It seemed a quixotic notion: "Hey, guys, let's make a movie in a genre that went out of fashion when The Sound of Music came in; that will cost $100 million, require arduous location shooting and elaborate computer effects; whose director hasn't made a film grossing even $50 million domestically in 20 years; whose script will be retooled by three writers turning in new pages during shooting; and whose 'star' is a gifted actor but also, by all accounts, a severe rectal itch." We can hear the moguls chorusing: "Gladiator? Thumbs down."
Today Douglas Wick, the movie's producer, can say, "Anyone with a little showman in his blood knew it could work." And now the rest of Hollywood knows too. Even before it opens, Gladiator smells like a hit. Its early glow has movie people saying "Of course!" Of course there's a magnetic pull of audiences to Roman Empire epics--stories about palace sex, political backstabbing and violent raids are as today as the Clinton Administration. Of course Ridley Scott, whose only big hit was the 1979 Alien but who directed influential films such as Blade Runner and Thelma & Louise, possessed the vision and stamina to bring a complex story to screen life. And you bet Russell Crowe has the thoughtful, coiled danger, the unfakable maleness to become one of Hollywood's most wanted actors. He simply needed a showcase as grand as this one.
Gladiator is quite a good movie--a big, fat, rousing, intelligent, daring, retro, many-adjective-requiring entertainment. It has lots of fighting, but with a posh accent; this may be the first culturally acceptable version of WrestleMania. Beyond the spectacle of large men grabbing and stabbing one another, Gladiator offers body halvings, decapitations, unhandings. A pity the slaves must die for the public's sport, and a pleasure that we get to watch. Violence is an issue directors love to deplore and exploit.
Every movie pitch is a variation on "It's old, but it's new!" As Walter Parkes, the production boss at DreamWorks who greenlighted Gladiator, says, "Recently there have been very successful movies--Titanic, The Mask of Zorro, Saving Private Ryan--that introduced classic genres to new audiences, employing modern writing and digital techniques. The Roman epic occupies a strange, special place in the heart of moviegoers. We love the good ones like Ben-Hur and Spartacus, but even the bad ones are guilty pleasures." Scott recalls seeing these epics in his youth. "I loved the costume drama of it all and remembered that world vividly," he says. "But I also knew you can't bring that to bear today. You've got to reinvent it."
The plot, familiar from the 1964 epic The Fall of the Roman Empire, is this: in A.D. 180, Emperor Marcus Aurelius (Richard Harris) is ailing. He anoints his best general, Maximus (Crowe), a man whose motto is "Strength and Honor," as Protector of Rome until it can again become a republic. Before announcing his decision, Marcus informs his son Commodus (Joaquin Phoenix), who lusts to be Emperor. Commodus is displeased by the news; he smothers Marcus in his bosom, murdering him with a filial embrace, and proclaims himself Emperor. In short order, the nasty boy has swiped Maximus' job, ordered his death, killed his boss, razed his home, and had his wife and son defiled and slaughtered. The soldier has reason for revenge.