Gladiator 2

Q: Was the cannibal sorry about what he did to the missionary's wife?


The richest, cleverest and most powerful man in the world has declared that Gladiator II is Woke. It may be that his reasoning will some day be vouchsafed to us mortals. To my untrained eyes, the movie was full of machismo, honour, violence and pectoral muscles: not things especially associated with the radical left. There were no girly sub-plots about feelings. Unusually for a mainstream movie, there was no love-interest at all. Our heterosexual hero's heterosexual wife is killed in the first ten minutes. The only speaking role assigned to a woman is the hero's mother, who also happens to be the hero's antagonist's wife (who apparently had a clandestine affair with the hero's father in a precious movie). It doesn't so much fail the Bechdel test as get the Bechdel test handed back with "0/10 See Me" written on the bottom in red ink. It celebrates courage and leadership and sticking to your principles and extreme bloodthirsty violence. Granted, the film ends with the hero (having slaughtered the Machiavellian bad guy) mediating a piece between the Roman state and the armed insurrectionists. "Let no more blood be spilled in the name of tyranny" he explains, and goes on to suggest that Rome might become "a city for the many and a refuge for those in need." Maybe the richest, cleverest and most powerful man in the world thinks that there not nearly enough blood has been spilled, that tyranny is a jolly good thing, and what we really want are elitists cities that kick out those in need? Or could it, perchance, be that Denzil Washington's show-stealing turn as Macrinus, the slave owner and and wily political opportunist, is the thing which makes Gladiator 2 "woke"? The anti-woke go on and on and on about diversity hires, critical race theory and box-ticking exercises, but with two Oscars, three Golden Globes and two Emmys, I think it is highly probably that Denzil got cast in the role because he is a very good actor. Does "woke" (and indeed "woke death of art") simply mean "some films sometimes have dark skinned actors in major roles"?

The non-lunatic section of the electorate seems to feel that the major flaw with Gladiator II is that it is altogether too similar to Gladiator I. Some have gone so far as to say that it is a rerun of the first story rather than a continuation of it. (Can it really be true that an earlier script would have shown the original Maximus rising from the dead and having a fight with Jesus?) This puts me at an advantage since I never saw the first film. But I didn't feel that I was missing a great deal. Characters in these kinds of stories very often have famous fathers, and they very often put on their father's armour and take up their father's shields in the final reel. Characters referring to event which took place in a movie I hadn't seen didn't offend me at all. 

All this leaves me with a distinct lack of things to say. Gladiator 2 is in the category of films which Just Work, the kind of film which They Don't Make Any More. It is full of impressive scenic shots of the the eternal city populated by a cast of thousands. I understand they actually built a life sized replica of the Colosseum. I assume that the sharks and the armies and the baboon-hyena hybrids are done with computers, but (unlike, say, Wicked), one never feels that chunks of the movie only exist to show of the capabilities of the software package. 

It establishes early on what the story is going to be about, and pretty much rattles on until that story comes to a suitable break point. Bastard prince Lucius (Paul Mescal) is hiding out in some foreign land but Rome comes and burns his city, kills his wife, and sells him into slavery. So he vows vengeance against the Roman general, as you would. But it turns out that General Acacius (Pedro Pascal) is quite a decent chap, and himself plotting to overthrow Emperors Geta and Caracalla (Joseph Quinn and Fred Hechinger) who twins, incredibly camp and completely mad. But Acacius is married to Lucius's mother (Connie Nielson, the only survivor from the original movie.)  

Cue arena fights with rhinoceroses, sharks and the pretorium guard; cue bare flesh and decapitations; cue scenes in which doctors say "this will hurt" while sewing up open wounds; cue political intrigue and double-crossing; cue Caracalla making his pet monkey a senator. At least no-one is sick during a feast. The characters don't speak Latin or Modern English, but that dialogue called "Hollywood Epic". ("This galley is sending us to something I cannot do. I am ready to be taken to another place in a while longer.") They stay firmly within that register: no one says "okay" or "I was so, like, fie on thee." 

Clearly, from an historical point of view, it is pillar-to-pillar tosh; but one is rarely struck by anachronisms. Maybe Matt Lucas's colosseum master of ceremonies is a little bit too close to the a modern sports announcer. It is very clear that at some point Lucius will have to fight Acacius (shades of Sorhab and Rustum!) and that then settle accounts with Macrinus (the slave owner) but it is by no means obvious who is going to be alive when the credits role and who is going to end up in a pool of stage blood. 

The review writers union legally require me to end this review by saying that I was indeed not not entertained. I am not going to think about this film once a day for the rest of my life which is apparently what all real men do.  (I think of Star Wars every day, but that's because I have the 1977 fan-club poster hanging in my hallway.)  But I am certainly going to watch the original, finally. It is hard to believe that the same director can turn out Napoleon one year and Gladiator II the next. 

So far as I can see the proposition "Gladiator II is woke" can only be derived from the premise "Everything is woke" -- which I understand is what the supreme ruler of the universe does in fact believe. It seems, at any rate, to have made a great deal of money, and the aforementioned Wicked seems to have rather emphatically not gone broke at all.


A: No, he was glad he ate her. 



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Wicked

The audience applauds after the final song; they applaud during the end credits, and the stragglers applaud when the house lights go up. There are disproportionate whoops of laughter, particularly every time Prince Fiyero (Jonathan Bailley) opens his mouth.

Musicals have a particular kind of fandom. Some people have seen Les Miserables a hundred times. I believe some people who went to every single night of Hunting of the Snark, despite it being a legendary turkey. And obviously the audience of Rocky Horror provide a sort of interpretive counter melody to what is happening on stage. Wicked is clearly very popular. This was the cinematic event of the year: I know that because it said so on the poster. 

There have been some rather desperate attempts to create a new Barbenhiemer around it. That's when people go and see two very different movies on the same day. Wickedator or Gladiked don't have the same ring. Gladdington goes better. Wicked reminded me of Barbie to some extent. A certain archness in the delivery. A universe constructed of oversized toys. Lots of colour; quite a lot of it pink. A film which invites us to laugh at and critique silly girlie prettification while enjoying it at the same time. The fact that I entirely failed to get it.

So what are we actually watching? 

The first two thirds of the movie is a bog-standard American high school romance. The characters are college age, but wear school uniforms and sit in rows at wooden desks. I have no idea if that's a deliberate gag or merely an artefact of the US and the UK being divided by a common educational system. We have a geeky, unattractive, unpopular girl (Cynthia Erivo) forced to room with a good looking, wildly popular, bitchy room mate (Ariana Grande-Butera). We have the spoiled out-of-town posh boy who's been thrown out of lots of other schools (Jonathan Baile) exerting a bad influence. We have the salt-of-the-earth home-town (Ethan Slater )lad who asks the nice disabled girl (Marissa Bode) to the prom where they unexpectedly wow everyone on the dance floor. We have a wise old lecturer (Peter Dinklage) who everyone is prejudiced against because of his race, and who the Gestapo come and arrest at the half way point, forcing everyone to decide which side they are on. There's a prom scene and a library scene and a make-over scene. 

It's not quite done as skit. Glinda is eminently dislikable and Elphaba genuinely wins our sympathies. But the dead-pan use of tropes is clearly a joke in itself. 

The last third of the movie is a bog-standard chosen-one super-hero origin story. The nerdy heroine is invited to the big city by the mentor figure; it transpires that she is the only one who can read his magic book. She spots that the mentor figure is a fraud and a baddie and uses the powers in the magic book to facilitate her escape. At various points in the story she acquires elements of her costume, and only in the final seconds does she become her Iconic self. Whereupon a big "to Be continued" appears on the screen. I guess most of us missed the small "Part I" on the opening credits. It's going to take a full six hours for the movie to come to any kind of point. Although given the amount of time and musical reprises  there are between Elphaba deciding to reject the Wizard (Jeff Goldblum) and actually whooshing away on her broomstick, it wouldn't surprise me if they spin it out for much longer. 

The very generic story is wrapped up in a sort of acid-trip flanderisation of our half memories of watching the Wizard of Oz on TV in the olden days. The opening scene (just after Dorothy kills the Wicked Witch of The West) nods to the original Munchkin village fairly vigorously, although Glinda the Witch of the South, resplendent in a magic bubble, is sanctimonious, as opposed to actually good. And the Munchkins are just people. Is there going to be a plot point that their shortness was evil wizardly propaganda, or is it just hard to persuade short actors to play these kinds of novelty roles? The most famousest and shortest actor, Peter Dinklage, was reduced to playing the voice of a goat. 

But once the story goes into flashback -- Glinda is supposedly explaining how the Witch of the West came to be so wicked -- Oz becomes a pageant of CGI tomfoolery. All very pretty, of course: psychedelic fluorescent flowers that pop up for no particular reason; college library stacks on the inside of rotating cylinders; very convincing talking animals and of course reams and reams of dancers around every single corner. But fantasy requires some kind of secondary belief or coherent world building, particularly if we are supposed to feel Really Empowered when Elphaba announces, repeatedly, that from now on she will be defying gravity. When Glinda decides that she is going to give her un-glamorous roommate a makeover, every single item of furniture in the room unfolds into some pink, chocolate-box wedding cake beautification device. If you like being pummelled over the head with marshmallow and candy-floss, it's quite clever. And the people who are going to watch it dozens of times will find plenty to look at. But there is such a thing as CGI fatigue.

I am not one of those who uses "CGI" as a catch-all descriptor of the kinds of movie they don't like. I don't regard it is a heinous sin against our lord Harryhausen. The ability to translate imaginative artwork into apparently real landscapes and creatures is a fine thing. People who are much cleverer than me always claim that it looks flat and artificial. My problem is that it is too easy. If you can create a hundred million billion flying monkeys at the flick of a button and put them into a non-euclidian green city, there is a serious danger that you will do so. And the overall effect is not realism, but the absence of realism. Less is more and more is much too much

I have not read the book or seen the stage-play. It's quite a lot of years since I saw Wizard of Oz, and I don't think I've ever read the book. It always seemed a little amoral to me. Some people are less physically courageous than others, and the message "you are only a coward because you think you are" seems perilously close to victim-blaming. It's too close to those Victorian children's books who are only lame and consumptive because they think they are. At one level we are clearly in Prequel Country: the Wizard asks Elphaba what colour she thinks his new rode ought to be; she casts a spell on his monkeys and rescues a scared lion cub from a cage. One assumes that Boq Woodsman (who did the impressive wheelchair dance routine) is due to have a terrible accident with an axe. But overall, I have not got the faintest idea where the story goes next.

Are we watching a super-villain origin story? Will Part II show who Glinda became truly good and Elphaba became genuinely wicked? "How did the bad guy become bad?" is a perfectly good question, but "Because she was bullied at school" seems a trite, sub-Stan Lee answer. Since Harry Potter we have all understood that adult life simply re-enacts school-yard rivalry on a larger scale; and the Oz college is distinctly Hogwartian. Gregory Maguire's original novel precedes J.K Rowling by four years. 

Or is this a more radical re-working of the fairy tale? Are we going to find out that in the original story the Wicked Witch was the goodie, and the Good Witch was the baddie. There was some fairly sophisticated Potter fan-fiction in which Draco Malfoy turns out to have been misunderstood.

I am quite intrigued. But possibly not intrigued enough to listen to another three hours of mediocre pop music. 




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