies.44 Richard Lock-Pullan has noted that US tactics in Iraq were informed by their experience of Vietnam and favoured movement, speed and qualitative strength, including extensive use of Special Forces, rather than numbers.45 This supports Corliss’ comparison between 300 and Iraq, as the three hundred Spartans are portrayed as a small, elite unit battling a numerically superior but militarily inferior force. Unlike The 300 Spartans, however, 300 gives minimal acknowledgement to the Greek allies and depicts the defence of Thermopylae as almost solely a Spartan action. This could be construed as mirroring the US role in the invasion of Iraq, as historian John Keegan argues that the American military undertook the majority of the fighting and the invasion was ultimately a US victory.46 Furthermore, according to Keegan 9/11 forced America to acknowledge those beyond its own borders while also making them distrustful of others, placing ‘the defence of America first and foremost … henceforth friendship would not be taken on trust. It would have to be proved.’47 Of the Greek allies at Thermopylae only the Arcadians are featured in 300 where they are described by Dilios, the narrator, as ‘brave amateurs’. If an analogy, 300 appears to be lauding the American role in Iraq while denigrating the efforts made by their allies. Additions indigenous to Snyder’s film include the Spartan discovery of a ruined Greek village raided by the Persian Immortals. After finding a footprint from an Immortal which reveals claw-like extensions around the toes, a young Greek girl emerges through the smoke and collapses into Leonidas’ arms. As she dies, the men discover the rest of the villagers have been nailed to a tree in a nightmarish gothic tableau. In the DVD commentary track, writer Kurt Johnstad states that

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he created this sequence at the behest of the studio who asked for a symbol of the Persian advance into Greece.48 In so doing, this counterbalances the jingoistic brutality of the Spartans by rendering their actions as a defensive manoeuvre directed towards an invading army perpetrating violence towards civilians on Greek soil: it therefore parallels the master narrative of America’s retaliatory reaction to 9/11, and somewhat tellingly the dying Greek child has what sounds like an American accent.49 As the film, like its source, clearly condones Leonidas’ actions it has been interpreted as supportive of the Bush administration’s actions in the Middle East. Nisbet, for instance, suggests that ‘Leonidas’ heroes just so obviously were Pentagon hawks, and any Spartan who wasn’t (the Ephors, Theron) was quickly shown up as a traitorous, cheese-eating surrender monkey’.50 The film glorifies the Spartan’s martial prowess in a manner similar to Herodotus, revelling in their devastation of the Persian army through extended montages of CGI-enhanced bloodletting; so much so that Holland has cited the film as a ‘contemptuous skewering’ of the typical war-is-hell perspective of Hollywood combat films like Saving Private Ryan (1998). He adds, The current state of political divisions in America being what they are, it is hard to imagine a film more calculated to induce the vapors among sensitive liberals, or to provoke wild whoops of delight from among the ranks of the gung-ho.51

As with Troy and Alexander, contemporary media discourse at the time of 300’s release influenced its reception. The film opened in most territories in March or April of 2007, unintentionally coinciding with President Bush’s announcement that another 4,700 troops were being sent to Iraq to combat growing resistance, only two months after an additional 21,000 had been committed.52 While 300’s production precedes this policy, its depiction of a heroic, elite Western army battling Eastern opposition echoes the rhetoric of the White House in its promotion of a ‘surge’ towards victory. 300 even concludes with a thematically similar scene in which Dilios leads a charge of thousands of allied Greeks against the Persians at the Battle of Plataea where Xerxes’ army was defeated. March 2007 also saw an international crisis in which British Naval servicemen and women had been captured and temporarily detained by the Iranian military on the Shatt Al-Arab, which heightened tensions between the United Kingdom, United States and Iran.53 300 accidentally fanned these flames with its depiction of Persian culture, including departures from Miller’s text whereby some Persian soldiers were depicted as monstrous and deformed. The film was duly banned in Iran with Shamaqdari claiming that American cultural officials thought they could get mental satisfaction by plundering Iran’s historic past and insulting its civilisation. Following the Islamic Revolution in Iran, Hollywood and cultural authorities in the US initiated studies to figure out how to attack Iranian culture. [… 300] is a product of such studies.54



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Shamaqdari’s reading of the film is excessive and fails to take into account the sources and narrative structure of the film. It also hinges on the film’s depiction of the Persians as unequivocally equating to contemporary Iranians. Furthermore, other readings of the film are wholly antithetical, equating Bush and America to Xerxes and the Persian Empire. Corliss explains the parallel as Xerxes/Bush pursuing a policy of imperialism by leading a large, all-powerful empire to attack a smaller country, occupy its territory, and enslave its populace.55 Indeed, in Herodotus’ account of the war Mardonius, an advisor to Xerxes, persuades the king to undertake the invasion in order to ‘enhance your reputation, and also make people think twice in the future before attacking your territory’.56 In the climate of post-9/11 retaliation against terrorism, Xerxes’ and Bush’s reasons for war appear surprisingly similar. Considering the ‘clash of civilisations’ argument, origins of the Bush administration’s foreign policy residing in PNAC and the general discussion of an American ‘empire’ discussed in Chapter 1, a counter allegory to that paralleling the Americans and Spartans is not unfounded. 300’s Persians also speak with vaguely American accents compared to the British-accented Spartans in a subversion of the linguistic paradigm commonly heard in ancient world epics. If one were to extend this analogy, the Spartan resistance would therefore equate to Iraqi insurgents or Fedayeen, and as the film encourages audience empathy with the Spartans 300 could be interpreted as actually supporting opposition to America in Iraq and Afghanistan. With two radically different readings of 300 circulating, Snyder was occasionally asked how he intended the film to be read or if he supported a particular interpretation. Unlike Petersen and Stone, Snyder’s limited body of work prior to 300 left critics little room to compare 300’s politics or themes to his prior filmography. Nevertheless, his response echoes that of Petersen and Stone, noting that in the years he was working on the film, ‘the politics caught up with us. I’ve had people ask me if Xerxes or Leonidas is George W. Bush. I say, “Great. Awesome. If it inspires you to think about the current geopolitical situation, cool.”’57 Snyder may have learnt from the commercial disappointments of Alexander and Troy and so remained non-committal. Instead, he spoke most passionately about the graphic novel and the technology used to adapt Miller’s visuals to the cinematic medium. While analogous readings of 300 are often contradictory and inconclusive the film can still be interpreted allegorically as a film about the defence of freedom, with Snyder’s Dilios stating that the Spartans are willing to sacrifice themselves ‘for our homes, our families, our freedoms’. The dialogue in 300 is often taken word for word from Miller’s graphic novel with only minor alterations and additions, such as Gorgo’s subplot. The references to ‘freedom’ in both the novel and film are emphasised through repeated references to its antonym ‘slavery’. In Miller’s 300, ‘freedom’ (or derivations, like ‘free’) is used eight times, with ‘glory’, ‘reason’, ‘justice’ and ‘hope’ also being repeated though less frequently. Only ‘law’ is used more often, with eight references to Spartan ‘law’ and two as part of the title ‘lawgiver’. This reflects the Spartan sense of duty but could equally be a criticism of the council and Ephors’ adherence to the law of the Carneia which prohibits the Spartan army from marching to Thermopylae. In Snyder’s film, however, there

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are nine uses of ‘law’ while the use of ‘freedom’ increases to thirteen. Although these two terms may seem contradictory, Cyrino has argued that because Spartans associate duty with honour, ‘300 succeeds in having it both ways, by conflating the modern viewers’ predilection for heroic autonomy with the historical fact of Spartan duty, deference, and devotion to community’.58 Snyder’s 300 renders the Spartans as the symbolic defenders of freedom and order and in so doing it echoes the ancient world epic’s trope of a small group fighting for freedom against an imperialist regime. As noted above, The 300 Spartans was read allegorically as the United States and its allies fighting Soviet Russia, and the equation of Sparta with America is repeated in 300’s rhetoric. The additional uses of ‘freedom’ in Snyder’s film derive from its indigenous scenes featuring Gorgo, including one in which she informs a Spartan council member that ‘freedom isn’t free at all … it comes with the highest of costs, the cost of blood’. For American audiences the phrase ‘freedom isn’t free’ resonates as a famous US military idiom engraved upon the Korean War Memorial in Washington, DC. Furthermore, ‘freedom’ was a particularly common inclusion within the post-9/11 speeches of President Bush. In his short address to the nation following the 11 September attacks he uses ‘free’/‘freedom’ three times, including in the statement’s first line: ‘Today, our fellow citizens, our way of life, our very freedom came under attack in a series of deliberate and deadly terrorist acts.’59 This closely resembles Dilios’ aforementioned list of ‘our homes, our families, our freedoms’. Similarly, ‘free’/‘freedom’ is used four times in Bush’s short speech announcing the invasion of Iraq, positioning America as defending its own freedom while also making Iraq ‘free’: ‘We will defend our freedom. We will bring freedom to others and we will prevail. May God bless our country and all who defend her.’60 Critics were quick to pick up on the use of ‘freedom’ in 300. Snyder recounts the reaction to the film’s unveiling at the Berlin Film Festival, stating, I was getting bombarded with political questions … . When someone in a movie says, ‘We’re going to fight for freedom,’ that’s now a dirty word … Europeans totally feel that way. If you mention democracy or freedom, you’re an imperialist or a fascist. That’s crazy to me.61

These associations of fascism or imperialism may derive from some of the previously discussed associations between Sparta and Nazi Germany; associations that may not have been appreciated at the Berlin Film Festival. Such readings principally derive from 300’s jingoistic attitude towards war and violence, aggravated by comparisons to the American military during the Iraq War. However, the use of ‘freedom’ in the film is not designed to appeal specifically to US audiences. While not every culture will understand ‘freedom’ in the same way, its ancient connotations of not being ruled or enslaved are at a basic level desirable; indeed, in his review of King Arthur (2004), Sean Macauly describes ‘freedom’ as ‘the one value that works for all modern audiences’.62 Historical epics that preceded 300 including Braveheart (1995), Saving Private Ryan (1998) and Gladiator (2000) all feature freedom as a reason the protagonists fight and all were successful at the



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global box office. As such, the fight for freedom has become a recurrent trope not only of the ancient world epic but of many historical films both pre- and post-9/11. As Cyrino reasons, Spurred on by financial incentives and creative aspirations to express a more enlightened, global outlook, contemporary historical epics … seek to reach the widest possible international audiences. So contemporary filmmakers are now crafting their narrative strategies to engage with and promote broad crosscultural and even universal structures of identification, affinity, and inclusivity.63

Plotting a narrative involving the pursuit or defence of freedom is therefore commercially logical to enable audiences around the world to understand and engage with a film even when the minutia of historical or fantastical worlds is alien to the viewer. As the self-proclaimed ‘land of the free’, America’s global exports, including cinema and political rhetoric, promulgate an idea of freedom as a desirable value embodied and defended by the United States. In a discussion of freedom in 1990s historical and sci-fi films, for instance, McCrisken and Pepper state, Exactly what this freedom constitutes is never explicitly explained, though this tendency towards abstraction is probably not coincidental because it allows us to read it either as a universal right in itself or as a universal right conceived in the image of an imagined America.64

Burgoyne differentiates 300 from some of its epic predecessors, including Gladiator and Braveheart, in that in their scenarios ‘freedom is something to be realized in the future, a utopian fulfilment or anticipation of the days that change the world. In 300, however, the Spartan order is defined as the already-existing exemplar of freedom in the ancient world.’65 His statement may be specific to 300, but Burgoyne identifies a recurrent theme of post-9/11 ancient world epics whereby ‘freedom’ becomes an existing concept to defend rather than a desire to be fulfilled. Although the term was rarely used in Troy, the Trojans fought to maintain their freedom from the attacking Greek army. In Alexander, while the meaning is vague, the eponymous conqueror rouses his men on the battlefield of Gaugamela by invoking ‘the freedom and the glory of Greece’. In King Arthur, Arthur and his knights await their freedom from Roman service after many years battling the ancient Britons, who similarly desire freedom from Rome. As the Romans abandon the island, however, Arthur and his knights then join with the Britons not to achieve freedom, but to defend it from the Saxons, another foreign invader. Like Alexander, Arthur rouses his knights before the final battle by reminding them that ‘the gift of freedom is yours by right … let history remember that as free men we chose to make it so’. Expanding Burgoyne’s conclusion, it appears that post-9/11 American political rhetoric portraying the United States as a defender of freedom has permeated the ancient world epic, differentiating the cycle from that of the 1950s–60s which reiterated America’s founding myth of fighting tyranny in order to gain freedom.

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The Combat Film Despite being a Greek epic 300 owes a significant debt to Gladiator. The film’s characterisation of Leonidas builds on Miller’s novel by reiterating the features of Maximus that similarly informed the portrayal of Hector in Troy. All three are dark-haired, bearded, are exceptional warriors, have a wife and son and an affinity with their homeland, and are drawn into conflict and ultimately killed defending those they love from a corrupt imperialist. In dialogue native to Snyder’s film Leonidas even repurposes Maximus’ ‘What we do in life echoes in eternity’ speech in his pre-battle exaltation: ‘Remember this day men, for it will be yours for all time.’ In another of Snyder’s additions, Leonidas bids farewell to Gorgo and their son in a wheat field in an allusion to Maximus walking through a wheat field to be reunited with his wife and son. The non-diegetic music accompanying these scenes is similar, both utilising a lone, melancholy female voice, while the physical appearance of Gorgo recalls that of Gladiator’s Lucilla. Indeed, the expansion of Gorgo’s narrative in 300 echoes that of Lucilla; both women are protective of their young sons, attempt secret dealings with elder statesmen to organise support for the men they love and face sexual threats from adversaries (Theron and Commodus, respectively). Furthermore, as Nisbet notes, the Spartan council closely resembles cinematic portrayals of the Roman senate, the crimson cloaks worn by the Spartans recall the conventional appearance of Roman soldiers, and emphasis on Sparta as a militaristic society replaces connotations of Greek philosophy and intellectualism with the Roman militarism of Gladiator.66 In Romanising ancient Greece through allusions to Gladiator 300 heightens its parallels to contemporary America, chiefly through the integration of the combat film into the epic. Lynn Fotheringham has compared Miller’s depiction of men doing impossible press-ups during the agoge with their comrades standing on their backs as evocative of the training sequences in Full Metal Jacket (1987).67 Jeffrey Richards, however, has likened the Spartan ‘Hoo-ah’ chant to a Nazi sieg

Figure 4.2  Leonidas (Gerard Butler) in 300. Source: 300, directed by Zack Snyder © Warner Bros. 2007. All rights reserved.



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heil, but those familiar with combat films will easily recognise the call as that used by the US military, including Rangers and Marines, and Snyder has confirmed that this was his intention.68 The life and training of US Rangers bears a number of similarities to 300’s Spartans, especially in the resulting psychology towards battle. In Mark Bowden’s Black Hawk Down, for instance, he describes the mindset of the US Rangers prior to their mission into Mogadishu: The weak had been weeded out. The strong had stepped up. Then came weeks, months, years of constant training. The Hoo-ahs couldn’t wait to go to war. They were an all-star football team that had endured bruising, exhausting, dangerous practice sessions twelve hours a day, seven days a week – for years – without ever getting to play the game.69

The jingoistic attitude of 300’s Spartans is a heightened representation of militaristic culture but simultaneously evokes modern American military/sports culture. Lynda Boose notes that a common trait of American schooling is the promotion of competition and rewarding achievement in sports, a mentality which pervades the US military.70 Discussing media coverage of the First Gulf War, she describes how pilots returning from bombing missions referred to their successes in sporting terms, such as ‘a home run’ or a ‘touchdown’.71 While discussing Gladiator and violence in the Roman/American arena, Cyrino draws similar connections: The modern American sports arena has always been a privileged location for the display of patriotism … . But there has been a notable increase in the martial tenor of these presentations in the pre-game and half-time showcases of professional and collegiate sporting events, with more military marching bands and deafening F-16 flyovers, as if to exorcise fears of unseen enemies while flexing American military muscle.72

300 echoes this mix of military/sports culture in the Spartan’s gung-ho persona and soundbite catchphrases: ‘Give them nothing, but take from them everything! … This is where we fight, this is where they die!’ Even the episodic nature of 300’s depiction of the Battle of Thermopylae resembles a game, wherein the combatants take a ‘time out’ before heading in to the next level, round, or quarter. Regardless of their eventual defeat, the Spartans talk and act like winners. Spartan skill in warfare is further emphasised through the film’s use of slow motion. Snyder often uses the device to slow the image to almost a freeze-frame in order to replicate a panel from Miller’s source book. However, similar to a sporting event’s slow-motion replays it serves to showcase the Spartans’ perfectly crafted physiques and skill, glorifying combat in a manner that runs counter to films such as Saving Private Ryan and Gladiator, for instance, which employ rapid editing and handheld cameras to create a sense of freneticism and panic until the slow motion reveals the full horror of war. The slow-motion sequences in 300 could therefore be interpreted as a visualisation of the Spartan mind in combat, whereby

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they respond to violence with a sense of calm and clarity that their allies and adversaries cannot replicate. This confluence linking the Spartans with American sport and military culture is likely one of the key reasons the film resonated with US audiences, as it provided escapist relief from the situation in the Middle East. 300 arrived amidst a string of combat films such as Redacted (2007), Stop-Loss (2008) and Battle for Haditha (2007) which were highly critical of American activity in Iraq, Afghanistan and the War on Terror. Revelations surrounding the maltreatment of prisoners at sites like Abu Ghraib had been made public and President Bush was ordering more troops into Iraq to combat the growing violence. Following the initial invasion in which the speed and skill of the US military had achieved a quick victory, the US forces had become bogged down in urban warfare scenarios in cities such as Fallujah, Ramadi and Sadr City where American casualties were escalating due to the use of improvised explosive devices (IEDs). As a result of this new type of warfare the combat films of this period rarely show scenes of combat. Instead, they portray Americans committing reprehensible acts of violence and sadism, as victims of IEDs and a hostile environment, or show them returning to America where they suffer from PTSD or physical injuries. These films exhumed the tropes of the 1980s Vietnam War combat films such as the abandoned soldier-son and rarely show the American military to be moral, effective or winning. 300’s depiction of warfare was radically out of sync with the prevailing trend of combat films. Whereas the Iraq War films of the time resembled the 1980s cycle of Vietnam War films, 300 more closely resembles Rambo: First Blood Part II (1985) in which John Rambo, the psychologically scarred veteran of First Blood (1982), refights the Vietnam War in an action-packed fantasy. Returning to the jungles of Vietnam he finds and frees US POWs and even utilises the Vietcong’s tactics against them. For Tony Williams, Rambo: First Blood Part II is a comic-book treatment of Vietnam ‘bringing everything down to uncomplicated meaning’.73 However, Studlar and Desser’s psychoanalytical reading of the film argues that it is a reaction to America’s national guilt caused by the Vietnam War, reasoning that as individuals can feel guilt and attempt to repress it so too can a nation.74 They identify a dual process with which this guilt is repressed: displacement, whereby guilt is transposed onto the victimised soldier or veteran, and then the rewriting of history through mythologising events.75 Vietnam veteran Oliver Stone has expressed a similar view in relation to his own experience: When I got back from Vietnam, I think I was, for lack of a better word, traumatised or freaked out, without knowing it internally. And I think that by mythologizing Vietnam, I made it into a story, as opposed to a brutal, day-byday rendering of what I saw over there. … I think that by doing that, you keep a distance from it, you protect yourself from the memory of it, which is harsh, and sometimes it’s without a point.76

In the case of Rambo: First Blood Part II, this mythologising process sees the veteran take the form of a strong, muscular hero who returns to Vietnam, saves American



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lives and takes revenge on the communists and the American institutions that abandoned him. Indeed, Rambo is an abandoned soldier-son who is only morally saved by the brief interventions of his surrogate father figure, Colonel Trauptman. Rambo’s violence is nevertheless a cathartic experience, as Studlar and Desser explain: ‘As a reaction formation against feelings of powerlessness too painful to be admitted or articulated, Rambo’s violent reprisals, dependent on the power of the over-fetishized male body, may be read as a symptomatic expression, a psychosomatic signifier of the return of the repressed.’77 Essentially, this is the same process evidenced by Herodotus and subsequent authors’ retellings of Thermopylae, wherein the Greek defeat is displaced onto the heroic final stand of the Spartans and their allies. 300, similar to Rambo: First Blood Part II, arrived among a series of combat films critiquing the actions of the United States and its military. Unlike the fighting in Iraq, however, 300 sees two easily defined armies meeting on a clearly designated battlefield in which the Spartans exemplify their martial prowess, have a defined objective and fight to defend their freedom. Although their patriarchal institutions (the Ephors and Spartan Council) attempt to abandon them, Leonidas maintains order and becomes a father figure to his soldiers, even calling them ‘children’. Like Rambo, the Spartans are physically idealised, even fetishised forms of masculinity, and through Dilios’ narrative their sacrifice is lauded and depicted as integral to the final victory. As noted above, 300 particularly appealed to those who supported the Republican administration’s policies in Iraq, Afghanistan and the War on Terror, just as Rambo: First Blood Part II was especially popular among rightwing conservative audiences.78 Although we can only hypothesise, it is possible that against a backdrop of critical, left-leaning Iraq and Afghanistan War films 300’s jingoistic, combat-heavy fantasy of a Western army showcasing its martial prowess against an Eastern and ethnically ‘Other’ force resonated with right-wing US audiences. This is not to say that all or even the majority of 300’s audience regarded the film in this manner, but that the subtextual likening of the Spartans to American sports and military cultures may have influenced the reaction of some viewers. That said, the protracted production process of 300 beginning in 2005 meant the filmmakers could not have predicted how the combat film would evolve after 9/11, nor how the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan would progress over the intervening years leading up to 300’s release. By chance the film was able to capitalise on a zeitgeist moment, arriving as it did during the renewed ‘surge’ in Iraq. 300’s historical setting was sufficient to visually differentiate the action on screen from contemporary conflicts and politics. Its basic allegorical framework of ‘freedom versus tyranny’ paralleled contemporary rhetoric, but it could equally be applied to other cultures, battles and events. As Snyder states, ‘With 300, the why is obvious … and that’s a thing that maybe doesn’t even exist in real life. Maybe when it happened it wasn’t even that clear. That’s why it’s a piece of mythology. It’s what we would hope for.’79 Analogous and allegorical readings of 300 are available for those who wish to find them, but they are often contradictory, incomplete and find little support by the filmmakers. This ambiguity aids in universalising the film’s story and themes

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to increase its appeal to a worldwide audience, although the allegorical message of ‘freedom versus tyranny’ was present but less overt in Troy and Alexander before it. Along with King Arthur, these films evidence a generic shift within the post9/11 ancient world epic towards the defence of freedom rather than its pursuit. This change could be traced to the Bush administration’s political rhetoric in marketing American foreign policy, although it is also an affirmation of American self-identification as a bastion of freedom. Arriving when it did during America’s 2007 ‘surge’ in Iraq the film capitalised on a zeitgeist moment as a combat fantasy in which Spartan martial dominance and the moral defence of ‘freedom’ against an Eastern adversary could be enjoyed as an ancient action spectacle or a cathartic metaphor for US involvement in Iraq.

Notes 1 300 is often credited as being released in 2006. While this is technically correct, in that it was first shown at a festival (the ‘Austin Butt-Numb-A-Thon’) in December 2006, its official wide release did not occur until March 2007. Assessing the period of a film’s release is an important part of understanding its reception, and therefore crediting 300 with a 2006 release creates a misleading impression of when audiences and critics saw the film and it entered public discourse. As such, I credit it with being a 2007 release. 2 Varley is credited as creator of ‘Colors’ for the graphic novel, while the ‘Story and Art’ are the work of Miller. As most sources refer solely to Miller as the author of 300 (Milwaukie: Dark Horse Books, 1998), I shall henceforth do the same. 3 Herodotus, The Histories, 7.202; Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 108. 4 Matthew Trundle, ‘The Glorious Defeat’, in Beyond the Gates of Fire: New Perspectives on the Battle of Thermopylae, ed. Christopher Matthew and Matthew Trundle (Barnsley: Pen & Sword Books Ltd., 2013), 162. 5 Gideon Nisbet, ‘“This Is Cake-Town!”: 300 (2006) and the Death of Allegory’, in Sparta in Modern Thought: Politics, History and Culture, ed. Stephen Hodkinson and Ian Macgregor Morris (Swansea: David Brown Book Co., 2012), 431. 6 Tom Holland, ‘Mirage in the Movie House’, Arion, Third Series, 15, no. 1 (Spring–Summer 2007): 177, accessed 24 November 2011, http://www.jstor.org/ stable/29737333. 7 Herodotus, The Histories, 7.211. 8 Carolyn Dewald, ‘Introduction’, in Herodotus: The Histories (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), xxii. 9 David C. Ryan, ‘300 Lies? – Give Poetics a Chance’, Bright Lights Film Journal, 1 August 2007, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//bri​ghtli​ghtsf​i lm.c​om/30​0-lie​s-giv​ e-poe​tics-​chanc​e/#.V​keddu​KKZ2A​; Dewald, ‘Introduction’, in Herodotus, xxii; Holland, ‘Mirage in the Movie House’, 177. 10 John Dillery, ‘Reconfiguring the Past: Thyrea, Thermopylae and Narrative Patterns in Herodotus’, American Journal of Philology 117, no. 2 (Summer 1996): 241, accessed 9 March 2012, http://www.jstor.org/stable/1561895. 11 Paul Cartledge, ‘What Have the Spartans Done for Us?: Sparta’s Contribution to Western Civilization’, Greece & Rome, Second Series, 51, no. 2 (October 2004): 167–8,



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accessed 9 March 2012, http://www.jstor.org/stable/3567809; William Golding quoted in Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 106. 12 Cartledge, ‘What Have the Spartans Done for Us?’, 165, 176. 13 Christopher A. Matthew, ‘Was the Greek Defence of Thermopylae in 480BC a Suicide Mission?’, in Beyond the Gates of Fire, 62. 14 Matthew, ‘Was the Greek Defence of Thermopylae’, 63. 15 Ibid., 65, 68. 16 Ibid., 71–2. 17 Ibid., 71–2, 99. 18 Stephen Hodkinson, ‘Sparta and the Soviet Union in U.S. Cold War Foreign Policy and Intelligence Analysis’, in Sparta in Modern Thought, 344; Cartledge, ‘What Have the Spartans Done for Us?’, 170. 19 Hodkinson, ‘Sparta and the Soviet Union in U.S. Cold War Foreign Policy and Intelligence Analysis’, 346, 348. 20 Ibid., 349, 380. 21 Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 184. 22 Steve Daly, ‘How 300 Went From the Page to the Screen’, previously titled ‘The Q&A: Miller’s Tales’, interview with Frank Miller, Entertainment Weekly, 12 March 2007, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//www​.ew.c​om/ar​ticle​/2007​/03/1​3/how​-300-​went-​ page-​scree​n. 23 Lev Grossman, ‘Movies: The Art of War’, Time, 2 March 2007, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//con​tent.​time.​com/t​ime/m​agazi​ne/ar​ticle​/0,91​71,15​95241​,00.h​tml. 24 Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 138: Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 105. 25 Jenny Wallensten, ‘300 Six Packs: Pop Culture Takes on Thermopylae’, European Journal of Archaeology 10, no. 79 (2007): 80. doi: 10.1177/14619571070100010504. 26 Lynn S. Fotheringham, ‘The Positive Portrayal of Sparta in Late-Twentieth-Century Fiction’, in Sparta in Modern Thought, 421. 27 Goldschmidt Jr., ‘The Historical Context’, 39–40. 28 Cartledge, ‘What Have the Spartans Done for Us?’, 174. 29 Paul Cartledge, Spartan Reflections (London: Duckworth Co. Ltd., 2001), 34–5. 30 Paul Cartledge, ‘Spartan Wives: Liberation or Licence?’, The Classical Quarterly, New Series, 31, no. 1 (1981): 87, 90–3, accessed 9 March 2012, http://www.jstor.org/ stable/638462. 31 Herodotus, The Histories, 5.51, 7.239. 32 Susan Wloszczyna, ‘An Epic Tale Told 300 Strong’, USA Today, 7 March 2007, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//usa​today​30.us​atoda​y.com​/life​/movi​es/ne​ws/20​07-03​-06-t​ he300​-cove​r_N.h​tm; Steve Daly, ‘How 300 Was Positioned to Be a Box Office Hit’, previously titled ‘Double-Edged Sword’, Entertainment Weekly, 11 March 2007, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//www​.ew.c​om/ar​ticle​/2007​/03/1​1/how​-300-​was-p​ ositi​oned-​be-bo​x-off​i ce-h​it. 33 Cartledge, Spartan Reflections, 91–105. 34 Frank Miller, The Art Institutes Speakers Series: Q&A with Frank Miller, n.d., accessed 21 February 2012, www.a​ionli​ne.ed​u/spe​aker-​serie​s/fra​nk-mi​ller/​ (Page no longer available). 35 Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo, ‘Kermode: Top Ten of the Year, 28 Dec 07’, podcast audio, BBC 5 Live, 28 December 2007. (Download no longer available.); Grossman, ‘Movies: The Art of War’.

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36 Richard Corliss, ‘7 Reasons Why 300 Is a Huge Hit’, Time, 14 March 2007, accessed 21 February 2010, http:​//con​tent.​time.​com/t​ime/a​rts/a​rticl​e/0,8​599,1​59897​7,00.​html.​ 37 ‘Commentary by director Zack Snyder, Writer Kurt Johnstad and Director of Photography Larry Fong’, featured on 300, dir. Zack Snyder (2007; Warner Home Video, 2007), DVD. 38 Zack Snyder quoted in Daly, ‘How 300 Was Positioned to Be a Box Office Hit’. 39 Snyder quoted in Daly, ‘How 300 Was Positioned to Be a Box Office Hit’. 40 Sheigh Crabtree, ‘Graphic Leaps’, Los Angeles Times, 4 March 2007, accessed 14 May 2012, http:​//art​icles​.lati​mes.c​om/20​07/ma​r/04/​enter​tainm​ent/c​a-300​4. 41 Monica S. Cyrino, ‘“This Is Sparta!”: The Reinvention of the Epic in Zack Snyder’s 300’, in The Epic Film in World Culture, 27. 42 Corliss, ‘7 Reasons Why 300 Is a Huge Hit’; Holland, ‘Mirage in the Movie House’, 177; Nisbet, Ancient Greece in Film and Popular Culture, 141. 43 Corliss, ‘7 Reasons Why 300 Is a Huge Hit’. 44 Keegan, The Iraq War, 5, 127–9. 45 Richard Lock-Pullan, ‘Iraq and Vietnam: Military Lessons and Legacies’, in Vietnam in Iraq, 70–1. 46 Keegan, The Iraq War, 1. 47 Ibid., 89. 48 ‘Commentary by director Zack Snyder, Writer Kurt Johnstad and Director of Photography Larry Fong’. The ‘tree of the dead’ visual was inspired by a similar incident occurring during the conflict in the Balkans. 49 Prince, Firestorm, 178. 50 Nisbet, Ancient Greece in Film and Popular Culture, 139. 51 Holland, ‘Mirage in the Movie House’, 173, 178. 52 Sunni Efron, ‘Don’t Tell the Spartans’, Los Angeles Times, 13 March 2007, accessed 30 August 2015, http:​//www​.lati​mes.c​om/op​inion​/la-o​ew-ef​ron13​mar13​-stor​y.htm​l; see also Daniel Schorn, ‘Bush Going for Broke with Troop Surge’, CBS News, 13 January 2007, accessed 30 August 2015, http:​//www​.cbsn​ews.c​om/ne​ws/bu​sh-go​ing-f​or-br​ oke-w​ith-t​roop-​surge​/. 53 Gerner and Schrodt, ‘Middle Eastern Politics’, 131; Schorn, ‘Bush Going for Broke with Troop Surge’. 54 Javad Shamaqdari quoted in Nisbet, Ancient Greece in Film and Popular Culture, 141. 55 Corliss, ‘7 Reasons Why 300 Is a Huge Hit’. 56 Herodotus, The Histories, 7.5. 57 Crabtree, ‘Graphic Leaps’. 58 Cyrino, ‘“This Is Sparta!”’, 31. 59 George W. Bush, ‘9/11 Address to the Nation’, American Rhetoric, 11 September 2001, accessed 19 May 2013, http:​//www​.amer​icanr​hetor​ic.co​m/spe​eches​/gwbu​sh911​addre​ sstot​henat​ion.h​tm. 60 George W. Bush, ‘Full Text: George Bush’s Address on the Start of War’, The Guardian, 20 March 2003, accessed 19 May 2013, http:​//www​.theg​uardi​an.co​m/wor​ld/20​03/ma​ r/20/​iraq.​georg​ebush​. 61 Daly, ‘How 300 Was Positioned to Be a Box Office Hit’. 62 Sean Macauly quoted in Joseph M. Sullivan, ‘Cinema Arthuriana without Malory?: The International Reception of Fuqua, Franzoni, and Bruckheimer’s King Arthur (2004)’, Arthuriana 17, no. 2 (Summer 2007): 96, accessed 17 July 2013, http://www. jstor.org/stable/27870838. 63 Cyrino, ‘“This Is Sparta!”’, 27.



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McCrisken and Pepper, American History and Contemporary Hollywood Film, 33. Robert Burgoyne, ‘Introduction’, in The Epic Film in World Culture, 4. Nisbet, ‘“This Is Cake-Town!”’, 432. Fotheringham, ‘The Positive Portrayal of Sparta in Late-Twentieth-Century Fiction’, 408. 68 Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 184; ‘Commentary by director Zack Snyder, Writer Kurt Johnstad and Director of Photography Larry Fong’. 69 Mark Bowden, Black Hawk Down (London: Corgi, 2000), 24. 70 Boose, ‘Techno-Masculinity and the “Boy Eternal”’, 282, 284. 71 Ibid., 282, 284. 72 Cyrino, Big Screen Rome, 248. 73 Williams, ‘Narrative Patterns and Mythic Trajectories’, 121; see also Weber, Imagining America at War, 131. 74 Gaylyn Studlar and David Desser, ‘Never Having to Say You’re Sorry: Rambo’s Rewriting of the Vietnam War’, Film Quarterly 42, no. 1 (Autumn 1988): 9–10, accessed 12 May 2013, http://www.jstor.org/stable/1212431. 75 Studlar and Desser, ‘Never Having to Say You’re Sorry’, 11. 76 Matt Zoller Seitz, The Oliver Stone Experience (New York: Abrams, 2016): 387. 77 Studlar and Desser, ‘Never Having to Say You’re Sorry’, 16. 78 Ibid., 9. 79 Zack Snyder quoted in Grossman, ‘Movies: The Art of War’. 64 65 66 67

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CChapter 5 BODY POLITICS: GODS, MEN AND MONSTERS IN 300 (2007) AND GREEK MYTHOLOGICAL EPICS

It is Miller’s work of the same name that inspired director and co-writer Zack Snyder to come up with this epic piece of comic-book mythologising, both stylised and stylish, that is one of those films you don’t want to think too hard about.1

The above quote from Los Angeles Times writer Kenneth Turan is emblematic of the critical reaction to Zack Snyder’s 300 wherein acknowledgement of the film’s aesthetic took precedent over serious consideration of its meaning and the symbolism layered into those visuals. Film critic Mark Kermode similarly dismissed analogous and allegorical interpretations of 300 and instead focused on its aesthetic and fascination with the male form, concluding that ‘it has nothing going on between its ears, but it has much going on between its abs’.2 While this could be considered a flippant comment, Kermode actually revealed a recurrent element of 300’s self-presentation: the marketing of the film from posters, interviews and webisodes (online production diaries) to the special features on the home media release repeatedly emphasise its visual design rather than promoting a particular political or allegorical message. One could therefore argue that 300’s makers intended to draw audience attention to its stylisation and a veneer of visual trickery specifically to avoid politicised readings and maintain an audiencefriendly ambiguity in terms of its message. However, the comic book or graphic novel medium is built on encoded imagery that layers stories and characters with symbolic meaning. This chapter focuses on the film’s relationship to Miller’s source novel to assess how the aesthetic tropes of the comic book and graphic novel influence our reading of Snyder’s 300. The film’s utilisation of CG technology created a new visual language for depicting the ancient world on screen, transforming a historical event into a something resembling a mythological adventure. Based on its commercial success and cultural impact 300 resonated with audiences, especially in the online world where parody videos, discussion boards and repetition of the film’s laconic dialogue evidenced its integration into popular culture.3 Indeed, such was the impact of Snyder’s 300 that it not only garnered a follow-up, 300: Rise of an Empire (2014), but many aspects of its aesthetic, from visuals to score, were imitated in

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subsequent mythological epics including Clash of the Titans (2010), Wrath of the Titans (2012), Immortals (2011) and The Legend of Hercules (2014), as well as the TV series Spartacus (2010–3). In hybridising the ancient world epic with the comic book Snyder unified two visual mediums, utilising the iconography of one to influence the meaning of the other.

Men and Monsters Snyder first sought investment in a film adaptation of Frank Miller’s 300 as early as 2003 but was reportedly turned down by the major studios as they believed, in Snyder’s words, that the model for a successful ancient world epic was not yet ‘broken’.4 This corresponds with Kitses’ reasoning that genre cycles reiterate the popular features of a successful release to appeal to similar audiences.5 In 2003 Troy (2004), Alexander (2004), King Arthur (2004) and The Passion of the Christ (2004) were all in production, utilising much the same aesthetics and tone as Gladiator (2000), in that they are dramas depicting events as if they are authentic history and feature spectacle derived from practical action, sets and crowd scenes expanded through the use of photorealistic CGI. However, Blanshard and Shahabudin have noted that successive films in a genre also need to provide something new to ‘pique the viewer’s interest and distinguish them from their predecessors and competitors.’6 When the majority of ancient world epics released in 2004 underperformed at the US box office Snyder says the studios became more open to experimenting with alternate approaches to the genre, including his.7 In making 300 the actors performed on a soundstage against large blue screens with minimal physical sets. Landscapes, buildings and in some cases characters were created in post-production using CGI, lending the visuals an unreal, stylised aesthetic that seamlessly incorporated recreations of Miller’s comic-book panels into the film. The aesthetic complemented the film’s unusual take on a historical event, openly mythologising it rather than pursuing historical verisimilitude. While still an ancient world epic at its core, 300’s visuals, source material and marketing shifted the genre focus to the comic-book movie. An unnamed studio executive at Warner Bros. was even quoted in a 2005 article by Variety stating that their main concern in marketing 300 was ‘whether we could render this story in a way that would separate it from Troy and Alexander and link it with the graphic novel pedigree’.8 Compared to Troy and Alexander’s links to the combat film 300’s relationship to the comic-book movie was overt. The past two decades have seen the comic-book genre rise to stratospheric heights as commercially successful ventures, despite the source materials commonly being associated with a niche audience. In an article for the New York Times, Neal Stephenson describes how ‘geeks can make lots of money now’, adding that ‘the growing popularity of science fiction, the rise of graphic novels, anime and video games … have given creators and fans of this kind of art a confidence [that] is kind of cool now’.9 Prior to 300’s release, the Miller-influenced comic-book movies Batman Begins (2005) and Sin City (2005)



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had proved commercially successful. The latter, a close adaptation of Miller’s work, employed similar digital visuals to 300 and was referenced on various posters for Snyder’s film to attract similar audiences. Indeed, Warner targeted this area of the market closely, organising a Q&A with Snyder and Miller at San Diego’s Comic Con in July 2006. As Pamela McClintock in Variety predicted, the marketing of 300 was relying on its striking computer-generated visuals and origins as a graphic novel rather than its status as an ancient world epic.10 The buzz surrounding the early footage screened at Comic Con became a talking point within online comicbook communities and helped generate hype for the film long before its release: Snyder even thanks the online community for their support of the film in a video message included on the DVD release.11 Foremost among the influences Snyder’s film draws from Miller’s graphic novel is its imagery. This includes the novel’s character designs which are born of a different symbolic language to cinema. As Derek Parker Royal explains, ‘Unlike film, where characters have time to develop, graphic narrative, with its relatively limited temporal space, must condense identity along commonly accepted paradigms.’12 This involves the use of stereotyped characters and physical evocations of personality, or as Miller states, ‘In cartooning you make someone’s physicality a metaphor for their interior reality.’13 In this respect the comic-book medium bears a close resemblance to a group of Italian-produced ancient world epics from the late 1950s to the early 1960s: the pepla. While American-produced Greek epics generally focused on Greek history, the pepla favoured depictions of mythology and fantasy. Although their setting was usually Greece, as postSecond World War Italy sought to distance itself from the fascist iconography of Mussolini and ancient Rome, their mise-en-scène is invariably a pastiche of ancient iconography which could represent a range of cultures and locations.14 At the peplum cycle’s height 10 per cent of the Italian film industry was involved in their production and over 170 were made between the late 1950s and early 1960s.15 Unlike their more serious-minded Hollywood counterparts, pepla are

Figure 5.1  Ephialtes (Andrew Tiernan) in his Persian uniform in 300. Source: 300, directed by Zack Snyder © Warner Bros. 2007. All rights reserved.

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conventionally low-budget B-movies designed for audiences attending drive-ins and exploitation cinemas. The sun-soaked locations, cartoonish action and kitsch qualities provided escapist entertainment for post-Second World War/Cold War audiences, while the emphasis on sport and the athletic male body promoted health and masculinity.16 For certain audiences the depiction of the male body was also symbolic; the hero’s ability to solve problems through his physical prowess (they were usually played by bodybuilders or athletes) was evocative of a traditional, rural existence in the films’ native Italy where post-war societies were rapidly evolving through industrialisation.17 Despite this, the pepla were rarely analogies for specific contemporaneous events, although certain themes ran through the genre.18 Wyke has noted that these films associate physical strength with goodness and heroism, resulting in a link being ‘forged between muscularity, masculinity, justice and the supremacy of the West’ as the hero would regularly fight an Asiatic ‘Other’.19 Often, this ‘Other’ would take a monstrous form such as a Hydra or other mythical beast, but was most commonly a woman or ruler of an Eastern kingdom. In so doing, it is evident that long before 300 the Greek epic had associated the East with monsters when presenting mythologised narratives centred on musclebound Western heroes. Numerous reviews of 300 refer to the physical appearance of the actors, especially those playing the Spartans, while interviews with the stars often discuss their training regime ahead of, or instead of, analogous or allegorical readings.20 This focus on bodily perfection and fitness regimes plays to American sports culture, the popularity of publications such as Men’s Health and the contemporary trend of narcissism involved in gym membership and self-photography to showcase one’s physique. 300 owes much of its visual glorification of the male form to the pepla, which similarly emphasised the physicality of the bodybuilders – such as Reg Park, Steve Reeves and Arnold Schwarzenegger – who played heroes such as Hercules.21 Blanshard and Shahabudin have contrasted the Hollywood ancient world epic with the Italian pepla in the physical form of its male hero, noting that in the former ‘he has a well-built but not overly muscular torso, distinguishing the epic heroes from those of the pepla, where the heroes are defined by their extreme muscular development’.22 The pepla cycle was embraced by the homosexual community during the 1950s–60s due to their emphasis on the male form. This connection stemmed in part from a Victorian tradition of displaying male bodybuilders in classical costume to lend the act of voyeurism a sense of historical or artistic merit.23 Bodybuilding magazines from the 1950s reiterated this and were simultaneously popular with the (underground) homosexual community which, in the late 1960s, included a peplum in a showcase of gay cinema.24 Miller and later Snyder tapped into the symbolism of the idealised muscular male body in both the comic book and pepla to portray the Spartans as the inspirational defenders of freedom. Running counter to this is the portrayal of those who oppose the Spartans, a prime example being Ephialtes, the figure who informs the Persians of the pathway around the Greek defensive line. Historian Bettany Hughes has proposed that Ephialtes’ deformities in 300 are symbolic



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of how the historical figure has been demonised throughout history because of his actions.25 Miller and subsequently Snyder refigure (and disfigure) Ephialtes from a Malian into a Spartan who was born deformed but saved from exposure (and death) by his mother. Miller has said that his representation of Ephialtes was designed to emphasise the cruelty and ableism of Spartan culture, but despite their rejection of him at birth Ephialtes still desires to join his countrymen at Thermopylae.26 Leonidas is forced to refuse him a place in their ranks due to his inability to contribute equally to the locked-shield fighting formation known as the phalanx. While the character’s physical deformities acknowledge the cruel side of Spartan culture, in the conventions of comic-book visuals Ephialtes’ appearance is also a signifier of his treacherous nature. Heart-broken at his rejection, Ephialtes betrays the Spartans by revealing the mountain path to Xerxes in return for a uniform; such is his desire to have an identity defined by a social structure (see Figure 5.1). Before their final stand Leonidas tells Ephialtes, who is now dressed as a Persian, that he hopes he lives forever. In so doing he acknowledges that Ephialtes will never have the ‘glorious death’ that Spartans crave and, in short, he will never be like them.27 300’s aesthetic must be viewed as symbolic. The Spartan’s baring of flesh emphasises their humanity, while the phalanx represents their unity and social cohesion. They are an idealised form of masculinity and athleticism and their physical perfection is symbolic of their ideological supremacy over the Persians. The latter are depicted as a faceless hoard: their flesh and features are largely concealed under clothes and armour, and they are adorned with chains and piercings which are emblematic of their enslavement to Xerxes. Those that do reveal flesh are often deformed and mutated and few, if any, are developed as characters or embody individuality. The monstrous Persians of Snyder’s film do not appear in Miller’s novel, but they continue the same conventions of symbolic physical representation. The amputee concubines and burn victims, for instance, that Xerxes offers to Ephialtes in return for his support show his acceptance within Persian society regardless of his physical shape or appearance. Indeed, in many ways Persian society is far more accepting than the elitist Spartans. Snyder’s film also features the giant Uber-Immortal, a towering, semi-nude, grey-skinned monster that Leonidas faces during the first night’s fighting. In his appearance he becomes a walking metaphor for Leonidas’ fear of slavery: his muscular form evokes that of the Spartan king but it is contorted and freakishly exaggerated, he cannot speak, and he is dragged to the battlefield in chains rather than of his own free will. Of the Persians, Xerxes is the only one to reflect the physical muscularity of the Spartans but whereas Leonidas and his men reveal bare flesh Xerxes is covered in gold jewellery and is of immense height, symbolising his wealth, greed and supposed divinity. Some have read this visual dichotomy between the Eastern and Western armies allegorically, with David C. Ryan arguing that 300’s allegorical universe is simple, even oversimplified. Snyder celebrates certain western values and condemns eastern hegemony because he wants his audience

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Figure 5.2  A Persian Immortal is unmasked in 300. Source: 300, directed by Zack Snyder © Warner Bros. 2007. All rights reserved.

to understand what is at stake – the fate of western civilization. His sympathies are clear because the Spartans, even with their overdetermined masculinity, look more human and act more human than their serpentine enemies.28

300’s depiction of Spartan and Persian cultures has informed many analogous and allegorical readings of the film as a reflection of Western supremacy over the Middle East. This includes the aforementioned statement by Javad Shamaqdari that the film was US propaganda, which led to it being banned in Iran.29 When confronted with this news, Snyder responded that the Iranian reaction surprised me a bit because I would hope that people understood that the last thing I’d want is to offend anyone with the film. If anyone is offended by it, I’m deeply sorry because that’s not the intention of the movie at all. To me, it’s a work of fantasy; it’s not intended to depict any culture in a realistic way. That’s just not what the movie is … I made it because I wanted to reinvigorate cinema. It takes a lot to get people out to the cinema nowadays.30

Rodrigo Santoro, who plays Xerxes, supported Snyder’s statement adding, ‘I think the message is up to you. It’s up to the viewer. We’re just trying to reproduce the graphic novel and make a piece of entertainment.’31 While in almost all other respects Snyder’s film was faithful to Miller’s text, the decision to portray the Persians as not just a faceless mass but as specifically monstrous in some scenes is questionable and potentially insensitive. A prime example of this is 300’s depiction of the Persian Immortals. Historically, these were the elite soldiers of the Persian army. Their title derived from the notion that they could not be killed as their number remained ten thousand strong however many perished in battle, but in reality when an Immortal was killed another soldier would simply take his place to continue the illusion.32 Miller’s visuals depict their costume and armour as similar to that of samurai, but Snyder made them appear truly monstrous: in the ‘tree of the dead’ sequence the Spartans discover an



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Immortal’s footprint suggesting they have clawed feet; when they eventually arrive at Thermopylae there is a close-up shot of the deformed, clawed hand of the lead Immortal; and during the battle Dilios knocks off an Immortal’s mask to reveal an orc-like grotesque underneath (see Figure 5.2). In this stylised, comic-book form, the reduction of the elite Persian infantry to monsters evokes American propaganda portrayals of the Japanese during the Second World War. As Parker Royal explains, Narrating through stereotypes takes on critical resonance when filtered through an ideological prism. Authors may expose, either overtly or through tacit implication, certain recognized or even unconscious prejudices held by them and/or their readers. In comics and graphic art there is always the all-too-real danger of negative stereotype and caricature, which strips others of any unique identity and dehumanizes by means of reductive iconography.33

300’s defamatory depiction of Eastern culture as home to several inhuman entities was poorly timed. Snyder has even recounted that the producers feared inciting controversy over the film’s portrayal of the Persians, remarking that ‘there was a huge sensitivity about East versus West with the studio. … They said, “Is there any way we could not call (the bad guys) Persians? Would it be cool if we called them Zoroastrians?”’34 American understanding of the Middle East has at times proved insubstantial, with John Keegan citing it as a cause for many of the mistakes made by the US government and military in Iraq.35 What some American audiences may therefore regard as an entertaining comic-book narrative with symbolic imagery, an Iranian viewer could read as insensitive. Nevertheless, the majority of interpretations expressed by academics, critics and political figures on both sides have often failed to acknowledge the influence that the film’s narrative structure – and specifically the role of the narrator – has on its meaning.

The Unreliable Narrator As we saw in relation to Alexander, the role of the unreliable narrator is a significant trope of this current cycle of epics and 300 is no different. Compared to Miller’s source, the film drastically develops the role of Dilios, a Spartan soldier with a gift for storytelling who fights at Thermopylae and loses an eye in the battle. On the eve of the final day, Leonidas orders him to return to Sparta and memorialise their sacrifice through his stories.36 Whereas Miller’s novel is narrated by an omniscient narrator with occasional digressions for Dilios’ stories, the main narrative of Snyder’s film takes place through an extended series of flashbacks narrated by Dilios as he recounts the life of Leonidas to the Spartan army on the eve of Plataea (see Figure 5.3). This reiterates Joanna Paul’s argument, mentioned in relation to Odysseus in Troy, that the narrator fulfils the role of the epic bard whose stories hold the promise of kleos, everlasting fame.37 David C. Ryan has

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similarly discussed Dilios’ narration from a classical, literary perspective, arguing that 300 is in keeping with an ancient poetic tradition, stating this poetic tale – even with the embellishments – is what is called an epideictic portrait, one in which an audience learns of the virtues of a person and his life. … In this heroic narrative, Dilios employs a range of tropes (particularly metonymy) to simplify yet illustrate the political, cultural, and moral contrasts between the west and the east.38

The events and imagery we see in 300 are therefore the construct of Dilios’ narrative. Ryan notes that it was a Spartan custom prior to battle for soldiers to tell tales of victories and heroic acts to inspire troops to fight harder and perform bravely.39 Indeed, a similar custom is described by US Navy SEAL Chris Kyle when he and the other soldiers were given a screening of Black Hawk Down (2001), We Were Soldiers (2002) and Braveheart (1995) to get them in the right frame of mind for ‘Hell Week’, the toughest period of their training.40 Dilios is refiguring the defeat at Thermopylae into the moral, inspiring victory that Herodotus would later enshrine, and his monstrous depiction of the Persians is designed to prepare the Spartan psyche for battle. The process of dehumanising the enemy in order to psychologically cope with combat is a brutal yet recurrent aspect of warfare. In 1967 John Musgrave was an eighteen-yearold US Marine serving in Vietnam, and in a recent interview he explained, I only killed one human being in Vietnam, and that was the first man that I ever killed. I was sick with guilt about killing that guy and thinking I was going to have to do this for the next 13 months. I’m going to go crazy. … That’s when I made my deal with the devil, I said, ‘I will never kill another human being as long as I’m in Vietnam. However, I will waste as many gooks as I can find. I’ll wax as many dinks as I can find. I’ll smoke as many zips as I can find, but I ain’t going to kill anybody.’ Turn a subject into an object. It’s racism 101. It turns out to be a very necessary tool when you have children fighting your wars for them to stay sane doing their work.41

Musgrave’s description of the psychological processes he went through in Vietnam extends to 300’s depiction of the Persians, as Dilios is psychologically conditioning the Greeks at Plataea to kill without remorse. Hughes argues that the demonization of the Immortals works within the context of the narration as it reflects how the Spartans would have imagined them after hearing the tales of their immortality and witnessing the aftermath of the village massacre.42 The film’s addition of the clawed footprint in the mud is one of Dilios’ inventions to build anticipation for his diegetic audience before they encounter the Immortals later. In so doing it has the same tension-building effect for the non-diegetic audience. During the battle against the Immortals it is Dilios who knocks off the Immortal’s mask and reveals the monstrous visage beneath, and the array of deformed bodies in the Persian camp are all entities that Dilios did not witness yet is describing to his audience. By removing the Persians’ humanity he is encouraging his Spartan comrades at Plataea to distance



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Figure 5.3  Dilios (David Wenham) addresses the Spartans around the camp fire in 300. Source: 300, directed by Zack Snyder © Warner Bros. 2007. All rights reserved.

themselves from the act of killing another human being, while his idealisation of the three hundred, their bravery, and even Leonidas’ dying act of wounding Xerxes could all be fictions he invents to inspire his countrymen. As Ryan summarises, ‘In this soldier’s tale, the world is dichotomized between heroes and monsters … like most allegories, both the heroes and enemies are idealized and caricatured.’43 In utilising Dilios in this way, Snyder successfully incorporates the stylised imagery of the graphic novel into the ancient world epic by accounting for it as the creation of the unreliable narrator. Dilios’ narration also encapsulates the ‘Spartan mirage’ through his glorification of the Spartans and reveals the process of how history is transformed into myth in a manner similar to Ptolemy’s account of Alexander’s life or Odysseus’s of Achilles. To quote Crabtree, ‘Miller has said it’s not that Snyder faithfully copied every last detail in his novel, it’s that he tapped into a similar mythic scope. Snyder nailed the visual ideal of an oral history told over hundreds of years by firelight.’44 In so doing, the film raises a more complex and far-reaching issue: Herodotus’ history was drawn from anecdotal sources such as Dilios’ narration and 300’s depiction of an unreliable and biased narrator draws attention to the lasting damage the historical record can have on cultural relationships. The dehumanisation inherent in warfare between culturally different enemies can permeate the mindset of the victors and inform how their histories are constructed. Similar to the bias and omissions of Ptolemy in Alexander, 300 encourages its audience to consider the stories we are told, the motivations that lay behind them and how they will affect future generations. Despite 300’s success being due, in part, to a gung-ho right-wing mentality among some sections of its audience it also carries a prescient warning for the current climate of ‘fake news’.

Gods and Monsters Building on the stylised aesthetic of Sin City, 300 pushed the boundaries of visual design through blue-screen technology. Snyder’s employment of this device

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also helped circumvent the issue of how to realise ancient Greece’s mise-enscène, which it achieved through creating backgrounds that were often relatively simple in design: rock formations, the sea, sky, wheat fields and simple columned buildings. The imagery is rendered as if the scenes were shot with a shallow depth of field, foregrounding the bodies on display and the violence inflicted upon them. Amputations and penetrations abound in the combat sequences, revelling in copious amounts of CG blood splatters that were scanned and replicated from the pages of Miller’s graphic novel and used yet further in the movie’s poster campaign. 300 depicts combat as strangely beautiful, utilising slow motion to reveal the shapes, forms and motion that rapid cutting and standard speed rarely show. Snyder cited Sam Peckinpah as a major influence in his use of slow-motion violence, but the visuals are also directly influenced by Miller’s novel.45 Slowing down the action to almost a freeze-frame, Snyder replicates the static imagery of Miller’s source in a series of carefully choreographed poses which allude directly to panels from the novel in what Dru Jeffries calls ‘compositional quotation’ or ‘panel moments’.46 However, in this reliance on digitally created mise-en-scène and wartime violence Nisbet argues, ‘The film’s plug-and-play antiquity is not a historical setting in a traditional epic-movie sense … instead it is a gameplay environment.’47 Kenneth Turan similarly remarks, ‘Once the newness of 300’s look wears off, which it inevitably does, what we are left with is a videogame come to life.’48 Comparisons of 300’s digital design to videogame imagery are indicative of the film’s targeting of adolescent and early-twenties audiences who enjoy videogames and comic books. In identifying and utilising this particular market, 300’s commercial success initiated a point of departure for a series of films which, while still ancient world epics, would similarly utilise CGI to create mythological imagery. However, few of these would inspire allegorical or analogous readings as 300 had. On the surface this is surprising, as myths are malleable constructs which regularly contain moral, religious and political meaning to suit a given society.49 This is particularly true of the ancient Greeks as city states would utilise myths to create historical precedents, connecting people or events to past heroes to establish a shared heritage and identity. For example, in the sixth century BC, the Peisistratid regime in Athens championed Heracles in their art and iconography, but once they were removed from power the city saw a sudden growth in iconography of Theseus whose actions were seen as mirroring the new democracy of Cleisthenes.50 In the genre’s filmic history, however, mythological epics have rarely been subject to allegorical readings beyond those already mentioned in relation to the pepla.51 Instead, Greek mythology has more commonly been associated with spectacle and escapist entertainment, especially in the form of physically imposing heroes and monstrous creatures.52 In the latter, perhaps the two most iconic works for Western audiences are those by stop-motion effects icon Ray Harryhausen: Jason and the Argonauts (1963) and Clash of the Titans (1981). Although the filmmakers utilised locations and studio facilities common to the pepla, Harryhausen desperately wanted to distance his films from the low production values and muscleman heroes of his Italian counterparts.53 Nevertheless, some reviews disregarded this



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and Harryhausen believes Jason and the Argonauts suffered at the US box office because of the pepla’s declining popularity in the mid-1960s.54 He nonetheless returned to Greek mythology with Clash of the Titans, which arrived as part of a cycle of escapist fantasy films (or pepla, depending on how one interprets the cycle) in the 1980s. Louis Leterrier’s 2010 remake of Clash of the Titans changes the original’s narrative but largely retains the action sequences from Harryhausen’s film, although stop-motion effects have now been replaced by CGI. The film adds one notable addition to the 1981 roster of fantastical creatures in the form of the Djinn; giant wooden nomads who live in the desert and appear vaguely Arabic in their dress. Their leader, Sheikh Sulieman, heals Perseus and exhibits control over the giant scorpions that threaten the company, but eventually self-destructs in Medusa’s lair in a manner that uncomfortably recalls a suicide bomber (if this is intended as an allusion to contemporary events the meaning is unclear). The film also owes a significant debt to 300’s aesthetic. Blanshard and Shahabudin note that Clash of the Titans similarly possesses a ‘videogame aesthetic, with its dense backgrounds, simple character motivations and accented metallic sound design’.55 The film likewise features an electric-guitar-driven soundtrack and use of slow motion during combat sequences. As the narrative primarily involves the quest to claim Medusa’s head the mise-en-scène largely consists of landscapes rather than urban sites and Greek architecture (with the exception of Argos) and the action-driven plot similarly avoids the typical pitfalls of Greece being considered ‘intellectual’. Clash of the Titans also arrived in the wake of James Cameron’s Avatar (2009) which led its distributors to rush a retro-fitted 3D conversion onto the film, and similar to The Robe and CinemaScope, this new novelty became a recurrent feature in reviews of the film ahead of suggestions of hidden meaning in the text.56 The film was released in March/April 2010, which Leterrier notes the studio referred to as ‘The 300 Date.’57 Much the same is true for the film’s sequel, Jonathan Liebesman’s Wrath of the Titans (2012), as well as Tarsem Singh’s Immortals (2011). In their fantastical narratives, focus on the male body, use of CGI and blue-/greenscreen, slow motion and soundtrack they deviate little from the model created by 300. This is most clearly evident in Immortals, which was promoted on posters and DVD covers as ‘From the Producers of 300’ despite Singh’s hopes that his film would not be seen as a ‘comic strip movie’.58 Unlike 300 the central conflict of these films is not between East and West but monsters, mortals and immortals. This cosmic conflict is repeatedly reduced to familial connections and father/son stories, repeating the same themes of abandonment and quests for resolution that permeated the Vietnam combat film. In the case of Leterrier’s Clash of the Titans this is its main narrative alteration to the 1981 version where Perseus’ heroism derives from his decision to undertake the quest for Medusa’s head in order to save Andromeda, whom he loves. In Leterrier’s film, Perseus is raised by mortal parents who are then killed by Hades, lord of the Underworld, turning his mission into an act of vengeance. The gods (in this narrative) require human prayer and worship to accrue power but the citizens of Argos are withholding their prayers and destroying the iconography of

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the gods out of protest for the way they are treated. This angers Zeus who consents to Hades threatening to destroy Argos unless its inhabitants begin to worship the gods again. Perseus volunteers to retrieve the head of the Gorgon Medusa as it is the only weapon that can destroy Hades’ sea monster, the Kraken. During his quest he discovers he is actually the son of Zeus but rejects divine assistance to complete his task as a mortal, albeit one with a magic sword and a flying horse. This he does, killing the Kraken, defeating Hades, and earning his real father’s respect. This personal, familial connection between the hero and his quest recurs in Wrath of the Titans: Ares imprisons his father, Zeus, in Tartarus and drains him of his power in order to free the titan Kronos, the father of Zeus, Hades and Poseidon. Perseus, now a father himself, then goes on a quest to enter Tartarus, save Zeus, and defeat Ares and Kronos. In the aftermath Perseus passes on his sword to his son, suggesting conflict will continue through the next generation. Aspects of both these films appear in Immortals, in which Theseus lives a quiet existence in a sea-shore village with his mother and an elderly surrogate father figure (who is actually Zeus in disguise) until his mother is killed by Hyperion, a warlord seeking a weapon of mass destruction known as the Epirus Bow. With it, Hyperion can free the titans from Tartarus as an act of revenge against the gods for failing to save his family. Theseus in turn swears revenge for his mother’s death and leads the Greek army in defending Mount Tartarus, luring Hyperion’s army into a narrow tunnel in what is likely an allusion to 300. However, Hyperion finds the bow and frees the titans forcing Zeus and the gods to join the battle, while Theseus kills Hyperion but is mortally wounded in the process. The film concludes years after these events where Theseus’ young son is being watched over by Zeus, while Theseus himself joins an ongoing war between gods and titans in the heavens. These mythological epics are heavily indebted to Disney’s animated Hercules (1997) for many of their plot points, especially the protagonist’s conflict between his mortal identity and immortal lineage, and the villains’ plans to release the titans. Robert A. Rushing has compared these films to the pepla in the populism of the hero, stating, In both Immortals and the Clash of the Titans franchise, a humble farmer or fisherman turns out to be a man of direct action who confronts a state that is incompetent or corrupt. More-over, both films are set in a time of the ‘twilight of the gods’ in which these elite beings fade in power and relevance, and in both cases, this is largely seen as a good thing, since the gods do not seem either able or willing to protect mankind from divine, demonic, or mortal mischief.59

This is an inherently modern view of ancient Greek religion, as it bestows free will upon the heroes – similar to Troy’s outright omission of the gods – whereas the Greeks believed in destiny or fate at the hands of the gods, regardless of whether their actions appeared senseless.60 Furthermore, in creating human characters that reject their tyrannical deities the films reiterate the basic freedom-versustyranny motif common to ancient world epics. Rather than accept divine will,



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these heroes challenge it and in so doing the gods come to respect them. It is in this antagonistic relationship between mortal-sons and immortal-fathers that the films carry allegorical significance despite the critical reception suggesting the contrary. In each film the protagonist sons are raised by surrogate father figures. They were, to the best of their knowledge, abandoned by their real fathers and this disjuncture comes to embody the anti-authoritarian distrust of patriarchal institutions that informs many Vietnam War films – and by extension a number of Iraq and Afghanistan War films. The heroes of the mythological epics then embark on a quest which takes the form of a katabatic narrative: in Clash of the Titans Perseus journeys with a company of soldiers and a psychopompous (Io) into the underworld to obtain an object (Medusa’s head) and in so doing wins his father’s support and respect. In Wrath of the Titans, Perseus must again travel into the underworld (with the help of Hephaestus), this time to rescue his father who is, in turn, being drained of his life-force by his father, Kronos. In Immortals, Theseus receives guidance from Phaedra and must enter Tartarus and stop Hyperion freeing the titans. His bravery inspires Zeus to finally step down from Olympus and intervene in mortal affairs. While Theseus is not Zeus’ son he has become a favourite of the god who fulfils a father-like role in the form of the elderly man (played by John Hurt). When Theseus dies, he is given a place in the heavens as an immortal, effectively being adopted by Zeus. Similar to 300, these films could be interpreted as offering a wish-fulfilment scenario whereby abandoned soldier-sons are reconciled with their fathers. This scenario is currently prevalent in blockbuster cinema, most notably in the superhero/comic-book genre. Indeed, the Greek mythological heroes have often been compared to superheroes by the filmmakers behind Immortals and the Clash of the Titans franchise.61 Across recent works including Batman Begins (2005), Iron Man 2 (2010), The Amazing Spider-Man (2012) and Thor (2011) we see the recurrent trope of the male protagonist who is abandoned by their father(-figure), but over the course of the narrative they are reconciled with them. Superhero films, including the Greek mythological epics, could be regarded as antidotes to the Vietnam-era mentality of separation and betrayal between government and people: through enduring hardship, the heroes ultimately find reconciliation and catharsis with their ‘fathers’. During the tumult of the War on Terror and conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan, the promise of restored order offered by these films – the majority of which were successful at the US box office – has appeared to resonate with American audiences. It may also be regarded as a progression in the sociopolitical background which informed the making of these films. Due to the lengthy production process of Hollywood blockbusters there is typically a delay between current events and a film’s response to them, or antithetically a film may appear misjudged or poorly timed because of unforeseen events coinciding with its scheduled release, such as the films featuring the Twin Towers that were re-shot, re-edited or postponed in the aftermath of 9/11.62 The first mythological epic in this cycle, Clash of the Titans, was released in 2010, two years after the election of Barack Obama as president. Obama won the 2008 election with 67.84 per cent of electoral colleges

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and 52.93 per cent of the popular vote compared to McCain’s 32.16 per cent and 45.65 per cent, respectively; a major victory for the Democratic Party.63 The New York Times’ Adam Nagourney wrote of the event: ‘Mr. Obama’s election amounted to a national catharsis – a repudiation of a historically unpopular Republican president and his economic and foreign policies, and an embrace of Mr. Obama’s call for a change in the direction and the tone of the country.’64 Obama had openly opposed the Iraq War and spoke of drawing the conflict to a close within sixteen months of the election, while McCain had supported the war and rejected a firm timetable of withdrawal.65 Obama’s victory therefore suggested that a large portion of the electorate desired an end to the conflict in the near future. Indeed, Obama’s campaign had repeatedly used the concept of ‘hope’ as a motivating factor across its proposed policies, a concept that was embodied by Shepard Fairey’s stylised stencil portrait of Obama which the Huffington Post came to describe as ‘a pop cultural phenomenon and an important symbol in the political landscape of 2008’.66 Adopted by the Obama campaign, the poster originally bore the slogan ‘Progress’ but this was changed to ‘Hope’ in line with the campaign’s overall message of hoping for a better future and for change.67 As stated, the mythological epics bear a close resemblance to contemporaneous comic-book movies. Released less than a month after Clash of the Titans was Marvel’s Iron Man 2, in which hero Tony Stark is seen proudly hanging a poster of himself as Iron Man rendered in the same stencil design and colours as Fairey’s Obama image. The film sees Stark behaving like an abandoned soldier-son, his behaviour becoming increasingly erratic and self-destructive as a key component of the electromagnet keeping him alive is also slowly poisoning him. However, a turning point in the film comes when Stark reconnects with his long-deceased father through completing his research and discovering that, contrary to his lifelong belief that his father did not care about him, he discovers that his father actually loved him dearly. Iron Man 2 self-consciously acknowledges its place in the Obama-era of ‘Hope’ and cathartically depicts Stark’s reconciliation with his father as not only physically and spiritually rescuing him but also enabling him to help others. Clash of the Titans and the subsequent mythological epics in 2011 and 2012 ran deeper into Obama’s presidency which brought the Iraq War to a close by withdrawing US personnel in 2011. In each of the epic narratives, like their contemporary comic-book counterparts, sons are reconciled with absent fathers. Though Immortals’ ending is bittersweet, the films generally move towards more positive and hopeful conclusions than the Iraq War-era ancient world epics, paving the way for the 2014 releases discussed in Chapter 11. 300 and its successors’ universal themes and spectacle allowed the films to be marketed in a similar manner to hugely successful comic-book franchises. The mythological epics foreground action, spectacle and CG effects ahead of specifically engaging with contemporary conflicts, reinforced by their depiction of wars between humans, gods and monsters rather than nations. This has created two distinct approaches to the ancient world epic in the current cycle: the historical drama approach of Gladiator and the ‘mythological’ approach of 300



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and its successors. The latter require less audience-awareness of historical debates and typically conclude with a more conventionally ‘positive’ ending in which sons are reconciled with fathers, the hero emerges victorious, and the antagonist is punished or killed. In moving towards a more hopeful conclusion, the films arguably reflect America’s entry into the Obama-era after the 2008 election and the promise of ending the Iraq War. Nevertheless, the transformation of the ancient world epic into the mythological fantasy that began with 300 appears to have been driven by commercial interests, capitalising on Snyder’s film while also removing content that may appear political in favour of fantasy scenarios and the kind of spectacle that blockbuster audiences expect from superhero films. The stylised aesthetic, universal themes and simple battle narrative circumvented the many obstacles that Greek epics have faced in the past, while 300’s employment of comic-book iconography further distanced the film from its generic predecessors. Its subsequent emulation is evidence that commercial interests lay at the heart of the genre’s evolution.

Notes 1 Kenneth Turan, ‘Film Contrast: Loud “300”, Quiet “Silence”’, Los Angeles Times, 9 March 2007, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//www​.npr.​org/t​empla​tes/s​tory/​story​ .php?​story​Id=77​93112​. 2 Kermode and Mayo, ‘Kermode: Top Ten of the Year, 28 Dec 07’. 3 Nisbet, ‘“This Is Cake-Town!”’, 447–8. 4 Zack Snyder quoted in Rob Carnevale, ‘300 – Zack Snyder Interview’, interview with Zack Snyder, Indie London, n.d., accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//www​.indi​elond​ on.co​.uk/F​ilm-R​eview​/300-​zack-​snyde​r-int​ervie​w. 5 Jim Kitses, Horizons West: Directing the Western from John Ford to Clint Eastwood, 2nd ed. (London: BFI, 2004), 15. 6 Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 15. 7 Snyder quoted in Carnevale, ‘300 – Zack Snyder Interview’. 8 Pamela McClintock, ‘Warner Bets a Bundle on Sword-and-CGI 300’, Variety, 9 October 2005, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//var​iety.​com/2​005/f​i lm/n​ews/w​arner​ s-bet​s-a-b​undle​-on-s​words​-and-​cgi-3​00-11​17930​401/.​ 9 Neal Stephenson, ‘It’s All Geek to Me’, New York Times, 18 March 2007, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//www​.nyti​mes.c​om/20​07/03​/18/o​pinio​n/18s​tephe​nson.​html?​ pagew​anted​=all.​ 10 McClintock, ‘Warner Bets a Bundle on Sword-and-CGI 300’. 11 ‘1 of 300’, featured on 300, dir. Zack Snyder (2007; Warner Home Video, 2007), DVD. 12 Derek Parker Royal, ‘Introduction: Coloring America – Multi-Ethnic Engagements with Graphic Narrative’, MELUS 32, no. 3 (Fall 2007): 7–8, accessed 9 March 2012, http://www.jstor.org/stable/30029789. 13 ‘The 300 – Fact or Fiction?’, featured on 300, dir. Zack Snyder (2007; Warner Home Video, 2007), DVD. 14 Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 69. 15 Ibid., 61. 16 Ibid., 64.

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17 Pomeroy, Then It Was Destroyed by the Volcano, 37. 18 Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 64, 70; Martin M. Winkler, ‘Greek Myth on Screen’, in The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology, ed. Roger D. Woodward (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 466–7. One notable exception is Hercules Conquers Atlantis (1961), in which the eponymous hero must find the ancient sunken kingdom to prevent the destruction of the world using the blood of the Greek god Uranus: an analogy for Uranium and the Cold War fear of a nuclear holocaust. 19 Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 65. 20 For examples, see Jonah Weiland, ‘One-on-One with Gerard Butler’, interview with Gerard Butler, Comic Book Resources, 6 February 2007, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//www​.comi​cbook​resou​rces.​com/?​page=​artic​le&ol​d=1&i​d=957​2; Roger Ebert, ‘300’, Roger Ebert, 4 August 2008, accessed 21 February 2012, http:​//www​.roge​reber​ t.com​/revi​ews/3​00-20​06; Carnevale, ‘300 – David Wenham Interview’; ‘Webisodes – Gerard Butler’, featured on 300, dir. Zack Snyder (2007; Warner Home Video, 2007), DVD. 21 Maria Wyke, ‘Herculean Muscle!: The Classicizing Rhetoric of Bodybuilding’, Arion, Third Series, 4, no. 3 (Winter 1997): 66, accessed 24 November 2011, http://www.jstor. org/stable/20163635. 22 Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 227. 23 Wyke, ‘Herculean Muscle!’, 59–61. 24 Ibid., 67. 25 ‘The 300 – Fact or Fiction?’. 26 Ibid. 27 Fotheringham, ‘The Positive Portrayal of Sparta in Late-Twentieth-Century Fiction’, 414. 28 Ryan, ‘300 Lies?’. 29 Corliss, ‘7 Reasons Why 300 Is a Huge Hit’; Holland, ‘Mirage in the Movie House’, 177; Nisbet, Ancient Greece in Film and Popular Culture, 141. 30 Snyder quoted in Carnevale, ‘300 – Zack Snyder Interview’. 31 Carnevale, ‘300 – Rodrigo Santoro Interview’. 32 Herodotus, The Histories, 7.83. 33 Parker Royal, ‘Introduction: Coloring America’, 8. 34 Zack Snyder quoted in Crabtree, ‘Graphic Leaps’. 35 Keegan, The Iraq War, 90. 36 Dilios is seemingly based on the historical figure Aristodamus, who is described by Herodotus as one of the three hundred at Thermopylae but who left the battle early due to an eye infection; see Herodotus, The Histories, 7.229–31, 9.71. 37 Paul, Film and the Classical Epic Tradition, 67–8. 38 Ryan, ‘300 Lies?’. 39 Ibid. 40 Kyle, DeFelice and McEwen, American Sniper, 31. In conversation Canadian war poet Suzanne Steele informed me that while she was embedded with Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan they would watch 300 repeatedly. 41 John Musgrave, appearing in The Vietnam War: Episode 5, dir. Ken Burns and Lynn Novick (PBS, 2017), DVD. 42 ‘The 300 – Fact or Fiction?’. 43 Ryan, ‘300 Lies?’. 44 Crabtree, ‘Graphic Leaps’.



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45 Jason Silverman, ‘300 Brings History to Bloody Life’, Wired, 22 February 2007, accessed 15 May 2012. (Webpage no longer available.) 46 Dru H. Jeffries, ‘Comics at 300 Frames per Second: Zack Snyder’s 300 and the Figural Translation of Comics to Film’, Quarterly Review of Film and Video 31, no. 3 (2014): 267–8, accessed 26 April 2014, doi: 10.1080/10509208.2011.646574. 47 Nisbet, ‘“This Is Cake-Town!”’, 432. 48 Turan, ‘Film Contrast: Loud “300”, Quiet “Silence”’. 49 Elley, The Epic Film, 2; Wyke, Projecting the Past, 13. 50 Johnathan M. Hall, ‘Politics and Greek Myth’, in The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mythology, 338–44. 51 Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 64. 52 Ibid., 74. 53 Ray Harryhausen and Tony Dalton, Ray Harryhausen: An Animated Life (London: Aurum Press, 2003), 151–3, 174, 262. 54 Harryhausen and Dalton, Ray Harryhausen, 174, 262. 55 Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 220. 56 For examples, see Xan Brooks, ‘Clash of the Titans – Review’, The Guardian, 1 April 2010, accessed 2 November 2013, https​://ww​w.the​guard​ian.c​om/fi​lm/20​10/ap​r/01/​ clash​-of-t​he-ti​tans-​revie​w ; Kenneth Turan, ‘Movie Review: Clash of the Titans’, Los Angeles Times, 2 April 2010, accessed 2 November 2013, http:​//art​icles​.lati​mes.c​om/20​ 10/ap​r/02/​enter​tainm​ent/l​a-et-​titan​s2-20​10apr​02; Peter Travers, ‘Clash of the Titans – Review’, Rolling Stone, 2 April 2010, accessed 2 November 2013, https​://ww​w.rol​lings​ tone.​com/m​ovies​/revi​ews/c​lash-​of-th​e-tit​ans-2​01004​02. 57 ‘Mr Beaks’, “Mr Beaks Interviews Clash of the Titans Director Louis Leterrier!”’, Ain’t It Cool News, 29 March 2010, accessed 5 March 2014, http://www.aintitcool.com/ node/44432. 58 Roth Cornet, ‘Interview: Immortals Director Tarsem Singh on Gods, Monsters & Mickey Rourke’, Screen Rant, 11 November 2011, accessed 16 March 2014, http:​//scr​ eenra​nt.co​m/tar​sem-s​ingh-​immor​tals-​inter​view-​rothc​-1394​96/. 59 Robert A. Rushing, Descended from Hercules: Biopolitics and the Muscled Male Body on Screen (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2016), 28. 60 Winkler, ‘Greek Myth on Screen’, 459. 61 ‘Mr Beaks’, “Mr. Beaks Gets It Kraken with Clash of the Titans Screenwriters Phil Hay and Matt Manfredi!”’, Ain’t It Cool News, 19 March 2010, accessed 5 March 2014, http:// www.aintitcool.com/node/44344; Edward Douglas, ‘CS Video: Wrath of the Titans Director Jonathan Liebesman’, Coming Soon, 27 March 2012, accessed 16 March 2014, http:​//www​.comi​ngsoo​n.net​/movi​es/fe​ature​s/883​18-cs​-vide​o-wra​th-of​-the-​titan​s-dir​ ector​-jona​than-​liebe​sman;​ Blanshard and Shahabudin, Classics on Screen, 203. 62 McSweeney, The ‘War on Terror’ and American Film, 3. 63 Federal Election Commission, Washington, D.C., ‘Federal Elections 2008: Election Results for the U.S. President, the U.S. Senate and the U.S. House of Representatives’, July 2009, accessed 30 June 2018, https​://tr​ansit​ion.f​ec.go​v/pub​rec/f​e2008​/fede​ralel​ ectio​ns200​8.pdf​. 64 Adam Nagourney, ‘Obama Wins Election’, New York Times, 4 November 2008, accessed 30 June 2018, https​://ww​w.nyt​imes.​com/2​008/1​1/05/​us/po​litic​s/05c​ampai​ gn.ht​ml. 65 Helene Cooper, Shan Carter, Jonathan Ellis, Farhana Hossain and Alan McLean, ‘On the Issues: Iraq and Afghanistan’, New York Times, 23 May 2008, accessed 30 June 2018, https​://ww​w.nyt​imes.​com/e​lecti​ons/2​008/p​resid​ent/i​ssues​/iraq​.html​.

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66 Ben Arnon, ‘How the Obama “Hope” Poster Reached a Tipping Point and Became a Cultural Phenomenon: An Interview with the Artist Shepard Fairey’, Huffington Post, 13 November 2008 (Updated 6 December 2017), accessed 30 June 2018, https​://ww​ w.huf​fi ngt​onpos​t.com​/ben-​arnon​/how-​the-o​bama-​hope-​poste​r_b_1​33874​.html​?gucc​ ounte​r=1. 67 Arnon, ‘How the Obama “Hope”’.

CChapter 6 LAND OF THE FREE, ROME OF THE BRAVE: FAITH, TORTURE AND IMPERIALISM IN KING ARTHUR (2004)

As the months passed and as the insurgency intensified, anti-American sentiment became palpable, and the ‘liberators’ were increasingly seen as ‘occupiers’.1

The above quote from Richard Melanson summarises the transformation of sentiment towards the US presence in Iraq following the initial invasion in 2003. The concept of the US and coalition forces ‘liberating’ the country connotes a temporary military action with a clear objective, whereas ‘occupation’ suggests a lack of further objectives and the potential for prolonged or even permanent military presence. In such cases, ‘occupation’ also carries connotations of imperialism as a foreign power claims territory as its own. As one of the largest and most influential empires in history Rome has made a popular analogue for modern empires. This is evidenced by the numerous metaphorical and allegorical interpretations of the epic cycle of the 1950s–60s where ancient Rome was equated with Nazi Germany, imperialist Japan and Soviet Russia. However, in these films it was commonplace for narratives to predominantly be set within the city of Rome with only occasional forays or allusions to the empire’s provinces. It is therefore of immense interest that four of the Roman epics released after Gladiator (2000) should depict the Roman occupation of Britain: King Arthur (2004), The Last Legion (2007), Centurion (2010) and The Eagle (2011). The next three chapters explore different facets of these films, assessing whether these occupation-themed narratives could be regarded as analogues for the US-led occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan. In particular, they examine the depiction of warfare in these films, including the generic debt they owe to the combat film and the western. To begin, this chapter analyses King Arthur and its depiction of faith and torture.

Roman Britain First, it is worth summarising a basic history of Rome’s annexation of Britain. Julius Caesar originally invaded Britain in 55 BC as an essentially symbolic gesture to convince those in Rome that he should be granted command of his legions for a further five years. Without this invasion, staged late in the campaign

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year, he would have been recalled to Rome and lost the chance to earn further military renown. He staged a second invasion of Britain in 54 BC but whether due to family tragedy or uprisings in Gaul he abandoned further expansion into the country and his untimely death halted future conquests. Britain was subsequently dismissed as being of only ‘peripheral interest’, to quote Breeze and Dobson, compared to the wealthy Eastern provinces until, in 42 AD, the country was invaded by Emperor Claudius.2 This was also a stage-managed invasion designed to appease critics in Rome who complained that Claudius lacked military success and honours. Subsequent years saw the slow expansion into and the colonisation of Britain, securing much of England, Wales and Southern Scotland; the latter marked by a string of frontier forts. Rebellions and small uprisings were not uncommon and despite an advance into Scotland in 82 AD led by Julius Agricola the expansion was ended due to Agricola’s recall to Rome in 85 AD. Many of the units stationed in Britain were then transferred to other locations in Europe.3 The building of Hadrian’s Wall began in 122 AD. One of the few references for why the Wall was built derives from an ancient biographer who states that it was ‘to separate the Romans from the barbarians’.4 The Wall is often mistaken as a defensive structure for Rome to protect its territory from attack by the northern tribes but many historians favour the argument that it was essentially a glorified administration post: what Breeze and Dobson describe as ‘the establishment of a tidy method of controlling movement into and out of the Empire’.5 The Roman military were trained to fight on open ground and the design of Hadrian’s Wall lacked the necessary space for soldiers to patrol or defend it. Instead, small forts or houses covered the various gateways built into the wall and were designed to monitor the movement of traders and farmers, prevent petty raiding and stall a larger assault. In the event of the latter a messenger would travel to a nearby legionary encampment and lead the army to open ground on which to meet the invaders.6 However, such occurrences were few and far between and until recently the setting was rarely used in cinema. Jon Solomon has suggested a reason for the apparent dearth of films depicting this era, stating, ‘The second century AD brought the zenith of the Roman Empire, with relative peace presided over by sane, even excellent emperors, whose successions followed smoothly. Good governance, bad drama: few films.’7 The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964) and Gladiator are among the few Roman epics set during the second century AD and both depict the Roman conquest of Germania as well as sequences set in Parthia and North Africa, respectively. Neither, though, strays to Roman Britain. Instead, the majority of 1950s–60s epics depict Eastern provinces that have a connection to Christ or Judeo-Christian history, something Roman Britain does not typically connote. Not only was Judeo-Christian history significant for location but also for the narrative tropes of the genre. Roman epics of the 1950s–60s would conventionally feature a protagonist, usually a Roman soldier, developing a relationship with a member of a disenfranchised group who are being persecuted by Rome. This leads the protagonist to develop a greater understanding of Roman imperialism



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resulting in them ‘turning their backs, physically or metaphorically, on Rome and its depravity’.8 Rome’s power and brutality is frequently illustrated through scenes of visual spectacle such as military parades through the Forum or gladiatorial combats and chariot races, all of which are orchestrated by a Roman commander or, more commonly, the emperor. Within this framework an encounter with Christ or the protagonist falling in love with a woman would be the catalyst for change while faith, usually Christianity, would act as the means of transformation, creating a conversion narrative. Where the recent Roman Britain epics differ to their predecessors is that they carry little focus on Christianity as a source of salvation and feature none of the visual splendour of Rome. Nevertheless, their protagonists undergo the same transformative experience resulting in their rejection of Rome. In place of religion, however, these films use experiences of warfare and the grim realities of imperialism as the catalyst for change.

King Arthur King Arthur was among the first epics to be produced after Gladiator, arriving in the summer of 2004 shortly after the release of The Passion of the Christ (2004) and Troy (2004). Scripted by David Franzoni, with whom the story of Gladiator originated, and directed by Antoine Fuqua, King Arthur reimagines the medieval legend popularised by Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur as a combat film set against the collapse of the Roman Empire. Fuqua had prior experience of combat films with his previous work, Tears of the Sun (2003), an R-rated combat film in which a small team of elite US soldiers are sent into hostile territory to rescue an American citizen. Surveying the situation, they ultimately decide to escort a number of native people who are also under threat to the safety of the nearest border while fending off a numerically superior army: a plot that is remarkably similar to that of King Arthur. Fuqua intended to bring the same levels of violent intensity to his ancient world epic but his vision clashed with that of producer Jerry Bruckheimer and the studio who wanted a PG-13 release suitable for younger audiences. On the Director’s Commentary track (included on the US DVD and Blu-ray release) Fuqua bemoans the latter stages of filming and the editing process. He describes how some sequences, such as the battle on the frozen lake, had to be redesigned before they could be shot to avoid violent imagery while others had to be altered in post-production. Digital effects were implemented to remove sight of blood in the battle scenes while other shots were abbreviated or cut altogether. Comic scenes were also added to lighten the tone. In the commentary, Fuqua complains how the movie he shot ‘was being chipped away, as far as I was concerned. The tone of the movie, the ideas of the movie were all changed. … I would come in [to edit] and just want to slit my throat I was so depressed.’9 Total Film’s Andy Lowe commented on the theatrical release that ‘King Arthur often resembles a “For Schools” dramatization: a clean, clipped history lesson … . It’s all a little soulless and, yes, bloodless too … for a film so grounded in history, a little reality wouldn’t have gone amiss.’10

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While a number of films featured in this study received alternate or extended cuts on home media months or years after their initial release, King Arthur was released in both its theatrical cut and separately as a Director’s Cut on the same day. The latter reorders scenes, adds others, restores the stronger violence and removes cruder comic moments. In so doing, the Director’s Cut is noticeably bleaker, gorier and places a greater emphasis on Arthur and his knights as soldiers who have endured many years of combat trauma. This emphasises their desire for freedom and the anti-imperialist message of the film, which by all accounts reflects the intentions of both writer and director to a far greater extent than the theatrical release. I will, however, refer to the theatrical release unless otherwise stated. King Arthur opens with a title card bearing the contentious statement that ‘historians agree’ that the Arthurian legend was inspired by an actual figure from the Dark Ages and that ‘recently discovered archaeological evidence sheds light on his true identity’. Franzoni’s Arthur is a Christian soldier with mixed Roman and British parentage who is charged with commanding a band of Sarmatian knights bound by decree to serve the Roman Empire. The main narrative begins in 467 AD as the knights prepare to receive their freedom after fifteen years of service in the Roman military defending the territory along Hadrian’s Wall from the Woads: native Britons opposed to Roman rule. However, on the day of their release the knights are informed by Bishop Germanius that Rome is abandoning Britain. Before they can be discharged they must perform a final mission to go beyond the Wall and rescue a Roman family from the invading Saxons. During the operation Arthur discovers that the family has imprisoned and tortured a number of pagans in the name of Rome and Christianity and that such behaviour is rife throughout the empire. Among the prisoners is a Woad woman, Guinevere, with whom Arthur falls in love. As the Saxons arrive at the Wall he and his men choose to stay and fight alongside the Woads and forsake their allegiance to Rome. Defeating the Saxons, Arthur weds Guinevere and remains with his surviving knights in Britain. While the narrative contains identifiable aspects of Arthurian legend the film also adheres to a number of tropes associated with Roman epics. Chief among these is the theme of freedom. Arthur’s knights desire freedom from their military service while the Britons fight for freedom from foreign occupation. This associates them with the aforementioned disenfranchised group motif, evidenced by the slaves in Spartacus (1960) or the Christians in The Robe, Demetrius and the Gladiators (1954) and Quo Vadis (1951). The treatment of Guinevere and the betrayal of trust shown to Arthur’s knights by Germanius reiterates Roman disregard for life often typified by their enjoyment of gladiatorial games. As with the conversion narrative, the film begins with Arthur belonging to the Roman system but through his relationship with Guinevere his loyalty transfers to that of the Britons. There are, however, two significant differences between King Arthur and the Roman epics that preceded it. The first of these is that Christianity is no longer a source of salvation for the protagonist but rather a vice contributing to his rejection



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of Rome. Most of the Roman epics mentioned above are set in the first century AD where Christianity is an emerging cult. In the fifth century AD Christianity was the predominant religion of the Roman Empire and as such Arthur begins the film as both a Roman and a Christian. His religious beliefs derive from Pelagius, a Christian priest who became a surrogate paternal figure for Arthur after his real father’s death. Although Pelagius is only seen in the Director’s Cut he is referenced in both versions: Arthur informs Bishop Germanius that Pelagius’ ‘teachings on free will and equality have been a great influence’. This immediately asserts Arthur as a contemporary, liberal hero existing in a historical past. He openly accepts his knights’ decision to follow the ‘religion of their forefathers’ rather than converting to Christianity. At times Arthur’s Christianity acts as a point of tension in his friendship with Lancelot, who interrupts his prayer asking ‘Why do you always talk to God and not to me?’ Arthur’s men are likewise uninterested in joining the Christian faith: following the ambush on the wagon train in the opening act Gawain advises Horton, the servant of Germanius who frantically prays through shock and fear, to ‘save your prayers, boy, your god doesn’t live here’. Bors then teases Horton by describing Woads as ‘blue demons who eat Christians alive’ before mumbling pseudo-Latin prayer asking ‘Does this really work?’ (see Figure 6.1). Arriving at Hadrian’s Wall Bishop Germanius discovers and destroys Arthur’s treasured image of Pelagius, a symbol of Germanius’ disregard for free will and equality. He then uses Arthur’s devotion to Rome and to God to blackmail him into undertaking the mission to rescue ‘the Pope’s favourite godchild and pupil’, Alecto, son of Marius. Although Arthur concedes to perform his duty he warns Germanius to keep his promise of freedom for the knights should they return, or else ‘not even God himself will protect you’. Before departing Arthur makes a heartfelt prayer to God to watch over his men and offers his own life as a willing sacrifice if it ensures their safety and freedom. Upon reaching the villa Arthur discovers that Marius has exploited and punished the local populace through manipulating his role as ‘a spokesman for God’. He then discovers a series of underground chambers wherein Christian fanatics have tortured native Britons whom they regard as ‘sinners’ and are watching over their dying and decaying bodies. Seeing the numerous manacled, emaciated corpses Lancelot asks Arthur: ‘Is this the work of your god?’ They then discover that Guinevere and a young boy, Lucan, are still alive and free them (see Figure 6.2). During the return journey to Hadrian’s Wall Arthur relocates Guinevere’s dislocated fingers whereupon she tells him: ‘They tortured me with machines. To make me tell them things that … that I didn’t know to begin with.’ Alecto informs Arthur that Pelagius was excommunicated and killed because his views on equality countered those of Germanius and other Christians. He adds that Marius’ actions are emblematic of Roman rule and that Arthur’s idealised vision of Rome ‘doesn’t exist, except in your dreams’. This is the second time that Franzoni deconstructs his protagonist’s idealised image of Rome: in Gladiator, Maximus similarly regards Rome as ‘the light’ of the empire, but upon his arrival he discovers it is violent and corrupt.

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Figure 6.1  Bors (Ray Winstone) mocks Horton (Pat Kinevane) in King Arthur. Source: King Arthur, directed by Antoine Fuqua © Touchstone Pictures 2004. All rights reserved.

In the final act of King Arthur, the defence of Hadrian’s Wall/Battle of Baden Hill, references to Christianity are few. In his rejection of Rome to side with the Woads Arthur’s faith has faltered. At the end of the battle, cradling Lancelot’s corpse, he recalls his earlier prayer and cries to the heavens: ‘It was my life to be taken. Not this. Never this!’ Jonathan Shay explores a similar experience among Vietnam veterans, whereby soldiers often value the lives of their comrades above their own. Shay believes that when one is willing to sacrifice oneself for another there is the expectation, fostered by a Christian upbringing, that ‘God will see to it that the act of self-sacrifice, or even a sincere willingness to die, will spare the life of the comrade’.11 When this does not happen the soldier experiences a ‘devastating sense of spiritual abandonment and meaninglessness’ similar, if not greater, than any sense of betrayal by his commanders.12 As Shay explains, in letting the other person die God ‘violates the covenant many thought had been passed down to them in religious instruction. … God was gone.’13 As Arthur has been betrayed by Rome, in Lancelot’s death he is also been betrayed by God. In his closing narration Lancelot, like Odysseus in Troy, suggests that the preceding events inspired the familiar legend and thus he, Arthur and the knights will be remembered. The original edit of the film was meant to end with Lancelot’s funeral and Lucan attempting to pull Dagonet’s sword from his grave, suggesting there is no end to violence. However, following negative responses in test screenings an additional ‘happy ending’ was added in which Arthur and Guinevere marry and Lancelot’s closing narration evokes the legend in which they will live on.14 While Merlin fulfils a priestly role in the marriage ceremony the ritual takes place in a pagan stone circle and appears to indicate that Arthur has renounced Christianity in favour of paganism. Whether one regards this ending as ambiguous or not, it greatly differs to the epics of the 1950s–60s cycle as there is no clear indication that Arthur is a Christian or finds salvation through God. The absence of a pro-Christian message could be read as reflecting the growing pessimism of post-9/11 cinema



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that Kevin Wetmore has explored in relation to the horror genre. Wetmore suggests that in the wake of 9/11 horror cinema has been typified by downbeat and sometimes nihilistic denouements, as well as a growing use of religious subject matter in which devils, demons and exorcisms have become recurrent tropes.15 In some cases, such as The Mist (2007) and Black Death (2010), religious fundamentalists are as much a threat as alien or supernatural forces. King Arthur toys with audience expectation by presenting the Woads as a semi-supernatural Other: they dress strangely, paint their skin blue, speak a guttural language and are presented as synonymous with the British landscape in their guerrillalike use of the trees and woodland. At Marius’ villa, however, the symbols of civilisation – stone structures and machinery, organised faith – are revealed to be in the service of unnatural purposes, namely torture and repression. To reinforce the point, the discovery of the dungeon sequence creates tension as the exterior wall must first be pulled down, a door ominously locked from the inside is broken open and flickering torches are gathered to descend into the darkness. The sequence further alludes to gothic horror with its sickly green lighting, rusty chains and rotting corpses. The journey back to Hadrian’s Wall then marks a transitional phase in Arthur’s arc as he tries to reconcile the things he has seen. Guinevere becomes a guide to help Arthur understand why the Woads fight. She scolds him for saying he kills Britons only in order to live, replying, ‘Animals live! It’s a natural state of any man to want to live free in their own country.’ Arthur’s conversion from Roman Christian to king of the Britons simultaneously subverts the faith-based norm of the 1950s–60s cycle of Roman epics while maintaining the narrative’s trope in which a Roman sides with a disenfranchised group and rejects tyranny. Arthur’s rejection of Roman civilisation is bound up with his reversion to a culture closely tied to the natural world. The 1950s–60s cycle often contrasts the rural, chaotic or primitive provinces of the empire with the grandeur and spectacle of Rome. In King Arthur, however, we never see Rome’s urban metropolis with its forum and arenas. Instead, our vision of Rome’s empire is limited to its frontier which, to paraphrase Maximus in Gladiator, appears brutal, cruel and dark. A number of critics noted King Arthur’s unromantic, colourless and bleak portrayal of the Arthurian legend, subverting expectations of a colourful and lighthearted romp familiar from some previous cinematic depictions.16 Compared to the Technicolor spectacle of the 1950s–60s epics King Arthur’s palette evokes the opening sequence of Gladiator on the Germanic frontier, being composed of greys, blues, greens and browns. King Arthur initially portrays the country through Roman eyes as cold, harsh and unforgiving, but as Arthur’s relationship with Guinevere grows the snowy mountains and frozen lakes of Scotland become increasingly spectacular and stately and by the time the duo wed the scenery has become a lush and vibrant green bathed in sunlight. Despite a stark beauty to much of the film’s depiction of Roman Britain, King Arthur – like Gladiator – undercuts the spectacle of imperialism that is paraded by the Romans of the 1950s–60s cycle and questions the value of these places of natural beauty and ‘peripheral interest’ to the glory of Rome.

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Torture King Arthur shows an empire in decline, corrupt at its core and in retreat. Susan Aronstein has regarded Arthur’s rejection of Rome and, by association, Christianity as a critique of American politics following 9/11: By figuring Rome, the supposed ambassador of the Pax Romana, as a corrupt imperialist force that – in the name of Christianity and under the cover of God’s will – offers its conquered subjects not freedom but exploitation, and portraying Arthur as a well-meaning general who has been duped by empty rhetoric into serving and promoting Rome’s ethnocentric ends, King Arthur questions America’s foreign and martial agenda.17

She contrasts the film to the Arthurian legend as it is depicted in the Clinton-era medieval epic First Knight (1995). The film’s protagonist, Lancelot, has neglected his Christianity after his parents were killed inside a church and he lives by a code of isolationism and self-interest. However, when brought into Camelot – a setting symbolic of Christianity by the repetitious use of crosses in the mise-en-scène and references to God and prayer – Lancelot is inspired by Arthur’s example to defend the city and its people. As Aronstein summarises, ‘First Knight, like Bill Clinton, offered Americans a community of hope in which citizens served each other and America fulfilled its humanitarian responsibilities to a global village.’18 This echoes my previous argument concerning the transformation of the combat film during the 1990s and early 2000s wherein the American military was portrayed as offering humanitarian support to the global village in works such as Black Hawk Down (2001), Behind Enemy Lines (2001) and Fuqua’s Tears of the Sun. In King Arthur, however, Rome/America is a decaying and corrupt Christian empire that occupies foreign countries and metes out punishment to the natives using torture and imprisonment. The association between Christianity and torture in King Arthur is complex. The judicial use of torture through ‘trial by ordeal’ was used by Christians during the medieval period although Roman law had also allowed it in certain circumstances, such as the torture of slaves in pre-trial situations.19 King Arthur walks the line between Roman and medieval epic but the emphasis it gives to Christians punishing those who do not adhere to their religion is not unfounded in the Roman Empire. For example, almost 150 years before King Arthur is set, Constantine took control of the empire and made Christianity the predominant religion. The Council of Nicaea, consisting of 250 bishops, then created a series of ‘articles of faith’ in 325 AD. These included rulings that any Jewish person who obstructs another Jew from converting to Christianity (something, one assumes, one’s family or a Rabbi would attempt) would be put to death and any Christian converting to Judaism would have his property confiscated.20 Torture has become a divisive topic of discussion within the War on Terror and resulting conflicts. The American use of torture in recent history is complicated by the ambiguity as to where ‘torture’ actually occurs, due in part to the hazy distinction between psychological and physical torture. Experiments into



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psychological torture began in earnest under President Eisenhower during the Korean War, developing stress positions and sensory deprivation methods into the 1960s.21 During the Vietnam War techniques developed into more violent physical torture in the CIA’s Phoenix programme: Vietcong suspects were starved and abused (including beatings and electrocution), kept in small ‘tiger cages’, and it is estimated that between 20,000–40,000 Vietnamese were killed as a result of the programme.22 Nonetheless, the CIA continued its investigations into torture and interrogation techniques. Through the 1970s and 1980s they instructed various Latin American groups in the use of coercive psychological techniques that would cause immense distress to detainees without leaving physical marks, such as water-boarding.23 Under the Clinton administration the UN Convention Against Torture was ratified despite containing a minor loophole to Article 17 of the third Geneva Convention which states, ‘No physical or mental torture, nor any other form of coercion, may be inflicted on prisoners of war to secure from them information of any kind whatever.’24 The slightly ambiguous nature of the word ‘mental’ has since been exploited by the United States to allow for various forms of psychological coercion which they do not regard as being ‘mental torture’. Nevertheless, the majority of prisoners subjected to psychological techniques do suffer extreme trauma, including what Flynn and Salek describe as despair and depression, social withdrawal, psychic numbing and death anxiety, sleep disturbances, and a pervading sense of mortification. Their sense of self is usually very fragmented; torture survivors often actively consider suicide, and they consider themselves to be broken.25

Clinton also approved the system known as ‘extraordinary rendition’ whereby terror suspects can be exported into the possession of other regimes that are less restricted in their interrogation techniques. In the wake of 9/11 extraordinary rendition, CIA black sites and military prisons would become synonymous with President Bush’s War on Terror.26 In media and political debates the employment of torture was defended by the Bush administration by citing the so-called ‘ticking time bomb’ scenario: if a terrorist attack was imminent, should torture be used to extract information that might prevent the attack? McCoy has dismissed this as ‘a hypothetical elaboration of an exercise in academic philosophy so remote from reality it is tantamount to fantasy’.27 Nevertheless, President Bush argued that attacks had indeed been averted through information gathered via alternative interrogation techniques.28 Public support for torture was arguably enhanced by its representation in popular media after 9/11. Numerous thrillers, including Man on Fire (2004) and Taken (2008), depict the hero using brutal physical torture to extract information from suspects that leads to the rescue of young women who have been kidnapped. These examples pale in comparison to the array of techniques used by Jack Bauer, the lead character of the television series 24 (2001-). Bauer utilises knives, kneecapping, blow-torches, suffocation, electrocution and more to interrogate

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suspects who almost always reveal their complicity in terrorist activity and give up valuable information which saves lives and stops ticking time bombs. However, the Red Cross estimated in 2004 that between 70 and 90 per cent of those held in Iraq and Afghanistan were innocent of any terrorist or counter-insurgency activities.29 Nevertheless, McCoy and others have suggested that film and television have made the use of torture seem acceptable, justified and necessary in real-world situations, justifying the policies of the Bush administration.30 McCoy has compared this phenomenon to the increasingly graphic depictions of torture in medieval art that coincided with the growing use of torture during that period.31 Wetmore and film critic Kim Newman have likewise attributed the emergence of the ‘torture porn’ subgenre in American horror cinema as a product of torture’s predominance in international discourse after 9/11.32 What differs between these depictions and the pervading reality of contemporary employment of torture is the dichotomy between causing physical pain on the one hand and psychologically humiliating the prisoner on the other. Many of the depictions of torture in post-9/11 film and television focus on physical torture and body horror. However, the revelations surrounding Abu Ghraib, Guantánamo Bay and other sites reveal the intensity of cultural and sexual humiliation incorporated into the psychological interrogation methods used by US personnel. McCoy quotes from a memorandum delivered to US troops in Abu Ghraib in August 2003 directing them to use isolation, stress positions, yelling, loud music and light control (including sensory deprivation) as well as the ‘Presence of Military Working Dogs [because it] Exploits Arab fear of dogs while maintaining security during interrogations’.33 Flynn and Salek have summarised techniques used at Guantánamo Bay as follows: At Guantánamo 20 percent of the interrogators were women, and they regularly sexually tormented the detainees in hopes of ‘severing their relationship with God’. Female interrogators wiped fake menstrual blood on a detainee (which made him feel dirty and prevented him from praying), rubbed their breasts against the prisoners’ backs and mocked their erections, roughly grabbed prisoners’ genitals, threatened them with rape, and often interrogated Muslims who were forced to wear bikinis, lingerie, and thong underwear. But the methods they employed weren’t solely confined to these sexual hijinks; they also defiled the Qur’an, banged the detainee’s heads on tables, and bent back the thumbs of several detainees.34

The specificity of these techniques to target the religious/cultural identity of the prisoners raises questions as to whether the War on Terror (and by extension the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan) may constitute a religious war. The revelations from Abu Ghraib split public opinion in America: while some, such as Susan Sontag, abhorred the images and reports, regarding them as a sign of America’s loss of moral respectability others, like radio presenter Rush Limbaugh, dismissed them as simply being ‘a good time’ and an ‘emotional release’ for the American soldiers.35 Further revelations that these actions derived from directives within the



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CIA and the Bush administration threatened to lose popular support for the war, while some senators feared that proliferation of the images would increase anger at the United States and endanger American military personnel abroad.36 Despite the best efforts of the administration to defend its methods of interrogation, in 2006 the UN Human Rights Commission officially defined the treatment of prisoners at Guantánamo Bay as ‘torture’.37 Senator Dianne Feinstein, chairman of the Select Committee on Intelligence, stated in 2011: ‘Coercive and abusive treatment of detainees in US custody was far more systematic and widespread than we thought. Moreover, the abuse stemmed from [the] fact that the line was blurred between what is permissible and impermissible conduct, putting US personnel in an untenable position with their superiors and the law.’38 The relationship between the US government, military and national security concerning torture has become a recurrent feature of post-9/11 film and television with a notable shift of emphasis from previous depictions. Flynn and Salek summarise, In films made prior to 2001 the torturer was usually a fascist, a depraved outlaw, a rogue cop or serviceman, or a madman. Over the last decade the torturers have been counterterrorism agents, CIA or former CIA agents, and even Batman is one – when superheroes and agents sworn to uphold the Constitution are torturers, the ethical and professional rot is profound.39

The perpetrators of torture in King Arthur are likewise members of the patriarchal Christian institution occupying a foreign country. Keira Knightley, who plays Guinevere, has said of her character’s imprisonment: ‘I talked to Antoine [Fuqua] quite a lot about the back-story and we did decide that she was leading an attack and got captured and put in jail, where she got tortured as well – definitely tortured. … What we’re looking at is Guinevere as a guerrilla leader – she’s fighting for an occupied nation.’40 Guinevere could therefore be regarded as an allusion to Iraqi and Afghan resistance fighters, imprisoned and tortured by the predominantly Christian Rome/America. As she informs Arthur, she told her torturers things ‘that I didn’t know to begin with’. Her experience does nothing to lessen her dedication to the cause of freeing Britain from foreign rule and as soon as her hand heals she uses it to fire a bow and arrow, first killing Marius and then assisting Arthur and his knights against the Saxons. In short, Guinevere’s portrayal shows the ineffectiveness of torture in obtaining accurate information or dissuading its victims from future action. Roger Ebert described King Arthur as ‘a story with uncanny parallels to current events in Iraq’, with Guinevere’s torture occurring with ‘Geneva and its Convention safely in the future’.41 Such contemporary resonance does not appear to have been the filmmakers’ intention, or at least not all parties as the key figures in the film’s production have offered conflicting accounts. Fuqua did not appear to promote his work or push a particular reading as prominently as Stone, Petersen or Snyder with their respective epics, although this may be due to his annoyance over the changes enforced by Jerry Bruckheimer, the Hollywood

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Figure 6.2  Guinevere (Keira Knightley) is held prisoner in a dungeon in King Arthur. Source: King Arthur, directed by Antoine Fuqua © Touchstone Pictures 2004. All rights reserved.

producer behind some of the most financially successful films of the 1980s and 1990s. Bruckheimer came to King Arthur following Black Hawk Down (2001) and Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003), and Joseph Sullivan has suggested that critics who regard King Arthur as ‘pro-American, pro-Bush, or even pro-military’ are seeing Bruckheimer’s influence.42 He quotes the producer as stating that Arthur and his knights ‘are like [US] Special Forces, wherever they are now, fighting for another country. It’s heroism, camaraderie, brotherhood. They are fighting for what they believe in, for the moral high ground, all the kinds of themes I love.’43 However, Sullivan argues that Fuqua and Franzoni actually had greater influence in the overall creation of meaning in the film.44 For Franzoni, the film was inspired not by America’s role in the War on Terror but by Vietnam, and was intended to be ‘distinctly anti-war and antiexpansionist and was anchored in the pre-9/11 world’.45 Franzoni states in an interview : ‘Between the Americans and the Romans there is no difference. With the best intentions they come to a country to free it from the barbarians. But soon the problems start. They don’t understand the other culture. And they need violence to establish their leadership. They torture and humiliate their prisoners of war.’46 His script reportedly pre-dates 9/11 and was presented to Bruckheimer in the summer of 2000, following the release of Gladiator, with the intention that it would be an allegory for the Vietnam War. As public discourse came to compare the Iraq War to Vietnam, so too did Franzoni’s allegory for Vietnam become startlingly relevant. Fuqua reinforces King Arthur’s debt to Vietnam, describing conversations he had with the film’s military advisor, Harry Humphries (who had also worked on Black Hawk Down and Tears of the Sun), in which they discussed envisioning Roman Britain and the battle scenes in a manner that would evoke the Vietnam War.47 Fuqua regards Arthur’s knights as being like the French and American armies in Indo-China, while the Woads utilisation of their environment to wage a guerrilla war and expel a foreign enemy parallels the Vietcong.48 King Arthur also depicts a small platoon of soldiers going on a mission behind enemy lines



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and their dialogue is typical of a combat film, including jokey banter and insults, conversations about women, what they plan to do after their discharge, what should become of them if they die, and their loyalty to one another. The film also evokes the absent father-figure motif, whereby Arthur is a soldier-son whose biological Roman father is deceased and his surrogate father, Pelagius, is at first absent and later revealed to have been killed (he has a brief cameo during Arthur’s childhood in the Director’s Cut). In the search for a father Arthur has aligned himself to the patriarchal institutions of Rome, the Church and God. However, Rome betrays him by withholding his knights’ freedom, while the Church instigates torture and imprisonment in God’s name. In a final moment of betrayal and abandonment Lancelot is killed despite Arthur’s pleas for God to protect him, leading him to realise he has been used by an imperialist system to subjugate a free people and occupy their country. If read allegorically the film is a clear condemnation of American actions in Vietnam, but as the themes are not specific they can equally be applied to Iraq and Afghanistan. However, the film’s production pre-dates the revelations of prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib and its cast and crew were not vocal about promoting a contemporary message to the film. In his Director’s Commentary, however, Fuqua compares the sequences in which Rome abandons Britain to contemporary events, stating that it ‘reminds me a lot of what’s happening today, with America in Iraq and when America was in Vietnam, we fight these wars and … we leave the land, and these people have to figure it out for themselves … . This was a big scene for me, because it really speaks to what’s happening today and with Rome and who we are.’49 His words are revealing, as while Bruckheimer regards Arthur and his knights as synonymous with American Special Forces embodying a patriotic brand of morality, Fuqua and Franzoni antithetically view the wider body of Christian Rome as a metaphor for American imperialism, subjugation and corruption, with Arthur and his knights the breakaway group who reject what Rome/America has become. Indeed, as well as subverting the 1950s–60s cycle’s trope of Christianity being the route to peace and salvation, King Arthur also refigures the Roman Empire as analogous to modern America rather than a rival superpower. Despite its budget and blockbuster pedigree, King Arthur is a highly subversive epic that seamlessly amalgamates the tropes of the Vietnam War combat film with the ancient world epic by shifting the setting to Roman Britain. In focusing wholly on a provincial setting during a period of occupation where the hostile environment and weather are initially as much adversaries for the Romans as the Woads, the film visually conjures up cinematic portrayals of Vietnam. In further marrying the abandoned soldier-son motif, which critiques the patriarchal institutions of government, military and church, with the ancient world epic’s trope of rejecting the totalitarian/imperialist tyranny of Rome the film finds thematic continuity. King Arthur’s condemnation of imperialism and promotion of freedom is a relatively universal message that enabled the film to have worldwide appeal, but its writer and director’s allusions to the American experience in Vietnam rendered its theme of anti-imperialism timely upon its 2004 release.

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Notes 1 Richard A. Melanson, ‘Unravelling the Domestic Foreign Policy Consensus: Presidential Rhetoric, American Public Opinion, and the Wars in Vietnam and Iraq’, in Vietnam in Iraq, 60. 2 David J. Breeze and Brian Dobson, Hadrian’s Wall, 4th ed. (London and New York: Penguin, 2000), 5–6. 3 Breeze and Dobson, Hadrian’s Wall, 7–8. 4 Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Vita Hadriani, 11.2, quoted in Breeze and Dobson, Hadrian’s Wall, 1. 5 Breeze and Dobson, Hadrian’s Wall, xv. 6 Ibid., 3, 39–41. 7 Solomon, The Ancient World in the Cinema, 83. 8 Theodorakopoulos, Ancient Rome at the Cinema, 167. 9 ‘Feature Commentary with Antoine Fuqua’, featured on King Arthur: Director’s Cut, dir. Antoine Fuqua (2004; Buena Vista Home Entertainment, Inc., 2007), Blu-ray. [US release only.] 10 Andy Lowe, ‘King Arthur’, Total Film, 92, August 2004, 38–9. 11 Shay, Achilles in Vietnam, 74. 12 Ibid., 75. 13 Ibid., 74. 14 ‘Alternate Ending with Commentary’, featured on King Arthur: Director’s Cut, dir. Antoine Fuqua (2004; Buena Vista Home Entertainment, Inc., 2007), Blu-ray. 15 Kevin J. Wetmore, Post 9/11 Horror in American Cinema (New York and London: Continuum, 2012), 3, 117, 140. 16 For a survey of critical reception, see Sullivan, ‘Cinema Arthuriana without Malory?’, 85–105. 17 Susan Aronstein, ‘Revisiting the Round Table: Arthur’s American Dream’, in The History on Film Reader, 168. 18 Aronstein, ‘Revisiting the Round Table’, 163–8. 19 Alfred W. McCoy, Torture and Impunity: The U.S. Doctrine of Coercive Interrogation (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2012), 25, 156. 20 Jay Tolson and Linda Kulman, ‘The Other Jesus: How a Jewish Reformer Lost His Jewish Identity’, in On The Passion of the Christ: Exploring the Issues Raised by the Controversial Movie, ed. Paula Fredriksen (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 25. 21 McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 21–2. 22 Ibid.,, 219–22. 23 Ibid.; see also Alfred W. McCoy, ‘Beyond Susan Sontag: The Seduction of Psychological Torture’, in Screening Torture: Media Representations of State Terror and Political Domination, ed. Michael Flynn and Fabiola F. Salek (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 116–9. 24 Quoted in McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 3, 31. 25 Michael Flynn and Fabiola F. Salek, ‘Introduction’, in Screening Torture, 10. 26 McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 32–4, 190. 27 Ibid., 154. 28 Ibid., 175–7. 29 Susan Sontag, ‘Regarding the Torture of Others’, New York Times, 23 May 2004, accessed 17 May 2014, http:​//www​.nyti​mes.c​om/20​04/05​/23/m​agazi​ne/re​gardi​ng-th​ e-tor​ture-​of-ot​hers.​html?​pagew​anted​=all.​



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30 McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 155, 158; Flynn and Salek, ‘Introduction’, in Screening Torture, 3–4, 10, 12; David Danzig, ‘Countering the Jack Bauer Effect: An Examination of How to Limit the Influence of TV’s Most Popular, and Most Brutal, Hero’, in Screening Torture, 21–33. 31 McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 25, 156. 32 Kim Newman, Nightmare Movies: Horror on Screen since the 1960s, 2nd ed. (London: Bloomsbury, 2011), 492–3; Wetmore, Post 9/11 Horror in American Cinema, 18, 96–7. 33 McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 45. 34 Flynn and Salek, ‘Introduction’, in Screening Torture, 7. 35 Rush Limbaugh quoted in Altheide, ‘Fear, Terrorism, and Popular Culture’, 18. 36 Sontag, ‘Regarding the Torture of Others’. 37 For the administration’s denial of using torture and insistence that their methods were necessary, see Sontag, ‘Regarding the Torture of Others’; Altheide, ‘Fear, Terrorism, and Popular Culture’, 4; for reference to UN Human Rights Commission, see Altheide, ‘Fear, Terrorism, and Popular Culture’, 206. 38 Dianne Feinstein quoted in McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 38–9. 39 Flynn and Salek, ‘Introduction’, in Screening Torture, 10. 40 Jack Foley, ‘King Arthur – Keira Knightley Q&A’, Indie London, n.d., accessed 16 May 2014, http:​//www​.indi​elond​on.co​.uk/f​i lm/k​ing_a​rthur​_knig​htley​Q&A.h​tm. 41 Roger Ebert, ‘King Arthur’, Roger Ebert, 7 July 2004, accessed 2 August 2014, http:​// www​.roge​reber​t.com​/revi​ews/k​ing-a​rthur​-2004​. 42 Sullivan, ‘Cinema Arthuriana without Malory?’, 97. 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid. 45 Ibid. 46 Ibid., 96. 47 ‘Feature Commentary with Antoine Fuqua’, featured on King Arthur: Director’s Cut. 48 Ibid. 49 Ibid.

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CChapter 7 AMERICAN EAGLE: IMPERIALISM IN THE LAST LEGION (2007), CENTURION (2010) AND THE EAGLE (2011)

Following King Arthur in 2004 three subsequent epics utilised Roman Britain as a setting and repeated many of the earlier film’s narrative, thematic and visual tropes. The Last Legion (2007) is based on a book that predates King Arthur but is similarly predicated on the theory that Arthurian legend derived from the fall of the Roman Empire. Centurion (2010) and The Eagle (2011), however, bear the closest resemblance to Fuqua’s film, depicting narratives in which small groups of Romans endure bitter hardships at the hands of the weather, terrain and native Britons as they fight to return to Roman-occupied territory. As with King Arthur, Centurion and The Eagle imbue symbolic significance to Hadrian’s Wall as the furthest boundary of the Roman Empire and utilise allusions to the Vietnam War and its combat films to refigure the Roman epic into an anti-imperialist allegory. While The Last Legion features a climax set around Hadrian’s Wall, the film is something of an anomaly within this group but one worth acknowledging nonetheless because of its unusual approach to genre tropes. The primary focus of this chapter, however, is to explore the depiction of warfare across these films and its allegorical implications. Similar to King Arthur’s euhemeristic take on Arthurian legend, Centurion, The Eagle and The Last Legion all feature the legend surrounding the disappearance of the historical Ninth Legion. The Ninth was believed to have been one of Rome’s most decorated legions, but after marching into Scotland it was never seen again. One theory, which Centurion and The Eagle promulgate, is that the legion was massacred by the native Britons. Historians have disproved this, however, as Breeze and Dobson state, It is, however, clear that the Ninth Legion was not destroyed in Britain at this time, as used to be thought. The legion was certainly still in existence in the 130s and recent theories suggest that it was transferred to Lower Germany from Britain by Trajan or Hadrian and moved thence to one of the eastern provinces, possibly being destroyed in Armenia by the Parthians in 161.1

Despite this knowledge it was the legend of the Ninth that appealed to Centurion’s director Neil Marshall, as the story had fascinated him as a child and was in keeping

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with the recurrent themes of his work.2 The Eagle is based on a popular children’s story from the 1950s which predates the disproval of the legend surrounding the Ninth’s demise. Regardless of newfound information, the narrative remains an enjoyable study of two young men on an adventure and its themes were adaptable to the concerns of a contemporary audience. In the case of The Last Legion’s source novel, by Valerio Massimo Manfredi, the heroes arrive in Britain and gather together the survivors of the Twelfth Legion who, rather than being massacred, had settled in Britain after the legion was disbanded. However, for the film adaptation this was altered to the Ninth Legion, presumably because of its reputation rather than any historical reason. Embracing the legend of the Ninth’s disappearance ultimately allows filmmakers some artistic licence, although none of these Roman Britain epics proved notable box office successes. Reviews were generally mixed, with most critics complaining that their scale and subject matter failed to rival that of their predecessors, becoming what Peter Travers termed ‘Gladiator-lite’.3 This is an unfair appraisal of the films as most are intentionally smaller stories that focus on fewer characters and are set in the wilderness. Roman epics would typically use the urban grandeur of Rome as a source of spectacle or else feature sequences set in the Eastern provinces due to their significance for Judeo-Christian history. Roman Britain, on the other hand, offers a different form of spectacle that few epics from the 1950s–60s cycle explored. One notable exception to this dearth of Roman Britain films is Hammer Film Production’s The Viking Queen (1967). Directed by Don Chaffey, who had previously helmed the Greek mythological epic Jason and the Argonauts (1963), The Viking Queen was one of Hammer’s occasional forays into genres other than horror. The film arrived during a period in which a number of Hammer films had women as their focal antagonists, including the Greek myth-inspired The Gorgon (1964) and an immortal African priestess in She (1965).4 The Viking Queen makes no attempt to achieve any semblance of historicity (Druids worship Zeus, the Britons are called Vikings, and the leader of the Iceni is named Priam), but in its depiction of an ancient British queen, Salina, leading the Iceni in rebellion against Rome the narrative evidently draws inspiration from the historical figure of Boudicca (herself the inspiration for a 1927 film and a 2003 TV movie). The production lacked the budget of Hollywood’s epics, but despite its limitations and plethora of confused historical allusions it nonetheless grounds itself in something resembling Roman-occupied Britain as opposed to the nineteenth or twentiethcentury settings of most Hammer films. Despite its ambition, Leon Nicholson has nevertheless called the film ‘one of the wackiest, campest, most laughable misfires in their considerable filmography’.5 Although The Viking Queen was not acknowledged by the makers or critics of the recent Roman Britain films it nevertheless contains certain motifs which would reappear in these films. For example, the film introduces us to ancient Britain not through the eyes of its native people but rather the Romans, with the opening shots showing soldiers marching through mud and rain as one complains about the ‘bloody country’. The misery of the Roman characters stationed in Britain becomes a recurrent theme of the recent Roman Britain films, with the



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weather and terrain arguably a more prevalent factor on their low morale than the rebel forces. As will be explored in the next chapter, the depiction of the landscape in these films is indebted to the western, but it also draws on the Vietnam War film in how it drains the technologically advanced Roman military and is used to the advantage of the Britons’ guerrilla tactics. The Viking Queen also eschews the typical conversion narrative, as though the story begins with a Roman solider falling in love with Salina – recalling the martial figure affiliated with an imperialist empire encountering a member of a disenfranchised group – she in turn rejects him, declares war on Rome, and dies in battle. The Roman then continues to serve in the military, rendering in Salina’s rebellion a sense of futility as it has failed to enact change in the Roman perspective. In this respect King Arthur, Centurion and The Eagle are more conventional epics, but in so doing they have a narrative clarity to their anti-imperialist message that is somewhat lacking in The Viking Queen.

Centurion Centurion continues writer-director Neil Marshall’s trait of depicting a small group of characters caught in a dangerous environment being hunted by a hostile force, as seen in Dog Soldiers (2002), The Descent (2005) and Doomsday (2008). Indeed, the latter even depicts a team going north of a reconstructed Hadrian’s Wall in a dystopian future. Set prior to King Arthur in 117 AD, Centurion follows Quintus Dias, a Roman soldier in Britain who is taken prisoner when his frontier fort is sacked by Picts. Quintus escapes torture and captivity and is saved by General Virilus and the Ninth Legion who are marching north into Caledonia to destroy the Picts and their king, Gorlacon. However, the legion is led into an ambush by a Pict scout, Etain, and massacred. In the aftermath, a small band of survivors led by Quintus attempt to make their way back to Roman lines with Etain and her riders in pursuit. The survivors find momentary refuge in the home of an outcast Briton, Arianne, who offers them food and shelter. Soon after, the Romans confront their pursuers in an abandoned fort and kill them, but Quintus alone makes it back to Roman-occupied territory where he finds Hadrian’s Wall under construction (see Figure 8.4). His superiors then order him to be killed to cover up the embarrassment of the Ninth Legion’s destruction, but Quintus escapes and, rejecting Rome, returns to Arianne to begin a new life. As with The Viking Queen, Centurion establishes the location in its early scenes, opening with sweeping shots of snow-covered mountains until the camera picks out a shirtless Quintus, wrists bound, running through the snow as he escapes from the Picts. We then cut to a flashback of the fort attack in which he was captured where his narration sets the tone of the Roman experience of Britain: ‘This place is the arsehole of the world. Even the land wants us dead. The longer we stay, the deeper the cold and damp soaks into our bones and the rain makes way only for the stinging bite of the north wind.’ His misery is palpable. However, his narration is also the first allusion to the combat film as it evokes the ‘letters home’ motif of many war films, including Oliver Stone’s Platoon (1986). In the

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Figure 7.1  Fireballs roll towards the Ninth Legion in Centurion. Source: Centurion, directed by Neil Marshall © Pathé Pictures International 2010. All rights reserved.

opening scenes of Stone’s film the protagonist, Taylor, faints from heat exhaustion while trekking through the jungle. The sequence dwells on the minutiae of the terrain and its thick foliage, Taylor’s sweating body, the weight of his pack, and the ants that crawl over his skin. We later hear narration in the form of a letter to his grandmother, remarking: ‘Somebody once wrote Hell is the impossibility of Reason. That’s what this place feels like. Hell. I hate it already and it’s only been a week. … I’m so tired.’ Taylor goes on to describe the repetitive nature of his duties, capturing the perceived futility of their operations and lack of clear objectives. In Quintus’ narration he similarly states that the Picts’ use of guerrilla tactics and the inhospitable landscape have reduced the war to a stalemate. Roger Ebert read this description and its delivery as an allusion to US soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan recording video diaries: indeed, Quintus’ description is similarly evocative of how the 2003 invasion of Iraq developed into a prolonged occupation.6 By contrast, Charlotte Higgins has interpreted Centurion as evoking the Afghanistan war as both portray ‘a mighty army that has overconfidently set out to defeat an inhospitable, mountainous land controlled by bloodthirsty warlords’.7 As discussed in relation to previous epics, it is common for historical allegory to possess a certain ambiguity wherein multiple interpretations can be forwarded on the same theme. Marshall’s filmography has repeatedly evoked comparisons to combat films, especially those set in Vietnam, in their depiction of small groups of people under attack by enemies who seem to be one with the landscape. Dog Soldiers, for instance, depicts a small squad of British soldiers on training manoeuvres in Scotland when they are attacked by werewolves. The soldiers are unprepared and uninformed about their enemy, with characters being picked off until the survivors make a final stand in a small farmhouse. Centurion contains a possible allusion to Dog Soldiers’ werewolves in the form of Etain, who is referred to as ‘she-wolf ’ by the Romans. As with Centurion, Marshall wrote and directed Dog Soldiers and provided his soldiers with crude, sexualised dialogue as they joke and mock each other. Centurion continues the linguistic paradigm of the 1950s–60s cycle to some degree in that the Romans speak with British accents, although only



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Quintus and Virilus come close to resembling the Received Pronunciation of most Hollywood Romans. Instead, the film’s dialogue is closer to a British combat film in which Quintus and Virilus are the upper-class officers while the infantry speak like contemporary ‘squaddies’. Anthony Lane was supportive of Marshall’s lingual choices, describing the film as possessing ‘a resigned bitterness, hard to shake off, that feels right for the experience of tough guys, from whatever period of history, who find themselves at the tattered edge of what they take to be civilization.’8 Lane’s note that the depiction of soldiers enduring hardships could be applied to ‘whatever period of history’ is further evidence of the universalising quality of allegory. A prime example of this is embodied by the massacre of the Ninth Legion: we see the soldiers marching in a convoy-like column through a forest until trees are felled by the Britons to block the road and trap them; a tactic which also occurs in The Viking Queen. Balls of fire are then rolled into the Roman ranks to break their shield walls and engulf them in flame (see Figure 7.1). This sequence could understandably be regarded as an allusion to the use of IEDs to target Western vehicle convoys in Iraq and Afghanistan, or to the use of traps and trip-wired explosives in the jungles of Vietnam, or as a cinematic allusion to Hector’s attack on the Greek ships in Troy (2004) – which is itself a reference to the climactic battle in Spartacus (1960). The manner in which Etain and the Picts use the landscape, forestry and weather to their advantage echoes the Vietcong but, as will be discussed in the next chapter, could equally be read as a parallel to Native Americans in the western. The range of potential sources upon which Centurion may be drawing or alluding to is emblematic of the difficulties in interpreting these films definitively. Regardless of Marshall’s specific intentions, Centurion can be read as reflective of the period in which it was made. Released six years after King Arthur, Centurion’s creators had a greater overview of the progress and developments of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars and many key issues are mirrored by events within the film. This includes prisoner abuse and torture, as both Quintus and Virilius are captured and tortured by the Picts. The film makes a greater spectacle of the male body than many of the epics in this cycle, especially the Roman Britain films, but here the spectacle is bound up with humiliation and emasculation. Quintus and Virilus are robbed of their shirts when captured, heightening their vulnerability in the bitter cold. As with the aforementioned methods of torture at Guantánamo Bay (see the previous chapter), removing their shirts is also a symbolic act of abuse: William Fitzgerald has noted that in Roman epics it is a convention to portray soldiers in armour to ‘provide a reassuring image of the invulnerable male body to compensate for the exposed, vulnerable body of the oppressed hero’.9 Gladiator exemplified this, whereby Maximus is introduced to us in layers of fur and armour, but as his status and identity as a Roman general is destroyed he loses his cloaks, then his armour and is at his lowest point when he and the other gladiators stand before their new owner, Proximo, clad only in a loin cloth. From here, Maximus rebuilds his identity by increasing the amount of clothing and armour he wears with each successive victory, eventually customising his breastplate with details specific to his former life and family. In

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Centurion, Quintus is stripped, his chest cut with a knife and his head forced into a barrel of water into which Gorlacon has urinated. For Virilus, whose name suggests aggressive masculine prowess, his humiliation is absolute when he is pitted in a duel against Etain who slashes his exposed chest before stabbing him with her spear as he kneels before her. This symbolic act of penetration is vengeance for the horrors inflicted upon Etain as a child: Roman soldiers raped her, cut out her tongue and committed terrible acts of violence towards her family. This may have been an allusion to a 2006 incident in Mahmudiya, Iraq, in which a teenage girl was raped by US soldiers before being murdered along with her family.10 The event formed the basis of Brian De Palma’s Redacted (2007), a fictionalised recreation that explores the military’s attempt to cover up the incident. Redacted also recalls De Palma’s Vietnam War drama Casualties of War (1989), which depicts the rape of a young Vietnamese woman by US soldiers. In repeating a similar narrative De Palma suggests a parallel between the conflicts in Vietnam and Iraq. Both films exemplify the absent fatherfigure motif in which the central group of soldiers have no paternal figure within their ranks, symbolising the neglect of government and military in sending men to fight a war without clear moral objectives and leaving them to become victims of PTSD or their enemies. Indeed, in the Mahmudiya case the lead perpetrator of the crime, Steven Green, reportedly blamed his actions on stress developed during his tour of duty and a lack of ‘sufficient Army leadership.’11 In Centurion, the Ninth Legion is ordered into hostile territory against a guerrilla force by a powerful patriarchal empire. While Virilius is in a position to be a father figure to his men his loutish behaviour – in his introductory scene he gets into a drunken bar fight – locates him as closer to a fellow soldier-son than their moral centre. Once in the wilderness the legion is alone and later Quintus is betrayed when the Roman officials try to have him murdered. Quintus is himself an abandoned soldier-son, occasionally referencing the lessons that his (unseen) father taught him: lessons that Gorlacon repeats almost verbatim to his own son in Pictish in a subtle nuance to the universality of war, parental relationships and the generational repetition of violence. Indeed, Gorlacon only orders Etain to hunt the Roman survivors after one of their number murders his young son during a failed mission to rescue Virilius (see Figure 7.2). Etain’s story, along with Quintus’ betrayal and abandonment, is symbolic of the violence and subjugation derived from military occupation and imperialism. As with King Arthur, Centurion subverts the expectation that natives are ‘savages’ compared to the ‘civilised’ invaders. Etain and the other Britons brutally kill Romans but we understand their reasons. Her mutilation renders her mute and on one level makes her appear more bestial, but it is also a metaphor for the silencing of native peoples subjugated by imperial rule, including attempts to conceal war crimes. The US soldiers in the Mahmudiya case attempted to cover up their actions by blaming them on insurgents.12 As with Ptolemy in Alexander (2004), Centurion incorporates the theme of the recording and corruption of history through Quintus’ war diary, the Roman’s attempt to expunge the Ninth Legion from historical records and Etain’s silencing by an imperialist power.



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Figure 7.2 Etain (Olga Kurylenko) and Gorlacon (Ulrich Thomsen) watch the Ninth Legion’s eagle standard burn in Centurion. Source: Centurion, directed by Neil Marshall © Pathé Pictures International 2010. All rights reserved.

That said, Quintus’ narration also influences the way we interpret Centurion’s analogous potential. Whereas Odysseus, Ptolemy and Dilios romanticised their subjects and appeared concerned with memorialising events so that they will be remembered in the future, Quintus’ narration is very much in his present. We are told in the film’s opening sequence that ‘this is neither the beginning, nor the end of my story’, a line he reiterates in the film’s closing scene. There is bitterness, anger and immediacy to Quintus’ narration that is not present in the Greek epics which are more concerned with memory and the future. Marshall’s use of coarse military dialogue and English voices could allude to British soldiers stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan, but the apparent influence of Vietnam War films on Centurion aligns its depiction of Rome as synonymous with America. As such, Centurion can be interpreted as a critique of US intervention in the Middle East, but applicability of its war narrative to multiple conflicts render it a clear anti-imperialist allegory without being specific to the events contemporaneous to its production and release.

The Eagle Following Gladiator’s renewal of studio interest in the ancient world epic the rights to Rosemary Sutcliff ’s 1954 novel The Eagle of the Ninth were acquired by producer Duncan Kenworthy. According to eventual director Kevin MacDonald, Kenworthy had intended The Eagle to be a ‘big studio movie’ but reconsidered this following the commercial disappointments of Troy and Alexander.13 However, Kenworthy backtracked while promoting the film, stating, ‘Troy and Alexander were the kind of films I didn’t want it to resemble – big, grandiose, lots of CGI … . At its heart, the story is just two guys in the wilds of Scotland.’14 Kenworthy handed the directorship to MacDonald whose background in documentary filmmaking and desire to shoot The Eagle utilising cinéma vérité techniques suited the more

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intimate and visceral scope of the picture. Although the finished film received average-to-poor reviews and was not a financial success, it did invert the norm of the recent cycle of ancient world epics by faring better at the US box office than it did internationally.15 Sutcliff ’s The Eagle of the Ninth was previously adapted into a BBC miniseries in the 1970s which stayed relatively faithful to its source. The Eagle, however, streamlines the narrative by omitting numerous supporting characters and makes a significant change to the central relationship. The film follows Marcus Aquila, a young officer in the Roman military promoted to the command of a small fort in southern Britain (Exeter, in the book). The son of a centurion in the Ninth Legion, Marcus is haunted by his father’s disappearance – along with the legion – twenty years earlier. In losing the legion’s eagle standard in the massacre Marcus’ family honour was lost along with his father. After being wounded in battle during a local uprising and subsequently discharged from military service, Marcus saves the life of a Briton, Esca, due to die in the local gladiatorial arena. Marcus’ uncle then purchases Esca to be his nephew’s personal slave and Marcus warily takes him on a self-imposed mission north of Hadrian’s Wall in search of the eagle. Through their fractious and tense relationship Marcus gains a newfound understanding of Rome as an imperial power and the brutal realities of the occupation, including the murder of Esca’s family. Eventually the men find that the eagle has become a ceremonial prop for a tribe known as the Seal people (see Figure 7.3) and, stealing it, they hurry back to Hadrian’s Wall. Trapped and injured, the men are saved by the aged survivors of the Ninth Legion in a short bloody skirmish with the Seal people. Marcus returns the eagle to his Roman superiors and regains his family’s honour, but turns his back on Rome for a life in Britain with Esca. Roman epics, including King Arthur and Centurion, typically depict the male protagonist allying himself to a disenfranchised group through his relationship with a female, but in The Eagle the role is fulfilled by Esca. Like Guinevere and Arianne, he creates the sense of guilt in Marcus that disrupts his Roman hubris and forces him to reconsider his identity as a soldier for an occupying imperialist army. In each case the protagonists are aided in achieving their aims thanks to their British partner: Marcus only succeeds in finding the eagle because of Esca’s local knowledge, fighting skills and quick thinking. Similarly, Arthur succeeds because Guinevere and Merlin’s army supports him at Baden Hill, and Arianne saves Quintus and his companions by healing their wounds, offering them food and shelter and deterring Etain and her riders. The Eagle’s replacing of this typically female role with a male character led The Observer’s Philip French to interpret the narrative as containing ‘a certain unobtrusive homoerotic aspect to the relationship’.16 However, Marcus and Esca’s bond is arguably closer to that of a fraternal union formed through the co-dependent endurance of hardships, as Jonathan Shay has discussed in relation to Vietnam veterans.17 MacDonald’s depiction of Marcus and Esca’s relationship is the primary difference between the film and its source. In the novel, Esca immediately becomes Marcus’ loyal servant once he is bought from the arena. In The Eagle, however, Esca is angered by his enslavement and fractious towards Marcus who in turn



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does not trust him. Esca is also now the son of the chieftain of the Brigantes tribe who participated in the massacre of the Ninth Legion. This creates further tension between the men and their dynamic grows and deepens over the narrative rather than remaining static as in the novel. MacDonald has compared Sutcliff ’s presentation of the relationship to that of 1950s America where it was common for people to have servants and therefore the master/servant dynamic was relatable to readers. However, in relation to The Eagle MacDonald reasons that with the idea of someone being from a country that has been occupied, our references immediately go to Iraq or Afghanistan. They [the occupied nation] feel resentment and, like, can we trust these people? The idea that they don’t want to have our culture thrust upon them and how do they feel about us being there and occupying their country.18

Unlike Petersen, Stone and Snyder, MacDonald suggests the contemporary parallels in his film are not coincidental. The Eagle is a rare example in this cycle of epics in which a filmmaker directly cites contemporary events as an active influence on the formation of the film. MacDonald goes on to state that Marcus’ initial attitude towards Esca and the Roman occupation of Britain reflects ‘the sense of bigotry that some Americans have, and of a single-minded belief in their own culture and the greatness that’s America’.19 This could certainly be read into the conflicts resulting from the War on Terror, whereby America’s interference in the Middle East is arguably predicated on the country’s aggrandising sense of its own morality and political and cultural superiority. Recalling President George W. Bush’s speech following 9/11, he refers to the War on Terror as ‘the fight of all who believe in progress and pluralism, tolerance and freedom’, equating America as the exemplar of those values.20 The Eagle also inverts the linguistic paradigm by having the Romans speak with American accents. Similar to Snyder’s Spartans in 300 (2007), MacDonald regards the Romans in the film as equivalent to contemporary US Marines and the script laces their dialogue with military parlance, such as having ‘latrines’ in the camp.21 Although this analogous use of accents was lost on USA Today’s Scott Bowles who claimed the film is ‘over-Americanized’, Philip French and Sheri Linden identified the use of accents as furthering the film’s analogy of equating Rome with America.22 Macdonald has defended his decision, explaining, To me it makes more sense in every way … . When you look at any classical Hollywood film from the 1930s onwards, Brits are always playing the Romans. It was easy to understand. Britain had an empire. Britain was the ex-colonial power. But Americans are the superpower of the world now. America is the empire. They’re the dominant occupying power in Iraq and Afghanistan.23

As with King Arthur and Centurion, the occupation narrative is a central facet of The Eagle’s narrative tension. The opening scenes establish Roman Britain as a hostile and alien environment in Marcus’ eyes as he silently journeys on a river

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shaded by low-hanging branches, the imagery immediately alluding to cinematic depictions of Vietnam with the thick green overgrowth and Marcus’ suspicion as to what it contains. More specifically, this references a similar journey in Apocalypse Now (1979) and its inspiration, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, in which white heroes from an imperialist ‘civilisation’ follow a river into the unknown wilderness. As Marcus edges his way along the river the boats are briefly halted as horned cattle wade through the water. Holtsmark has noted that cattle and rivers are both signs of a katabasis narrative and like Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now, The Eagle establishes Marcus’ arrival in Britain as the beginning of a descent into hell.24 Once he reaches the fort the supposed strength of Rome as the occupying superpower is immediately undercut by imprisoning Marcus in a defensive position. He fears the worst and sets his mind to restoring the fort’s defences and establishing order among the bored soldiery. The portentous mood builds until the fort comes under a surprise night attack by Britons. While the preceding scenes could be read as allusions to the Vietnam War and its cinematic depictions, the arrival of the British rebels shifts the emphasis towards contemporary conflicts. They are led by a religious leader, a druid, who beheads a captured Roman soldier in front of the fort to make a political statement. This incident does not originate in Sutcliff ’s novel and could therefore be a reference to beheading videos filmed and posted online by terrorist networks during the War on Terror. This began with the beheading of the Wall Street Journal writer Daniel Pearl by Pakistani terrorists in 2002 and continued with further beheadings in 2004.25 The terrorists responsible for the beheading of Associated Press journalist Nick Berg in Iraq reportedly cited the abuse of prisoners at Guantánamo Bay and Abu Ghraib as the reason for their actions.26 In The Eagle, the druid calls on his gods before denouncing the Romans as they have ‘stolen our lands and killed our sons. You have defiled our daughters. I curse you!’ The Eagle’s opening act establishes Rome’s violent struggle to maintain order and control in Britain. After being injured in a brave attempt to rescue the druid’s Roman prisoners, Marcus embarks on his personal mission to restore his family’s honour by reclaiming the eagle standard his father lost. Eagles were a common motif in Roman iconography and although parties of differing political ideologies later adopted it as a symbol it was used prominently by the Nazis and Mussolini’s regime. This has informed allegorical readings of the 1950s–60s cycle of epics where the iconography of the Roman Empire has been readily equated with the Axis powers during the Second World War, furthering the correlation between the disenfranchised Judeo-Christian group with America.27 Ridley Scott continued this association by directly referencing Nazi propaganda during Commodus’ triumphant arrival into Rome in Gladiator. Compared to the gaudy pageantry of the triumph in Quo Vadis (1951), Gladiator renders the scene closer to the Second World War-era footage by muting the colours to almost black and white. In the grading, editing and shot composition Scott alludes to Hitler’s arrival at Nuremberg as portrayed in Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will (1935), including a shot of a towering eagle statue adoring an archway. However, eagles



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Figure 7.3 Marcus (Channing Tatum) and Esca (Jamie Bell) meet the Seal People in The Eagle. Source: The Eagle, directed by Kevin MacDonald © Focus Features 2011. All rights reserved.

are also an important part of America’s iconography and MacDonald uses this shared symbolism to refigure the iconography of Rome to evoke contemporary America. MacDonald has stated that in these parallels between Rome and America he was not ‘trying to make a big political point, I’m just trying to update the convention’.28 However, he is elsewhere quoted as comparing his present to that of Sutcliff, reasoning that she ‘was writing at the end of the British empire. In our time, you can rationalise the story as being about the end of the American empire.’29 While his first answer likens the Roman Empire to modern America as an equivalent superpower, the latter links America’s place on the global stage to the downfall of Rome, implying weakness, corruption and/or a loss of power. The anti-imperialist message of The Eagle appears to be suggesting that American actions in the Middle East are a catalyst for the end of its empire. Sukhdev Sandhu has written of The Eagle: It’s hard not to believe that Macdonald wasn’t thinking about the last decade’s disasters in Afghanistan when he was making this film: there, too, you had forces from the modern imperium, forces who were meant to be savvy and high-tech, thinking they could enter a famously proud and inhospitable environment in pursuit of a fabled prize.30

The fabled prize of MacDonald’s film, the eponymous eagle, has further significance when viewed through the lens of the combat film. As discussed, Vietnam – and by relation Iraq and Afghanistan – war films have used the trope of abandoned soldier-sons and absent fathers to embody the disjuncture between the patriarchal institutions and the people they are meant to serve. Marcus’ father is deceased and his death haunts his family; as the screen cuts to black when Marcus is hit by a chariot at the end of the attack on the fort we even hear him whisper ‘Father, where are you?’ Upon being injured Marcus is largely abandoned by the

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military, so in desperation he sets out on a seemingly suicidal mission with Esca to recover the eagle. Another katabatic journey (or a continuation of his entry into Britain), they cross Hadrian’s Wall into a cold, wet and hostile environment that brings further bloodshed until they eventually reclaim the eagle and return it to Marcus’ superiors. In so doing The Eagle concludes in a manner similar to the Greek mythological films being produced during this period wherein the abandoned soldier-son reconciles with their absent/abandoning father, but in so doing they have shown their maturation and independence. The Eagle carries a clear anti-imperialist message about the violence and corruption inherent in empire-building that threatens to tear the occupying power apart. However, it also concludes with a hopeful message of reconciliation between soldier-sons (and daughters) and patriarchal institutions, and unity between cultures should imperialism be rejected in favour of peace.

The Last Legion The final work to consider in this analysis is The Last Legion. The film shares a number of features with King Arthur, Centurion and The Eagle, such as its inclusion of Hadrian’s Wall, the Ninth Legion and the origins of Arthurian legend, but it defies clear interpretation. The film seems to be aimed at young audiences (it was released during the October half-term holiday in the United Kingdom), with the trailer promoting it as a swashbuckling action-adventure containing wizards and a child hero. Loosely based on a 2002 novel by Valerio Massimo Manfredi (who co-wrote the screenplay), The Last Legion’s narrative is inspired by the theory that the legend of King Arthur derived from the collapse of the Roman Empire into the Dark Ages. The film opens in 460 AD as Romulus Augustus is declared emperor at the age of twelve. Less than two weeks into his reign Rome is sacked by the Goths, his mother and father killed and he is imprisoned on Capri. There he discovers a sword taken from Britannia by Julius Caesar during his invasions and he is told by his teacher and former native of Britannia, Ambrosinus, that whoever possesses it has the power to rule the nation. Romulus and Ambrosinus are rescued by a former Roman general, Aurelius, and his small band of soldiers, and the company are pursued by the Goths as they travel across Gaul to Britannia. They soon arrive at Hadrian’s Wall and encounter the commander of the Ninth Legion, learning that the soldiers dispersed and integrated into British society. When the pursuing Goths join forces with the king of Anglia, Vortgyn, the legion reforms and defeats them in battle. In a brief epilogue set years later, Ambrosinus – now going by his Britannic name of Merlin – concludes his story to Romulus’ young son, Arthur. We are told Aurelius and the remnants of the Ninth Legion settled in Britain and Caesar’s sword became Excalibur. Upon its release critics compared the film not to King Arthur but to 300, which had been released earlier that year.31 Reviews were poor, with Variety stating, ‘Pic is seriously hampered by glaring inconsistencies of tone and intent, and often feels like a series of highlights carved out of a much longer epic,’ while Cinema Review complained it ‘tries



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to fit into several genres and winds up not belonging anywhere … this is probably the worst entry in the genre in recent memory’.32 The issues surrounding tone and genre identity complicate the process of trying to interpret the text and ascertain any message or meaning, even among a cycle where ancient world epics are regularly and successfully hybridising with the tropes of other genres. The confusion extends to the manner in which the film depicts Roman Britain, as unlike the previous films that were entirely set in Britain only The Last Legion’s final act takes place there. There is littleto-no reference to the influence or negative impact of Roman occupation or that the British people ever resisted Roman rule until Vortgyn, who is portrayed as a violent warlord and symbol of tyranny. Furthermore, unlike the Roman Britain films in which Hadrian’s Wall is a symbol of the limitations of a corrupt empire, in The Last Legion it is described by Ambrosinus as ‘a monument of Roman law and order’. Then, before the final battle, Aurelius delivers the following speech to the surviving members of the Ninth Legion: We have fought all our lives for the empire our ancestors created and together we have watched that empire crumble to dust … there is one more battle to be waged: against tyranny, and the slaughter of innocents. Let us defend to the last breath this island of Britannia against those who would tear out its heart and soul, and those that come after will remember that there was such a thing as a Roman soldier, with a Roman sword and a Roman heart!

When viewed against the history of Roman epics this is a baffling mix of identities, allegiances and values. Convention dictates that the Roman Empire is a negative symbol of corruption, subjugation and imperialism despite all its visual grandeur and influence. Even in Gladiator, when Lucilla and Gracchus are left to fill the power vacuum left by Commodus’ death, the film creates a very clear distinction between the violence and self-aggrandisement of Commodus’ imperial rule and the hope of restoring a democratic republic that will serve the people in the wake of his death. In The Last Legion, however, there is no suggestion that the Roman Empire was corrupt or cruelly subjugated people. Despite only being in Britain for a few days, Aurelius and the Ninth Legion’s heroic final stand is actually one of invaders/occupiers putting down a native revolt; this contradicts the message of King Arthur, Centurion and The Eagle, in that in The Last Legion Rome has now become the disenfranchised group. This reversal of the genre convention could be the result of the film being an Italian production (albeit aimed at an English-speaking audience) and the filmmakers not wanting to portray Italy’s ancient history as corrupt. However, the above speech also evokes the British Empire as it is delivered in the Received Pronunciation of English actor Colin Firth. The film makes no clear attempt in its dialogue, visuals or casting to parallel its depiction of Rome to contemporary America, nor to negatively connote Rome with any other historical empires. As such, one has to concede that The Last Legion is an anomaly that doesn’t support the thematic and narrative continuities of the other Roman Britain films or of the ancient world epic at large. By contrast, the other Roman Britain films form a cohesive anti-imperialist narrative in line with the 1950s–60s epic cycle’s trope of the conversion narrative,

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with the notable difference being the subversion or omission of Christianity as the catalyst for change, being replaced by combat experiences leading to an understanding of the impact of Roman occupation on the nation being subjugated. The shift in location from Rome or the Eastern provinces to Britain facilitated this change through comparisons to Vietnam (and by association Iraq and Afghanistan) through the depiction of Rome succumbing to a guerrilla war and hostile terrain. However, in placing the narrative on the Roman frontier and paralleling Rome with contemporary America, the allegorical features of these films invite similar comparisons to America’s own frontier history and its cinematic form in the western film, as explored in the next chapter.

Notes 1 Breeze and Dobson, Hadrian’s Wall, 26. 2 Neil Marshall, in Jeff Goldsmith, ‘Centurion – Neil Marshall, Axel Carolyn, Noel Clark’, interview with Neil Marshall, Axel Carolyn, and Noel Clark, Creative Screenwriting, podcast audio, 4 April 2011. 3 Peter Travers, ‘King Arthur’, Rolling Stone, 14 July 2004, accessed 22 May 2013, http:​// www​.roll​ingst​one.c​om/mo​vies/​revie​ws/ki​ng-ar​thur-​20040​714. 4 Greg Ferrara, ‘Ladies Night: The Viking Queen’, Turner Classic Movies, n.d., accessed 23 October 2015, http:​//www​.tcm.​com/t​his-m​onth/​artic​le/44​3514|​44307​4/The​-Viki​ ng-Qu​een.h​tml. 5 Leon Nicholson, ‘80 Years of Hammer: The Viking Queen (1967)’, FMV Magazine, 13 September 2014, accessed 23 October 2015, http://www.fmvmagazine.com/?p=20241. 6 Roger Ebert, ‘Centurion’, Roger Ebert, 25 August 2010, accessed 17 March 2013, http:​// www​.roge​reber​t.com​/revi​ews/c​entur​ion-2​010. 7 Charlotte Higgins, ‘Centurion Kicks Off British Sword and Sandals Film Wave’, The Guardian, 22 April 2010, accessed 27 March 2013, http:​//www​.theg​uardi​an.co​m/fil​ m/201​0/apr​/22/e​agle-​of-th​e-nin​th-ce​nturi​on. 8 Anthony Lane, ‘Slice and Dice’, New Yorker, 6 September 2010, accessed 23 April, 2013, http:​//www​.newy​orker​.com/​magaz​ine/2​010/0​9/06/​slice​-and-​dice-​2. 9 Fitzgerald, ‘Oppositions, Anxieties, and Ambiguities in the Toga Movie’, 42. 10 Ellen Knickmeyer and Joshua Partlow, ‘Capital Charges Filed In Rape-Slaying Case’, Washington Post, 11 July 2006, accessed 23 January 2016, http:​//www​.wash​ingto​npost​ .com/​wp-dy​n/con​tent/​artic​le/20​06/07​/10/A​R2006​07100​0614_​pf.ht​ml; ‘US Soldier Escapes Death Penalty over Iraqi Rape and Murder’, Telegraph, 22 May 2009, accessed 22 January 2016, http:​//www​.tele​graph​.co.u​k/new​s/wor​ldnew​s/mid​dleea​st/ir​aq/53​ 65100​/US-s​oldie​r-esc​apes-​death​-pena​lty-o​ver-I​raqi-​rape-​and-m​urder​.html​. 11 ‘US Soldier Escapes Death Penalty over Iraqi Rape and Murder’. 12 Gregg Zoroya, ‘Soldier Describes Anguish in Revealing Murder Allegations’, USA Today, 13 September 2004, accessed 23 January 2016, http:​//usa​today​30.us​atoda​y.com​ /news​/nati​on/20​06-09​-12-s​oldie​r-ang​uish_​x.htm​. 13 Edward Douglas, ‘Exclusive: Kevin MacDonald on The Eagle’, Coming Soon, 9 February 2011, accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//www​.comi​ngsoo​n.net​/movi​es/fe​ature​ s/738​31-ex​clusi​ve-ke​vin-m​acdon​ald-o​n-the​-eagl​e. 14 Jonathan Crocker and Matt Mueller, ‘There Will Be Mud’, Total Film, 178, April 2011, 108–13.



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15 ‘The Eagle’, http:​//www​.boxo​ffice​mojo.​com/m​ovies​/?id=​eagle​ofthe​ninth​.htm.​ 16 Philip French, ‘The Eagle – Review’, Observer, 27 March 2011, accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//www​.theg​uardi​an.co​m/fil​m/201​1/mar​/27/t​he-ea​gle-c​hanni​ng-ta​tum-r​eview​. 17 Shay, Achilles in Vietnam, 40–3. 18 Jami Philbrick, ‘Exclusive: Kevin Macdonald Talks The Eagle’, MovieWeb, 31 January 2011, accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//mov​ieweb​.com/​exclu​sive-​kevin​-macd​onald​-talk​ s-the​-eagl​e/. 19 ‘Interview: Kevin Macdonald and Duncan Kenworthy on Their New Film The Eagle’, Scotsman, 3 February 2011 (last updated 21 February 2011), accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//www​.scot​sman.​com/l​ifest​yle/i​nterv​iew-k​evin-​macdo​nald-​and-d​uncan​-kenw​ orthy​-on-t​heir-​new-f​i lm-t​he-ea​gle-1​-1494​559. 20 Bush quoted in Ryan, ‘“Vietnam”, Victory Culture and Iraq’, 124. 21 Brenda Meyer, ‘The Eagle Interviews: Channing Tatum, Jamie Bell, and Kevin MacDonald’, Celebrity Close-Ups, n.d., accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//www​.cele​brity​ close​ups.c​om/in​tervi​ews/j​unket​s/11/​TheEa​gle.h​tm. 22 Sheri Linden, ‘Movie Review: The Eagle’, Los Angeles Times, 11 February 2011, accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//art​icles​.lati​mes.c​om/20​11/fe​b/11/​enter​tainm​ent/l​a-et-​the-e​agle-​ 20110​211; French, ‘The Eagle – Review’; Scott Bowles, ‘The Eagle Has Landed – With a Resounding Thud’, USA Today, 10 February 2011, accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//usa​ today​30.us​atoda​y.com​/life​/movi​es/re​views​/2011​-02-1​1-eag​le11_​ST_N.​htm. 23 Steve Rose, ‘Swords, Sandals, and Change of Empires’, Sydney Morning Herald, 20 July 2011, accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//www​.smh.​com.a​u/ent​ertai​nment​/movi​es/sw​ords-​ sanda​ls-an​d-a-c​hange​-of-e​mpire​s-201​10719​-1hmy​8.htm​l. 24 Holtsmark, ‘The Katabasis Theme in Modern Cinema’, 32. 25 ‘Reporter Daniel Pearl Is Dead, Killed by His Captors in Pakistan’, Wall Street Journal, 24 February 2002, accessed 21 January 2016, http:​//www​.wsj.​com/n​ews/a​rticl​es/SB​ 10143​11357​55261​1480.​ 26 ‘Militants Behead American Hostage in Iraq’, Fox News, 11 May 2004, accessed 21 January 2016, http:​//www​.foxn​ews.c​om/st​ory/2​004/0​5/11/​milit​ants-​behea​d-ame​rican​ -host​age-i​n-ira​q.htm​l. 27 Wyke, Projecting the Past, 28. 28 ‘Kevin MacDonald on The Eagle’, YouTube video, 4:45, posted by ‘Empire Magazine’, 24 March 2011, accessed 23 April 2013, https​://ww​w.you​tube.​com/w​atch?​v=UUe​iydDH​t-I. 29 Higgins, ‘Centurion Kicks Off British Sword and Sandals Film Wave’. 30 Sukhdev Sandhu, ‘The Eagle, Review’, Telegraph, 24 March 2011, accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//www​.tele​graph​.co.u​k/cul​ture/​film/​filmr​eview​s/840​4766/​The-E​agle-​revie​ w.htm​l. 31 Joe Leydon, ‘Review: The Last Legion’, Variety, 17 August 2007, accessed 10 May 2015, http:​//var​iety.​com/2​007/f​i lm/m​arket​s-fes​tival​s/the​-last​-legi​on-12​00557​102/;​ Wesley Morris, ‘The Dull Thud of the Roman Empire’, Boston Globe, 18 August 2007, accessed 10 May 2015, http:​//www​.bost​on.co​m/ae/​movie​s/art​icles​/2007​/08/1​8/the​_dull​_thud​ _of_t​he_ro​man_e​mpire​/; Jonathan Crocker, ‘The Last Legion’, Time Out, 16 October 2007, accessed 10 May 2015, http:​//www​.time​out.c​om/lo​ndon/​film/​the-l​ast-l​egion​; Karl French, ‘Rhapsody on a Shoestring’, Financial Times, 17 October 2007, accessed 10 May 2015, http:​//www​.ft.c​om/cm​s/s/2​/6155​d5ea-​7cc4-​11dc-​aee2-​00007​79fd2​ac.ht​ ml#ax​zz3rn​SaMiD​B. 32 Rafe Telsch, ‘Movie Review: The Last Legion’, Cinema Blend, n.d., accessed 10 May 2015, http:​//www​.cine​mable​nd.co​m/rev​iews/​The-L​ast-L​egion​-2528​.html​; Leydon, ‘Review: The Last Legion’.

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CChapter 8 ROME ON THE RANGE: THE WESTERN IN KING ARTHUR (2004), CENTURION (2010) AND THE EAGLE (2011)

As discussed in the last chapter, the combat film provided the lexicon of visuals and thematic content with which the ancient world epic could explore the Roman occupation of Britain. This genre hybridisation heightens the parallels between the films and contemporary events by drawing on previous American conflicts and their respective films, most notably the 1980s cycle of Vietnam War films. However, Roman Britain is a multifaceted setting that operates as both an occupied country and the frontier of the Roman Empire. In the former, conflict ensues between occupiers and occupied, but in the latter it derives from the boundary between the empire and what lies beyond. The Roman Britain epics visualise this dichotomy through the physical structure of Hadrian’s Wall (see Figures 8.1, 8.2 and 8.4), but in order to explore the thematic complexities of the frontier experience they appeal to another genre: the western. Ward Briggs has attempted a reading of Gladiator (2000) in which he identifies allusions to westerns in a few select sequences of Scott’s film, but he does not suggest that Gladiator draws any syntactic elements of the western into the ancient world epic.1 By contrast, the Roman Britain epics are indebted to the western to a far greater degree. The 1950s–60s cycle of ancient world epics used urban iconography, especially that of Rome, to portray the power and corruption of imperialism, but in removing this imagery and its associated connotations the Roman Britain films employ the themes, imagery and narrative devices of the western to help shape anti-imperialist allegories.

The Western In many ways the western is the quintessential American genre. Its roots lie in the foundations of American society and connect contemporary US audiences with their country’s history through numerous books, films, television series, tourist sites and iconic (or infamous) figures. Although undoubtedly influenced by various attempts by early settlers to manufacture a national myth, the symbolic significance of the frontier has grown over time to create an American mythos; albeit one that contains allusions to European, including classical,

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mythology.2 This was disseminated among the nation’s population thanks to the development of the printing press and the advent of newspapers and books.3 Shows such as those staged by ‘Buffalo Bill’ were also a popular form of entertainment, which then found a successor in early-twentieth-century cinema with silent films such as The Great Train Robbery (1903) entertaining audiences while simultaneously enshrining American history.4 Like the ancient world epic, the western also experienced a brief hiatus during the 1930s when the pessimism of the Great Depression and prohibition provided rich source material for the gangster film. However, the western returned in the post-war years where it remained a recurrent feature of cinema schedules until at least the late 1970s. John Lenihan believes the western is a symbolic vehicle with which to reflect on issues in contemporary society, such as gender, race and politics.5 As he argues, ‘The Western movie is one of the mechanisms a democratic society used to give form and meaning to its worries about its own destiny at a time when its position seemed more central and its values less secure than ever before.’6 Indeed, the themes of the western have made it a distinctly usable past for myth-making and adaptation. As Jim Kitses describes, ‘At its core the Western marries historical and archetypal elements in a fruitful mix that allows different film-makers a wide latitude of creative play.’7 The western’s core mythology is predicated on a simple yet symbolic narrative in which two opposing forces or ideologies meet and violence ensues. The significance of violence within that narrative has been explored by Richard Slotkin, who argues how the first colonists saw in America an opportunity to regenerate their fortunes, their spirits, and the power of their church and nation; but the means to that regeneration ultimately became the means of violence, and the myth of regeneration through violence became the structuring metaphor of the American experience.8

This violence is frequently conducted by men and directed towards a native ‘Other’, leading Lenihan to define the basic premise of the western as ‘civilization supplants wilderness’, with the frontier marking the liminal space in which these dichotomies collide.9 As Kitses explains, ‘These oppositions capture the profound ambivalence that dominates America’s history and character. Was the West a Garden threatened by the corrupt and emasculating East? Or was it a Desert, a savage land needful of civilising and uplift?’10 Imperialist expansion into the wilderness aiming to ‘civilise’ the land brought the frontiersmen into violent contact with Native Americans in a continuous process of displacement and conflict often referred to as the ‘savage war’.11 The Native American ‘Indians’ became synonymous with the wilderness, the former being depicted as harsh and as unforgiving as the landscape itself: in Slotkin’s words, they became the ‘demonic personification of the American wilderness’.12 This is reflected in a number of western films; in The Searchers (1956), for example, ‘Indians’ kidnap, rape and murder young girls, while in the Anthony Mann westerns Bend of the River (1952) and Winchester ’73 (1950) they attack



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Figure 8.1  The knights return to Hadrian’s Wall in King Arthur. Source: King Arthur, directed by Antoine Fuqua © Touchstone Pictures 2004. All rights reserved.

travellers for no clear ideological or narrative reason; they are simply a hazard of the wilderness. By contrast, the western hero exists in the liminal space between wilderness and civilisation. Kitses describes them as being ‘between the nomadic and the settled, the savage and the cultured, the masculine and the feminine’.13 Slotkin expands on these contradictory attributes by describing the metaphorical journey the archetypal western hero must go on: The American must cross the border into ‘Indian Country’ and experience a ‘regression’ to a more primitive and natural condition of life so that the false values of the ‘metropolis’ can be purged and a new, purified social contract enacted. Although the Indian and the Wilderness are the settler’s enemy, they also provide him with the new consciousness through which he will transform the world.14

The frontier hero must occasionally act, according to Slotkin, ‘as mediator or interpreter between races and cultures but more often as civilisation’s most effective instrument against savagery’.15 For example, Ethan Edwards in The Searchers understands how the Indians fight and think and can even speak their language. Although his prejudice and racism prevent him from becoming a good man, he nevertheless appears as a western hero through his ability to survive in the wilderness. The iconic closing shot of Ford’s film, looking out through the open doorway at Edwards, is symbolic of his struggle between the wilderness on the outside and civilisation within. Although he fights to protect the family within the home, he realises he is a man of the wilderness and remains outside. The hero’s traversal of this liminal space often takes the form of a katabasis narrative in which the wilderness symbolises the underworld, the Native Americans are the threats contained therein and the frontier is the barrier the hero and his companions must cross to enter it. Although Slotkin does not refer to the

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katabasis narrative by its name his description of the western genre’s appropriation of European mythology emulates its narrative tropes: In the mythology of Europe, the West and its peoples were strongly associated with the kingdom of death and dreams, the underworld – in psychological terms, the unconscious. In the archetypal mythology of the heroic quest, which informs all accounts of the Age of Discovery, it is the journey to the underworld that is the essential, necessary action.16

If we equate a journey into the wilderness to obtain regeneration as equal to a journey into the underworld to find an object or personal knowledge, then the katabasis narrative lies at the heart of the frontier mythology. Indeed, Holtsmark cites westerns as one of the chief exponents of the katabasis narrative in film, with The Searchers and The Professionals (1966) being prime examples.17 I would also add True Grit (2010) to this list: Mattie Ross desires to kill Tom Chaney to avenge the murder of her father. To reach him she requires a psychopompos, a companion familiar with the landscape, which she finds in the form of Rooster Cogburn. Together they cross a river (a boundary line) and venture into Indian country where they encounter strange characters, including bestial figures dressed in animal skins, before they eventually find and kill Chaney. However, Mattie suffers a terrible price for her expedition, losing her arm and barely escaping with her life. She then emerges with newfound knowledge about the cost of retribution. As has been seen, the katabasis narrative was an effective tool for Vietnam War combat films to represent the soldiers’ descent into hell. A convergence of the katabasis and allusions to Vietnam can also be found in westerns of the late 1960s and early 1970s, such as Soldier Blue (1970) and Little Big Man (1970). In these films, white characters from ‘civilised’ society cross over into the wilderness and become part of Native American society. Through this process they experience the brutality of American imperialism when they witness the US cavalry – in scenes reminiscent of the My Lai massacre – murder the inhabitants of a peaceful village.18 These films evidence what Steve Neale calls the ‘counterculture and revisionist westerns’ which he argues are typified by their ‘rejection of the imperialism inherent in America’s “frontier mythology” and in its post-war “victory culture”’.19 The western and its mythology permeated the political rhetoric used by the Bush administration during the War on Terror. Stacy Takacs has noted that following 9/11 ‘politicians and pundits alike depicted Americans as innocents besieged by wild savages and desperate for strong men with guns to rescue them’.20 George W. Bush was even pictured donning a Stetson on his Texas ranch to emphasise his home-grown, all-American masculinity, and during one public appearance in 2001 he discussed the search for Bin Laden, remarking, ‘There’s an old poster out West, as I recall, that said, “Wanted: Dead or Alive”.’21 Acknowledging the recurrent trends and cycles influenced by the Vietnam War that returned during the Iraq War it seems fitting that elements of the western – including revisionist westerns themselves – should be repeated in the wake of 9/11.



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Figure 8.2  Marcus (Channing Tatum) and Esca (Jamie Bell) approach Hadrian’s Wall in The Eagle. Source: The Eagle, directed by Kevin MacDonald © Focus Features 2011. All rights reserved.

The incorporation of the western into the ancient world epic may derive from the filmmakers themselves, but the decision to hybridise these genres is nevertheless a pragmatic one. In drawing on the well-established American frontier mythology it makes the Roman experience more relatable or understandable for audiences unfamiliar with Roman or British history. As established, Roman epics have traditionally been favoured by American audiences because they contain identifiable similarities to US culture, such as the senate and gladiatorial arenas. Despite these similarities and their connotations of action and spectacle, allegorical or analogous readings of the Roman epics of the 1950s–60s have traditionally associated America with the (Judeo-Christian) disenfranchised group rather than with Rome. However, as we saw in the last chapter the Roman Britain epics’ focus on the occupation of Britain aligned contemporary America with Rome through allusions to Vietnam and/or Iraq and Afghanistan. In appealing to the western, these films reinforce this message by extending the analogy to America’s frontier history and the treatment of the wilderness and its peoples.

King Arthur King Arthur establishes its debt to the western almost immediately. In the opening scenes Lancelot narrates the history of the Sarmatian knights, who are famed for their horsemanship skills, as we see a young Lancelot riding over the rolling hills of Sarmatia to his small farmstead: expansive skies and remote farms in a wide landscape is a common visual image in westerns. Lancelot then narrates the knights’ journey to Britain where we jump forward fifteen years and are introduced to the principal characters, only seven of which have survived the long years of service. This is a reference to The Magnificent Seven (1960) and its source The Seven Samurai (1954), both of which Fuqua has cited as influences on King Arthur, along with The

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Figure 8.3  The Roman wagon train is ambushed by Woads in King Arthur. Source: King Arthur, directed by Antoine Fuqua © Touchstone Pictures 2004. All rights reserved.

Wild Bunch (1969).22 Arthur, like Yul Brynner’s Chris in The Magnificent Seven, is a stoic commander who dresses in black and is accompanied by a handsome and humorous companion, Lancelot, who evokes Steve McQueen’s Vin. As with the seven cowboys, each of Arthur’s knights is identified by a particular persona, weapon and costume. Indeed, James Coburn’s character in The Magnificent Seven is a gifted knife thrower, which Tristan echoes when he bullseyes his throwing knife in a game. Following the introduction of the knights we move to Bishop Germanius’ convoy moving through the British terrain until, in another western allusion, the stagecoach is ambushed by Native Britons (see Figure 8.3). In his Director’s Commentary, Fuqua reveals that the ancient Britons would often fight naked but as this was unachievable in a mainstream blockbuster his costume designer Penny Rose drew on Native American dress to create the Woad costumes. The Britons emerge from the trees firing arrows at the Romans and almost overrun them until the cavalry arrives in the form of Arthur’s magnificent seven. The second act of the film recalls a narrative trope of westerns described by Jeffrey Richards as ‘the lone cavalry patrol despatched into hostile Indian territory to rescue a settler family’.23 Like Native Americans, the Woads move seamlessly through the landscape and natural world. They are, at first, depicted as the ‘blue demons’ that Bors describes to Horton but as the narrative progresses they shift from the ‘savages’ of The Searchers to the sympathetic victims of Little Big Man and Soldier Blue. In King Arthur, the protagonist is a military man and member of the occupying army supposedly bringing civilisation to the wilderness of Britain. However, Arthur’s regeneration comes through a series of violent encounters in which he discovers the truths of the Roman occupation and refigures himself to become a Briton. This process, in keeping with Slotkin’s description of the archetypal western hero, begins when he crosses Hadrian’s Wall into ‘Indian Country’: he undergoes a regression in which he becomes the naïve pupil who must be taught what the real Christian Rome is, distancing himself from Roman urbanity and finally emerging as a leader for a morally justified cause.



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In their journey north Arthur and his knights are enacting a katabatic narrative: Hadrian’s Wall is the boundary they must cross, not all to return. The cold, wet north evokes Holtsmark’s description of the underworld, while the native Britons are initially demonic in their representation.24 Guinevere then acts as Arthur’s psychopompos to guide him through the underworld, leading him on a spiritual journey into accepting the Woads’ plight and rejecting Rome. Slotkin argues, ‘The complete “American” of the Myth was one who had defeated and freed himself from both the “savage” of the western wilderness and the metropolitan regime of authoritarian politics and class privilege.’25 Arthur is such a hero, as through his growing relationship with Guinevere he becomes increasingly capable of using the landscape against his enemy (first signalled by the battle on the frozen lake) whereas before this the Woads had used the landscape against him. His rejection of Rome is, in part, symbolised by the structures that evoke a Roman metropolis: one is Marius’ villa, a symbol of Roman corruption and privilege, and the other is Hadrian’s Wall, a symbol of the frontier and the limitations of Rome’s empire. In tying aspects of the frontier mythology and archetypal western hero into the Vietnam War film, King Arthur creates clear parallels between Rome and America’s attempts at subduing another people and culture to its own, emerging as a critical anti-imperialist text despite its mainstream blockbuster credentials.

Centurion Discussing the film’s relationship to genre, director Neil Marshall states that ‘at no point did we ever think we were making an epic. … I always saw it as being a much more kind of intimate story based on these guys fighting for survival in a vast landscape.’26 However, Marshall has repeatedly cited westerns as an influence on Centurion, stating in one interview that ‘my film is actually more akin to a Western than anything … . I was hugely inspired by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid [1969] when they’re on the run and things like that, and the cavalry movies of John Ford – She Wore a Yellow Ribbon [1949], that kind of thing.’27 Critics similarly identified the influence of westerns on Centurion, such as John DeFore’s belief that the narrative unfolds ‘like a Roman-era Western in its depiction of a few soldiers trying to get home alive after the slaughter of their comrades’.28 Roger Ebert likewise identified a visual allusion to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when the Romans leap from a cliff into a river to avoid Etain’s ‘posse’.29 The introduction of Virilus during an arm-wrestling match in a tavern that descends into a drunken brawl evokes the bar fights in Shane (1951), Ride the High Country (1962) and Bend of the River, as well as She Wore a Yellow Ribbon and The Searchers. As with King Arthur, Centurion alerts the viewer to the western’s influence early. The film opens with sweeping helicopter shots through the mountains that eventually locate Quintus running half-naked through the snow on a mountainside. His voice-over narration informs us that this moment ‘is neither the beginning nor the end of my story’ before flashing back to an establishing shot of a wooden fort at night. A caption tells us that this is Inch-Tuth-Il, the ‘Most

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Northerly Garrison on the Frontier’. Quintus’ narration then establishes the world he inhabits, with his repeated references to the ‘frontier’ and to Gorlacon’s forces as ‘war-parties’ further evoking the lexicon of the western, while the fort itself bears a similarity to the wooden-palisaded fort in She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. During the Pict attack Quintus is almost killed but he is spared for interrogation because he speaks Pictish; as noted above, the archetypal western hero is one who can serve as interpreter between civilisation, the natives and the wilderness. The wilderness itself is shot in a manner that evokes Anthony Mann, a director whose body of work includes both westerns and ancient world epics. His entries in the latter genre are notable for their use of landscapes, including the opening quarry scenes of Spartacus (1960) and the frontier sequence of The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964) – the latter being a major influence on Gladiator. Mann favoured location shooting to capture the reality of a landscape, and as Kitses states, ‘The hallmark of Mann’s style is its physical intensity, its brutal, mineral, ground-level point of view, and its vividly concrete treatment of space. Spectacular, these images can also be said to be literally sensational, jarring the jaded viewer with direct physical and kinetic experience.’30 In Centurion, once the survivors begin their flight, the film dwells on their remoteness and isolation within the grandeur of the landscape. Ebert describes how these sequences are ‘photographed principally in long shots (aerial shots, crane shots, distant tracking shots, creeping-up-over-ridges shots, stately establishing shots with views that go on for miles), so that the characters are reduced to tiny, faceless figures scrabbling across the wide-screen landscape until they disappear into it’.31 These, however, are intercut with medium shots and close-ups revealing the harsh realities of the landscape: the uneven terrain, the cold, the lack of food, and the physical exhaustion the men suffer. Marshall explains, ‘The weather, the landscape, had to be an important character within the piece, because that’s trying to kill them as much as anything else.’32 Empire’s Dan Jolin concurs, calling Caledonia ‘the movie’s most impressive antagonist’.33 As with King Arthur’s Woads, Etain and her Pict warriors become synonymous with the wilderness and are highly evocative of Native Americans in their use of face paint, fire and horsemanship. Etain is a skilled hunter and tracker and seems unaffected by the cold or the environment; she can read the landscape and rocks and is at one with the natural world. Quintus, Virilus and Agricola all compare her to a wolf, and when the survivors get separated one group is pursued by Etain while the others are literally hunted by wolves. In depicting the Roman frontier this way Marshall subverts the typical Roman epic by deconstructing the image of the Roman Empire. The Technicolor pageantry of the 1950s–60s cycle and impressive architecture of Roman cities are nowhere to be seen. One of the few stone structures witnessed in the film is the foundations of Hadrian’s Wall, a symbol of the limitations of Rome’s empire following a failed attempt to expand (see Figure 8.1, 8.2 and 8.4). The film’s portrayal of frontier life is not the Promethean ideal of bringing civilisation to the wilderness, as the frontier is cold, grey and violent. The viewer is left with the question of how Rome’s occupation of this territory contributes to the glory of its empire. Quintus, as with most



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Roman epics, begins the narrative as part of the Roman military until, like Arthur, he undergoes a katabatic narrative. He is introduced to us crossing a mountain range, which is one of the boundary markers Holtsmark lists in his definition of the narrative’s tropes. The ‘underworld’ of Caledonia is suitably cold, dark and damp, Etain – the ‘she wolf ’ – and her riders are the bestial adversaries he and his company must face and only Quintus makes it out of the underworld alive. Although Etain herself, under the guise of helping the Romans, initially fulfils the psychopompos role this transfers to Arianne part way through the film. Finally, Quintus emerges from his experience – crossing back to ‘civilisation’ when he reaches Hadrian’s Wall – with newfound knowledge about the brutality of Roman imperialism. When the Romans attempt to have him executed his reinvention as both the archetypal western hero and as the informed survivor of the katabasis is complete. As with most Roman epics, he rejects Rome and what it symbolises and decides to be with Arianne, returning to the wilderness like Edwards in The Searchers. Charlotte Higgins, who views Centurion as a western in Roman guise, believes that the film’s ‘ancient setting can enable a narrative to tackle ideas that might be uncomfortable if placed closer to home’.34 This potentially includes conventional westerns, as Marshall has expressed his fear that cavalry films such as those by John Ford could be construed as politically incorrect if made today.35 Higgins’ suggestion, however, is that Centurion’s historical setting enables it to engage with American history, including contemporary events, through allegory and analogy. Her use of the term ‘uncomfortable’ is interesting, in that it implies the apparent distaste US audiences expressed for Iraq and Afghanistan War films in the period leading up to Centurion’s release. The genre was even dubbed ‘toxic’ by Martin Barker and ‘box office poison’ by Everhart.36 If Marshall intended to create a film which criticised the Iraq or Afghanistan Wars, especially America’s role in those conflicts, confronting the topic directly was unlikely to attract an audience. As with the Vietnam War-era westerns, Centurion’s use of Roman Britain was a potentially ‘usable past’ to cover the same themes through the guise of history. Indeed, Leslie Felperin contests that the film

Figure 8.4  Hadrian’s Wall under construction in Centurion. Source: Centurion, directed by Neil Marshall © Pathé Pictures International 2010. All rights reserved.

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‘never quite evokes a sense of antiquity; its core plot could be happening at any time’.37 While I disagree with Felperin’s assessment that the film fails to evoke the ancient world – many of visual and thematic features of the genre are present – Centurion’s plot could indeed be happening during almost any war or period of expansion.

The Eagle As with Fuqua and Marshall, Kevin Macdonald cites westerns such as The Searchers and She Wore a Yellow Ribbon as informing The Eagle, as well as acknowledging the genre’s allegorical uses in Ulzana’s Raid (1972).38 He states: ‘I suppose that the western has always been a kind of mold into which you could pour the concerns of the day, but have them seen in the simple terms of the western […] That’s really what this [The Eagle] is, a Western set in Scotland.’39 Critics identified the connection, with Philip French (who authored a book on the western) stating in his review of The Eagle: This first chapter is like a western in which a charismatic martinet gains the reluctant admiration of his troops by restoring their self-respect and courageously leading them in battle against hostile natives. One thinks especially of Raoul Walsh’s They Died With Their Boots On [1941], where Colonel Custer takes command of a dispirited US Seventh Cavalry, and in fact The Eagle ends up echoing Custer’s Last Stand and the contest for the regimental flag.40

A.O. Scott, writing for USA Today, similarly remarked that The Eagle ‘plays less like a 1950s Technicolor sword-and-sandal epic than like a western of the same era, but with foggier visuals and skimpier political and sexual subtext.’41 Scott criticised the film for what he saw as excessive focus on the savage nature of the Native Britons and argues that the film ultimately lacks the western’s ability to ‘mine the psychological and ideological complexities of conquest and territorial struggle.’42 The film portrays the Britons through Marcus’ initially prejudiced eyes and follows his personal education in understanding that they are not ‘savages’; The Eagle’s depiction of the Seal people (see Figure 7.3) as an alien Other, especially with their grey body paint completely masking their skin, embodies Marcus’ fear and lack of understanding of the country. However, his brief friendship with the Seal boy and horror at discovering that the leader of their war party is a young, white-skinned man like himself helps to educate Marcus of the similarities between them. If one assumes the film is targeted at young American or British males, it is imploring the viewer to identify with Marcus and go with him on his journey to discover the truth about imperialism and see the humanity in other cultures that may initially seem strange and unrelatable. As Terence McSweeney has concluded in reference to King Arthur, Centurion and The Eagle: If the Roman occupations at the centre of these narratives are metaphors of American imperialism, then their conclusions are potent ones as their



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protagonists are afforded different perspectives on their supposedly virtuous and glorious nation, which is revealed to be founded on the oppression of others, a fact that they had been able to remain oblivious to until their political transformations in the course of the narrative.43

The Eagle undoubtedly mines the complexities of conquest and territorial struggle through its depiction of Marcus’ journey which, unsurprisingly, takes the form of a katabatic narrative. Hadrian’s Wall again acts as the boundary between civilisation/ life and the wilderness/underworld, emphasised by the journey upriver in the film’s opening scene. Esca comes to fulfil the role of the psychopompos, guiding Marcus through the underworld where the various tribesmen they meet embody the spirits of the dead. Again, the ‘Otherness’ of the Seal people contributes to this narrative, as the grey mud or body paint gives them a ghostly, spectral appearance (see Figure 7.3). Marcus also witnesses them perform a ritual dance to primal drumming and their king or chieftain carries the eagle standard while dressed in a bestial costume comprising a cloak made of feathers, a demonic-looking mask and antlered helmet. The terrain they encounter is increasingly cold, wet and inhospitable and is again shot in the style of Anthony Mann’s westerns. MacDonald and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle use wide shots to emphasise the grandeur of the scenery and the relative insignificance of Marcus and Esca as they traverse it. These are intercut with low-angle, ground-level shots to reveal the mud, rocks and hardships the travellers face. Towards the end of their journey Marcus joins with the survivors of the Ninth Legion and some are killed in the fight against the Seal people, fulfilling the trope of the katabasis in which not every member of the company survives. Finally, the purpose of the expedition is both to retrieve an item (the eagle) and obtain knowledge (what happened to Marcus’ father), both of which are achieved. Marcus returns the eagle to Roman hands but then rejects continued association with them in favour of a new life in Britain with Esca. He, like Quintus, Arthur, and The Searchers’ Edwards, rejects ‘civilisation’ for the wilderness and becomes the archetypal American western hero. Indeed, the final shot of The Eagle alludes to Ford’s film as the camera is positioned inside a room looking out towards an open doorway as Marcus and Esca symbolically exit (see Figure 8.5). The journey to reclaim the eagle is where MacDonald’s film differs slightly from King Arthur and Centurion. Whereas Arthur and Quintus are ordered on missions north, Marcus chooses to go of his own volition. In this respect Marcus’ actual father holds a symbolic motivating influence on the narrative rather than the patriarchal dominance of Rome and its military. By reclaiming the eagle Marcus initially hopes to be reinstated in the legions following his dismissal due to injury. However, his katabatic journey furnishes him with the knowledge and understanding to forsake Rome in favour of life with Esca. In this respect the film both echoes the Greek mythological films in that Marcus is reconciled with his father, but then he also rejects the symbolic father of Rome. This is similar to King Arthur and Centurion, in that all three protagonists become abandoned soldier-sons who reject the patriarchal institutions of Rome but remain loyal to the memories of their biological fathers.

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Figure 8.5 Marcus (Channing Tatum) and Esca (Jamie Bell) exit the Roman hall in The Eagle. Source: The Eagle, directed by Kevin MacDonald © Focus Features 2011. All rights reserved.

The confluence of the western and combat film is united by the katabasis and reinforces the associations between Rome and America. This lends credence to MacDonald’s interpretation of the film as reflecting the downfall of the Roman, and by association American, Empire. The various allusions to contemporary events direct the viewer to identify the similarities between the Roman occupation of Britain and American foreign policy in the Middle East. The Eagle also operates as a warning about the effects of expansionism wherein Rome/America’s bigoted, hubristic confidence in their cultural superiority blinds them to the reality of their actions in occupying another country and its people. The film depicts Romans enjoying modern amenities in the isolated world of their villas, but the sites where Romans and Britons actually meet are those of violence: in combat at the fort or in watching gladiators in the arena. MacDonald’s film even omits a number of characters from Sutcliff ’s novel which contradict this negative portrayal of Roman imperialism, such as ‘a British family of the ultra-Roman kind’ who have ingratiated themselves into Roman society, learning Latin, wearing Roman dress and adopting Romanised names.44 Unlike the 1950s–60s epics which reflected Roman glory with colour, pageantry and images of immense Roman architecture as expressions of power and glory, the largest stone structure witnessed in The Eagle is, again, Hadrian’s Wall. The wall acts as a symbol of the limitations of the empire and the Ninth Legion’s massacre is regarded by Marcus’ peers not as a tragic loss of life but a sign of failure, humiliation and shame. In so doing, The Eagle can be read as a critique of American imperialism throughout history concealed within a Roman adventure story about cross-cultural friendship. Across the Roman Britain epics we see the ancient world epic being hybridised with both the combat film and western genres. This amalgamation of genre tropes is predominantly facilitated by a shared connection to the Vietnam War, either through direct inspiration or appeals to the Vietnam War combat films of the late 1970s and early 1980s. As the western genre had been used during the Vietnam



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War-era to parallel America’s expansionist history and frontier mythology with its actions in Vietnam, there was an existing correlation between these genres prior to their adoption by the Roman Britain films. Led by Franzoni’s Vietnam allegory King Arthur, the Roman Britain epics utilised the combat film and western genre to create visual and thematic parallels between Rome and contemporary America in the absence of the typical visual iconography of urban Rome familiar from Gladiator and the 1950s–60s cycle. In so doing, they diverted the connotations of Rome’s internal corruption to its empire-building practices and occupation of foreign territories. King Arthur’s treatment of these issues proved timely as the Iraq War began to be compared to the American experience of Vietnam, while Centurion and The Eagle would reiterate the same themes that could be read as reference to Vietnam, Iraq or Afghanistan. However, even in the case of the The Eagle and MacDonald’s promoted allegorical reading, these films all universalise their depiction of frontier violence to the extent that they could be interpreted as condemnations of foreign occupation and imperial subjugation, whatever the era or nations involved.

Notes 1 Ward Briggs, ‘Layered Allusions in Gladiator’, Arion, Third Series, 15, no. 3 (Winter 2008): 19–20, accessed 29 June 2012, http://www.jstor.org/stable/29737358. 2 Richard Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier 1600–1860 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2000), 27–8. 3 Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence, 19. 4 Richard Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation: The Myth of the Frontier in Twentieth-Century America (New York: Harper Perennial, 1993), 231. 5 John H. Lenihan, Showdown: Confronting Modern America in the Western (Chicago and London: University of Illinois Press, 1980), 5–6. 6 Lenihan, Showdown, 9. 7 Kitses, Horizons West [New edition], 14. 8 Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence, 5. 9 Lenihan, Showdown, 20. 10 Kitses, Horizons West, 13. 11 Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 11. 12 Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence, 4. 13 Kitses, Horizons West, 13. 14 Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 14. 15 Ibid., 16. 16 Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence, 28. 17 Holtsmark, ‘The Katabasis Theme in Modern Cinema’, 25–6. 18 Lenihan, Showdown, 49. 19 Steve Neale, ‘Westerns and Gangster Films since the 1970s’, in Genre and Contemporary Hollywood, ed. Steve Neale (London: BFI, 2002), 29. 20 Stacy Takacs, ‘The Contemporary Politics of the Western Form: Bush, Saving Jessica Lynch, and Deadwood’, in Reframing 9/11, 153. 21 George Bush quoted in Woodward, Bush at War, 100.

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22 ‘Feature Commentary with Antoine Fuqua’, featured on King Arthur: Director’s Cut. 23 Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 183. 24 Holtsmark, ‘The Katabasis Theme in Modern Cinema’, 25–6. 25 Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 11. 26 Marshall, in Goldsmith, ‘Centurion – Neil Marshall, Axel Carolyn, Noel Clark’. 27 ‘Neil Marshall on Centurion’, YouTube video, 3:15, posted by ‘Empire Magazine’, 20 April 2010, accessed July 2013, https​://ww​w.you​tube.​com/w​atch?​v=PaC​TwLG3​uYc. 28 John DeFore, ‘Centurion – Film Review’, Hollywood Reporter, 10 October 2010, accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//www​.holl​ywood​repor​ter.c​om/re​view/​centu​rion-​film-​ revie​w-294​05. 29 Ebert, ‘Centurion’, Roger Ebert. 30 Kitses, Horizons West, 167–8. 31 Ebert, ‘Centurion’. 32 Marshall, in Goldsmith, ‘Centurion – Neil Marshall, Axel Carolyn, Noel Clark’. 33 Dan Jolin, ‘Centurion’, Empire, 28 February 2010 (last updated 10 October 2015), accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//www​.empi​reonl​ine.c​om/mo​vies/​centu​rion/​revie​w/. 34 Higgins, ‘Centurion Kicks Off British Sword and Sandals Film Wave’. 35 Ibid. 36 Barker, A ‘Toxic Genre’; Everhart, ‘Summer Comes Earlier to Movie Season’. 37 Leslie Felperin, ‘Review: Centurion’, Variety, 13 February 2010, accessed 23 April 2013, http:​//var​iety.​com/2​010/f​i lm/m​arket​s-fes​tival​s/cen​turio​n-111​79421​72/. 38 Philbrick, ‘Exclusive: Kevin Macdonald Talks The Eagle’. 39 Douglas, ‘Exclusive: Kevin MacDonald on The Eagle’. 40 French, ‘The Eagle – Review’. 41 A.O. Scott, ‘Back Then, a Man’s World of Loyalty and Adventure’, New York Times, 10 February 2011, accessed 23 April 2011, http:​//www​.nyti​mes.c​om/20​11/02​/11/m​ovies​ /11ea​gle.h​tml?_​r=0. 42 Scott, ‘Back Then, a Man’s World of Loyalty and Adventure’. 43 McSweeney, The ‘War on Terror’ and American Film, 185. 44 Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle of the Ninth: Filmed as The Eagle (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 43. First published as The Eagle of the Ninth, 1954.

CChapter 9 RELIGIOUS VIOLENCE: CHRISTIANITY AND EXTREMISM IN AGORA (2009)

On September 11, and via the subsequent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, mass death came home forcefully to citizens of all religious persuasions.1

The prevalence with which religion has entered into the discourse surrounding the War on Terror and the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan is self-evident. Historical films have likewise reflected post-9/11 religious tensions, such as in the crusader epic Kingdom of Heaven (2005) and the medieval horror film Black Death (2010).2 The majority of Roman epics from the 1950s–60s cycle included thematic and narrative elements concerning faith, especially Christianity, but by contrast in the recent cycle religion is a comparatively minor feature which is often either omitted or subverted, as we have seen. This chapter builds on the case study of King Arthur to explore the representation of religious violence in Alejandro Amenábar’s Agora (2009). In so doing, it considers how the film depicts civil disorder and conflict between religions in the Roman Empire in light of contemporary concerns.

Religious Conflict A simple search on Google’s Ngram Viewer – which records the frequency with which words are used in digitised texts – reveals that between 1960 and 2008 references to Christianity, Islam and religious conflict such as ‘jihad’, ‘infidel’, ‘fundamentalism’, ‘extremism’, ‘Allah’, ‘God’ and ‘religious war’ have all seen marked increases in usage in and after 2001, with further spikes in 2003. A reasonable hypothesis is that the events of 9/11 and the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq instigated these shifts, as each event saw conflict between nations with differing predominant religious identities. The media adage that ‘if it bleeds, it leads’ has, Jillian Schwedler argues, exacerbated the Western view that the Middle East is a violent region.3 This has been aggravated yet further by commentators misusing terms such as ‘fundamentalism’ in what Schwedler has termed a ‘confusing, contradictory, and all-encompassing’ manner which generalises non-violent Islamic groups (e.g. the Muslim Brotherhood) with the violent (e.g. al-Qaeda).4 She suggests that a more acceptable term to define organisations like al-Qaeda would

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be ‘religious extremism’, another phrase which has seen a sizeable rise in usage since 2001.5 Such generalisations have also pervaded filmmaking, for example Corey Creekmur has argued that the trope of using the Muslim call to prayer, the adhaan, on film soundtracks has become a ‘sound of dread’ through association with depictions of terrorism, and as such ‘Muslim prayer asks audiences to brace themselves for the terror sure to follow’.6 Despite this confluence of religion and international politics into violent conflict, Schwedler warns us not to assume that the tensions and violence between East and West results solely from religious difference. She asserts that ‘the politics of the Middle East has never been exclusively about religion, even when religious rhetoric and symbolism has been invoked’.7 Nevertheless, for many states in the Middle East religion is an important part of their constitution and an understanding of it is vital to ensuring political stability.8 The US government and military failed to appreciate this following the removal of Saddam Hussein’s regime and the resulting difficulties in establishing peace between Iraq’s Sunni, Shi’a and Kurdish populations erupted into a civil conflict.9 America’s predominantly Christian population has heightened the religious dichotomy between the West and the predominantly Muslim Middle East (although many other religions co-habit the region, along with extensive Jewish and Christian populations).10 According to a Pew Forum survey from 2007 (roughly when Agora would have been in pre-production), 78.4 per cent of Americans identified themselves as Christian, with 51.3 per cent of the population being Protestant and sharing their faith with then-president George W. Bush. A born-again Christian, Bush made repeated references to God and his Christian faith during public statements as president, including in his address to the nation on September 11 2001: ‘I pray they [the victims] will be comforted by a power greater than any of us, spoken through the ages in Psalm 23: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me.”’11 After 9/11, Bush’s speeches often referred to the perpetrators of the attacks as ‘evil’. By associating al-Qaeda first with the Taliban and then Afghanistan (and later Iraq), his administration widened the threat of a specific group of religious extremists into a generalised fear of nations that are largely Islamic.12 Indeed, Bush reportedly stated in a meeting with congressional leaders on the morning of 12 September 2001 that America’s enemy was not a group but a ‘frame of mind … . They hate Christianity. They hate Judaism. They hate everything that is not them.’13 Bush’s distinction between Judeo-Christians and an unnamed ‘them’ suggests he saw a division between the former religions and Islam. His favourable grouping of Jews and Christians may in part derive from Bush’s domestic constituency base, which Mary Ann Tétreault notes was pro-Israel and therefore opposed to the primarily Muslim Palestine.14 At times the Bush administration was at pains to avoid giving the impression that the War on Terror was a religious war. For example, the campaign in Afghanistan received the title ‘Operation Enduring Freedom’ after the original title, ‘Infinite Justice’, was deemed offensive to Muslims. Similarly, during the first week of air strikes on Afghanistan in 2001 Donald Rumsfeld ordered that no strikes were to be made on Friday as a sign of respect for the Muslim Sabbath. However, this would



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not last further into the campaign, with strikes occurring throughout Ramadan (although fewer were scheduled during prayer time).15 On 16 September 2001, Bush referred to the War on Terror as a ‘crusade’, a term with clear connotations of religious war between Christianity and Islam.16 However, a day later he appeared at Washington DC’s Islamic Center to make a statement distancing the actions of the September 11 hijackers from Islamic teachings, stating that ‘acts of violence against innocents violate the fundamental tenets of the Islamic faith. And it’s important for my fellow Americans to understand that. … Islam is peace. These terrorists don’t represent peace. They represent evil and war.’17 Bush’s administration again came under fire when the Undersecretary of Defence for Intelligence, Lt. Gen. William Boykin, stated in a speech to a Christian group in Oregon that America’s enemies hated them ‘because we’re a Christian nation, because our foundation and our roots are Judeo-Christian … and the enemy is a guy named Satan.’18 Despite the inflammatory nature of this statement and pressure from Islamic groups for Boykin to resign, Donald Rumsfeld refused to condemn him and defended his remarks as freedom of speech. Statements such as Boykin’s, however, were of considerably less harm to America’s image than the revelations of prisoner abuse that surfaced over the course of 2003 and early 2004 at Abu Ghraib, Guantánamo Bay and CIA black sites. Al-Qaeda was deemed by a number of lawyers working for the US government after 9/11 to be exempt from the rulings of the Geneva Convention regarding the treatment of prisoners of war.19 As such, a number of methods were employed by the CIA and American military to intimidate and discomfort prisoners which included methods of cultural and religious humiliation aimed specifically at Arabic peoples and Muslims.20 It was against this backdrop that Alejandro Amenábar’s Agora was released.

Agora Agora is an unconventional ancient world epic covering events from 391–415 AD in Alexandria, Egypt, depicting the growth of Christianity and its conflict with other religions. These clashes form the film’s two halves: the first principally depicts the Christian uprising against the local pagan population who worship the Greco-Egyptian deities, culminating with the Christians sacking the Library of the Serapeum (not to be confused with Ptolemy’s library in Alexander). The second half of the film then covers the escalating violence between Jews and Christians in the city. These events are seen from the perspective of the film’s protagonist, the Greek philosopher, mathematician and teacher, Hypatia. There is precious little historical evidence about the life of Hypatia, with only five written records discussing her life of which none are contemporary or cover her childhood.21 While Charlotte Booth has conceded that much of what is written on Hypatia is ‘legend’, her reputation as an academic and teacher in an ancient patriarchal society and untimely death at the hands of Christian fanatics has led Hypatia to become a feminist icon and muse for anti-Christian writers.22 Indeed,

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Booth suggests that Hypatia’s life is inextricably bound up with religion, as the world in which she lived and the manner of her death were the sites of ongoing conflict between Christians, Pagans and Jews.23 Booth describes the period of Hypatia’s birth as a ‘volatile time in Egypt’s history; Christian zealots were in power and riots and massacres between different religious groups were the norm’, and by the time of the years covered by Agora Alexandria had become a ‘hotbed of religious hostility’.24 In the film, Hypatia is portrayed as an atheist mathematician, philosopher and teacher who prefers the study of science and astronomy to devout religious affiliation. Her world is thrown into turmoil when violence between Christians and pagans leads to the burning of the Serapeum. As the years pass she returns to her studies, until the leader of the Alexandrian Christians, Cyril, denounces female teachers and condemns Hypatia as a witch. Her old pupil and now the prefect of Alexandria, Orestes, is unable to protect her and she is captured by the Christians who elect to skin her alive. Hypatia’s former slave, Davus, intervenes and convinces them to stone her instead, and as they gather rocks he secretly suffocates Hypatia to save her the trauma of execution. Agora does not conform to the conventions of the Roman epic; its visual setting of Alexandria is unfamiliar to most audiences, it has relatively little action, and it is the only ancient world epic in this cycle to have a female protagonist. The ancient world epic is a male-dominated genre, with the majority of prominent female roles going to biblical figures who are often portrayed as dangerous temptresses who manipulate a powerful man until God intervenes in some way, as seen in Samson and Delilah (1949), David and Bathsheba (1951) and Solomon and Sheba (1959). Cleopatra (1963) is a rare example of a female-led ancient world epic, and though Agora shares in the film’s Egyptian setting and foregrounding of a woman in a position of authority the films are poles apart, with Cleopatra exploring the dichotomy of duty and desire as well as international conflict, military campaigns and romance. Hypatia, by contrast, is wholly uninterested in the affection she garners from men and seeks to avoid becoming embroiled in politics or religious disputes in order to focus on her research. This led Brandon Judell to dub the film ‘a humourless feminist toga epic’, while Hypatia’s dedication to the heliocentric model of the universe recalls Nisbet’s argument that ‘audiences assume Greece is boring (or “intellectual”, which amounts to the same thing for a mainstream cinema audience weaned on pervasive anti-intellectualism)’.25 Agora, like King Arthur, subverts the Roman epic’s motif of Christianity being the route to salvation by vilifying the majority of its Christian characters. Not only do they instigate violence and demean women, they are portrayed as extremists who evoke comparisons to contemporary religious groups including al-Qaeda and the Taliban. Agora’s Christians dress in black robes, are bearded and many speak with Middle-Eastern accents or are played by non-Caucasian actors (see Figure 9.1). This includes Ashraf Barhom, whose most noted role in an Englishlanguage film before Agora was in the terrorism thriller The Kingdom (2007). In Agora, Barhom’s character Ammonius and his Christian followers are introduced as taunting the local pagans and mocking their deities before forcefully throwing



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Figure 9.1  Cyril (Sami Samir) in Agora. Source: Agora, directed by Alejandro Amenábar © Mod Producciones 2009. All rights reserved.

a pagan man onto a fire. Although we see some Christian characters performing acts of kindness, charity and protection, these are offset by the rioting mobs who attack pagans and Jews and attempt to skin Hypatia alive. When questioned whether he intended the Christians to resemble the Taliban, Amenábar stated that any similarities in appearance was down to his costume designer, but that their behaviour was intended as an allusion: ‘The movie is definitely a condemnation of fundamentalism. It’s about the moment in history when the Christians were finished being persecuted and began to persecute others. The costumes are very true to the period, but I realize that the robes and beards look very much like the Taliban.’26 While promoting the film, Amenábar, Rachel Weisz (Hypatia) and co-stars Oscar Isaac and Max Minghella repeatedly referenced the contemporary significance of the events and themes of the movie, including the treatment of women in certain societies as well as religious extremism and violence.27 Amenábar is again quoted as saying, ‘We realised that this particular time in the world had a lot of connections with our contemporary reality … . Then the project became really, really intriguing, because we realised that we could make a movie about the past while actually making a movie about the present.’28 The filmmakers’ promotion of allegorical and analogous readings of the film was furthered by the critical response in the United States and United Kingdom. Peter Bradshaw of The Guardian and Phil de Semlyen of Empire magazine are among those who highlighted the film’s contemporary relevance, with the most common comparison being the depiction of the Christians in the film with the Taliban. Bradshaw, for instance, states that ‘Amenábar subtly invites his audience to remember the Taliban, the war on terror and the looting of Iraq’s national museum’, while de Semlyen remarks that ‘Amenábar’s epic depicts the Christians of fourth-century Alexandria as a Taliban-like cadre, as likely to boink you over the head with a rock as turn the other cheek’.29 As noted above, members of any religion can be fundamentalists while abhorring the use of violence. In Agora, the Christians are ultimately depicted

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as religious extremists, sparking controversy among some Christian groups, especially Catholics. The film portrays Bishop Cyril as villainous for his role in instigating violence and religious prejudice, including Hypatia’s murder. However, Booth notes that Cyril is considered an inspirational figure among some Christians for his role ‘defending the faith’, even being posthumously honoured by Pope Leo XII.30 Antonio Alonso Marcos of the Religious Anti-Defamation Observatory wrote an open letter to Amenábar denouncing the film as anti-Christian and liable to incite hatred towards Christians.31 Father Robert Barron went so far as to claim that the film draws parallels between its Christians and the Nazis in their violent acts towards Jews, including shots of Alexandrian Christians stacking and burning Jewish corpses.32 Irene A. Artemi, a doctor of philology, criticised the film’s historical inaccuracies and regarded its depiction of Christians as the product of Amenábar’s atheism and an attempt to discredit Christianity.33 Nevertheless, Amenábar countered these complaints by arguing that the film did present a Christian moral message in the characterisation of Hypatia: ‘It all depends on what we consider by being Christian. We see Hypatia being merciful and we see [the Christians] torturing her and [wanting to] skin her alive so in that sense I found that the character Hypatia is more Christian than those killing people. The movie’s not against Christians and Jews; it’s against fanatics.’34 Agora’s disjuncture between moral righteousness and Christianity raises questions as to which party in the film could be regarded as an analogue for contemporary America, if indeed any. Although one can associate the film’s Christians with Christian fundamentalists, in modern America their visual presentation clearly draws parallels to Islamic extremists, specifically the Taliban. Furthermore, alongside their violent acts and appearance, Cyril’s use of a religious text (1 Timothy 2:11-15) to control and denigrate the place of women in society (and condemn Hypatia as a witch) evokes the use of sharia law by some Islamic groups, including Taliban-led Afghanistan, to restrict the freedoms and liberties of Muslim women.35 Instead, Amenábar has said that he regards the Roman Empire in the film as analogous to contemporary America.36 Ironically, Rome is not portrayed as a notably religious entity in the film, although historically it was at this time Christian and recent emperors, including Theodosius, had added to the persecution of non-Christians by ordering traditional forms of worship to be regarded as treasonous.37 In Agora, however, the brutality of the Christians is restricted to Cyril and his Alexandrians, while Rome essentially fulfils the role of a glorified peacekeeping force. Roman presence is largely non-existent in the first half of the film until violence escalates and soldiers appear like riot-police to block the entrance of the Serapeum. A declaration from the emperor then decrees that the library is to be handed over to the Christians; an act that, while showcasing Rome’s influence and favouritism towards Christianity, suggests a lack of local knowledge or consideration of events on the ground. The decision results in a wealth of social, historical and cultural materials housed in the library being destroyed by the Christians, as well as numerous casualties as the pagans flee from the building. The scenes of devastation in such a culturally significant building could be regarded as an allusion to the looting of Iraq’s museums following the



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2003 invasion in which numerous ancient artefacts were damaged, destroyed or looted. In the second half of the film the role of Rome increases through its attribution to the character of Orestes. Originally one of Hypatia’s pupils, he converts to Christianity and becomes a Roman prefect (an administrative official). Amenábar elaborates on Orestes’ shifting position of authority through visual parallels between the first and second halves of the film: in the first, a number of scenes take place in Hypatia’s classroom where Orestes and the other students sit on tiered seating to observe her lessons. In the second, however, this is replaced by a small senate-like chamber where the other administrators and officials sit in tiers facing Orestes, who in turn sits on a large ornate throne. Where Hypatia was in confident command of her classroom during the earlier scenes, when she addresses Orestes in the council chamber her gender emphasises her isolation among the elderly male politicians. The majority of the men present have also converted to Christianity and succumbed to Cyril’s popularity with the masses and his extremist teachings. Despite Orestes’ position of authority as a representative of Rome he too is pressured to accept Cyril’s misogynistic reading of scripture and is assaulted by Ammonius for his refusal to kneel before the holy text. Compared to the militaristic male protagonists of the 1950s–60s cycle and the aggressively masculine protagonists of recent epics, such as Maximus, Leonidas and Achilles, Orestes and Davus rarely, if ever, exert any dominance over those around them – especially with Hypatia. Davus almost rapes her until his conscience prevails, but he then fails to warn her of the Christian plot to kill her. Later, he must ask Hypatia’s permission to euthanise her before she is to be stoned as he cannot bring himself to take action. Orestes, as a symbol of Rome and moral Christianity, is overpowered by Cyril’s popular support, assaulted in the street and unable to protect Hypatia. An avatar for Roman imperialism, his inability to temper the religious extremism or disharmony in Alexandria or to protect the women who suffer because of Cyril’s proclamations could suggest a criticism of America’s attempts to enforce order and improve the situation for the women of Afghanistan. As the invasion approached in 2001, the Bush administration used the plight of Afghan women under the Taliban as a humanitarian cause to further justify US military action in the region.38 In Agora, Orestes’ intervention relies upon Hypatia’s conversion to Christianity and when she refuses he is powerless to prevent her death without risking an all-out war with Cyril. Unlike the 1950s–60s epic cycle where the city of Rome symbolised the empire’s power, grandeur and vice, post-9/11 Roman epics have largely been set in the empire’s provinces. In each, we see Rome as a corrupt, weak, or failing empire and not the stronghold of world domination as proclaimed in the prologues of the 1950s–60s epics. Amenábar’s depiction of civil unrest between religions and Rome’s inability to restore order could also be regarded as a metaphor for the US presence in Iraq following the invasion where looting and violence between Sunni, Shi’a and Kurdish populations increased. The scenes of rioting in Agora feature a series of sweeping overhead shots that pull increasingly further back from the action until they reveal the entire planet, as Amenábar gives the viewer

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Figure 9.2  The camera rises up to give an overview of the religious riots in the streets of Alexandria in Agora. Source: Agora, directed by Alejandro Amenábar © Mod Producciones 2009. All rights reserved.

the perspective of a drone or satellite camera (see Figure 9.2). The film alludes to contemporary America and their distance from ground-level realities and the ability to enact change, themes that permeate the Ridley Scott thriller Body of Lies (2008). Scott’s film likewise uses high-altitude drone and satellite imagery to portray the disjuncture between the chaos and violence on the ground as viewed by an American operative in the Middle East, and the emotional and experiential detachment of the CIA ‘intelligence’ officer in the United States conducting the operation. Agora is an unconventional epic that does not display genre hybridisation to the same extent as previous epics in terms of narrative structure. However, in its use of high-altitude imagery, its portrayal of Christians as evocative of contemporary terrorist organisations, and a protagonist who is caught up in the ensuing maelstrom of religious-motivated violence, Agora resembles many terrorist thrillers released contemporaneously, including Munich (2005), Syriana (2005), Rendition (2007), The Kingdom (2007) and Body of Lies. In their depiction of terrorist killings and acts of reciprocal violence the films acknowledge the collateral damage among innocent civilians within the War on Terror (if Munich is read allegorically), as does Agora. In following the violence in Alexandrian Egypt through the eyes of the impartial, atheist Hypatia and culminating in her death, Agora embodies the same thematic concerns as contemporaneous thrillers. As Amenábar has stated, Agora is evidently an attack on religious extremism in its varied forms, although the casting and costumes in his film suggest that the Taliban are the principal targets of this message. In equating Rome with America, however, the film criticises US interventionism and its occupation of foreign territories, portraying it as an imperialist power in decline. Although the film is a rare exception in this cycle in that it does not portray standard warfare and therefore does not borrow from the combat film, it nevertheless hybridises the ancient world epic with the terrorism thriller in its portrayal of religious violence, civilian casualties and use of high-altitude imagery. As with the other



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epics discussed in this cycle, the film uses the distancing guise of history to allow multiple interpretations of its story, but viewed in conjuncture with the cast and director’s promoted readings the film, its critical reception, genre hybridisation and anomalous use of an unconventional setting, structure and protagonist, Agora is perhaps the most unambiguous example of an ancient world epic as contemporary allegory in the post-Gladiator cycle.

Notes 1 Stephen Prothero, ‘Jesus Nation, Catholic Christ’, in On The Passion of the Christ, 278. 2 For Kingdom of Heaven, see Russell, The Historical Epic and Contemporary Hollywood, 219–20. For Black Death, see Wetmore, Post 9/11 Horror in American Cinema, 140–50. 3 Jillian Schwedler, ‘Introduction’, in Understanding the Contemporary Middle East, 1. 4 Jillian Schwedler, ‘Religion and Politics in the Middle East’, in Understanding the Contemporary Middle East, 388. 5 Schwedler, ‘Religion and Politics in the Middle East’, 388. 6 Corey K. Creekmur, ‘The Sound of the “War on Terror”’, in Reframing 9/11, 87. 7 Schwedler, ‘Religion and Politics in the Middle East’, 373. 8 Ibid., 373, 382. 9 Gerner and Schrodt, ‘Middle Eastern Politics’, 89. 10 Ian R. Manners and Barbara McKean, ‘The Middle East: A Geographic Preface’, in Understanding the Contemporary Middle East, 11. 11 George W. Bush, ‘Statement by the President in His Address to the Nation’, The White House – George W. Bush, 11 September 2001, accessed 11 May 2014, http:​//geo​rgewb​ ush-w​hiteh​ouse.​archi​ves.g​ov/ne​ws/re​lease​s/200​1/09/​20010​911-1​6.htm​l. 12 Woodward, Bush at War, 32, 43, 45, 48, 63. 13 Ibid., 45. 14 Ann Tétreault, ‘International Relations’, 156. 15 Woodward, Bush at War, 236, 294. 16 George W. Bush, ‘Remarks by the President upon Arrival: South Lawn’, The White House – George W. Bush, 16 September 2001, accessed 11 May 2014, http:​//geo​rgewb​ ush-w​hiteh​ouse.​archi​ves.g​ov/ne​ws/re​lease​s/200​1/09/​20010​916-2​.html​. 17 George W. Bush, ‘Islam Is Peace’, The White House – George W. Bush, 17 September 2001, accessed 11 May 2014, http:​//geo​rgewb​ush-w​hiteh​ouse.​archi​ves.g​ov/ne​ws/re​ lease​s/200​1/09/​20010​917-1​1.htm​l. 18 Richard T. Cooper, ‘General Casts War in Religious Terms’, Los Angeles Times, 16 October 2003, accessed 11 May 2014, http:​//art​icles​.lati​mes.c​om/20​03/oc​t/16/​natio​n/ na-​gener​al16.​See also: ‘US Is “Battling Satan” Says General’, BBC News, 17 October 2003, accessed 11 May 2014, http:​//new​s.bbc​.co.u​k/1/h​i/wor​ld/am​erica​s/319​9212.​stm. 19 McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 33. 20 Ibid., 45. 21 Charlotte Booth, Hypatia: Mathematician, Philosopher, Myth (Stroud: Fonthill Media, 2017), 31. 22 Booth, Hypatia, 9, 14–15, 27. 23 Ibid., 11. 24 Ibid., 34–5, 39–40.

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25 Nisbet, Ancient Greece in Film and Popular Culture, 7: Brandon Judell, ‘Highs, Edward Norton, Hef and Breakout Filmmakers at Huge Seattle Film Fest’, Indiewire, 8 June 2010, accessed 23 April 2014, http:​//www​.indi​ewire​.com/​artic​le/hi​ghs_e​dward​_nort​ on_he​f_and​_brea​kout_​filmm​akers​_at_h​uge_s​eattl​e_fil​m_fes​t. 26 Patrick Goldstein, ‘The Big Picture – At Cannes: Alejandro Amenabar’s Provocative New Historical Thriller’, Los Angeles Times, 17 May 2009, accessed 23 April 2014, http:​ //lat​imesb​logs.​latim​es.co​m/the​_big_​pictu​re/20​09/05​/from​-cann​es-ag​ora-a​lejan​dro-a​ menab​ars-p​rovoc​ative​-new-​histo​rical​-thri​ller.​html.​ 27 For examples, see Marshall Fine, ‘The Rachel Weisz Theorem’, Hollywood and Fine, 1 June 2010, accessed 23 April 2014, http:​//hol​lywoo​dandf​i ne.c​om/th​e-rac​hel-w​eisz-​ theor​em/; ‘Agora – Max Minghella’, YouTube video, 2:34, posted by ‘entrevistasEDC’, 8 October 2009, accessed 23 April 2014, https​://ww​w.you​tube.​com/w​atch?​v=nZ-​9ngpD​ z8s; ‘Agora – Oscar Isaac’, YouTube video, 2:18, posted by ‘entrevistasEDC’, 10 October 2009, accessed 23 April 2014, https​://ww​w.you​tube.​com/w​atch?​v=Ci1​3WRN2​Sws. 28 ‘Hypatia, History and a Never-Ending Story’, Sydney Morning Herald, 19 May 2009, accessed 23 April 2014, http:​//www​.smh.​com.a​u/new​s/ent​ertai​nment​/film​/hypa​tia-h​ istor​y-and​-a-ne​veren​ding-​story​/2009​/05/1​9/124​24987​45843​.html​?page​=full​page#​ conte​ntSwa​p1. 29 Peter Bradshaw, ‘Agora’, The Guardian, 22 April 2010, accessed 23 April 2014, http:​ //www​.theg​uardi​an.co​m/fil​m/201​0/apr​/22/a​gora-​revie​w ; Phil De Semlyen, ‘Agora’, Empire, 19 April 2010, accessed 23 April 2014, http:​//www​.empi​reonl​ine.c​om/mo​vies/​ agora​/revi​ew/. 30 Booth, Hypatia, 54. 31 ‘Civil Groups Protest New Anti-Christian Film’, Catholic News Agency, 7 October 2009, accessed 23 April 2014, http:​//www​.cath​olicn​ewsag​ency.​com/n​ews/c​ivil_​group​ s_pro​test_​new_a​ntich​risti​an_fi​lm/. 32 Robert Barron, ‘Christians Must Resist Dangerous Silliness of Agora’, Catholic New World, 9 May 2010, accessed 23 April 2014, http:​//www​.cath​olicn​ewwor​ld.co​m/cnw​ onlin​e/201​0/050​9/bar​ron.a​spx. 33 Irene A. Artemi, ‘The Historical Inaccuracies of the Movie Agora by Alejandro Amenábar’, Impantokratoros, n.d., accessed 23 April 2014, http:​//www​.impa​ntokr​atoro​ s.gr/​D3C02​F38.e​n.asp​x. 34 Scott Holleran, ‘Interview: Alejandro Amenábar on Agora’, interview with Alejandro Amenábar, Scott Holleran. Writer, 18 April 2012, accessed 23 April 2014, http:​//sco​ tthol​leran​.com/​histo​ry/in​tervi​ew-al​ejand​ro-am​enaba​r-on-​agora​/. 35 Taraki, ‘The Role of Women’, 367–9. See also: Woodward, Bush at War, 32. 36 ‘Hypatia, History and a Never-Ending Story’. 37 Booth, Hypatia, 41. 38 James Gerstenzang and Lisa Getter, ‘Laura Bush Addresses State of Afghan Women’, Los Angeles Times, 18 November 2001, accessed 14 May 2014, http:​//art​icles​.lati​mes.c​ om/20​01/no​v/18/​news/​mn-56​02; Weber, Imagining America at War, 86–9.

CChapter 10 PASSION PROJECT: FAITH, HORROR AND PROPAGANDA IN THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST (2004)

Compared to the 1950s–60s cycle, the post-Gladiator (2000) epics thus far discussed have largely emulated Scott’s film in omitting Christianity from their narratives or else, as we have seen in King Arthur (2004) and Agora (2009), vilified Christianity as the cause of violence and unrest. However, in stark contrast to these films is Mel Gibson’s 2004 biblical epic The Passion of the Christ, the first major ancient world epic to be released in the wake of Gladiator. The film continues to be divisive, inspiring heated discussion among academics, faith groups and social commentators. It is not the aim of this chapter to enter into theological debates, but rather to continue the themes of this book and examine the film through the prism of genre evolution and hybridity. Made by a Christian filmmaker, The Passion of the Christ recalls many of the tropes of previous ‘Christ films’, but drastically reimagines them by hybridising them with the horror film. The latter is often synonymous with social commentary, George A. Romero’s Living Dead series being a prime example, and this chapter therefore considers the trends of post-9/11 horror films to assess whether its influence on The Passion of the Christ contributes to potential analogous and allegorical readings.

Directing Traffic The Passion of the Christ was literally a ‘passion project’ for writer-director Mel Gibson, whose production company supplied the $30m budget.1 Raised a Traditionalist Catholic, Gibson famously rediscovered his religion in the early 1990s during rehabilitation from alcoholism after a troubled period in which he reportedly contemplated suicide.2 His reinvigorated faith seemingly manifested itself in his roles, including the saviour-figure William Wallace in Braveheart (1995), the catholic Col. Hal Moore in We Were Soldiers (2002) and a catholic priest who rediscovers his faith in Signs (2002). The Passion of the Christ was therefore regarded as Gibson’s religious identity writ large, and as the co-writer, director, producer and biggest celebrity name attached to the film his image was very much in the public eye. During the publicity tour he went so far as to claim he had

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been divinely inspired, with a higher spirit working through him to make the film while he was essentially ‘directing traffic’.3 Nevertheless, as the first epic to follow Gladiator the film was a risk: it is an openly religious film, features graphic scenes of torture, uses Latin, Hebrew and Aramaic dialogue, and features no scenes of warfare or gladiatorial combat. The Passion of the Christ depicts the final hours of Jesus’s life, opening with his prayers in the Garden of Gethsemane and following him through his arrest, trial before the Sanhedrin, appearances before Herod and Pilate, flogging, the road to Calvary, the crucifixion and finally his resurrection. In its selection of this narrative and use of the Gospels (alongside the influence of other textual and visual sources), the film conforms to what Babington and Evans define as a ‘Christ film’.4 Unlike the Roman Republican period, Imperial Rome allows for narratives either contemporaneous with the life of Jesus or else set during the foundation of Christianity and its growth into a popular religion. Babington and Evans have defined these two forms of Christian-themed subgenres as the ‘Christ film’ and the ‘Roman/Christian’ epic, respectively.5 Of the Christ film they discuss four examples: Cecil B. DeMille’s The King of Kings (1927), Nicolas Ray’s King of Kings (1961), George Stevens’ The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965) and Martin Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), although they occasionally reference Pier Paolo Pasolini’s The Gospel According to St. Matthew (1964). Gibson’s film adheres to certain conventions of the Christ film in its use of scriptural sources and general reverence towards portraying Jesus on-screen, inviting the viewer to ‘gaze at the protagonist in comforting ways and, while registering others’ reactions to him, forbids access to his consciousness’.6 Scorsese’s fallible Jesus in The Last Temptation of Christ was a controversial exception to this rule, but as the film makes clear from its opening credits it is based on Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel of the same name and not on scripture. Though the historical context of The Passion of the Christ is not explored in depth, the events depicted occur in a Roman-occupied province in the Middle East and feature scenes of civil disturbance and violence between members of different religious groups. It is therefore a ‘usable past’ with the central ‘Good versus Evil’ motif a ready-made allegory. In the Christ film, however, it is less common to find allegorical material specific to the period of production compared to the other epics of the 1950s–60s cycle. That said, in Ray’s King of Kings Babington and Evans identify allusions to the Holocaust in its depiction of Romans massacring Jews.7 They also read allusions to the formation of Israel, with Herod as the Arab ‘Other’ persecuting the Jewish people and Barabbas’s calling on them to defend their nation. Gibson’s film inspired controversy over its depiction of some Jewish characters and this debate has dominated the majority of the academic discourse on the film. Gibson defended himself by claiming that ‘critics who have a problem with me don’t really have a problem with me in this film … they have a problem with the four Gospels’, although his suggestion that the film strictly adheres to scripture is problematic.8 The Gospels regularly contradict each other and themselves, and thus The Passion of the Christ is actually a selective amalgamation of the Gospels and not a literal adaptation. Furthermore, Gibson and his co-scriptwriter Benedict



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Fitzgerald base large portions of the film on The Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ by Anne Catherine Emmerich, a nineteenth-century German nun and stigmatic who supposedly experienced a number of remarkably graphic visions of Jesus’s Passion which were later transcribed (and possibly embellished).9 Emmerich and the Bible’s accounts of the Passion contain an array of supernatural occurrences that many would regard as purely symbolic, although promotional material for the film suggests Gibson intended audiences to view them as fact. Published to coincide with the film’s release and featuring a foreword by Gibson, Inside the Passion: An Insider’s Look at ‘The Passion of the Christ’ by Father John Bartunek offers a ‘guidebook to enrich the typical “tourist” experiencing The Passion of the Christ’.10 Given full access to the making of the film, Bartunek’s book interprets the religious significance of the film scene by scene informing those new to the Passion narrative while reinforcing the meaning for occasional church goers. The book seems designed to encourage conversions to Catholicism or perhaps Christianity at large, often using broad and questionable generalisations such as: ‘All Christians believe this happened, since it is recorded in the New Testament.’11 The book leaves no room for a theological debate and omits any agnostic or atheistic interpretations of biblical events. More worryingly, Bartunek argues that the supernatural events recorded in the Bible’s Passion narrative actually happened. For example, referring to an early scene in Gethsemane in which a host of unrealistic and unbelievable events already occur (Jesus speaks to Satan, tramples a spectral snake and heals a man’s severed ear, while Judas is confronted by a demon), Bartunek writes, In some of the early screenings, Christians familiar with the New Testament asked why the angels don’t appear in the Gethsemane scene. It was another instance of the thousand-and-one-choices Christian artists must make about how closely to follow the Gospel narratives. In this case, as in many others, the choice reflects a keen cinematic prudence. Because most people haven’t seen angels, it would be hard to make them appear real. Reality and believability were absolutely essential.12

The quest for ‘reality’ extended to the exceedingly graphic portrayal of Jesus’ torture and crucifixion. As mentioned in relation to King Arthur, the use of torture for judicial purposes during the medieval period was reflected in the artwork of the time, but also coincided with what Alfred McCoy describes as ‘a subtle shift in theological emphasis from the life of Jesus to the death of Christ’.13 This was accompanied by increasingly detailed imagery of the Passion narrative which McCoy argues was ‘creating an artistic convention of the pain inflicted on Christ’s battered body that mimed and may have legitimated the increasingly gruesome legal spectacles of torture and public execution’.14 The Gospels themselves provide little detail on the methods of torture or the full extent of Jesus’ ordeal with only scattered references to him being flogged, mocked and forced to wear a crown of thorns.15 Taking inspiration from Emmerich and with the aid of prosthetics and CGI, Gibson’s Jesus is beaten, pushed from a bridge

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to hang by his chains, whipped with canes and flogged with a metal-tipped cat-o’nine tails before the crown of thorns is beaten onto his head. He is then made to carry his full cross (historically it would just have been the cross-bar) and whipped continually along the road to Calvary. Once there, his palms and feet are nailed to the cross, his shoulder dislocated and his body crushed under the structure. Eventually it is raised and he is left to crucify, his death confirmed by a spear in his side. This barrage of gore accumulates into what horror novelist Stephen King wittily describes as ‘Sam Peckinpah does Good Friday.’16 Gibson, however, has argued that the violence was designed to illustrate the suffering he believes Christ underwent in taking on mankind’s sins, stating, ‘I wanted it to be shocking … . And I also wanted it to be extreme. I wanted it to push the viewer over the edge … so that they see the enormity – the enormity of that sacrifice – to see that someone could endure that and still come back with love and forgiveness, even through extreme pain and suffering and ridicule.’17 He has also said that his aim in making the film was to ‘help people understand and experience the suffering of Christ’.18 Yet Gibson actually does little to help audiences understand the historical reasons for Jesus’ suffering, such as why the Jewish High priests wanted him crucified, the political reasons why Rome condoned this, or the hierarchy of power between the Jewish temple, Herod and Pilate. As to why Jesus is crucified beyond the anger of the High Priests for his blasphemy and Pilate’s desire to avoid civil disturbance the only reason given is that it is pre-ordained or commanded by a higher power. As Jesus says, ‘No-one takes my life from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down and the power to take it up again.’ In so doing, it suggests that no person or party is complicit in killing Christ: including the Jewish priests.19 Indeed, the hand that drives the first nail into Jesus’ palm is Gibson’s own, a symbolic cameo acknowledging his own perceived complicity in Christ’s death. Gibson does, however, emphasise the experiential quality of the film by utilising the role of the onlooker. As scriptwriter Fitzgerald states, ‘Often, in the course of these fifteen hours, it was going to be the people around our Lord, not what was happening to him, that was going to be controlling the story.’20 This is evidenced by the film’s structure, which Neal King believes can be split into four acts – although I favour defining this as a three-act structure with King’s ‘fourth act’, the resurrection, being an epilogue due to its brevity, placement and content.21 The first act, from the opening in Gethsemane to Judas’s death, places emphasis on the character of Judas, his betrayal of Christ, his feelings of shame and guilt, and his eventual coercion by Satan and a group of demonic children to take his own life. Judas’ hanging then sees the role of the primary onlooker pass to Pilate, who is deciding Jesus’ fate during the trial. Once the order for Jesus’ crucifixion is given the third act begins with the role of onlooker transferring to Simon of Cyrene as he watches and then aids Jesus carrying the cross. In each of the three main acts, Judas, Pilate and Simon are placed in a position in which they can help Jesus. Judas not only fails to help but sets Jesus’ Passion in motion, while Pilate is torn between his own desire to release him and the prospect of a riot, so concedes to pressure and consents to the crucifixion. Simon, by contrast, is ordered by the Romans to



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help carry Jesus’ cross and though initially reluctant finds pity and, inspired by Jesus’ strength of will, helps him. As King argues, ‘By focusing attention in this way, the writers may have made it easier for a viewer to feel like a sympathetic but guilty party.’22 One of the redemptive moments of the film’s brutal series of events is in Simon’s decision to help Jesus and his awe in what he witnesses, urging the viewer to emulate Simon and not Judas or Pilate. The significance of the onlooker is reinforced through Gibson’s use of closeups on faces throughout the film. Perhaps inspired by Carl Theodor Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) which uses a similar device, these images emphasise the emotional response of the onlookers by juxtaposing the agonised grimaces of Jesus and the flinches, jeers and tears of the observers. Gibson also places his camera among the crowd, as Pasolini does during Jesus’ trial in The Gospel According to St. Matthew, restricting our view and making the viewer feel part of the throng. Indeed, although much of the dialogue derives from the Bible (as well as some other sources), The Passion of the Christ is driven first and foremost by its visuals. Gibson’s original intent was to screen the film devoid of subtitles, meaning audiences would be wholly reliant on the imagery to follow the story and emote with the characters.23 The use of reaction shots and close-ups are therefore an effective way of heightening the emotion of a scene. This is particularly evident in the characterisation of Jesus’ mother, Mary, who is an ever-present onlooker, along with Mary Magdalene (henceforth just Magdalene) and the disciple John. Unlike Judas, Pilate and Simon, these three do not undergo a transformation or gain new insight through observing the Passion, but the pain and anguish they show watching Jesus’ ordeal form a constant contrast to his stoic endurance. In presenting the Passion in this manner Gibson adheres to the conventions of the Christ film in its reverence towards its subject. However, it is in the portrayal of Jesus’ Passion where the film differs most to its predecessors.

‘Torture Porn’ Gibson’s approach to Jesus’ Passion is best exemplified in the central set-piece of the film: the flagellation. Following Pilate’s order to his commander, Abenander, that Jesus be beaten but not killed Jesus is led into a courtyard and tied to a rock. We are introduced to the Roman soldiers as they laugh, bark and snarl at each other, showing yellowed teeth and metaphorically suggesting Jesus has been thrown to the dogs (see Figure 10.1). They also speak to one another in non-subtitled Latin, alienating the viewer to increase the feeling of unease. Unlike the onlookers who are shot by static, stable cameras, the Romans are repeatedly shot with handheld cameras and whip pans, evocative of their instability and psychotic demeanour. They proceed to whip Jesus with canes as he sinks to his knees in pain and the images are intercut with shots of the soldiers as they watch or perform the torture, while Caiaphas and the priests look on with blank expressions and leave before the flagellation. When it comes, Jesus’ body is torn apart in a montage of reaction shots and close-ups on his lacerated skin.

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Figure 10.1  Roman guards prepare to beat Jesus in The Passion of the Christ. Source: The Passion of the Christ, directed by Mel Gibson © Icon Productions 2004. All rights reserved.

Extended sequences of torture are relatively uncommon in ancient world epics, although Kim Newman has compared scenes of torture in contemporary horror films to Gladiator and the Roman love of elaborate games, unwilling participants and resulting bloodshed.24 Nevertheless, previous ‘Christ films’ rarely showed Jesus’ torture in any detail or for a prolonged period. Even the eponymous hero of Spartacus is not seen to be tortured before his crucifixion: instead, he is made to fight in a makeshift arena for the sadistic pleasure of Crassus and the other Romans, reiterating Newman’s point. As discussed in relation to King Arthur, torture has gained newfound popularity (or profundity) in post-9/11 cinema and television. One particular addition to the horror film genre is the so-called ‘torture porn’ film, which Wetmore asserts is a product of the post-9/11 discourse on torture. He argues that the genre reflects ‘the ambiguous relationship between Americans as victims, Americans as heroic defenders of freedom and Americans as torturers. “Torture porn” was born in the media’s presentation of Abu Ghraib and Guantánamo.’25 The term ‘torture porn’ derives from the title of a 2006 article for New York magazine by David Edelstein (although as Newman points out, the term does not actually appear in the article itself so may have come from an editor), and Newman, Wetmore and Edelstein identify films such as the Saw (2004–2010) and Hostel (2005–2011) franchises, Wolf Creek (2005), The Ruins (2008) and I Spit on Your Grave (2010) as examples.26 They also note that The Passion of the Christ contains moments reminiscent of these films, such as shots of a table decorated with various implements of torture, extended scenes of violent punishment, and a focus on body horror.27 Jeffrey Richards similarly concludes in relation to Gibson’s film: ‘There is little to distinguish it, apart from the Latin and Aramaic, from the currently popular genre of exploitation gore-fests like Hostel and Saw.’28 Wetmore lists a number of identifying features of ‘torture porn’ films that reflect their contemporary concerns: In all of these films [except the Saw franchise], Americans roughly the same age as those fighting in the Middle East travel to a nation where they are not safe.



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The young people are then set upon by the dangers of the foreign land, in the form of evil foreigners, natural and supernatural terrors and their own naiveté. Being an American does not protect them. Being an American, as in Hostel, in fact, makes them targets.29

He clarifies that not all films that feature torture are ‘torture porn’, citing Syriana (2005) and Rendition (2007) as direct depictions of the contemporary use of torture in the War on Terror. Wetmore, drawing on an essay by Jeremy Morris, posits four characteristics that differentiate ‘torture porn’ from other films depicting torture: ‘First, torture must be “the primary vehicle of fear”, second, the torture must be a “realistic depiction”, third, a rationale must be provided for the torture, and lastly, the victim must then be transformed into a torturer him or herself.’30 While The Passion of the Christ may not wholly conform to this list, Jesus’s torture and crucifixion do become the primary goal of Caiaphas and the depiction of torture is arguably realistic. However, the lack of historical context to the crucifixion limits how clear the rationale for the torture is; Jesus’ conflict with Satan could be regarded (at least symbolically) as the primary vehicle of fear; and Jesus does not become a torturer himself. While The Passion of the Christ is not indisputably a ‘torture porn’ film, it nevertheless contains elements of the subgenre, which to an extent includes the casting of the young, muscular American actor Jim Caviezel as Jesus among a largely Italian cast. As Wetmore argues, it is commonplace for ‘torture porn’ films to feature a young American protagonist, rendering the acts of violence perpetrated against him/her by a foreign ‘Other’ as a symbolic attack on the United States. However, when the American character survives the brutal ordeal and exacts a cathartic (for them and the audience) retaliation on the torturer Jason Middleton believes the motif ‘reaffirms a (neo)conservative view of the necessity for American aggression in what is represented as a corrupt and dangerous world’.31 Where The Passion of the Christ differs is that the catharsis derives from Jesus’ resurrection rather than retribution. As Edelstein asks, ‘Are there moral uses for this sort of violence? Certainly Mel Gibson aimed to achieve a kind of catharsis – a purification – via the two-hour beating, lashing, and scourging of his Jesus, although some of us felt that he’d made his usual bloody revenge picture in which the revenge part had been lopped off (or left to the spectator).’32 ‘His usual revenge picture’ here applies to a wide array of Gibson’s action films, many of which see his characters enduring scenes of torture followed by redemptive violence, such as Lethal Weapon (1987) and Payback (1999). In Braveheart, his medieval epic, Gibson stars as Scottish hero William Wallace who is condemned to be ‘purified by pain’; publically tortured and executed by being hanged, drawn and quartered. Prior to this Wallace is seen in his prison cell praying, which Gibson appears to allude to in the opening Gethsemane sequence of The Passion of the Christ as in both scenes the characters are lit by white beams of light cutting through shades of blue and shadow. Wallace, like Jesus, prays in reference to his upcoming ordeal saying he is afraid and asks for the ‘strength to die well’. He is then led through a jeering crowd to his place of execution, tortured by representatives of an imperialistic empire and tied to a cruciform structure. As

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with Christ, Wallace’s ability to endure pain inspires conversion among those in the crowd who at first jeer at his suffering but soon encourage him to beg for mercy and end his pain. Although allusions to the crucifixion in Hollywood cinema are plentiful, Gibson’s depiction of Wallace’s execution appears to be both inspired by Christ’s Passion while also informing his own depiction of the Passion thereafter. Similarly, Gibson’s next film as director after The Passion of the Christ, Apocalypto (2006), features scenes of ritual punishment, jeering crowds and public execution. As Quinby argues, The Passion [of the Christ], however, upholds endurance over revenge, and by the end of Braveheart and Apocalypto, that theme is also ultimately embraced as the higher calling. In each case the overriding message is that undergoing torture rather than exacting revenge makes the man a hero if he withstands it with nobility, bravery, and honor. For these heroes suffering bloody torture – not inflicting it – is what makes them worthy in Gibson’s eyes.33

This theory was notably evidenced in Gibson’s 2016 combat film Hacksaw Ridge, in which protagonist Desmond Doss’s Catholicism leads him to become a conscientious objector in the Second World War. Acting as a medic during one of the bloodiest battles of the Pacific campaign, Doss endures the graphic horrors of war in order to save lives while he refuses to kill a single enemy combatant throughout his ordeal. Doss survives the war and, as with The Passion of the Christ, the catharsis of the narrative is that both men emerge from their suffering without thoughts of violence or retribution.

Supernatural The resurrection is the most miraculous sequence in The Passion of the Christ or, to borrow a phrase from Mark Kermode, the most ‘phantasmagorical’.34 Kermode argues that The Passion of the Christ’s similarities to ‘torture porn’ are not the film’s only associations to the horror genre. The opening scene in the Garden of Gethsemane is shrouded in thick mists, moonlight, and silhouetted trees, while unseen birds screech and the non-diegetic soundtrack creates an eerie tone. The appearance of Satan, his conjuring of a snake, the healing of a severed ear by supernatural powers and the demon that snarls at Judas are all comparable to events typically synonymous with horror films rather than ancient world epics. Stephen Prothero likewise notes that the film includes ‘shackles and chains, sadistic torturers, [an] innocent maiden, stone-heavy architecture, and supernatural terror’, all of which are tropes of gothic horror.35 Satan appears throughout the film, with the most significant of these moments being the flagellation sequence. Before the high priests leave Satan appears gliding unseen among them, which Thistlewaite interprets as the Jews being in league with him.36 However, while the scene implies Satan might be working through the priests there is no suggestion that there is any conscious unity between them: they



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are unable to see him, inferring that they are unaware that he is influencing their actions. Instead, this appearance recalls the Gethsemane scene in which Satan tells Jesus that ‘no man can bear this burden’ – the ‘burden’ being humanity’s sins. By reappearing at the beginning of Jesus’ physical torture Satan is acting as a reminder of his earlier assertion that Jesus cannot endure the punishment. When Jesus manages to stand up following his beating with canes it is a gesture of defiance to Satan rather than the Romans or Jewish priests. Satan reappears later in the flagellation sequence when Mary and Magdalene move out of the watching crowd and weep for Jesus’ pain and their inability to comfort him. Magdalene kneels and hugs Mary, who comforts her in a reassuringly maternal manner. We then see the antithesis of this relationship as Satan glides through the Roman torturers cradling a child in his arms. Again, the Romans cannot see him suggesting he is either working through them or is appearing only to Jesus. The child in Satan’s arms then turns towards Jesus, revealing that it has the face of an elderly man in mockery of the Madonna and child image (see Figure 10.2). Throughout the film Satan is the embodiment of good gone wrong: a baby should be the ultimate form of innocence but is here corrupted, while Satan’s appearance is that of a beautiful woman who has been rendered androgynous. Indeed, Gibson has said that his intention for the look of Satan in the film was that it would be appealing but that there would be something unsettling and ‘not quite right’ about it.37 Similarly, the young children who taunt Judas into taking his own life are revealed to be demonic spirits. Bartunek explains, ‘Using the demonic children was another way to manifest the film’s conception of evil as something good gone horribly wrong. The children connote innocence, loyalty, docility; the demonic twist connotes lost innocence, lost loyalty, lost docility – losses that Satan uses to drive Judas to the brink of despair.’38 Unlike other ‘Christ films’ that glory in Jesus’s miracles such as healing the sick, feeding the hungry and raising the dead, Gibson’s film focuses on sinister or frightening aspects of the supernatural, including the appearances by Satan. As Kermode summarises, Ultimately, for all the theological bluster and intense inter-faith arguments which it has provoked, The Passion seems to me a quintessential horror film, a visceral cinematic assault which is no more or less ‘Christian’ than Ken Russell’s The Devils or Abel Ferrara’s Bad Lieutenant. All are examples of extreme moviemaking from flamboyant film-makers who are passionately obsessed with the mysteries of Catholicism. But all are also rooted in the saleable aesthetic of the carnival sideshow; promising the audience an eye-opening spectacle of grotesque proportions.39

The film’s ‘saleability’ is a key point. Gibson claims that he intended the supernatural elements to be scary but that The Passion of the Christ is not a horror film despite it being rife with horror movie tropes and gothic imagery.40 Horror is a perennially popular staple of the US box office and, as with 300’s appeals to the comic-book movie in later years, Gibson arguably increased the marketability of his unusual epic

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through allusions to the genre. His film even parallels certain trends in horror films from this period as, along with its similarities to the ‘torture porn’ cycle, Wetmore has noted a rise in religious-orientated horror cinema after 9/11. In particular, he has identified growing numbers of exorcism-related plots in which ‘fear is generated because the religious teachings about evil are correct. There is a devil, there are demons, evil does exist and it can and must be fought and exorcized.’41 Kermode even compared The Passion of the Christ to The Exorcist (1973), and although he does not specify the connection the similarities are evident.42 The Exorcist sees a demon possess a young girl while her mother is rendered helpless and must watch as her child is tortured and undergoes a physical transformation. Those who conventionally hold power within society – police and doctors – are helpless to intervene and so two Catholic priests are brought in to exorcise the demon, culminating in one taking the demon into his own body and jumping to his death. The themes of faith, the mother–child relationship, sacrifice and the corruption of innocence are pronounced. In The Passion of the Christ, we see another mother– child relationship play out with a demonic force on hand to taunt both figures with the corruption of innocence visualised through deformed manifestations of a baby and children. Despite Pilate’s position of power in society, he ultimately seems unable – either through personal fears or through the predestined sequence of events – to intervene and Jesus undergoes a disturbing physical transformation through his torture. He is ultimately sacrificed to save others, taking the burden of sin upon himself. While the passion narrative obviously predates The Exorcist, Gibson’s focus on the disturbing, sinister aspects of the biblical tale nevertheless locates his film within the tradition of earlier religious-influenced horror cinema, including The Exorcist, The Omen (1976) and Rosemary’s Baby (1968). By increasing the relevance of Satan in the film Gibson gives us the ultimate antagonist pitted against a hero whose objective is, essentially, to die, but to do so he must first bear an inhuman amount of pain and suffering. William Fulco, who translated the film’s dialogue into Aramaic, has stated that ‘Mel was very intent on having a macho

Figure 10.2  Satan (Rosalinda Celentano) and his ‘baby’ (Davide Marotta) in The Passion of the Christ. Source: The Passion of the Christ, directed by Mel Gibson © Icon Productions 2004. All rights reserved.



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Jesus in charge. He wanted to make sure the Passion was something Jesus did, not something for which he was a victim.’43 In making Jesus an active participant in the Passion rather than the victim Gibson creates a symbolic conflict between the embodiment of Christianity and the ‘Other’, a ready-made allegory that was quickly taken up by a section of the film’s audience.

The Passion as Propaganda As an analogue for contemporary events The Passion of the Christ is a ‘usable past’ wherein the Romans are occupying an Eastern province in which they struggle to maintain law and order over religious factions. If this is equated to the American presence in Iraq in 2003–4 it may explain Pilate’s sympathetic portrayal by acknowledging the difficulties American soldiers were experiencing in the early months of the occupation maintaining order among the country’s Sunni and Shi’a populations. The film also reiterates the trope of the absent father/abandoned soldier-son familiar from combat films, although here the son endures a lengthy period of torture rather than combat. Indeed, Jesus undergoes a form of katabatic narrative in which he is led, with Satan as his psychopompos, through a metaphorical underworld to then re-emerge through his resurrection. Throughout his ordeal he is seemingly abandoned by his father and betrayed by those in patriarchal roles (the Jewish priests, Pilate), even asking ‘My God, why have you forsaken me?’ However, at the moment of his death a rain drop – like a tear – falls to earth and causes an earthquake that splits the Jewish temple in two. Through this symbolic display of sadness and rage it suggests that father and son have reconciled following the initial abandonment. Taken alongside the Greek mythological epics and rise of superhero films, narrative arcs featuring elements of fantasy and the supernatural such as The Passion of the Christ offered affirmative counterpoints to the bleak conclusions of films such as King Arthur by suggesting that fathers and sons will be reconciled after a period of suffering. Indeed, the interplay between fathers, sons and Christ imagery is writ large throughout Zack Snyder’s Superman film Man of Steel (2014), and could be regarded as bearing a cathartic and hopeful message that a social disjuncture between a populace and their ‘patriarchal’ institutions will be resolved. While aspects of Gibson’s portrayal of imperialist occupation and paternal abandonment could be regarded as alluding to events in Iraq or Afghanistan, such conclusions remain theoretical. However, there is evidence to suggest that the film nonetheless became politicised in light of contemporary events. As proposed earlier, 300 (2007) was embraced by some viewers seemingly as a ‘wish-fulfilment fantasy’ for American involvement in the Middle East. In its (arguably right-wing) depiction of the morally righteous Spartan defence of freedom it re-enacted the basic East/West conflict at the heart of the Iraq War through the distancing guise of ancient history, and in so doing it recalled Rambo: First Blood Part II (1985) in relation to the Vietnam War. The Spartan sacrifice at Thermopylae, as Cartledge argued, could be regarded as ideological suicide in defence of Western values.44

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With The Passion of the Christ, Mark Pizzato regards Jesus’ sacrifice as engaging with a similar theme: The Passion of the Christ, combining horror-film violence with mass-media fetishism and devotional rites, becomes much more than mere entertainment. It is a well-honed, double-edge sword, enlightening audiences with cathartic compassion and fear, yet refocusing the current rage of a terrorist age to perpetuate the dangerous ideals of cosmic battle and warrior sacrifice, giving our ordinary mortality a divine dimension.45

The ‘dangerous ideals’ Pizzato refers to is the willingness among some people to give their lives for their beliefs, especially their religion. The ideological suicide of the extremist hijackers on 9/11 and the subsequent War on Terror and ensuing conflicts brought the concept of a modern religious war into public discussion. In light of this, some communities in America appear to have utilised the message of sacrifice and endurance embodied in The Passion of the Christ as a rallying call for Christianity. Gibson, however, made no such connections between his film and the conflicts in the Middle East; he even spoke out against the war in Iraq while promoting Apocalypto, comparing the brutal acts of human sacrifice in the film to the United States ‘sending guys off to Iraq for no reason’.46 Nevertheless, The Passion of the Christ became an effective propaganda tool during a period in which some audiences, especially those on the Christian right, saw their faith as under siege. For example, Johnathan Vincent has noted the use of martial language among Christian groups following 9/11, such as congregations named ‘Kingdom Warriors’, ‘Force Ministries’ or ‘Campus Crusade’, as well as the proliferation of religious language used by the US military such as declarations of having ‘faith in the mission’.47 Gibson’s film tapped into the sense of national and/or religious embattlement following 9/11 in a similar manner to the way in which Black Hawk Down (2001) had resonated with audiences in the months following the attacks. Rev. Jack Graham, the president of the Southern Baptist Convention, even stated that Gibson’s film was ‘providence from God … that in the middle of an international war on terrorism, in the midst of a cultural and domestic war for the family, God raises up a standard’.48 A conservative Christian group, Women Influencing the Nation, likewise declared that ‘this battle has become bigger than Mel Gibson, and even bigger than this movie itself. It is a defining moment in the Culture War for the future of our country, our civilization and the world.’49 In promoting the film Gibson’s production company, Icon, approached the Christian public relations firm Outreach. They led a multi-platform campaign designed to unite various Christian groups to support the film and its message that ‘Christ died for our sins.’50 A website created by Outreach advised churches to begin designing week-long activities relating to the Passion to coincide with the movie’s release while spreading the word to the local community. They suggested that participants ‘carefully choose a neighbourhood you believe God wants you to reach. With multiple prayer teams, walk every street and pray for every house, asking that God would reach each person with the message of the cross through exposure to



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The Passion of the Christ.’51 One Texas businessman booked out an entire multiplex to screen the film on its opening day to more than 6,000 viewers, explaining that though the film would primarily appeal to the faithful he wanted to inspire them to become more actively Christian.52 Although ‘Christ films’ have typically not fared as well at the box office as Roman epics, The Passion of the Christ ultimately took over treble the worldwide box office takings of King Arthur, released that same year.53 When claims of anti-Semitism arose among liberal, democratic and Jewish academics and activists it created what Neal King calls a ‘marketing trap’, wherein ‘their critique of Biblical literalism translated into enmity toward Christ and rallied evangelicals and conservative Catholics to support the release’.54 The debate became increasingly politicised as polls found that frequent church goers who were being targeted by Outreach’s marketing campaigns generally voted Republican.55 By mobilising their community in support of the film these Republican/Conservative Christians were making a statement of political solidarity against Democrats, academics and liberals; in Caldwell’s words, support for The Passion of the Christ became ‘a red state/blue state issue’.56 This was also reflected in the response to the torture debate, as it was the Republican government who enacted many of the steps to utilise torture in the War on Terror and right-wing commentators such as Rush Limbaugh openly defended the American perpetrators.57 The issue was already in the public discourse prior to The Passion of the Christ’s release, but images from Abu Ghraib were made public after the film’s release and McCoy suggests that the film’s ‘blood-soaked scourging of the messiah may have prepared the American public for quiet acceptance of the Abu Ghraib photographs’.58 Discussing the impact of the film, he adds, ‘Whether coming to the cinema as ordinary moviegoers or as pious Christians, tens of millions of Americans now saw torture normalized as a central facet in the life and death of their saviour.’59 While The Passion of the Christ’s treatment of violence and supernatural horror differentiates it from its generic predecessors, at its core it is a deeply traditional, conservative epic. In displaying Jesus’ sacrifice and exemplary endurance of pain through faith, the film reaffirms the message of the Passion narrative for Christian audiences in a manner similar to Ben-Hur (1959) and The Robe (1953). The film’s portrayal of this symbolic event was then appropriated by the Christian Right in America and used as a form of propaganda to renew devotion to their faith during a period in which some saw it as embattled by non-Christians in the War on Terror. The film’s message of endurance through faith was an allegory that resonated with US audiences in particular and to date The Passion of the Christ is the most financially successful ancient world epic of the recent cycle.60 While it does not feature a narrator or reveal the recording of history in the same way as the previous films discussed in this book, it does include a prominent father/son relationship dealing with issues of abandonment and reconciliation. Furthermore, the film’s incorporation of imagery and aesthetics from the horror genre provides further evidence that hybridising the ancient world epic with other genres began in the first wave of films following Gladiator and was likely driven by commercial considerations. However, despite The Passion of the Christ’s success, it would not be until 2014 that the biblical epic returned in full.

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Notes 1 Penelope Patsuris, ‘What Mel’s Passion Will Earn Him’, 3 March 2004, accessed 28 November 2015, http:​//www​.forb​es.co​m/200​4/03/​03/cx​_pp_0​303me​l.htm​l. 2 ‘How Despairing Gibson Found “The Passion”’, ABC News, 17 February 2004, accessed 17 April 2014, http:​//abc​news.​go.co​m/Pri​metim​e/Osc​ars20​05/st​ory?i​d=132​399; see also Paula Fredriksen, ‘Preface’, in On The Passion of the Christ, xii. 3 Fredriksen, ‘Preface’, in On The Passion of the Christ, xvi. 4 Babington and Evans, Biblical Epics, 100–1. 5 Ibid., 4. 6 Ibid., 151. 7 Ibid., 129. 8 ‘How Despairing Gibson Found “The Passion”’. 9 Neal King, Controversies: The Passion of the Christ (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 92–3; Fredriksen, ‘Preface’, in On The Passion of the Christ, xiv. 10 John Bartunek, Inside the Passion: An Insider’s Look at The Passion of the Christ (West Chester: Ascension Press, 2005), 10. 11 Bartunek, Inside the Passion, 45. 12 Ibid., 29. 13 McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 156–7. 14 Ibid., 156–7. 15 Matthew 16.21, 20.18–19, 26.67, 27.26–31; Mark 10.33–4, 15.15, Luke 18.32–3, 22.63–5, 23.21; John 19.1–7. 16 Stephen King, ‘Stephen King on the “Passion” Phenomenon’, Entertainment Weekly, 1 February 2004, accessed 5 November 2013, http:​//www​.ew.c​om/ar​ticle​/2007​/02/0​1/ste​ phen-​king-​passi​on-ph​enome​non. 17 ‘How Despairing Gibson Found “The Passion”’. 18 Mel Gibson, ‘Foreword’, in Inside the Passion, 7. 19 Barry McMillan, ‘24 Frames…: Film Notes The Passion of the Christ by Mel Gibson’, The Furrow 55, no. 5 (May 2004): 302, accessed 15 August 2013, http://wwwjstor.org/ stable/27664960. 20 Benedict Fitzgerald quoted in King, Controversies, 76. 21 King, Controversies, 76–9. 22 Ibid., 75. 23 John Bailey and Stephen Pizzello, ‘A Savior’s Pain’, ed. Stephen Pizzello and Rachel K. Bosley, American Cinematographer (March 2004): 52. 24 Newman, Nightmare Movies, 492. 25 Wetmore, Post 9/11 Horror in American Cinema, 100. 26 Newman, Nightmare Movies, 487; David Edelstein, ‘Now Playing at Your Local Multiplex: Torture Porn’, New York: Movies, n.d., accessed 31 January 2014, http:// nymag.com/movies/features/15622/; Wetmore, Post 9/11 Horror in American Cinema, 97. 27 Newman, Nightmare Movies, 487. 28 Richards, Hollywood’s Ancient Worlds, 173. 29 Wetmore, Post 9/11 Horror in American Cinema, 111–2. 30 Wetmore, Post 9/11 Horror in American Cinema, 97; see also: Jeremy Morris, ‘The Justification of Torture-Horror: Retribution and Sadism in Saw, Hostel, and The Devil’s Rejects’, in The Philosophy of Horror, ed. Thomas Fahy (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2010), 42–56.



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31 Jason Middleton, ‘The Subject of Torture: Regarding the Pain of Americans in Hostel’, Cinema Journal 49, no. 4 (Summer 2010): 1, accessed 28 January 2014, http://www. jstor.org/stable/40801479; see also: Wetmore, Post 9/11 Horror in American Cinema, 113. 32 Edelstein, ‘Now Playing at Your Local Multiplex’. 33 Lee Quinby, ‘Mel Gibson’s Tortured Heroes: From the Symbolic Function of Blood to Spectacles of Pain’, in Screening Torture, 43. 34 Mark Kermode, ‘Drenched in the Blood of Christ’, The Guardian, 29 February 2004, accessed 12 August 2013, http:​//www​.theg​uardi​an.co​m/fil​m/200​4/feb​/29/m​elgib​son. m​arkke​rmode​. 35 Prothero, ‘Jesus Nation, Catholic Christ’, 273. 36 Susan Thistlewaite, ‘Mel Makes a War Movie’, in On The Passion of the Christ, 131. 37 ‘By His Wounds We Are Healed: The Making of The Passion of the Christ’, featured on The Passion of the Christ, dir. Mel Gibson (2004; Icon Home Entertainment, 2010), DVD. 38 Bartunek, Inside the Passion, 40. 39 Kermode, ‘Drenched in the Blood of Christ’. 40 ‘Notes on The Passion of the Christ – Commentary with Mel Gibson, Caleb Deschanel, and John Wright’, featured on The Passion of the Christ, dir. Mel Gibson (2004; Icon Home Entertainment, 2010), DVD. 41 Wetmore, Post 9/11 Horror in American Cinema, 140–1. 42 Kirsty Wark, Mark Kermode, Tim Lott and Julie Myerson, ‘The Passion of the Christ’, BBC News, 3 March 2004, accessed 14 November 2013, http:​//new​s.bbc​.co.u​k/1/h​i/ pro​gramm​es/ne​wsnig​ht/re​view/​35233​25.st​m. 43 David Shepherd, ‘From Gospel to Gibson: An Interview with the Writers behind Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ’, interview with Benedict Fitzgerald and William Fulco, Religion and the Arts 9, no. 3–4 (2005): 328. 44 Cartledge, ‘What Have the Spartans Done for Us?’, 165, 176. 45 Mark Pizzato, ‘A Post-9/11 Passion: Review of Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ’, Pastoral Psychology 53, no. 4 (March 2005): 376. doi: 10.1007/s11089005-2064-5. 46 Mel Gibson quoted in Quinby, ‘Mel Gibson’s Tortured Heroes’, 46–7. 47 Johnathan Vincent, ‘Left Behind in America: The Army of One at the End of History’, in Reframing 9/11, 46. 48 David Gates, ‘Jesus Christ Movie Star’, Newsweek, 7 March 2004, accessed 22 November 2015, http:​//www​.news​week.​com/j​esus-​chris​t-mov​ie-st​ar-12​389. 49 Quoted in King, Controversies, 69. 50 Deborah Caldwell, ‘Selling Passion’, in On The Passion of the Christ, 212. 51 Caldwell, ‘Selling Passion’, 218, 220. 52 Ibid., 222. 53 Babington and Evans, Biblical Epics, 149; King, Controversies, 19–21; ‘The Passion of the Christ’, Box Office Mojo, accessed 23 May 2014, http:​//www​.boxo​ffice​mojo.​com/m​ ovies​/?id=​passi​onoft​hechr​ist.h​tm. 54 King, Controversies, xi. 55 Caldwell, ‘Selling Passion’, 214. 56 Caldwell, ‘Selling Passion’, 212–5; Fredriksen, ‘Preface’, in On The Passion of the Christ, xvii. 57 Limbaugh quoted in Altheide, ‘Fear, Terrorism, and Popular Culture’, 18. 58 McCoy, ‘Beyond Susan Sontag’, 131. 59 McCoy, Torture and Impunity, 174. 60 ‘The Passion of the Christ’, Box Office Mojo.

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CChapter 11 THE NEW WAVE: TALES OF HERCULES AND THE RETURN OF THE BIBLICAL EPIC

While the Iraq War was officially brought to a close in 2011, US-led involvement in Afghanistan and the wider War on Terror continued. Nevertheless, the conclusion to the conflict and subsequent re-election of President Obama in 2012 furthered the changing sociopolitical backdrop from that of the Bush administration during the Iraq War years. Just as the ancient world epics produced after Gladiator (2000) existed in a different climate to Scott’s film, so too would the epics produced after the Iraq War differ to what had gone before. Following Wrath of the Titans in 2012, 2013 was a fallow year with no new mainstream ancient world epics. In 2014, however, there was a surge of six major new releases, the highest number of large-budget ancient world epics to be released in one year since 2004. Although the 2014 releases varied in their critical and commercial reception, they provide a concentrated perception of how the genre was evolving and responding to the previous films in the cycle. This chapter begins by discussing The Legend of Hercules (2014), 300: Rise of an Empire (2014) and Pompeii (2014), a series of films that were most evidently inspired by the success of 300 (2007) and Gladiator and sought to replicate narrative, thematic and aesthetic features of those films. The subsequent films, Hercules (2014), Noah (2014) and Exodus: Gods and Kings (2014) are notable for continuing to foreground violence and the secularised conversion narrative structure evidenced in the Roman Britain films. In analysing how these films portray war and adapt the secular conversion narrative to their stories this chapter demonstrates the restoration of the faith-based conversion narration that was completed by Risen (2016) and Ben-Hur (2016), two films that amalgamate the war narratives of the post-9/11 ancient world epic with the Judeo-Christian conversion narratives of the 1950s–60s. In so doing, these films arguably mark the end of a thematic arc that began with Gladiator (2000).

The Legend of Hercules January 2014 saw the release of The Legend of Hercules, a mythological fantasy purporting to tell the origins of the demi-god prior to his later labours and

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adventures. Set around 1200 BC, the narrative begins with King Amphitryon’s conquest of Argos. As the king celebrates and plots further conquests, his wife, Alcmene, begs Zeus for a saviour who can stop her husband. Alcmene then bears Zeus’ child, Hercules, who is raised unaware of his Olympian heritage alongside his mortal half-brother, Iphicles. As young men, the brothers are each besotted by a woman, Hebe, but to stop Hercules from claiming her Amphitryon orders him into military service and sends him to Egypt. Overwhelmed in battle, Hercules is sold into slavery and becomes a gladiator, fighting his way into a major contest where he wins his freedom, returns to Greece, and leads a revolt against Amphitryon after seeing how he is subjugating his people. Embracing his true identity as a demi-god, Hercules defeats the tyrant and restores peace. Starring Kellen Lutz in the title role and directed by Renny Harlin, best known for his 1990s action films including Die Hard 2 (1990), Cliffhanger (1993) and The Long Kiss Goodnight (1996), The Legend of Hercules was a critical and commercial failure. Digital Spy’s Ben Rawson-Jones, for instance, argued that the film ‘falters on every dramatic, thematic and visual level possible’, concluding that it is ‘the cinematic equivalent of waterboarding’.1 A common complaint was the lack of narrative or visual originality, with the Hollywood Reporter’s Todd McCarthy comparing the film’s narrative structure to key moments from Ben-Hur (1959), Gladiator and Spartacus (1960).2 Similarly, Scott Bowles of USA Today described it as being ‘cross-pollinated’ by 300 and Gladiator, while Chris Stuckmann more bluntly termed it ‘an obvious and blatant rip-off ’.3 300 was itself inspired by the pepla cycle from the 1950s–60s, which began with Steve Reeves’ Hercules (1958). Indeed, the AV Club’s Ignatiy Vishnevetsky notes that ‘whether intentionally or not, The Legend Of Hercules plays like an attempt to revive peplum … . Shot on the cheap in Bulgaria (which has superseded Italy as Europe’s premier producer of B-films), the movie inadvertently recreates a key part of peplum’s camp appeal: its inherent phoniness.’4 In focusing on aesthetic and narrative influences, allegorical readings of the film are virtually non-existent among its critical reception. However, The Legend of Hercules does feature a rudimentary conversion narrative; similar to Maximus, Hercules begins his story affiliated with Amphitryon’s imperialist regime but is betrayed by his father figure. This instigates a katabatic narrative in which Hercules’ experience of war, slavery and becoming a gladiator lead him to emerge with newfound knowledge of people’s suffering under Amphitryon’s rule. However, unlike the pessimism of the Roman Britain films in which the protagonists can reject but not defeat Roman tyranny, here Hercules is able to replace the tyrant and restore peace. Along with Clash of the Titans (2010) and Wrath of the Titans, this demonstrates a growing sense of righteous achievement in the ancient world epic. Gladiator, for instance, continued a trend in 1990s historical epics whereby the male protagonist dies, typically sacrificing himself to save someone or defend an ideal, as evidenced by Braveheart (1995), Titanic (1997) and Saving Private Ryan (1998). The Legend of Hercules’s positive ending may be a concession to the film’s fantasy status, or evidence of an evolution in the epic cycle’s narrative motifs. Gladiator, released prior to 9/11, has a bittersweet ending wherein Maximus



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dies but in so doing takes revenge on Commodus, restores the Republic, saves Lucilla and her son, frees his fellow gladiators, and is reunited with his family in the afterlife. In post-9/11 ancient world epics, however, endings are generally more pessimistic: in Troy (2004) the majority of the characters die and the city is destroyed; the titular Alexander (2004) dies and his empire is torn apart; King Arthur (2004) may feature a wedding, but it also sees its hero lose his closest friend, his faith, and come to the realisation that he has dedicated much of his life to a corrupt regime; in The Eagle and Centurion the heroes abandon Rome and its corruption, but are unable to stop it; in Agora Hypatia is choked to death as Christian fanatics take control of Egypt; in Immortals Theseus is killed and his spirit is seemingly locked in an eternal war in the heavens; and in The Passion of the Christ Jesus’ torture and suffering is dwelt on for almost the entire running time until the brief coda showing his resurrection. Even in 300, where Leonidas inspires the Greeks to rise up and eventually defeat Xerxes, it is at the cost of his life and the lives of his men. It is only in Clash of the Titans and its sequel that the hero survives and achieves his aims. The Legend of Hercules joins the ranks of the latter film in bringing the Greek mythological fantasy’s ‘positive’ ending to the conversion narrative, where rather than turning his back on the imperial regime Hercules has the power to end it. As we shall see below, this is not the only 2014 release to have such a conclusion.

300: Rise of an Empire The follow-up to Zack Snyder’s 300, 300: Rise of an Empire is set prior, parallel and after the Battle of Thermopylae, occasionally intercutting between the naval Battle of Artemisium and the events of 300. Shifting the focus from the Spartans to the Athenians, Rise of an Empire follows Themistokles, an Athenian general who – contrary to history – is credited with killing the Persian king Darius during the battle of Marathon in 490 BC. In doing so, he unintentionally incites Xerxes’ invasion of Greece ten years later as the latter seeks to avenge his father’s death. While Leonidas leads the defence of Thermopylae Themistokles battles the Persian forces at sea, pitting his small ships against the immense Persian fleet under the command of Artemisia, a Greek woman who was raised by the Persians after being used as a sex slave and left for dead by rogue Greek soldiers. Following his defeat at Artemisium, Themistokles regroups at Salamis and lures the Persians into one final battle where he is reinforced by the other Greek city states, including Sparta, and defeats the Persians. The film’s closing credits state that Rise of an Empire is based on Frank Miller’s graphic novel, Xerxes, although this was not published until 2018. Rise of an Empire mirrors 300’s narrative device with Gorgo replacing Dilios as the narrator as she addresses the Spartan soldiers as they sail into battle at Salamis. Whether as a reflection of her character or a response to the claims of racism that plagued 300, Gorgo’s narrative omits demonised, monstrous depictions of the Persians while simultaneously retaining the narrator’s ability to fabricate and manipulate history. Nowhere is this clearer than in her portrayal of Artemisia as a sexually voracious

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and sadistic commander, making a flamboyant contrast to Themistokles’ stern stoicism. Gorgo may not have been witness to much of what she describes, but she nonetheless honours the heroism of Themistokles and the Athenians while making sure never to promote them above the Spartans. They are described as farmers, poets and sculptors, and their melee fighting style lacks the discipline or effectiveness of the Spartan phalanx. As with most epics in this cycle the film’s central concern is with empires. Unlike 300, Rise of an Empire gives little weight to the Persian Empire but rather focuses on the rise of the Greek, and specifically Athenian, empire. Indeed, the full title of Miller’s Xerxes comic series is Xerxes: The Fall of the House of Darius and the Rise of Alexander, positing that the Persian Wars were the turning point in Eastern superiority that paved the way for the rise of Hellenic culture and Alexander’s conquest of Asia. In Rise of an Empire, Themistokles dreams of a unified Greece which stands at odds with Spartan isolationism. Early in the film Gorgo turns down his pleas for martial support, affirming that the Spartans ‘have no interest in a unified Greece … all I am concerned with is the preservation of Sparta’. If one maintains that the Spartans within this franchise are analogous to contemporary America, then the Athenians become synonymous with any number of America’s global allies encouraging them not to retreat into an ‘America First’ mentality. The film’s contemporary relevance could also be compared to America’s delayed entry into the Second World War: the Greeks, like Western Europe, plead with Sparta to join them in the fight against an aggressive empire but they maintain an isolationist policy until a tragic defeat – Thermopylae/Pearl Harbor – brings them into the conflict. In so doing, Rise of an Empire alludes to the comparisons between 9/11 and Pearl Harbor discussed in previous chapters. Furthermore, Themistokles pointedly tells Gorgo: ‘It’s funny that you mock freedom here in your selfish isolationism. Yet freedom, in her wisdom, has chosen you to defend it.’ The double use of ‘freedom’ not only evokes the rhetoric of 300 and the Bush administration, as discussed in Chapter 4, but also flatters America’s role on the global stage as the defender of contemporary Western values. Themistokles becomes an avatar for those viewing US culture from an outsider’s perspective – such as the film’s Israeli director, Noam Murro – imploring it not to neglect its duty to aid others. Further contemporary parallels can be read into the distinctions between the Spartans and Athenians. As the Spartans were likened to jingoistic Republicans in 300, Themistokles and the Athenians could be compared to President Obama’s Democrats in their promotion of Greek unity, arts and culture over militarism; the Athenians even wear blue cloaks as a contrast to the Spartans’ red. Released mid-way through Obama’s second term, Rise of an Empire’s shift in focus could be regarded as reflective of the changing political landscape in America. As noted, Gorgo’s depiction of the Persians doesn’t resort to the same monstrous imagery of Dilios’ account and Artemisia, for all her eccentricity, is not an unsympathetic character and has an understandable grievance with the Greeks for the awful, cruel things that were done to her as a child. For all its glorification of combat and hyper-stylised gore, Rise of an Empire is a less biased, militaristic movie than its predecessor. Similar to 300, though, Rise of an Empire’s contemporary relevance is ultimately ambiguous. The film did not receive the same degree of controversy or



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media attention as Snyder’s film, nor did critics highlight analogous or allegorical readings of the film to the same degree. Scott Mendelson of Forbes, for example, noted that ‘the film has little of the cultural zeitgeist this time around’ adding that ‘it’s not quite the warmongering propaganda that the first film was’.5 MaryAnn Johanson similarly states, ‘I’m not sure if it’s more funny or more sad, but perhaps the most damning thing I can say about Rise of an Empire is that no one is going to be moved to heated debate over whether this movie is an endorsement of or an indictment of US foreign policy since 9/11, as happened with 300. There’s just not enough here to be that interesting.’6 Adam Nayman, writing for Canada’s Globe and Mail, disagrees, believing ‘critics who called out 300’s underlying political allegory – the democratic West staving off the Middle Eastern barbarians at the gate – will find more of the same here.’7 While relatively few in number, some critics did find politicised undertones in the film. Michael Sragow quoted Murro as comparing the Persian Empire to the Nazis, describing their look as ‘Albert Speer meets Dolce & Gabbana’.8 Sragow argues that ‘Murro may believe that he’s directed an anti-fascist movie, but what he’s really made is almost as coercive as fascist melodrama. It’s a big bully of an action film.’9 Vishnevetsky perceived the film as hypocritical in equating the Persian Empire with slavery when the Athenians had a system of slavery, limited rights for women, and only a small minority of the population were enfranchised by democracy; he sardonically concludes: ‘The Empire in question is not the Achaemenids’, but Athens – a power that deserves to slaughter and subjugate its enemies because it represents a cornerstone of Western culture, and whose actions are excused because they represent noble intentions.’10 Claims that Rise of an Empire is fascist or excuses Western brutality are somewhat excessive, as beneath the film’s veneer of digital blood splatter and stylised violence is something resembling an anti-war message. Unlike 300, where Xerxes’ motivations for war are simply defined as a desire for conquest and subjugation, Rise of an Empire makes it clear that his invasion stemmed from a desire to avenge his father’s death, spurred on by Artemisia who likewise desired revenge for the barbaric deeds inflicted upon her and her family. While she is portrayed by Gorgo as an eccentric sadist, kissing the severed heads of her servants, it is evident that her cruelty stems from her abuse by Greeks, whereas the Persians cared for her and trained her to make her the skilled warrior she has become. She has more in common with Leonidas than Themistokles, and her death is not without a tragic undertone. In portraying Xerxes and Artemisia’s invasion of Greece as an act of vengeance, which in turn leads to Leonidas’ death and Gorgo’s decision to go to war to avenge him the film portrays violence and death as a cyclical affair, similar to the depiction of warfare in Troy. Despite these few exceptions, the majority of critics dismissed allegorical readings and instead focused on the film’s aesthetic, including the use of green screen and CGI, with most comparing it unfavourably to 300.11 Nayman even described the film as having an ‘an Xbox aesthetic’, adding that it was ‘somewhat unique when 300 came out in 2006, but seven years’ worth of slicked-up sword-and-sandal epics has diminished its novelty significantly’.12 Rise of an Empire’s inability to differentiate or progress from its predecessor appeared to

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be reflected in the film’s box office which, while still successful, took $100m less than Snyder’s film.

Pompeii A similar sense of fatigue with CGI and borrowings from previous films emanates from the critical reception of Paul WS Anderson’s Pompeii. Released in the United States in February 2014 (April in the United Kingdom), the film is part of a long line of TV, film and stage recreations of the devastating eruption of mount Vesuvius in 79 AD. These included multiple adaptations of E. Bulwer-Lytton’s 1834 novel The Last Days of Pompeii, as well as a Steve Reeves-starring peplum in 1959. Anderson’s Pompeii continues the recent cycle’s theme of genre hybridisation with the director claiming that ‘at its heart this is a disaster movie’, but adaptations of the Pompeii story have always invoked the spectacle of destruction alongside the exoticism of the historical world.13 Although some critics conceded that the scenes of volcanic devastation were entertaining, a common criticism was the clear influence of Gladiator (Milo’s narrative journey) and Titanic (tragic love triangle set against a disaster).14 Vulture’s Bilge Ebiri, for instance, described the film as ‘a poor man’s Titanic crossed with an even poorer man’s Gladiator’, while others termed it ‘a Gladiator knockoff ’, pointing out multiple plot points that had been ‘cribbed shamelessly’ from Scott’s film.15 Peter Bradshaw likewise concluded that ‘the bread-and-circus games sequence is outrageously pinched from the great Russell Crowe epic, and the whole thing isn’t exactly teeming with originality’.16 Producer Jeremy Bolt has openly acknowledged that Titanic inspired the film’s love story, while early in the Director’s Commentary he and Anderson attempt to gloss over the similarities to Gladiator by pointing out their film contains a volcano.17 The plot begins in Northern Britain in 69 AD, perhaps alluding to the spate of Roman Britain epics that had preceded the film, while also nodding to Anderson’s Newcastle heritage where, he has said, the close proximity to Hadrian’s Wall fuelled a childhood interest in Roman history.18 Pompeii opens on a young Briton, Milo, who witnesses the massacre of his tribe, including his parents, by Roman soldiers led by Quintas Attius Corvus. Surviving the attack, Milo is found by slave traders and raised as a gladiator where, ten years later in Londinium, he impresses a famous lanista who transports him to Pompeii to compete in a tournament. On the road he meets and falls in love with Cassia, the daughter of Pompeii’s governor, Severus. However, Corvus has now become an influential Roman senator and arrives in Pompeii seeking to enrich himself by developing the city, despite meeting hostility from the local populace who dislike Rome’s interference. In an attempt to appease Corvus’ ego, Serverus arranges a re-enactment of his conquest of Northern Britain and Milo is forced into re-enacting his tribe’s massacre for the crowds. However, he subverts history by defeating the Romans in the arena, much to the Pompeiian crowd’s delight. Before Corvus can have Milo killed, Vesuvius erupts and the city is thrown into chaos. Despite their best efforts to escape the city Milo and Cassia are eventually consumed by the pyroclastic flow.



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In borrowing so heavily from Gladiator Pompeii recalls many of the same themes as Scott’s film. The opening scene of Roman conquest over a native tribe in a dark, muddy and rain-strewn province indicates the breadth and brutality of Roman imperialism. The sequence culminates in Milo gazing up at a tree strewn with the corpses of his people in an image reminiscent of the ‘tree of death’ sequence in 300, before moving on to Milo fighting as a gladiator in the mud and rain inside a small, pit-like arena in Londinium. A small provincial arena also features in The Eagle, and similar to the Roman Britain films Pompeii’s cumulative portrait of Roman Britain focuses on the violence instigated by Rome and the lack of glamour or pageantry that might justify Rome’s occupation of such an otherwise bleak-looking country. Once Milo is transported to Pompeii the internal struggle between Rome and other Italian cities is established through Corvus and Severus’ fractious relationship over dominance of the city and humanised through Corvus’ desire to wed Cassia. This evokes Maximus’ discovery that Rome is as corrupt at its core as it is on the frontier, while the power of mass entertainment to sway the masses and rewrite history becomes a useful political tool for challenging Roman order. However, though Milo comes to rescue Cassia from Corvus and publically challenges Rome in the arena, the anti-imperialist message of his narrative is cut short once Vesuvius erupts. The brief conclusion afforded to Milo’s quest for vengeance comes when he chains Corvus to his crashed chariot and responds to his panicked exclamations of title, name and Roman privilege with: ‘And what is that worth, Senator Quintas Attius Corvus? You killed my family, you slaughtered my people, and make no mistake, my gods are coming for you.’ Milo’s remark supports an anti-imperialist reading of the film, especially one in which native nationalism results in retribution towards an occupying army in a similar manner to the Roman Britain epics and countless Vietnam War films. However, it also recalls Maximus’ iconic lines: ‘Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife, and I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.’ Milo’s narrative differs to that of Maximus and the heroes of the Roman Britain epics in that he does not begin the story affiliated with Rome. As such, he cannot fulfil the typical traits of the conversion narrative as he is already antagonistic to Rome from the opening scene. This complicates reading the film as an allegory for contemporary events, as while America could still be viewed as a parallel to ancient Rome the hero’s journey is not one of realising his society is corrupt. The Roman Britain epics, as we saw, encouraged the viewer to identify with the heroes and follow their journey of discovery, whereas in Pompeii Rome is not only Milo’s enemy from the beginning but is likewise differentiated from Pompeii. The primary points of audience identification therefore have no real affiliation to Rome, and so for US audiences they are unlikely to connect the film’s depiction of Rome with American society to the same degree as the Roman Britain films or Gladiator. Instead, if Pompeii is paralleled to Titanic it could likewise be regarded as a film about class as Cassia, like Titanic’s Rose, is evidently of a higher social standing while Milo, like Jack, derives from a lower social strata. Cassia risks losing her status as the governor’s daughter for her love of Milo, while Corvus, like Cal, expects her to be his compliant possession. Faced with disaster, however, the

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status of anyone in Pompeii is meaningless, as Milo reminds Corvus as he leaves him chained to his chariot. While the film’s conclusion is tragic, the (somewhat farcical) coda revealing that Milo and Cassia’s bodies should be enshrined in a kiss in the ashen forms preserved at Pompeii attempts to add a romantic, if bittersweet, grace note to the film while not being as ‘positive’ as The Legend of Hercules or Rise of an Empire. As with those films, Pompeii was released in 3D in an attempt to capitalise on the format’s box office potential in the wake of Clash of the Titans’ incorporation of the technology into the ancient world epic following the success of Avatar (2009). However, it took only $23m at the US box office despite a $100m budget. As Snyder had argued in relation to 300, it is expected that studios will only embrace change when the perceived formula for a successful movie is ‘broken’, and the reception of these three epics appeared to suggest audience fatigue with 300’s aesthetic and the repetition of narrative beats from previous films. In the other 2014 releases, however, we see a variety of counter-approaches to the ancient world that indicate another shift in the ongoing evolution of the genre.

Hercules Starring Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson in the title role, Brett Ratner’s Hercules recalls Troy and King Arthur in its euhemeristic take on the mythical Greek hero (albeit bearing the Romanised version of his name). The film takes place after Hercules has completed his labours, some of which are briefly glimpsed as exaggerated flashbacks created by his nephew, Iolaus. Embodying the oral tradition, Iolaus puts a fantastical spin on events to instil fear in Hercules’ enemies and attract patrons, as Hercules and his companions travel Greece as mercenaries for hire. The film is loosely based on Steve Moore’s 2008 graphic novel Hercules: The Thracian Wars, which Moore believes was commissioned by Radical Comics in the hope of capitalising on the success of Snyder’s adaptation of 300.19 Moore died shortly before Ratner’s film was released, although his friend and fellow comic-book artist Alan Moore (no relation) stated in interviews that Moore had not been paid or consulted over his work being adapted.20 The changes introduced by Ratner and screenwriters Ryan J. Condal and Evan Spiliotopoulos included almost wholly changing the characterisation of Hercules and his company to make them more relatable, toning down the extreme violence and gore, removing Moore’s brief allusion to Hercules’ bisexuality, and altering the narrative’s structure. In the book, set in 1300 BC, Hercules and his company are employed by the Thracian king, Lord Cotys, to aid in his plans to conquer all of Thrace; a land Hercules and his Greeks regard as barbaric. They destroy all opposition, until they discover that Cotys then aims to invade Greece as well. Hercules turns on him and leads his company in massacring the Thracians and killing Cotys and his treacherous daughter, Eugenia. The film somewhat confusingly shifts the setting to 358 BC, two years before the birth of Alexander the Great and centuries after Hercules had been ingrained in Greek culture and myth, with Herodotus reporting that Hercules lived 900 years



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before his own time and would therefore be in line with Moore’s setting of 1300 BC.21 Indeed, the Spartan kings believed they were descended from Hercules, despite Leonidas dying over a hundred years before Ratner’s Hercules is set.22 Regardless, the film opens with Hercules operating as a mercenary while trying to overcome his guilt for apparently murdering his wife and children in a fit of rage while in Athens. He and his companions are hired by Cotys to help defend Thrace from the attacks of a supposed sorcerer, Rhesus, who is burning villages and attacking innocent people. Hercules agrees to train Cotys’ army and leads them into battle against Rhesus, eventually defeating and capturing him. Returning to Cotys’ palace Hercules is shocked to see Rhesus being publically humiliated and abused by Cotys and his army. He learns that Cotys murdered his daughter Eugenia’s husband, the rightful king, and Rhesus was actually leading a rebellion against Cotys’ imperialist ambitions. Hercules is captured while trying to stage a coup and discovers that the Athenian king, Eurystheus, is in league with Cotys and killed Hercules’ family as he was jealous of his popularity with the people. Driven to anger, Hercules breaks free of his chains, kills Eurystheus and Cotys, and restores Thrace to Eugenia and her son Arius. While the film differs greatly from its source material the changes are vital in charting the evolution of the ancient world epic genre. The simplistic narrative and ultraviolence of Moore’s source could easily have translated into an R-rated, hyper-stylised film emulating Snyder’s 300, but as evidenced in the first part of this chapter such films appeared to be losing popularity among audiences. Instead, Ratner and his screenwriters refigured Moore’s simplistic narrative into a war story layered with allusions to contemporary combat films, realised with predominantly traditional, practical effects, sets and location shooting. Rather than portraying Hercules and his companions as bloodthirsty and immoral, Ratner’s Hercules agrees to aid Cotys in the belief that he is supporting moral interventionism and helping the Thracian people. Unwittingly affiliated with an imperialist power, Hercules undergoes a form of katabasis/conversion narrative similar to that of the Roman Britain epics: marching into the mountains he battles the seemingly bestial Bessi tribe, who emerge from hidden pits around the village, screaming like animals with bodies covered in green tattoos. He encounters further creatures in the form of Rhesus’ cavalry who are initially believed to be centaurs, until it is revealed to be a trick of the light. Through his capture of Rhesus, horror at his mistreatment – he is pelted with food, kicked, and made to stand and watch the victory feast in a position that eerily evokes one of the infamous photos from Abu Ghraib (see Figure 11.1) – and with the aid of Eugenia in the psychopompos role, Hercules learns of Cotys’ cruelty and converts to the moral, anti-imperialist side of the conflict. In Centurion, The Eagle and King Arthur the protagonists make a personal rejection of Roman imperialism by turning their backs on the empire, but in each case Rome and its corruption continues. The bittersweet pessimism of these films, however, is eradicated by the eponymous figure of Hercules, as rather than turning his back on Thrace once Cotys’ deception is discovered Hercules overthrows the tyrannical regime and restores freedom, peace and the rightful heir to the throne. Along with The Legend of Hercules and Rise of an Empire, Hercules

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Figure 11.1  Rhesus (Tobias Santelmann) is chained up and mocked, in Hercules. Source: Hercules, directed by Brett Ratner © Paramount Pictures 2014. All rights reserved.

concludes with a positive resolution to the anti-imperialist rhetoric of previous ancient world epics in this cycle. The film’s depiction of Cotys’ rule could be regarded as paralleling the Bush administration in the latter’s use of private security firms – modern mercenaries – to operate in Iraq and the question of whether false reasoning was used to justify the invasion and conceal imperialist ambitions. Flick Filosopher’s MaryAnn Johanson made a similar point, invoking the 2013 Errol Morris documentary The Unknown Known in suggesting: ‘We got a tale about a war built on lies and illusion and marketing – as Herc’s war here is – in that documentary about Donald Rumsfeld, and the villain in that one was way scarier.’23 However, the most significant link between Hercules and its period of production is the film’s depiction of warfare and the redemption of the solider-son. Hercules and his companion, Autolycus, are said to have been orphans who found a home in the Athenian army. Hercules’ strength and skills marked him out, so they were sent on the most dangerous missions by their kings, the last of which was Eurystheus’ command to kill the Hydra, which Hercules duly did (revealing that the monster was actually men in serpent masks). Upon his return Hercules’ popularity with the Athenian people caused Eurystheus to grow jealous and betray him, murdering his family and framing Hercules for the crime. Cast out as a mercenary, Hercules is employed by Lord Cotys, who assumes a patriarchal role reinforced by the casting of John Hurt as an older Cotys than that of Moore’s novel (see Figure 11.2). Under Cotys’ command Hercules is once again betrayed by a father figure and is left with the guilt of killing innocent people. The film establishes Hercules as an emotionally scarred veteran, represented in his nightmarish visions of Cerberus, the three-headed dog of Hades, and images of his family’s bloodied bodies. These visions articulate Hercules’ PTSD in a similar manner to the flashbacks and digital videos seen in Iraq War films and in Jonathan Shay’s analysis of Vietnam veterans, as he notes some who saw visions of those they had killed for years after the event.24 Hercules finds emotional



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Figure 11.2  Hercules (Dwayne Johnson) leads the army of Lord Cotys (John Hurt) into battle, with Iolaus (Reece Ritchie) to his left, in Hercules. Source: Hercules, directed by Brett Ratner © Paramount Pictures 2014. All rights reserved.

support from another of his companions, Tydeus, whose family and homeland were torn apart by war leaving him physically and emotionally scarred. Tydeus doesn’t speak and at night he is chained to his chariot where he relives his past trauma, growling and snarling in his sleep. Although a ferocious warrior, Tydeus is also a tragic character and the only one of Hercules’ company to die in the film, defending Arius from swarms of arrows. This characterisation differs greatly to the loud-mouthed bloodthirsty cannibal in Moore’s graphic novel and the change appears to be a concession to the concerns of contemporary combat films. The addition was praised by The Mercury’s Tim Martin, who commented, ‘This rendering of Hercules as a soldier of fortune with post-traumatic stress disorder is a surprisingly effective device, making the character not just multi-faceted and more interesting, but also giving him a psychological issue that feels familiar to a modern audience.’25 Daniel M. Kimmel similarly states, ‘Hercules is a solid entry as an action/war movie set in ancient times, letting us thrill at the violence but also making sure we see the consequences of it as well.’26 Scenes of elite martial prowess contrasted with the consequences of warfare became a trait of combat films produced in the years following the US withdrawal from Iraq. This development could be traced to 2014, but the catalyst was likely the Academy Award-winning war drama The Hurt Locker (2009). Directed by Kathryn Bigelow, the film sought to redeem the US soldier-son who had been repeatedly portrayed as the victimised, morally corruptible soldier-son whose PTSD results in hideous acts of violence, as witnessed in Redacted (2007), In the Valley of Elah (2007) and Battle for Haditha (2007). The Hurt Locker’s protagonist, William James, is evidently suffering from a form of PTSD created by the highintensity and anxiety of his role as a bomb disposal expert in Iraq. He appears to care little for his own life and throws himself into dangerous situations where his skills enable him to perform impressive feats of bravery rather than succumbing to his fear or allowing himself to be victimised by the conditions or his situation. Upon returning to the United States he is unable to adjust to domestic life, and

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the film concludes with James returning to Iraq for another tour of duty, owning his trauma to keep fighting and help others. In depicting the experience of an Explosive Ordnance Disposal team, the film centres on the specialists who have the skills to combat the IEDs which had victimised American soldiers across previous Iraq War films. As with 300’s return to a clearly designated battlefield that allowed the Spartan/Americans to showcase their martial prowess, so The Hurt Locker reimagined the battlefield of the combat film to allow for a demonstration of James’ abilities and successes rather than portraying the situation in Iraq as overwhelming and unassailable. Although subsequent films such as Lone Survivor (2013) would return to more conventional forms of on-screen combat, The Hurt Locker set in motion the redemption of the soldier-son. John Shelton Lawrence and Robert Jewett have explored the search for an American ‘hero’ within the morass of the War on Terror and conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. They cite numerous real-life candidates including Jessica Lynch, Pat Tillman and General David Petraeus, but each case revealed an aspect to their stories undercutting their heroism.27 Lawrence and Jewett, however, argue that a hero of almost mythic proportions was found in Navy SEAL sniper Chris Kyle.28 An immensely skilled soldier, Kyle served four tours of duty in Iraq before his discharge in 2009. Despite battling PTSD he dedicated his time to helping others cope with combat trauma, until he was tragically killed by one of the veterans he was trying to help.29 Kyle’s life became the subject of the Clint Eastwood war drama American Sniper (2014), a film that overcame the Iraq War film’s connotation of being a ‘toxic genre’ to become the highest grossing war film of all time at the global box office taking $547m worldwide, including $350m at the US box office making it the highest grossing domestic release of 2014.30 American Sniper is among a string of contemporary combat films including Lone Survivor, Zero Dark Thirty (2012), 13 Hours (2016) and 12 Strong (2018), each of which depict elite US soldiers meeting overwhelming challenges with exceptional skill, stamina and determination derived from intense training and their fraternal dedication to those around them. Indeed, similar to 300’s agoge sequence, American Sniper and Lone Survivor feature extended Navy SEAL training montages to demonstrate the exceptional physical and mental endurance required to be among their ranks. As with these war films, Hercules depicts a morally questionable conflict in which duplicity, prisoner abuse and imperialism are hallmarks of a corrupt government, but Hercules and his soldiers retain a moral core, demonstrate exceptional skills in battle, and overcome their PTSD to help others. Although the film is intentionally ambiguous as to whether Hercules is actually a demi-god, his background in the Athenian army and continued combat experiences equates him to soldiers such as Chris Kyle in his muscularity and endurance. The film alludes to Steve Reeves’ Hercules when Ratner’s hero pulls his chains free from the rocks to which they are attached: the moment occurring after Hercules discovers the truth about his family’s murder, Coyts’ betrayal, and Eugenia is being threatened with decapitation. His rage evokes Shay’s description of the ‘berserk’ stage of the combat experience revealed in his research into Vietnam veterans. The aforementioned situations are



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among the catalysts of this state, and the results include feeling ‘Godlike’, ‘enraged’, ‘invulnerable’ and intent on revenge.31 In channelling his strength, rage and PTSD Hercules overthrows Cotys and restores a moral order to Thrace. Few critics recognised or commented upon this aspect of the film, although many complemented the film’s use of practical effects over the 300 aesthetic in portraying a more grounded depiction of ancient warfare.32 Hercules has a clear conversion narrative structure continuing the combat-driven, secularised version of the narrative seen in the Roman Britain films, but captures the growing optimism of the genre by replacing the imperialist regime with a new ruler. Similar themes are evident in the two Old Testament epics released in 2014, but in their retelling of well-established tales they began to re-introduce faith as an instigator for change. The films embellish and reimagine the biblical narratives in a manner Paul Brandeis Raushenbush has equated to Midrash: shedding new light and perspectives on scriptural texts.33 These films were followed by two further releases featuring recreations of the crucifixion, Risen (2016) and Ben-Hur (2016), in which jaded protagonists find inspiration in their encounters with Christ to escape their violent lives and find peace through faith and mercy.

Noah Noah is described in Genesis 6:9 as ‘a righteous man, blameless in his generation’ who ‘walked with God’. In the 2014 film Noah begins as a man of faith who has a vision of a world consumed by water. He believes it is a sign from God, referred to in the film as ‘the Creator’, and interprets the image as a warning of an impending flood. At first, he adheres to Genesis 7:5’s phrase ‘and Noah did all that the Lord had commanded him’ by constructing an ark. While the film makes numerous changes and additions to the biblical narrative, it is as the flood nears that the film deviates most significantly by way of Noah’s characterisation. Noah’s writerdirector, Darren Aronofsky, and co-writer Ari Handel – ‘two not very religious Jewish guys’, according to Aronofsky – intended the film to appeal to both believers and sceptics.34 To do so, they developed Noah’s character to incorporate elements of doubt and confusion over his mission. Indeed, Rabbi Shmuley Boteach has defined the heroic depiction of Noah as a Christian invention, arguing that ‘Noah is not a hero in Jewish lore. … He executes God’s commandment to the letter. … He refuses to wrestle with God. Noah is a fundamentalist. He’s a religious extremist. [God] does not want the obedient man of belief. He wants the defiant man of faith.’35 Aronofsky’s Noah has many of the characteristics Boteach lists as lacking in the Christian account, most notably an internal conflict in which he ‘wrestles with God’. The film creates this by omitting the moments in the biblical narrative in which God speaks to Noah in specific terms. Instead, Noah is here left to interpret his visions which in turn leaves his actions open to questioning – principally by Noah’s rebellious son, Ham. This becomes evident in the film’s final act when Noah discovers his adopted daughter Ila is pregnant. He has already informed his family that it is God’s

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intention that they be the last of human kind in order to remove humanity’s wickedness from the world. At this point in the drama Noah’s capacity for violence has been established, driving Ham to side with Tubal-Cain. Conflicted, Noah asks God to give him a sign as to what he should do with Ila but, as with Tubal-Cain earlier in the film, he is met with silence. Noah interprets this as confirmation of his plan, resolving to kill Ila’s children and to complete his mission. Writing for Sight & Sound, Jonathan Romney has noted the similarities between this addition to the Noah narrative and the story of Abraham, adding, ‘This makes Noah a more complex, troubled and troubling figure than the simple agent of heroic deliverance we might expect him to be.’36 In so doing, the film encourages the viewer to question open acceptance of religious doctrine and consider myriad interpretations of scripture. In light of global acts of religious-motivated violence and prejudice under the banner of religious extremism, including among American Christians, this Judeo-atheist interpretation of the Noah narrative is arguably more relevant and necessary today than the blind acceptance of God’s commandments seen in The Bible: In the Beginning… (1965), John Huston’s overly literal adaptation of the early chapters of the Bible. In this respect Noah actually bears a greater likeness to Alejandro Amenábar’s Agora, which Amenábar described as a ‘condemnation of fundamentalism’.37 While semantically a more accurate term for religious-motivated violence would be ‘extremism’, the theme he is exploring carries contemporary relevance for the global climate in the wake of 9/11 and instigation of the War on Terror. The film’s Christian characters were rendered analogously in that their robes, beards and the non-Caucasian casting made them resemble the Taliban. While Noah is a subtler form of allegory, it nevertheless carries a similar warning of the violence and selfdestructive nature of religious extremism. Unlike Agora’s Christians, however, Noah comes to realise this and in so doing finds peace. Noah revolves around the central dichotomy of ‘justice’ and ‘mercy’. When Noah kills a group of hunters early in the film he defines his actions as ‘justice’ and before the flood hits he states that the ‘time for mercy is past; now punishment begins’. When he threatens to kill his grandchildren, however, his wife warns that if he does so he will die alone and hated, for ‘that is just’. Unable to commit infanticide, Noah slips into a profound depression, consumed by shame and survivor’s guilt, turning to drink as he does in Genesis 9:20-21. Richard Brody, writing for the New Yorker, has interpreted Noah’s arc as the ‘trials of a fierce, hardened, rigid man who has to wrestle with the vengeful and unyielding God within himself ’.38 Eventually, Noah comes to realise the importance of free will in deciding one’s fate rather than blind faith: everyone – God included – has the capacity for both justice and mercy. In exercising mercy over his grandchildren there is hope that humanity can rebuild and start again. In this respect Noah bears the hallmarks of a conversion narrative, albeit one closer to King Arthur than The Robe. Noah begins as a man of faith but is presented with a mission that takes him deeper into a world of violence. He becomes a general and watches over innocents – his family and the animals – who are endangered by the corrupting, ‘civilising’ influence of mankind and their industrial expansion.



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Miraculous events and scenes of violence follow, but rather than Noah confirming his faith during the flood he instead comes to challenge it. His conversion is not from pagan to believer but ‘obedient man of belief ’ to ‘defiant man of faith’. Noah promotes the importance of questioning one’s beliefs; as Brody states, ‘Aronofsky’s depiction of a righteous believer who takes the first step in setting aside judgment in favour of tolerance is a lesson pointedly aimed at the conservative faithful.’39 Compared to The Passion of the Christ’s reception among America’s conservative Christians ten years prior, Noah is not a standard for Christian righteousness but rather a plea for people of all faiths to consider the senseless acts of violence that have been perpetrated in the name of religion. It suggests that ‘the Creator’ has given mankind free will and it is therefore within our power to pursue mercy over justice.

Exodus: Gods and Kings The same is essentially true of Exodus: Gods and Kings. The film amalgamates the faith-based and secularised forms of the conversion narrative to explore the 1950s–60s epics’ suggestion that violence and faith are antithetical. Similar to Aronofsky and Handel, this may in part be due to Exodus’ principal writer, Steven Zaillian, being an atheist; a qualification director Ridley Scott believes made Zaillian the ‘perfect choice’ for the film.40 Furthermore, Scott’s recent work, including Prometheus (2012) and Alien: Covenant (2017), suggest that he is both fascinated and cynical about faith, even stating in a 2012 Esquire interview that ‘the biggest source of evil is of course religion’.41 With this in mind, one could interpret Exodus’ characterisation of Moses as an avatar for Scott or Zaillian’s ruminations on religion. Moses begins as a staunch atheist openly ridiculing Egyptian beliefs. He even attempts to scale a mountain which his wife and son’s faith decrees is forbidden in the hope of inspiring his son, Gershom, not to let religion circumscribe his life. However, Moses’ plan backfires when he is caught in a mud slide and takes a blow to the head. Seemingly as a result of his physical trauma Moses henceforth sees a young boy, Malek (see Figure 11.3), whom he believes is a messenger from God or even God himself. While he acknowledges to his wife that he sounds delusional, Moses nonetheless resolves to return to Egypt and enact the mission with which he has been entrusted. Exodus exists in a liminal space in which its narrative can be interpreted in both secular and spiritual terms. Indeed, Carol Meyers has noted the distinct lack of historical or archaeological evidence to support the biblical account, which in turn allows Scott a certain amount of creative freedom.42 However, something he and Zaillian drew from the biblical narrative is how Moses ‘wrestles with God’. In the book of Exodus (3.11, 4.1, 4.10, 4.13, 5.22, 6.12) Moses repeatedly doubts and questions God’s actions, especially in choosing him as a leader. In Exodus, Moses suffers similar doubts but also challenges God’s cruelty, drawing particular focus to the moments in which God behaves in a cruel, vengeful and needlessly barbaric manner. Ordered to be an observer of the plagues/marvels, Exodus’ Moses

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Figure 11.3  Malek (Isaac Andrews) in Exodus: Gods and Kings. Source: Exodus: Gods and Kings, directed by Ridley Scott © 20th Century Fox 2014. All rights reserved.

complains that they are not restricted to Ramses but are affecting ‘everyone’, adding that he is no longer ‘impressed’ by the spectacle. Prior to the Passover, he asks Malek to stop the plagues because ‘anything more is just revenge’. Malek in turn delivers an embittered tirade in which he bemoans Pharaoh’s self-deification and concludes, ‘I want to see them on their knees, begging for it to stop!’ When Moses learns of God’s plan for the Passover he is horrified and walks away, shouting: ‘I want no part of this!’ In the aftermath of the event, Ramses appears carrying his dead son’s body and understandably asks Moses: ‘Is this your god? A killer of children? What kind of fanatics worship such a god?’ Similar to Boteach’s interpretation of Noah, the comparison of Moses to a religious fanatic who advocates the killing of children gives Exodus contemporary relevance for the ongoing issue of religious terrorism and conflict, while star Christian Bale (Moses) stated in an interview that by contemporary standards Moses would be a ‘fundamentalist’.43 Similar to Scott’s depiction of Christian and Muslim violence in his crusader epic Kingdom of Heaven (2005), in Exodus both Hebrews and Egyptians instigate violence and as Moses straddles both worlds he can sympathise with the suffering of each. Indeed, Justin Chang notes in his review for Variety that the film ‘hinges on the gradual reshaping of [Moses’] beliefs and the healing of his fractured identity’.44 While fighting to free the Hebrews, he appreciates the plight of the Egyptians and challenges God when his actions appear to be driven by vengeance and vainglorious displays of power. In depicting God/ his messenger as a young boy, Chang believes the film portrays him as ‘callous and whimsical by turns, a jealous, vengeful deity with a literally childish streak’.45 Witnessing this behaviour, Moses is unwilling to commit to blind faith in God. However, in a moment of doubt, fear and depression, trapped between the sea and Ramses’ approaching army, Moses speaks to God with humility, stating: ‘I have misled all of them. I have abandoned my family. I have failed you. I’m not what I thought I was.’ Although he appears to receive no answer, it is in Moses’ direst need that God finally appears to show mercy: Moses wakes the following morning to find that the sea has receded and the Hebrews can now cross. After all God’s



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displays of ‘justice’, his violence and cruelty, it is this moment of mercy that leads Moses to believe, announcing to the Israelites: ‘You have honoured me with your trust. Now I honour you with my faith. … God is with us!’ Moses’ conversion narrative follows the expected course but utilises its hero’s arc to explore the contradictions of religious belief. Moses begins the film as a man of military rank affiliated with a totalitarian and oppressive power. Following a series of encounters with Hebrews (Nun, Bithia, Miriam, Joshua) and finally with Malek/God himself, his allegiance shifts to the oppressed group. In keeping with the martial language of the Bible in which the Israelites are likened to an army, Moses’ initial action is to lead a guerrilla war against Ramses until God takes over with the plagues.46 While Moses fights a moral war to free the Israelites he believes God’s pursuit of ‘justice’ is immoral and excessive, and it is only after an act of mercy in pulling back the Red Sea that Moses is ready to accept him. Upon returning to his family he is grateful that they have not renounced their beliefs and they can now share their love and faith in relative peace. Produced and released after the American withdrawal of troops from Iraq and re-election of Barack Obama, Noah and Exodus see the ancient world epic return to the established tropes of the post-Second World War 1950s–60s epics, in which the heroes emerge from wars or prolonged periods of violence by finding or rediscovering their faith, connecting to their families and looking to settle down in peaceful domesticity. Their Old Testament narratives accommodate timely allegorical stories exploring religious-motivated violence against the contemporary backdrop of the ongoing War on Terror and rise of terrorism and extremism in Iraq and Syria. However, their protagonists are also symbolic of the ongoing soldierson motif derived from Vietnam War films: Noah and Moses are each instructed by a patriarchal entity to perform acts of violence that lead them to question the morality, wisdom and motivations of the father figure – which Exodus emphasises further by portraying the ‘father’ as a vindictive, arrogant child. As we have seen, the ancient world epics produced during the Iraq War embody the disjuncture created by absent/morally corrupt father figures and abandoned soldier-sons and the breakdown of trust between these parties. Those produced towards the end of the conflict, including Clash of the Titans (2010), The Eagle (2011) and Wrath of the Titans (2012) suggest to varying degrees that some form of reconciliation may be possible, while Noah and Exodus continue the optimism evident in the Greek epics released in 2014 by concluding with acceptance, understanding and a reaffirmation of order between father and son. This reintroduction of faith into the ancient world epic paved the way for two similar films released in 2016, Risen and Ben-Hur.

Risen The quest for peace is central to Risen and Ben-Hur. Bearing a strong resemblance to The Robe, Risen depicts a jaded Roman tribune, Clavius, who is charged with overseeing Jesus’ execution and the subsequent investigation into the

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disappearance of his body. This leads him to the disciples and ultimately the risen Christ, whose message and miraculous acts inspires awe and newfound faith in Clavius. While an original screenplay, the film’s protagonist may be inspired by a centurion mentioned in Matthew 27:54 and Luke 15:49 who witnesses Jesus’ death and announces: ‘Truly this man was a son of God!’ As further evidence for the hybridisation of the ancient world epic with other genres, star Joseph Fiennes has described the film as ‘a murder mystery, a film noir, a detective story’ set in the ancient world.47 Although Clavius’ story establishes Risen within the 1950s–60s tradition of conversion narratives, it also incorporates aspects of the Roman Britain epics in its historical and political context. Unlike The Passion of the Christ which emphasises the internal conflict over Jesus within the Jewish community, Risen focuses on the Roman occupation of Judea through the experience of its protagonist. Early in the narrative Clavius defeats a small force of Zealots fighting for freedom from Roman rule. Weary from the battle, Clavius is called to meet Pontius Pilate and confesses that his ambition for wealth, status and power are only a means to an end, specifically ‘an end to travail; a day without death. Peace.’ The crucifixion of Christ and the threat to Clavius’ prospects should he fail to recover the body suggest he is locked into a world of violence and death. Writer Paul Aiello states that Clavius’ journey was intended to be a transition from ‘darkness to light’.48 In the film’s final act, Christ therefore reiterates Clavius’ phrase ‘a day without death’ as enticement to find peace through faith. Clavius begins the film with belief in the Roman gods, principally Mars. He refers to the Jews and the followers of Jesus as ‘fanatics’, reiterating the analogous association between violence and religious extremism evidenced by Noah and Exodus. Dismissing the testimonies of Jesus’ followers as ‘fantasy’, it is not until he sees the risen Christ with his own eyes that his analytical mind is thrown into a state of confusion by ‘two things which I cannot reconcile: a man dead without question, and that same man alive again’. Despite his former prejudices, Clavius follows the disciples as they travel across the desert to meet Jesus before his ascension. Along the road, Clavius helps them evade capture and violence, witnesses Jesus’ healing of a leper, and hears his words of peace. As with Noah and Exodus, it is acts of mercy that are the most significant contribution to converting the protagonist to believe in God. Unlike the makers of Noah and Exodus, Paul and Patrick Aiello are men of faith. Perhaps owning to their beliefs, the film does comparatively little to question the correlation between religion and violence explored in the Old Testament epics. Nevertheless, while the epics of the 1950s–60s incorporate romantic relationships and personal conflicts in the protagonist’s road to redemption and faith, Risen focuses almost entirely on Clavius’ scepticism. Indeed, he confesses to Jesus that ‘I cannot reconcile all this with the world I know’ and that his biggest fear in accepting faith in God is ‘being wrong – wagering eternity on it’. In this respect Risen is mindful of a secularised audience’s perspective. Although a more traditional conversion narrative than Noah and Exodus, Risen’s protagonist is also hesitant about accepting faith without challenging and considering all he sees and hears. As Jesus tells Clavius: ‘With your own eyes you’ve seen, yet still you doubt.



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Imagine the doubt of those who have never seen. That’s what they face.’ The film attempts to sympathise and convert the secularised viewer while reaffirming the beliefs of the faithful. Its message is one of hope: that peace can be found through faith and the teachings of Jesus.

Ben-Hur This is also true of the 2016 iteration of Ben-Hur. Released a few months after Risen, Ben-Hur could be a contextual and thematic prequel to it. Based on Lew Wallace’s 1880 novel, Ben-Hur integrates aspects of traditional and secularised conversion narratives into the novel’s plot. Among the many changes it makes to Wallace’s novel the most significant is in developing the character of Messala, raising him from a friend of the Ben-Hur family to Judah’s surrogate brother, creating dual protagonists. Messala begins the narrative as a believer in the Roman gods, like Clavius, and leaves the Ben-Hur home to serve in the Roman army. He fights in various campaigns across the empire and learns the brutality of imperialism in the process, stating, ‘We crushed the innocent civilisations simply because they were different.’ Returning to Jerusalem he hopes to find a peaceful resolution to the Zealot uprising and implores Judah for help. When it appears Judah is in league with the Zealots, Messala reluctantly sends him to the galleys and imprisons his family. While stationed in the city, Messala witnesses Jesus defending a leper by preaching love and mercy, a lesson that lingers with him. Encountering Judah in the chariot race he is severely wounded but in the aftermath the two are reconciled. Messala abandons Rome and finds peace with the Ben-Hur family as Ilderim’s voice-over closes the film by assuring that Judah and Messala will ‘keep the faith’ (see Figure 11.4). Judah, by contrast, begins the film as an agnostic or even atheist, teasing Messala for his ‘359 gods’ and questioning Esther’s faith, asking her: ‘If there is a God then why doesn’t He do right by the world?’ Encountering Jesus in the streets Judah mocks his message of forgiveness as ‘very progressive’ and equates the concept of a pre-ordained path with slavery. A man of wealth affiliated to Rome, Judah eschews the Zealots’ fight for independence while refusing to aid Messala by ‘naming names’ in favour of remaining neutral. However, his act of mercy in helping an injured Zealot boy, Dismas, ultimately condemns him when the boy attempts to assassinate Pilate. Judah is blamed for Dismas’ action and enslaved. On his way to the galleys Jesus offers Judah water, a memory that returns to him years later when he requires the strength to save himself in the chariot race. Following his victory, Judah witnesses Christ’s crucifixion and is humbled by his message of forgiveness from the cross. Despite his initial insistence that it was his desire for revenge that sustained him over his years of slavery, Judah finds mercy and forgives Messala, beginning a new life of faith, family and peace. Similar to Risen, Ben-Hur emphasises the martial aspects of its plot and characters, including the Zealots’ fight for freedom and Messala’s longing to escape the violent militarised world of the Roman army. Judah’s encounter with Dismas

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Figure 11.4  Ben-Hur (Jack Huston) and Messala (Toby Kebbell) are reunited with their loved ones and each other, in Ben-Hur. Source: Ben-Hur, directed by Timur Bekmambetov © Paramount Pictures, MGM 2016. All rights reserved.

is an informative experience as he learns of the oppression poorer Judeans suffer under Roman rule. As with Esca and Etain in The Eagle and Centurion, respectively, we learn that the Romans murdered Dismas’ father and, it is implied, raped his mother. Similar to Exodus and Rise of an Empire, Ben-Hur exemplifies the cyclical nature of violence. Producer Joni Levin believes the film was timely in its depiction of ‘nations that are not about forgiving’, adding ‘I think that that’s the problem with society today, it’s that everybody has so much history, and it becomes our future.’49 As Noah is driven by the dichotomy of ‘justice’ and ‘mercy’, so Ben-Hur’s opening narration describes the Roman world as leaving no room for ‘forgiveness’. Jesus’ sacrifice breaks the stalemate and in so doing inspires Judah and Messala to find forgiveness and escape the cycle of violence before it consumes them. Noah and Exodus utilise the Old Testament setting to explore the complexities and contradictions of faith in general, but Risen and Ben-Hur are specifically Christian in their promotion of Christ as a pathway to redemption. In their portrayal of Rome as an imperialist force, however, the films complicate an allegorical reading in line with the Roman Britain epics. While Risen and Ben-Hur are sympathetic to their Roman protagonists and many other Roman characters, they nevertheless include the cultural insensitivities and military occupation of another country that the Roman Britain epics equate with American imperialism. By contrast, the 1950s–60s epics would traditionally equate Rome with a foreign empire while the protagonist’s conversion to faith/Christianity would realign them with Christian characters symbolic of America.50 As such, one could interpret Risen and Ben-Hur as allegories for America regaining its faith and the tenets of Christianity following a period of digression. The films continue the growing optimism of the ancient world epic that appeared to result from the post-Iraq War years. Viewing Ben-Hur as a post-war text harkens back to the original conception of Lew Wallace’s novel. Carol Wallace has stated that the inspiration for her greatgreat-grandfather to write Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ derived from a meeting



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he had while travelling to a reunion of American Civil War veterans.51 On the train he encountered a famous agnostic, Robert Ingersoll, who asked what Wallace believed in. He was unable to answer, so began reading the Bible and researching the period to collect his thoughts and eventually turned them into Ben-Hur. Like Wallace, Judah emerges from a period of violence and chaos to find faith and eventually peace. This was the message promulgated by many ancient world epics of the 1950s–60s – including Wyler’s 1959 Ben-Hur – as America emerged from the Second World War and reaffirmed its Judeo-Christian identity against the backdrop of the Cold War. 9/11 and the escalation of the War on Terror appeared to create the conception that religion was a major contributing factor to acts of violence and chaos. The ancient world epics produced after 2001 were understandably sceptical about the messages of peace and faith that were synonymous with the traditional conversion narrative of the 1950s–60s cycle, and therefore secularised or subverted the trope. In so doing the films critique imperialism, even drawing parallels between the Roman occupation of its provinces and America’s expansionist history and contemporaneous foreign policy. The modern biblical epics discussed in this chapter are evidence of the gradual return of the traditional conversion narrative in the years after the American withdrawal from Iraq. Noah and Exodus utilise the Old Testament portrayal of God to explore contemporary fears of religious fanaticism and encourage viewers to challenge or question religious doctrine against their own moral code. The films suggest that by doing so one can withdraw from a violent and unforgiving world into the peaceful arena of domesticity and faith. Risen and Ben-Hur promote a similar message through a more traditional example of the conversion narrative which promotes Christianity as the path to redemption. The protagonists of Risen and Ben-Hur are drawn into a cycle of violence stemming from imperialism and oppression but, as with Noah and Exodus, acts of mercy enable them to break the cycle of violence and find peace. Viewed alongside Hercules and the combat films of this period, these biblical epics saw the steady reconciliation between the absent father figure and abandoned soldier-son that dominated much of the post-9/11 cycle of ancient world epics and combat films.

Notes NB: Sections of this chapter have been published in: Chris Davies, ‘Convince Me: Conversion Narratives in the Modern Biblical Epic’, in The Bible On Screen in the New Millennium: New Heart and New Spirit, ed. Wickham Clayton (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2019). They are reproduced with permission from Manchester University Press. 1 Ben Rawson-Jones, ‘The Legend of Hercules Review: Dental Extraction Is More Enjoyable’, Digital Spy, 29 March 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, http:​//www​.digi​talsp​ y.com​/movi​es/re​view/​a5608​99/th​e-leg​end-o​f-her​cules​-revi​ew-de​ntal-​extra​ction​-is-m​ ore-e​njoya​ble/;​for an overview of the film’s critical reception see https​://ww​w.rot​tento​ matoe​s.com​/m/th​e_leg​end_o​f_her​cules​.

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2 Todd McCarthy, ‘The Legend of Hercules: Film Review’, Hollywood Reporter, 10 January 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://ww​w.hol​lywoo​drepo​rter.​com/r​eview​/lege​ nd-he​rcule​s-fil​m-rev​iew-6​69807​. 3 Scott Bowles, ‘Legend of Hercules Descends into Mythology-light’, USA Today, 10 January 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://eu​.usat​oday.​com/s​tory/​life/​movie​s/201​ 4/01/​10/le​gend-​of-he​rcule​s-rev​iew/4​40379​9/; Chris Stuckmann, ‘The Legend of Hercules – Movie Review’, chrisstuckmann.com, 10 January 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, http:​//www​.chri​sstuc​kmann​.com/​the-l​egend​-of-h​ercul​es-mo​vie-r​eview​/. 4 Ignatiy Vishnevetsky, ‘Only Fans of Phoniness Will Get Anything Out of The Legend of Hercules’, The AV Club, 10 January 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://fi​lm.av​club.​ com/o​nly-f​ans-o​f-pho​nines​s-wil​l-get​-anyt​hing-​out-o​f-the​-leg-​17981​79154​. 5 Scott Mendelson, ‘Review: 300: Rise of an Empire Should Have Been a Silent Film’, Forbes, 4 March 2014, accessed 3 June 2018, https​://ww​w.for​bes.c​om/si​tes/s​cottm​ endel​son/2​014/0​3/04/​revie​w-300​-rise​-of-a​n-emp​ire-s​hould​-have​-been​-a-si​lent-​film/​ #d54c​4cf67​042. 6 MaryAnn Johanson, ‘300: Rise of an Empire Review: Artemisia Rocks’, Flick Filosopher, 4 March 2014, accessed 3 June 2018, https​://ww​w.fli​ckfil​osoph​er.co​m/201​4/03/​300-r​ ise-e​mpire​-revi​ew-ar​temis​ia-ro​cks.h​tml. 7 Adam Nayman, ‘300: Rise of an Empire: A Brutal Campaign with an Xbox Aesthetic’, The Globe and Mail, 7 March 2014 [updated 12 May 2018], accessed 3 June 2018, https​ ://ww​w.the​globe​andma​il.co​m/art​s/fil​m/fil​m-rev​iews/​300-r​ise-o​f-an-​empir​e-a-b​rutal​ -camp​aign-​with-​an-xb​ox-ae​sthet​ic/ar​ticle​17345​647/.​ 8 Quoted in Michael Sragow, ‘Naval Queen Turns 300: Rise of an Empire 50 Shades of Gore’, The Orange County Register, 6 March 2014, accessed 3 June 2018, https​://ww​ w.ocr​egist​er.co​m/201​4/03/​06/na​val-q​ueen-​turns​-300-​rise-​of-an​-empi​re-50​-shad​es-of​ -gore​/. 9 Sragow, ‘Naval Queen Turns 300’. 10 Ignatiy Vishnevetsky, ‘Even More So Than Part One, 300: Rise of an Empire Is a Rotten Power Fantasy’, AV Club, 6 March 2014, accessed 3 June 2018, https​://fi​lm.av​club.​com/ e​ven-m​ore-s​o-tha​n-par​t-one​-300-​rise-​of-an​-empi​re-is​-a-17​98179​683. 11 Brenda Toda, ‘300: Rise of an Empire Review’, HeyUGuys, 5 March 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://ww​w.hey​uguys​.com/​300-r​ise-o​f-an-​empir​e-rev​iew/;​ Mark Jenkins, ‘300: An Empire Rises, Dripping In Gore And Glamour’, National Public Radio, 6 March 2014, accessed 2 June 2014, https​://ww​w.npr​.org/​2014/​03/06​/2858​71058​/300-​ an-em​pire-​rises​-drip​ping-​in-go​re-an​d-gla​mour?​ft=1&​f=104​5?ft=​1&f=1​045. 12 Nayman, ‘300: Rise of an Empire’. 13 ‘Commentary with Paul W.S. Anderson and Jeremy Bolt’, featured on Pompeii, dir. Paul W.S. Anderson (Entertainment One, 2014), Blu-ray. 14 MaryAnn Johanson, ‘Pompeii Rating: Yellow Light’, Flick Filosopher, 30 April 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://ww​w.fli​ckfil​osoph​er.co​m/201​4/04/​pompe​ii-ra​ting-​ yellow-lig​ht.ht​ml; Larushka Ivan-Zadeh, ‘Pompeii: Boy Meets Girl, Volcano Happens’, Metro, 2 May 2014, accessed 2 June https​://me​tro.c​o.uk/​2014/​05/02​/pomp​eii-boymeets-g​irl-v​olcan​o-hap​pens-​47155​88/. 15 Bilge Ebiri, ‘Ebiri on Pompeii: More Fun Than Any Civilization’s Fiery Extinction Should Ever Be’, Vulture, 21 February 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, http:​//www​.vult​ure. c​om/20​14/02​/movi​e-rev​iew-p​ompei​i.htm​l; Lou Lumenick, ‘Pompeii: A Campy Action Adventure with Pricey Effects’, New York Post, 20 February 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://ny​post.​com/2​014/0​2/20/​pompe​ii-a-​campy​-acti​on-ad​ventu​re-wi​th-pr​icey-​effec​



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ts/; Joshua Rothkopf, ‘Pompeii’, Time Out, 21 February 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https://www.timeout.com/us/film/pompeii. 16 Peter Bradshaw, ‘Pompeii Review – Toga-Ripping Romance Goes with a Bang’, The Guardian, 1 May 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://ww​w.the​guard​ian.c​om/fi​lm/20​ 14/ma​y/01/​pompe​ii-re​view-​roman​-vesu​vius.​ 17 ‘Commentary with Paul W.S. Anderson and Jeremy Bolt’. 18 Ibid. 19 Mike Conroy, ‘An Interview with Steve Moore’, in Steve Moore and Admira Wijaya, Hercules: The Thracian Wars (Los Angeles: Radical Books, 2008 [Paperback edition, 2009]). 20 Hannah-Means Shannon, ‘Alan Moore Calls for Boycott of “Wretched Film” Hercules on Behalf of Friend Steve Moore’, Bleeding Cool, 17 July 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://ww​w.ble​eding​cool.​com/2​014/0​7/17/​alan-​moore​-call​s-for​-boyc​ott-o​f-wre​tched​ -film​-herc​ules-​on-be​half-​of-fr​iend-​steve​-moor​e/. 21 Herodotus, The Histories, 2.145. 22 Paul Cartledge, The Spartans (London: Macmillan, 2002), 84. 23 Mary Ann Johanson, ‘Hercules Movie Review: He Fights the Lion!’, Flick Filosopher, 23 July 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://ww​w.fli​ckfil​osoph​er.co​m/201​4/07/​hercu​les-m​ ovie-​revie​w-fig​hts-l​ion.h​tml. 24 Shay, Achilles in Vietnam, 117. 25 Tim Martin, ‘Going from Strength to Strength’, The Mercury, 25 July 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, http:​//www​.them​ercur​y.com​.au/e​ntert​ainme​nt/go​ing-f​rom-s​treng​th-to​ -stre​ngth/​news-​story​/f3f4​b4d87​718f3​1885d​09c14​5439c​9e4. 26 Daniel M. Kimmel, ‘Review – Hercules’, New England Movies Weekly, 24 July 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://no​rthsh​oremo​vies.​wordp​ress.​com/2​014/0​7/24/​revie​ w-her​cules​/. 27 John Shelton Lawrence and Robert Jewett, ‘The Mythic Shape of American Sniper (2015)’, in American Cinema in the Shadow of 9/11, 27. 28 Lawrence and Jewett, ‘The Mythic Shape’, 28. 29 Dan Lamothe, ‘The Fatal Intersection of Navy SEAL Chris Kyle and the Marine Veteran Who Killed Him’, Washington Post, 13 February 2015, accessed 28 June 2018, https​://ww​w.was​hingt​onpos​t.com​/news​/chec​kpoin​t/wp/​2015/​02/13​/firs​t-day​s-of-​ ameri​can-s​niper​-murd​er-tr​ial-l​eave-​quest​ions-​unans​wered​/?nor​edire​ct=on​&utm_​ term=​.cb17​3ef7b​e76. 30 Pamela McClintock, ‘Box Office Milestone: American Sniper Hits $500M Globally, Becomes Top 2014 Title in U.S.’, Hollywood Reporter, 8 March 2015, accessed 10 June 2018, https​://ww​w.hol​lywoo​drepo​rter.​com/n​ews/b​ox-of​fi ce-​miles​tone-​ameri​can-s​ niper​-7799​77. 31 Shay, Achilles in Vietnam, 82. 32 Dan Jolin, ‘Hercules – Review’, Empire, 9 August 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​ ://ww​w.emp​ireon​line.​com/m​ovies​/herc​ules-​2/rev​iew/;​ Sherilyn Connelly, ‘Hercules Surprisingly Has Both Brains and Brawn’, Village Voice, 23 July 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://ww​w.vil​lagev​oice.​com/2​014/0​7/23/​hercu​les-s​urpri​singl​y-has​-both​-brai​ ns-an​d-bra​wn/; John DeFore, ‘Brett Ratner’s Hercules is Actually Entertaining in Places’, Washington Post, 25 July 2014, accessed 2 June 2018, https​://ww​w.was​hingt​ onpos​t.com​/life​style​/styl​e/bre​tt-ra​tners​-herc​ules-​is-ac​tuall​y-ent​ertai​ning-​in-pl​aces/​ 2014/​07/25​/1d06​c182-​1430-​11e4-​98ee-​daea8​5133b​c9_st​ory.h​tml?n​oredi​rect=​on&ut​ m_ter​m=.ba​17b9a​97861​.

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33 Paul Brandeis Raushenbush, ‘Noah: A Midrash by Darren Aronofsky and Ari Handel (Interview)’, Huffington Post, 24 March 2014, accessed 12 May 2017, http:​//www​.huff​ ingto​npost​.com/​paul-​raush​enbus​h/noa​h-the​-movi​e_b_5​02213​2.htm​l. 34 Peter Travers, ‘Reviews: Noah’, Rolling Stone, 24 March 2014, accessed 12 May 2017, http:​//www​.roll​ingst​one.c​om/mo​vies/​revie​ws/no​ah-20​14032​7. 35 Jordan Hoffman, ‘Hollywood Noah Is Kosher, Says Celebrity Rabbi’, The Times of Israel, 27 March 2014, accessed 12 May 2017, http:​//www​.time​sofis​rael.​com/h​ollyw​ ood-n​oah-i​s-kos​her-s​ays-c​elebr​ity-r​abbi/​. 36 Jonathan Romney, ‘Film of the Week: Noah’, Sight & Sound, June 2014, accessed 12 May 2017, http:​//www​.bfi.​org.u​k/new​s-opi​nion/​sight​-soun​d-mag​azine​/revi​ews-r​ ecomm​endat​ions/​film-​week-​noah.​ 37 Goldstein, ‘The Big Picture – At Cannes’. 38 Richard Brody, ‘Darren Aronofsky’s Bible Studies’, New Yorker, 8 April 2014, accessed 12 May 2017, http:​//www​.newy​orker​.com/​cultu​re/ri​chard​-brod​y/dar​ren-a​ronof​skys-​ bible​-stud​ies. 39 Brody, ‘Darren Aronofsky’s Bible Studies’. 40 ‘The World above All: Research and Development’, featured on Exodus: Gods and Kings, dir. Ridley Scott (20th Century Fox, 2014), Blu-ray. 41 Eric Spitznagel, ‘Q+A: Ridley Scott’s Star Wars’, Esquire, 4 June 2012, accessed 16 May 2017, http:​//www​.esqu​ire.c​om/en​terta​inmen​t/int​ervie​ws/a1​4300/​ridle​y-sco​tt-pr​ometh​ eus-i​nterv​iew-9​42316​7/. 42 Carol Meyers, ‘Exodus [Introduction]’, in The New Oxford Annotated Bible [4th edition], ed. MD Coogan (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 81–3. 43 ‘Holy Warriors: Characters and Costume’, featured on Exodus: Gods and Kings, dir. Ridley Scott (20th Century Fox, 2014), Blu-ray. 44 Justin Chang, ‘Film Review: Exodus: Gods and Kings’, Variety, 29 November 2014, accessed 17 May 2017, http:​//var​iety.​com/2​014/f​i lm/r​eview​s/fil​m-rev​iew-e​xodus​-gods​ -and-​kings​-1201​36485​7/. 45 Chang, ‘Film Review: Exodus: Gods and Kings’. 46 Exodus 12:51, 13:18, 14:4, 17. 47 ‘The Mystery of the Resurrection: Making Risen’, featured on Risen, dir. Kevin Reynolds (Sony DADC UK Ltd., 2016), Blu-ray. 48 ‘The Mystery of the Resurrection: Making Risen’. 49 ‘A Tale for Our Times’, featured on Ben-Hur, dir. Timur Bekmambetov (Paramount Pictures c/o Universal Pictures, 2016), Blu-ray. 50 Wyke, Projecting the Past, 28. 51 ‘Ben-Hur: The Legacy’, featured on Ben-Hur, dir. Timur Bekmambetov (Paramount Pictures c/o Universal Pictures, 2016), Blu-ray.

CONCLUSION

The events of 9/11, the War on Terror and invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan had a marked effect on America in terms of its place on the global stage, its foreign and domestic policies, and its culture. While the specifics of the latter will continue to be debated, changes across various genres in cinema and television have been attributed to the influence of 9/11 and ensuing events. The success of Ridley Scott’s Gladiator (2000) had made ancient world epics a commercially viable venture for the first time since the 1960s, and in a peculiar moment of sociopolitical and culture synchronicity the War on Terror’s exhumation of Cold War rhetoric involving American exceptionalism, built in part on ethnic and religious differences between America and the Middle East, provided a cultural backdrop similar to the epic cycle of the 1950s–60s. However, the post-Gladiator epic cycle responded to contemporary events by adapting the tropes of the ancient world epic to present concerns through the hybridisation of the epic with other genres. Against a backdrop of conflict, including religiously motivated violence, the epic incorporated aspects of the combat film, western, horror, terrorist thriller and even comic-book fantasy into its representations of the ancient world. In so doing the films have inspired allegorical and metaphorical readings in which the past has been used to contextualise, warn or parallel the present. Though the specificity of some of these readings to contemporary events can be challenged, their wider concerns, themes and the universalising of their experiences have made them effective allegories. Blockbuster filmmaking, however, is a costly venture and it would be remiss to assume, as some have done, that these films were purely made and designed to be allegories without commercial considerations playing a part. While the hybridisation of the epic with other genres enabled them to have contemporary relevance, in some cases they also derived from their makers’ past experiences, areas of interest or prior filmography, and the commercial popularity of other genres. While none of these films were intended to fail at the domestic or worldwide box office, one of the most significant developments in the genre since its revival with Gladiator has been the continued critique of chiefly American imperialism. As befits allegory, the message exists within the subtext of multiple films in the cycle, especially the Roman Britain films, but is suitably concealed or ambiguous so as not to intentionally antagonise US audiences. In so doing, the films have contributed to the ongoing ‘Clash of Civilisations’ brought to the fore by 9/11, and most appear to answer the question of whether America is a modern ‘empire’ in

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the affirmative. This is a major departure from the prevalent readings of 1950s–60s epics wherein the heroes, a disenfranchised group, would typically be synonymous with America and its values whereas the tyrannical empire represented the Axis powers in the Second World War or Soviet Russia in the Cold War. This subversion of the previous cycle’s convention has been facilitated through the secularisation of the conversion narrative, exchanging discovery of faith with the protagonist’s experience of warfare. In the process of invading foreign territories, fighting on frontiers or occupying other lands, the protagonists learn about the violence and oppression inherent in imperialist expansion and separate themselves from it. This narrative development is the defining feature of the post-Gladiator epic cycle, enabled through combining the genre’s tropes with those of the combat film, primarily the Vietnam War film. Despite President George H.W. Bush’s claim that America had ‘kicked the Vietnam syndrome’ after the First Gulf War, the evidence suggests that the syndrome, and the topes of the 1980s combat film, were exhumed by the Second Gulf War. Indeed, as Michael Ignatieff warned in the build-up to the invasion of Iraq, the United States’ attitude to the coming conflict was likely to repeat the Vietnam experience.1 The spectre of Vietnam hangs over the postGladiator epics, wherein the protagonists are repeatedly abandoned soldiersons who are betrayed by patriarchal figures or institutions and left to suffer the horrors of war and PTSD, often losing their faith, their friends or families in the process. While they individually turn their backs on empires they are unable to stop them, and as such the genre is permeated by a sense of loss, futility, and the senselessness of war and the pursuit of ‘empire’ that defines many Vietnam War films. As academics, politicians and mainstream media pundits compared the Iraq War, and by extension the Afghanistan War, to Vietnam, so too did the combat films of this period. In similarly drawing from the themes and visuals of Vietnam, so the ancient world epic cycle during the Iraq War years appear timely. The ancient world epic underwent a further shift towards the end of the decade, when the election of President Obama on a campaign promulgated by ‘Hope’ and subsequent withdrawal from Iraq appeared to affect the epic’s depiction of warfare. Rather than recreating historical events, the genre adapted mythological and biblical stories into war and occupation narratives in which the heroes either put an end to tyranny and imperialism or else extricate themselves from those worlds in favour of finding peace through faith and family. In so doing, the most recent post-Gladiator ancient world epics have subsumed the thematic tropes of the 1950s–60s cycle into the secularised, combat-driven conversion narratives of the Iraq War-era films. As such, the later films embody a post-war mentality that appears hopeful for the future. This book opened with a quote from Amelia Arenas in which she proposed that ancient world epics are really ‘about ourselves, or, more precisely, about our ideals’.2 The genre is indeed a malleable construct which can be used to engage with a given sociopolitical climate, although the perceived significance of these films is rarely specific to the period in which they are made. Rather, ancient world epics facilitate the exploration of larger themes and concerns, such as freedom and slavery, imperialism, religion and identity. The manner in which they portray

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these issues can be regarded as revealing something about our ideals, but in the commercially driven world of the film industry these are not always unambiguous features. Nevertheless, the ancient world remains a ‘usable past’ to ruminate on the relationship between history and modernity, and time will tell which direction the genre will take next.

Notes 1 Ignatieff, ‘The American Empire’. 2 Arenas, ‘Popcorn and Circus’, 8.

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FILMOGRAPHY Core Texts, Additional Material and Formats 300. Directed by Zack Snyder. 2007. Warner Home Video. DVD. 300. ‘1 of 300’, featured on 300, dir. Zack Snyder (2007; Warner Home Video, 2007), DVD. 300. ‘The 300 – Fact or Fiction?’, featured on 300, dir. Zack Snyder (2007; Warner Home Video, 2007), DVD. 300. ‘Commentary by director Zack Snyder, Writer Kurt Johnstad and Director of Photography Larry Fong’, featured on 300, dir. Zack Snyder (2007; Warner Home Video, 2007), DVD. 300. ‘Webisodes – Gerard Butler’, featured on 300, dir. Zack Snyder (2007; Warner Home Entertainment, 2007), DVD. 300: Rise of an Empire. Directed by Naom Murro. 2014. Warner Bros. USA. Agora. Directed by Alejandro Amenábar. 2009; Paramount Home Entertainment, 2010. DVD. Alexander. Directed by Oliver Stone. 2004; Warner Home Video, 2005. DVD. Alexander: Director’s Cut. Directed by Oliver Stone. 2004; Warner Home Video, 2005. DVD. Alexander: The Ultimate Cut. Directed by Oliver Stone. 2004; Warner Home Video, 2014. Blu-ray. Alexander: The Ultimate Cut. ‘Fight against Time: Oliver Stone’s Alexander’. Directed by Sean Stone. Featured on Alexander: The Ultimate Cut, dir. Oliver Stone (2004; Warner Home Video, 2014), Blu-ray. Alexander Revisited: The Final Cut. Directed by Oliver Stone. 2004; Warner Home Video, 2007. DVD. Ben-Hur. Directed by Timur Bekmambetov. 2016; Paramount Pictures, 2016. Blu-ray. MGM. USA. Ben-Hur. ‘Ben-Hur: The Legacy’, featured on Ben-Hur, dir. Timur Bekmambetov (2016; Paramount Pictures c/o Universal Pictures, 2016), Blu-ray. Ben-Hur. ‘A Tale for Our Times’, featured on Ben-Hur, dir. Timur Bekmambetov (2016; Paramount Pictures c/o Universal Pictures, 2016), Blu-ray. Centurion. Directed by Neil Marshall. 2010; 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2010. DVD. Clash of the Titans. Directed by Louis Leterrier. 2010; Warner Home Video, 2010. DVD. The Eagle. Directed by Kevin MacDonald. 2011; Universal Pictures, 2011. DVD. Exodus: Gods and Kings. Directed by Ridley Scott. 2014; 20th Century Fox, 2015. Blu-ray. Exodus: Gods and Kings. ‘Holy Warriors: Characters and Costume’, featured on Exodus: Gods and Kings, dir. Ridley Scott (2014; 20th Century Fox, 2015), Blu-ray. Exodus: Gods and Kings. ‘The World above All: Research and Development’, featured on Exodus: Gods and Kings, dir. Ridley Scott (2014; 20th Century Fox, 2015), Blu-ray. Gladiator. Directed by Ridley Scott. 2000; Columbia Tristar, 2000. DVD. Hercules. Directed by Brett Ratner. 2014; Paramount Pictures, 2014. DVD.

Filmography

233

Immortals. Directed by Tarsem Singh. 2011; Universal Pictures UK, 2012. DVD. King Arthur. Directed by Antoine Fuqua. 2004; Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2004. DVD. King Arthur: Director’s Cut. Directed by Antoine Fuqua. 2004; Buena Vista Entertainment, 2004. DVD. King Arthur: Director’s Cut. ‘Feature Commentary with Antoine Fuqua’, featured on King Arthur: Director’s Cut, dir. Antoine Fuqua (2004; Buena Vista Home Entertainment, Inc., 2007), Blu-ray. [US release only.] The Last Legion. Directed by Doug Lefler. 2007; Momentum Pictures, 2008. DVD. The Legend of Hercules. Directed by Renny Harlin. 2014. Millennium Films. USA. Noah. Directed by Darren Aronofsky. 2014. Paramount Pictures. USA. The Passion of the Christ: Director’s Edition. Directed by Mel Gibson. 2004; 20th Century Fox, 2007. DVD. The Passion of the Christ: Director’s Edition. ‘By His Wounds We Are Healed: The Making of The Passion of the Christ’, featured on The Passion of the Christ, dir. Mel Gibson (2004; Icon Home Entertainment, 2010), DVD. The Passion of the Christ: Director’s Edition. ‘Notes on The Passion of the Christ – Commentary with Mel Gibson, Caleb Deschanel, and John Wright’, featured on The Passion of the Christ, dir. Mel Gibson (2004; Icon Home Entertainment, 2010), DVD. Pompeii. Directed by Paul W.S. Anderson. 2014; Entertainment One, 2014. Blu-ray. Pompeii. ‘Commentary with Paul W.S. Anderson and Jeremy Bolt’, featured on Pompeii, dir. Paul W.S. Anderson (Entertainment One, 2014), Blu-ray. Risen. Directed by Kevin Reynolds. 2016. Sony DADC UK Limited. Blu-ray. Risen. ‘The Mystery of the Resurrection: Making Risen’, featured on Risen, dir. Kevin Reynolds (2016; Sony DADC UK Limited, 2016), Blu-ray. Risen. ‘The Battle of the Zealots Deconstructed’, featured on Risen, dir. Kevin Reynolds (2016; Sony DADC UK Limited, 2016), Blu-ray. Troy. Directed by Wolfgang Petersen. 2004; Warner Home Video, 2004. DVD. Troy: Director’s Cut. Directed by Wolfgang Petersen. 2004; Warner Home Video, 2007. DVD. Wrath of the Titans. Directed by Jonathan Liebesman. 2012; Warner Home Video, 2012. DVD.

Works Referenced 24. Directed by Jon Cassar et al. 2001–. 20th Century Fox Television. USA. (TV Series) 300. Directed by Zack Snyder. 2007. Warner Bros. USA. 300: Rise of an Empire. Directed by Naom Murro. 2014. Warner Bros. USA. Agora. Directed by Alejandro Amenábar. 2009. Mod Producciones. Spain. Alexander. Directed by Oliver Stone. 2004. Warner Bros. Germany, USA, Netherlands, France, UK, Italy. Alexander the Great. Directed by Robert Rossen. 1956. C.B. Films S.A. USA, Spain. Amadeus. Directed by Milos Forman. 1984. AMLF. USA, France. American Sniper. Directed by Clint Eastwood. 2014. Warner Bros. USA. Apocalypse Now. Directed by Francis Ford Coppola. 1979. Zoetrope Studios. USA. Apocalypto. Directed by Mel Gibson. 2006. Icon Entertainment International. USA. Bad Lieutenant. Directed by Abel Ferrara. 1992. Bad Lt. Productions. USA.

234 Filmography Band of Brothers. Directed by David Frankel et al. 2001. Dreamworks SKG. UK, USA. (TV Series) Bataan. Directed by Tay Garnett. 1943. MGM. USA. Batman Begins. Directed by Christopher Nolan. 2005. Warner Bros. UK, USA. Battle for Haditha. Directed by Nick Broomfield. 2007. Channel Four Films. UK. Battleground. Directed by William A. Wellman. 1949. MGM. USA. Behind Enemy Lines. Directed by John Moore. 2001/2. 20th Century Fox. USA. Bend of the River. Directed by Anthony Mann. 1952. Universal International Pictures. USA. Ben-Hur. Directed by William Wyler. 1959. MGM. USA. Ben-Hur. Directed by Timur Bekmambetov. 2016. Paramount Pictures, MGM. USA. Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ. Directed by Fred Niblo. 1925. MGM. USA. Black Death. Directed by Christopher Smith. 2010. Egoli Tossell Film. Germany, UK. Black Hawk Down. Directed by Ridley Scott. 2001. Revolution Studios. USA, UK. Body of Lies. Directed by Ridley Scott. 2008. Warner Bros. USA, UK. Born of the Fourth of July. Directed by Oliver Stone. 1989. Ixtlan. USA. Braveheart. Directed by Mel Gibson. 1995. Icon Entertainment International. USA. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Directed by George Roy Hill. 1969. 20th Century Fox. USA. Cabiria. Directed by Giovanni Pastrone. 1914. Itala Film. Italy. Casualties of War. Directed by Brian De Palma. 1989. Columbia Pictures Corporation. USA. Centurion. Directed by Neil Marshall. 2010. Pathé Pictures International. UK, France. Citizen Kane. Directed by Orson Welles. 1941. RKO Radio Pictures. USA. Clash of the Titans. Directed by Desmond Davis. 1981. MGM. USA, UK. Clash of the Titans. Directed by Louis Leterrier. 2010. Warner Bros. USA. Cleopatra. Directed by Cecil B. DeMille. 1934. Paramount Pictures. USA. Cleopatra. Directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz. 1963. 20th Century Fox. UK, USA, Switzerland. Dances with Wolves. Directed by Kevin Costner. 1990. Tig Productions. USA, UK. Das Boot. Directed by Wolfgang Petersen. 1981. Bavaria Film. West Germany. Dawn of the Dead. Directed by Zack Snyder. 2004. Strike Entertainment. USA, Canada, Japan, France. Demetrius and the Gladiators. Directed by Delmer Daves. 1954. 20th Century Fox. USA. Dog Soldiers. Directed by Neil Marshall. 2002. Kismet Entertainment Group. UK, Luxembourg, USA. Doomsday. Directed by Neil Marshall. 2008. Rogue Pictures. UK, USA, South Africa, Germany. El Cid. Directed by Anthony Mann. 1961. Samuel Bronston Productions. Italy, USA. Enemy Mine. Directed by Wolfgang Petersen. 1985. 20th Century Fox. USA, West Germany. Exodus: Gods and Kings. Directed by Ridley Scott. 2014. 20th Century Fox. UK, USA, Spain. Fahrenheit 9/11. Directed by Michael Moore. 2004. Fellowship Adventure Group. USA. First Blood. Directed by Ted Kotcheff. 1982. Anabasis N.V. USA. First Knight. Directed by Jerry Zucker. 1995. Columbia Pictures Corporation. USA. Flags of Our Fathers. Directed by Clint Eastwood. 2006. Dreamworks SKG. USA. Full Metal Jacket. Directed by Stanley Kubrick. 1987. Natant. UK, USA. Gladiator. Directed by Ridley Scott. 2000. Dreamworks SKG. USA, UK.

Filmography

235

Grey’s Anatomy. Directed by Rob Corn et al. 2005–. Shondaland. USA. (TV Series) Hamburger Hill. Directed by John Irvin. 1987. RKO Pictures. USA. Helen of Troy. Directed by Robert Wise. 1956. Warner Bros. USA, Italy, France. Hercules. Directed by Lewis Coates. 1983. Cannon Italia Srl. USA, Italy. Hercules. Directed by Ron Clements and John Musker. 1997. Walt Disney Pictures. USA. Hercules. Directed by Brett Ratner. 2014. Paramount Pictures. USA. Hercules: The Legendary Journeys. Directed by Bruce Campbell et al. 1995–9. MCA Television. USA, New Zealand. (TV Series) Hercules Conquers Atlantis. Directed by Vittorio Cottafavi. 1961. Comptoir Français du Film Production. Italy, France. Hostel. Directed by Eli Roth. 2005. Hostel LLC. USA, Germany, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Iceland. I Spit on Your Grave. Directed by Steven R. Monroe. 2010. Cinetel Films. USA. Immortals. Directed by Tarsem Singh. 2011. Relativity Media. USA. In the Valley of Elah. Directed by Paul Haggis. 2007. Warner Independent Pictures. USA. Inglourious Basterds. Directed by Quentin Tarantino. 2009. Universal Pictures. USA, Germany. Intolerance: Love’s Struggle Throughout the Ages. Directed by D.W. Griffith. 1916. Triangle Film Corporation. USA. Iron Man. Directed by Jon Favreau. 2008. Paramount Pictures. USA. Iron Man 2. Directed by Jon Favreau. 2010. Paramount Pictures. USA. Jason and the Argonauts. Directed by Don Chaffey. 1963. Columbia Pictures Corporation. UK, USA. JFK. Directed by Oliver Stone. 1991. Warner Bros. France, USA. King Arthur. Directed by Antoine Fuqua. 2004. Touchstone Pictures. USA, UK, Ireland. King of Kings. Directed by Nicholas Ray. 1961. MGM. USA. Kingdom of Heaven. Directed by Ridley Scott. 2005. 20th Century Fox. USA, UK, Spain, Germany, Morocco. Lethal Weapon. Directed by Richard Donner. 1987. Warner Bros. USA. Letters from Iwo Jima. Directed by Clint Eastwood. 2006. Dreamworks SKG. USA. Little Big Man. Directed by Arthur Penn. 1970. Cinema Center Films. USA. M*A*S*H. Directed by Robert Altman. 1970. Aspen Productions. USA. Man on Fire. Directed by Tony Scott. 2004. Fox 2000 Pictures. USA, UK. Masada. Directed by Boris Sagal. 1981. Arnon Milchan Productions. USA. (TV Series) Monty Python’s Life of Brian. Directed by Terry Jones. 1979. HandMade Films. UK. Munich. Directed by Steven Spielberg. 2005. Universal. USA. Nixon. Directed by Oliver Stone. 1995. Cinergi Pictures Entertainment. USA. Noah. Directed by Darren Aronofsky. 2014. Paramount Pictures. USA. Objective, Burma! Directed by Raoul Walsh. 1945. Warner Bros. USA. Patton. Directed by Franklin J. Schaffner. 1970. 20th Century Fox. USA. Payback. Directed by Brian Helgeland. 1999. Icon Entertainment International. USA. Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl. Directed by Gore Verbinkski. 2003. Walk Disney Pictures. USA. Platoon. Directed by Oliver Stone. 1986. Hemdale Film. UK, USA. Pompeii. Directed by Paul W.S. Anderson. 2014. Entertainment One. Canada, Germany, USA. Quo Vadis. Directed by Mervyn LeRoy. 1951. MGM. USA, Italy. Rambo: First Blood Part II. Directed by George P. Cosmatos. 1985. Anabasis N.V. USA. Redacted. Directed by Brian De Palma. 2007. Film Farm. USA, Canada.

236 Filmography Rendition. Directed by Gavin Hood. 2007. Anonymous Content. USA. Ride the High Country. Directed by Sam Peckinpah. 1962. MGM. USA. Risen. Directed by Kevin Reynolds. 2016. Columbia Pictures. USA. Rome. Directed by Michael Apted et al. 2005–7. HD Vision Studios. UK, USA. (TV Series) Rosemary’s Baby. Directed by Roman Polanski. 1968. William Castle Productions. USA. Samson and Delilah. Directed by Cecil B. DeMille. 1949. Paramount Pictures. USA. Sands of Iwo Jima. Directed by Allan Dwan. 1949. Republic Pictures. USA. Saving Private Ryan. Directed by Steven Spielberg. 1998. Dreamworks SKG. USA. Saw. Directed by James Wan. 2004. Evolution Entertainment. USA, Australia. Schindler’s List. Directed by Steven Spielberg. 1993. Universal Pictures. USA. Scipione l’Africano. Directed by Carmine Gallone. 1937. Consorzione ‘Scipio l’Africano’. Italy. Seven Samurai. Directed by Akira Kurosawa. 1954. Toho Company. Japan. She. Directed by Robert Day. 1965. Hammer. UK. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Directed by John Ford. 1949. Argosy Pictures. USA. Signs. Directed by M. Night Shyamalan. 2002. Touchstone Pictures. USA. Sin City. Directed by Robert Rodriquez and Frank Miller. 2005. Dimension Films. USA. Soldier Blue. Directed by Ralph Nelson. 1970. AVCO Embassy Pictures. USA. Spartacus. Directed by Stanley Kubrick. 1960. Bryna Productions. USA. Spartacus. Directed by Jesse Warn et al. 2010–13. Starz Media. USA. Star Wars. Directed by George Lucas. 1977. Lucasfilm. USA. Stop-Loss. Directed by Kimberly Peirce. 2008. Paramount Pictures. USA. Syriana. Directed by Steven Gaghan. 2005. Warner Bros. USA, United Arab Emirates. Taken. Directed by Pierre Morel. 2008. EuropaCorp. France. Tears of the Sun. Directed by Antoine Fuqua. 2003. Cheyenne Enterprises. USA. The 300 Spartans. Directed by Rudolph Maté. 1962. 20th Century Fox. USA. The Amazing Spider-Man. Directed by Marc Webb. 2012. Columbia Pictures. USA. The Bible: In the Beginning…. Directed by John Huston. 1966. 20th Century Fox. USA, Italy. The Deer Hunter. Directed by Michael Cimino. 1978. EMI Films. UK, USA. The Descent. Directed by Neil Marshall. 2005. Celador Films. UK. The Devils. Directed by Ken Russell. 1971. Russo Productions. UK. The Dirty Dozen. Directed by Robert Aldrich. 1967. MGM. UK, USA. The Dirty Dozen. ‘Introduction by Ernest Borgnine’, featured on The Dirty Dozen, dir. Robert Aldrich (1967; Warner Home Video, 2006), DVD. The Doors. Directed by Oliver Stone. 1991. Bill Graham Films. USA. The Eagle. Directed by Kevin MacDonald. 2011. Focus Features. UK, USA, Hungary. The Eagle of the Ninth. Directed by Michael Simpson and Baz Taylor. 1977. BBC. UK. (TV Series – BFI Archive) The Exorcist. Directed by William Friedkin. 1973. Warner Bros. USA. The Fall of the Roman Empire. Directed by Anthony Mann. 1964. Samuel Bronston Productions. USA. The Gorgon. Directed by Terence Fisher. 1964. Hammer. UK. The Gospel According to St. Matthew. Directed by Pier Paolo Pasolini. 1964. Arco Film. Italy, France. The Great Train Robbery. Directed by Edwin S. Porter. 1903. Edison Manufacturing Company. USA. The Greatest Story Ever Told. Directed by George Stevens. 1965. George Stevens Productions. USA.

Filmography

237

The Green Berets. Directed by Ray Kellogg and John Wayne. 1968. Batjac Productions. USA. The King of Kings. Directed by Cecil B. DeMille. 1927. DeMille Pictures Corporation. USA. The Kingdom. Directed by Peter Berg. 2007. Universal Pictures. USA, Germany. The Last Legion. Directed by Doug Lefler. 2007. Dino De Laurentiis Company. UK, Italy, France, Tunisia. The Last Samurai. Directed by Edward Zwick. 2003. Warner Bros. USA, New Zealand, Japan. The Last Temptation of Christ. Directed by Martin Scorsese. 1988. Universal Pictures. USA, Canada. The Legend of Hercules. Directed by Renny Harlin. 2014. Millennium Films. USA. The Longest Day. Directed by Ken Annakin, Andrew Marton, Bernhard Wicki and Gerd Oswald. 1962. Darryl F. Zanuck Productions. USA. The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. Directed by Peter Jackson. 2001. New Line Cinema. New Zealand, USA. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. Directed by Peter Jackson. 2003. New Line Cinema. New Zealand, USA. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. Directed by Peter Jackson. 2002. New Line Cinema. New Zealand, USA. The Magnificent Seven. Directed by John Sturges. 1960. Mirisch Company. USA. The Mist. Directed by Frank Darabont. 2007. Dimension Films. USA. The Omen. Directed by Richard Donner. 1976. 20th Century Fox. USA, UK. The Pacific. Directed by Jeremy Podeswa et al. 2010. Dreamworks SKG. USA, Australia. (TV Series) The Passion of Joan of Arc. Directed by Carl Theodor Dreyer. 1928. Société générale des films. France. The Passion of the Christ. Directed by Mel Gibson. 2004. Icon Productions. USA. The Perfect Storm. Directed by Wolfgang Petersen. 2000. Warner Bros. USA. The Private Life of Helen of Troy. Directed by Alexander Korda. 1927. First National Pictures. USA. The Professionals. Directed by Richard Brooks. 1966. Pax Enterprises. USA. The Robe. Directed by Henry Koster. 1953. 20th Century Fox. USA. The Ruins. Directed by Carter Smith. 2008. Dreamworks SKG. USA, Germany, Australia. The Searchers. Directed by John Ford. 1956. Warner Bros. USA. The Sign of the Cross. Directed by Cecil B. DeMille. 1932. Paramount Pictures. USA. The Ten Commandments. Directed by Cecil B. DeMille. 1923. Paramount Pictures. USA. The Ten Commandments. Directed by Cecil B. DeMille. 1956. Paramount Pictures. USA. The Untold History of the United States. Directed by Oliver Stone. 2012. Ixtlan Productions. USA. (TV Series) The Vietnam War. Directed by Ken Burns and Lynn Novick. 2017. PBS. USA. The Viking Queen. Directed by Don Chaffey. 1967. Hammer. UK. The Wild Bunch. Directed by Sam Peckinpah. 1969. Warner Bros. USA. The Wire. Directed by Joe Chappelle et al. 2002–8. Blown Deadline Productions. USA. (TV Series) They Died with Their Boots On. Directed by Raoul Walsh. 1941. Warner Bros. USA. Thor. Directed by Kenneth Branagh. 2011. Paramount Pictures. USA. Titanic. Directed by James Cameron. 1997. 20th Century Fox. USA. Troy. Directed by Wolfgang Petersen. 2004. Warner Bros. USA, Malta, UK.

238 Filmography True Grit. Directed by Joel and Ethan Coen. 2010. Paramount Pictures. USA. Ulzana’s Raid. Directed by Robert Aldrich. 1972. Universal Pictures. USA. W. Directed by Oliver Stone. 2008. Lionsgate. USA, Australia, Hong Kong, Switzerland, China. Wall Street. Directed by Oliver Stone. 1987. 20th Century Fox. USA. Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps. Directed by Oliver Stone. 2010. 20th Century Fox. USA. Watchmen. Directed by Zack Snyder. 2009. Warner Bros. USA. We Were Soldiers. Directed by Randall Wallace. 2002. Icon Entertainment International. USA, Germany. Winchester ’73. Directed by Anthony Mann. 1950. Universal International Pictures. USA. Wolf Creek. Directed by Greg McLean. 2005. Australian Film Finance Corporation. Australia. Wrath of the Titans. Directed by Jonathan Liebesman. 2012. Warner Bros. USA, Spain. Xena: Warrior Princess. Directed by Garth Maxwell et al. 1995–2001. MCA Television. New Zealand. (TV Series)

INDEX Abu Ghraib  20, 30, 42, 88, 122–3, 125, 138, 161, 174, 181, 194 Achilles as allegory  41 Homer  40, 46 PTSD  46–7, 50 sexuality  39–40, 55 as soldier-son  46–7, 50 Troy  38–9, 41, 43–4, 46–50 Afghanistan Alexander the Great (historical figure)  58–9, 64 combat films  67, 88–9, 132, 153 comparisons to Pearl Harbor  20, 29 epic films  50, 53, 59, 83, 107, 135, 137, 139 treatment of women  164–5 war with US  3, 19–20, 29, 59, 62, 89, 133, 159, 160–1 Agora as allegory  162–7 as epic  162 history  161–2 religious violence  161–7 as thriller  165–6 Alexander Adventure Story  57–8 Alexander the Great  56–7 as allegory  53, 58–60, 62–3, 67, 70 battles  55–7, 59, 63–5, 85 critical reception  54–6 as combat film  53, 62–7, 70 comparisons to Bush  59–62 different edits  54, 56–7, 61 leadership  59–62 myths  61–3, 68 Philip II  56, 57–9, 61–3, 65–6 production  54 Ptolemy  56, 64–5, 67–70 sexuality  54–5

Vietnam War  53–4, 60–1, 63–7 Alexander the Great (film)  26, 43, 54, 56–7, 79 Alexander the Great (historical figure) history  58, 59, 63–4, 68 Oliver Stone  58–61, 63 allegory ambiguity  10, 132–3 criticism  4, 9 definition  4 displacing trauma  3–4, 6, 32 history as  10–11 1920s–30s epics  7 reception  5, 10–11, 42, 133 Altheide, David L.  20–1 Amenábar, Alejandro  159, 161, 163–6, 198 American empire  19–22, 23, 32, 125, 139, 156, 209–10 American Sniper, see Chris Kyle ancient world epic, see also 1950s–60s epics, allegory definition  11–12 silent-era  7 Anderson, Paul W.S.  190 Apocalypse Now  27–8, 138 Apocalypto  176, 180 Aronofsky, Darren  197 Band of Brothers  31 Basinger, Jeanine  26–7, 44–5 Behind Enemy Lines  28–9, 120 Ben-Hur book  23, 204–5 1959 film  1–2, 8, 24, 54, 181, 186 2016 film  13–14, 185, 197, 201, 203–5 biblical epics  6–7, 12, 22, 24, 162, 181, 197, 210, see also Ben-Hur, Exodus: Gods and Kings, Noah, The Passion of the Christ, Risen

240 Index Black Hawk Down  3, 28–9, 42, 87, 102, 120, 124, 180 Body of Lies  25, 166 Born of the Fourth of July  27, 31, 63 Braveheart  2, 29, 44, 84–5, 102, 169, 175–6, 186 Bush administration actions  6, 20–1, 29–30, 37, 59, 83, 90, 160–1 Afghanistan  20, 29–30, 59, 89, 161, 165 Iraq  29–30, 42, 59, 82–3, 88, 90, 161 use of torture  121–3 Bush, George H.W.  28, 59, 210 Bush, George W. imperialist  21, 29–30, 37, 41, 59, 83 Religion  160–1 speeches  6, 84, 137, 160 W.  61 Westerns  148 Casualties of War  27–8, 134 Centurion as allegory  129, 132–5, 153–4, 157 background  12, 129–31 as combat film  131–4, 156–7 conversion narrative  136 Etain  132, 134, 152 landscape  131–2, 151–4 reception  130 recording history  134 Roman Britain  113, 131–2, 134, 154–5 torture  133–4 as western  151–4 Christianity, see also Agora, Ben-Hur, Exodus: Gods and Kings, King Arthur, Noah, The Passion of the Christ, Risen 1950s America  8, 23 1950s–60s epic films  1, 7–10, 23–5, 114–15, 125, 138 use of torture  120, 123 War on Terror  159–61, 180–1, 198–9 clash of civilisations  21, 83, 209–10 Clash of the Titans 1981 film  104–5 2010 film  14, 96, 105–8, 186–7, 192, 201

Cleopatra 1934 film  7 1963 film  1, 162 Cold War  6, 8, 78, 205, 209–10 combat films, see also Vietnam War genre evolution  25–32, 89 genre hybridity  19, 24, 26, 50, 75, 86, 125, 129, 156–7, 210 influence of Vietnam War  22, 26–7, 102 Iraq and Afghanistan wars  22, 29–32, 88–9, 195–6 Second World War films  26, 28, 31–2, 43, 44–6, 176 comic book movies  95–9, 103, 107–8, 179, 192–7 communism  8–9, 56–7 computer generated imagery (CGI)  40, 82, 95–6, 103–5, 135, 171, 189, 190 conversion narratives definition  24 post-9/11 epics  50, 62, 115–16, 119, 141–2, 210 2014–16 restoration  185–7, 193–4, 197–9, 201–5 crucifixion  7, 9, 171–2, 175–6, 197, 202–3 Cyrino, Monica Silveira  12, 38, 41, 80, 84–5, 87 Dances with Wolves  2, 12 Das Boot  43–5, 50 The Deer Hunter  27, 31 DeMille, Cecil B.  7–9 The Dirty Dozen  27 Dog Soldiers  131–2 Doomsday  131 The Doors  54, 60 Dunne, Philip  9 The Eagle as allegory  137–42, 154, 156–7 as combat film  129, 137–40, 156–7 Esca  136–7, 155 Hadrian’s Wall  129, 136 landscape  137–8, 154–5 Ninth legion  129–30 novel  130, 135–7 production  135–6

Index reception  130, 136 Roman Britain  138–9, 154–5 as a western  154–7 Ephialtes  76, 97, 98–9, see also 300 exceptionalism  6, 11, 209 Exodus: Gods and Kings  13–14, 25, 185, 199–202, 204–5 The Exorcist  178 The Fall of the Roman Empire  2, 25, 114, 152 fascism  6, 8–9, 26, 77–8, 84, 86–7, 97, 123, 189 father figures comic book movies  107–9, 179 The Eagle  136, 139–40, 155 Exodus: Gods and Kings  201 Gladiator  39 Greek mythological epics  105–7 Hercules (2014)  194 Iraq and Afghanistan war films  31–2, 134 King Arthur  125 The Legend of Hercules  186 Oliver Stone films  57–8, 61, 63, 65–7 The Passion of the Christ  179, 181 Second World War films  26, 28, 31 Troy  39, 44, 46–7 the Vietnam War  46, 134 Vietnam War films  27–9, 89, 134, 139 First Knight  120 Franzoni, David  115–17, 124–5, 157 freedom allegory  10, 59, 62, 78, 84, 89–90 defending  55, 78, 83, 85, 89–90, 106, 174, 179, 188 fighting for  55, 60, 62, 84–5, 194, 202–3 George W. Bush  84, 137 King Arthur  116, 120, 125 marketing  84–5 1950s–60s epics  8, 10, 24 1990s epics  44, 84–5 300  78–9, 83–4 War on Terror  59, 62, 84, 120, 137, 160, 164, 174, 188 frontiers  23, 119, 131, 142, 145–9, 151–3, 156–7, 210 Fuqua, Antoine  115, 123–5, 149–50

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genre hybridisation  24, 149, 209, see also combat films Gibson, Mel  2, 29, 54, 169–73, 175–9, 180 Gladiator, see also Ridley Scott after 9/11  3, 5, 185, 210 allegory  10, 25, 59 ending  25, 186–7 The Fall of the Roman Empire  25, 152 imperialism  25, 117, 119, 138, 141 influence of Saving Private Ryan  2–3, 186 influence on genre  3, 6, 32, 54, 96, 186, 190–1, 209 Maximus  10, 25, 38–9, 48, 55, 86, 133 reception  1–3 treatment of history  10 Greek epics bleak endings  43–4 perceived issues with  22, 39, 62, 79, 80, 103–4 Guantánamo Bay  122–3, 133, 138, 161, 174 Hadrian’s Wall Centurion  129, 131, 145, 152–3 The Eagle  129, 136, 140, 145, 149, 155–6 history  114, 190 King Arthur  116, 118–19, 145, 147, 150–1 The Last Legion  129, 140–1 Harryhausen, Ray  104–5 Helen of Troy  26, 38, 41, 43–4, 54 Hercules 1997 film  2, 106 2014 film  14, 185, 192–7, 205 Herodotus  76–7, 79, 82–3, 89, 102–3, 193 historical record corruption of history  10, 31–2, 67–70, 103, 134, 187, 191 recording history  31–2, 48, 68–70, 76 Holloway, David  21 Homer  37–8, 40–1, 46–7, 49–50, 66 homosexuality in ancient Greece  22 in epic films  22, 39, 40, 54–5, 79–80, 98, 136 homophobia  22, 55, 80

242 Index House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC)  6, 9, 56 Hypatia, see under Agora Ignatieff, Michael  21, 30, 210 The Iliad, see Homer Immortals  14, 96, 105–8, 187 Imperialism, see also American empire American  21, 29, 84, 148, 209 British  23, 139, 141 Greek  26, 44–5, 47, 55, 57–8, 62, 67, 70, 86 1950s–60s epics  6, 113 parallels between Rome and America  21, 125, 156, 165, 204–5, 209 rejecting  24, 26, 50, 140, 196, 205, 210 Roman  25, 119, 134, 141, 145, 191, 194, 203 understanding of  24, 47, 50, 114–15, 153–4, 203 Inglourious Basterds  31–2 Intolerance  7, 54 Iran  81–3, 100, 101 Iraq, see also Afghanistan, American empire, torture allegory  41, 50, 81, 123, 125, 132, 153, 179 Cold war  6 combat films  30–2, 88–90, 195–6 comparisons to Vietnam War  22, 30, 67, 88, 124–5, 148, 210 insurgency  20, 44, 60, 81, 83–4, 123, 163–5 Mahmudiya incident  30, 134 religion  159–60, 165 soldiers’ war diaries  30, 132, 194 2007 surge  82 US invasion  3, 20, 29, 41, 59, 61, 81 US occupation  20, 44, 82, 88, 113, 137 US perception  29–30, 62, 101 US withdrawal  108–9, 125, 185, 195, 201, 204–5 Iron Man 2  107–8 Islam  21, 60, 82, 122, 159–61, 164, 200 Jason and the Argonauts  104–5, 130 JFK  55, 60, 69–70

Judaism Agora  161–4 combat films  32 history  8, 120, 160, 164, 170 1950s–60s epics  23, 170 Noah  197 The Passion of the Christ  172, 176–7, 179, 181, 202 Risen  202 katabasis combat films  66, 148 definition  66 westerns  147–8 katabasis in ancient world epics  25, 66–7, 107, 138, 140, 151, 153, 155–6, 179, 186, 193–4 Kermode, Mark  80, 95, 176–8 King Arthur allegory  117–19, 120, 123–5 Christianity  116–20, 123, 125, 150 combat film  115–16, 120, 125 freedom  84–5, 90, 116 Guinevere  116–19, 123–4, 136, 151 horror film  118–19 landscape  119 production  115–16, 118 reception  115 torture  117, 120–5 Vietnam War  124–5 western  150–1 The King of Kings  7, 170 Kingdom of Heaven  25, 159, 200 Knightley, Keira  123–4 Kyle, Chris  29, 102, 196 Lane Fox, Robin  54, 60, 63, 68 The Last Legion  13–14, 113, 129–30, 140–2 The Last Temptation of Christ  2, 170 The Legend of Hercules  14, 96, 185–7, 192, 194 Leonidas, see 300 (film) linguistic paradigm  23–4, 39, 54, 78, 83, 133, 137, 141 Little Big Man  59, 148, 150 MacDonald, Kevin  135–9, 154–7 McCoy, Alfred W.  121–2, 171, 181

Index The Magnificent Seven  149–50 Mahmudiya incident, see under Iraq male body comic book  79–81, 97–9, 105 identity  98–9, 133 sexualised  12, 26, 80–1, 98 violence  12, 26, 86–7, 89, 122, 133, 171–2, 174 Mann, Anthony  146–7, 152, 155 Marshall, Neil  129–32, 135, 151–3 masculinity  12, 26, 38, 77, 89, 98–100, 148 Matlz, Albert  9 Maximus, see under Gladiator Miller, Frank  77–80, 95–7, 99 Moore, Steve  192–5 Murro, Naom  188–9 Musgrave, John  102 narrators Alexander  67–70 Ben-Hur (2016)  204 Centurion  131–2, 135 King Arthur  149, 118 1950–60s epics  48–9 300  101–103 300: Rise of an Empire  187–8 Troy  47–50 nationalism  3, 22, 191 9/11, see also Afghanistan, George W. Bush, Iraq comparisons to Pearl Harbor  29, 188 effect on cinema  3, 4–5, 19, 107, 209–11 effect on horror genre  118–19, 122, 174, 178 effect on US policy  59, 81–3 ideological suicide  77, 180 impact on religion  159, 205 shared trauma  3, 5–6, 159 similarities to Cold War  6 1950s–60s epic cycle, see also Greek epics, pepla allegory  1, 9–10, 23, 138, 201, 204, 205, 210 declining popularity  2 definition  1–2, 11–12 narration  48

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religion  159, 170, 201–2, 204 Roman epics  22–4 spectacle  11–12, 152, 156–7, 165 1990s epics  2, 85, 186, see also Saving Private Ryan Ninth Legion  129–30, see also Centurion, The Eagle, The Last Legion Nisbet, Gideon  22–3, 56–7, 76, 78, 81–2, 86, 104, 162 Nixon  60–1 Noah  13–14, 185, 197–202, 204–5 Obama, Barack  107–9, 185 The Pacific  31 The Passion of the Christ allegory  170, 179, 181 horror film  173–9 marketing  169–70, 177–8, 180–1 production  169–71 propaganda  179–81 role of onlookers  172–3 torture  171–6 pepla  2, 97–8, 104–5, 106, 186 Persia epic film  23, 55–62, 81–3, 98–102 187–9 history  58–60, 64–5, 75–8, 81 War on Terror  59, 82–3, 99–101 Petersen, Wolfgang Homer’s Iliad  40 Iraq War  37, 42 nationality  40, 45 recurrent themes  42–3, 45–6 Platoon  27, 53, 61, 63, 65–7, 131 Pompeii  14, 185, 190–2 Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) ancient world epics  46, 61–3, 67, 88, 116, 118, 194–7, 210 combat films  27–8, 31, 88, 134, 195–6, 210 veterans  28, 31, 46, 61, 88, 102, 134, 195–6, 210 Project for the New American Century (PNAC)  20–1, 83 Prosthetic memory  5 Quo Vadis  8, 23–4, 48, 116, 138

244 Index Rambo: First Blood Part II  88–9, 179 Ratner, Brett  193 Redacted  31, 88, 134, 195 Risen  13–14, 185, 197, 201–5 The Robe  1, 6, 8–10, 24, 48, 78, 105, 116, 201 Roman Britain  113–15, see also Centurion, The Eagle, King Arthur, The Last Legion Rossen, Robert  56–7, 70, 79 Rumsfeld, Donald  20, 29 Russell, James  2–3, 12, 25, 40, 59 Saving Private Ryan  2–3, 11, 28, 45–6, 49, 82, 84, 87, 186 Scipione l’Africano  8 Scott, Ridley  2–3, 10, 25, 138, 166, 199–200 The Searchers  146–8, 150–1, 153–5 Second World War Afghanistan  20, 29 combat films  26–7, 31–2, 43–6, 50 D-Day  45–6, 50 influence on epics  8–9, 23, 43–6, 50, 138, 188, 210 Pacific theatre  43–4 Pearl Harbor  20, 29, 188 post-war  2, 8, 23, 43, 77, 97, 201, 205 propaganda  44–5, 101 Shay, Jonathan  28, 40, 46–7, 60–1, 118, 136, 194, 196 Sheehan, Neil  65 The Sign of the Cross  7–8 Sin City  96–7, 103 Slotkin, Richard  146–8, 150–1 Smith, Jeff  9–10 Snyder, Zack making 300 89, 96–7, 104 responses to criticism  80, 83–4, 86–7, 100–1 Soldier Blue  148, 150 soldier-sons, see also father figures Alexander  63–4, 66–7, 88–9 Centurion  134 combat films  26–9, 31–2, 65–7, 88–9, 134, 139, 195–6 comic book movies  107–8 The Eagle  139–40, 155 Exodus: Gods and Kings  200–1, 205

King Arthur  118, 123, 125, 155 The Passion of the Christ  179, 181 Troy  39, 46–7, 50 Sparta, see also 300, 300: Rise of an Empire self-sacrifice  77, 179 society  75–80, 99, 102 Thermopylae  75–7 Twentieth century  76–8, 84 Spartacus (1960 film)  1–2, 8, 11–12, 23, 116, 133, 152, 174, 186 Spielberg, Steven  2–3 Stone, Oliver, see also Alexander, Platoon George W. Bush  59–61 Gladiator  3, 54–5, 59 historian  67–70 history as allegory  59 interest in the ancient world  53–4, 60–1, 65 Iraq  59–60 reception of Alexander  22, 54–6 response to homophobia  22, 55 Stone’s USA  60 recurrent themes  60–1 Vietnam veteran  53, 88 Tears of the Sun  28, 30, 115, 120, 124 The Ten Commandments 1923 film  7 1956 film  8, 24 300 (graphic novel)  75–8, 83, 95–6, 99 300 (2007 film) allegory  80–3, 89–90, 99–100, 189 Americanisation  86, 87 anti-Iranian propaganda  82–3 changes to Miller’s novel  81–4, 100–3 combat film  75, 82, 86–90, 102–5 comic book movie  96 depiction of Spartan culture  77–80, 83–4 Dilios  81–4, 89, 101–3, 187–8 freedom  83–5 Gorgo  79–80, 83–4, 86, 187–8, 189 influence of Gladiator  86 production  96 reception  79–80, 81, 82, 95 visuals  77–8, 87, 95, 98–9, 103–4 sexuality  79–80 300: Rise of an Empire  14, 95, 185, 187–90, 192, 194, 204

Index The 300 Spartans  26, 43, 54, 78–9, 81, 84 Thucydides  41–2 Titanic  2, 186, 190–1 torture Centurion  133–4 King Arthur  120–5 in media  121, 123, 174–5 medieval  120, 122, 171–2 The Passion of the Christ  171–6 ‘torture porn’  122, 173–6, 178 20th century  120–1 War on terror  120–3, 174–5 Trojan War  37–40, 42, 47–50 Troy, see also Achilles allegory  37, 41–2, 44, 45, 47, 50 combat film  37, 42–7, 49–50 Hector  38–9, 41, 44 Helen of Troy  38, 41, 43 historical influences  37, 40 influence of Gladiator  38–9, 48 Odysseus  43–4, 47–50, 135 omission of gods  38, 42 reception  37, 40–1 True Grit  148 24 (TV series)  121–2 usable past  10, 32, 42, 58, 146, 153, 170, 179, 211 Vietnam War, see also father figures, Platoon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, soldier-sons avoiding comparisons  20, 29–30, 81 combat films  27–9, 30–1, 65, 88, 134 comparisons to Iraq  22, 30–1, 50, 67, 88, 125, 210 genre hybridity  24, 156, 210 influence of coverage  26–7

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katabasis  66–7, 148 loss of morality  26–8, 30, 46, 65, 89, 102 westerns  59, 148, 151, 153, 156–7 The Viking Queen  130–1, 133 W.  61 Wall Street  60–1 War on Terror, see also 9/11, Afghanistan, Iraq, torture cinema  4, 19, 88, 166, 175 Cold War  6, 209 official account  11, 29, 70 origins  3, 20–1 religion  122, 159–61, 180–1, 201, 205 US superiority  137 westerns  148 We Were Soldiers  29, 102, 169 westerns allegory  146, 154 American identity  145–6 frontier myth  146–7 Iraq War  148, 153–4 Native Americans  146–7 Roman Britain epics  145–57 US history  145–6 Vietnam War  148, 154 Wetmore, Kevin J.  118–19, 122, 174–5, 178 Wrath of the Titans  13–14, 95–6, 105–9, 186, 201 Wyke, Maria  8, 23, 98 Xerxes comparisons to Bush  83 historical figure  76 300 (film)  80, 82, 83, 99, 100, 103 300: Rise of an Empire  187–9

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