The Sword and the Cross (1958)

La spada e la croce (The Sword and the Cross, 1958) was a vehicle for Canadian actor Yvonne De Carlo who took the leading role of Mary Magdalene, in a film which involves Jesus a great deal more than many such Jesus cameo films, yet still keeps him away from the glare of the camera.¹

De Carlo came to prominence in the 1940s, in a series of films for Universal Pictures which hinted at her future participation in peplum films, but were set in different eras. Her breakthrough film, Salome, Where She Danced (1945) contains the name of a famous (biblical) object of the male gaze, and in two of her next three films  Song of Scheherazade (1947) and Slave Girl (1947) she played a dancer in revealing costumes. It's strange, then, that one of her first scenes in The Ten Commandments (1956) features her sitting out whilst her sisters, Jethro's daughters, dance to impress Moses. Heston's Moses is initially smitten by De Carlo's Sephora, but he seemingly loses interest in her from the moment he meets God at the burning bush. In between she made two fine noirs with two of the genre's great directors, Brute Force (1947) with Jules Dassin and Criss Cross (1949) with Robert Siodmak.

In many ways, De Carlo's role in La spada is the mirror of her role in Ten Commandments. Here though it is the woman, Mary who is the focus, and she who has the life-changing supernatural encounter which leads to the effective, though not actual, rejection of previous partners in favour of a more spiritual life. However, in contrast to Heston's Moses, De Carlo's Mary does not immediately change track in a Damascene style conversion. Instead her experience is closer to that of Anthony Quinn's eponymous hero in Barabbas (1961) - the encounter is significant, meaningful, but initially troubling.Only later does it become apparent that some sort of metanoia (change of heart) has occurred.

Magdalene's initial response to the Jesus movement is mockery. Whilst her sister and brother (Martha and Lazarus) are followers, she torments one of his male followers by having him tied up, dressing provacatively and dancing before him in an attempt to "convince him that sin is more amusing than virtue". When she fails, she rips off the mask that her paramour/provider Anan has given her, and when her true face still fails to arouse the man, the camera defocuses on her face and she flees the room.

It's then she hears Jesus' voice, accompanied by esoteric sounds. Going to her balcony she sees that a ghostly vision of Jesus has materialised, his head hidden in the shadows. The encounter prompts her to scold Anan "Don't touch me. No-one must ever touch me again", but she is filled with fear rather than love or faith. Mary remains in this troubled, haunted state, and resolves to go to the temple to pray, though what kind of conversion has occurred is somewhat ambiguous.

It's there that she is caught by the mob and becomes the woman accused of adultery from John 8. Indeed the film conflates various biblical women into the figure of Mary Magdalene. In addition to the unnamed woman of John 8, she is also combined with the sister of Martha, and the woman who anoints Jesus' feet. Given the previous scene where Mary at the encouragement of a powerful man dances to add torment a holy man, she also fulfils the role of  Salome.

Jesus, of course, intervenes. The moment in question is shot from what initially appears to be his point-of-view, but then he walks into shot. Again we see his body, but not his head. But anyone thinking that this encounter will propel her to a sold faith would be mistaken. When Martha mentions Jesus to her, she reacts "The Nazarene! Enough of this talk of the Nazarene". Martha's insistence that Jesus is the messiah only prompts Mary's self-loathing to come to the surface "Why would the real messiah come to me?...His forgiveness means nothing to me. I know what I am, and I know how I'll end." It is only when Lazarus dies and Mary calls out for Jesus that her faith becomes apparent Lazarus is raised, of course, and finally Mary becomes devoted and free to express her faith.

The Bible tells us so little about Mary Magdalene that all this invention and conflation is necessary to fill out a 90+ minute film, but what is most surprising is that the one passage in the Bible where Mary features most prominently - their post-resurrection meeting in the garden - is omitted. Indeed the film ends somewhat surprisingly and darkly at the foot of the cross moments after Jesus' death. Gaius Marcellus, the roman centurion who she has, through the course of the film, come to love and then pass over in favour of the messiah, tries to dismiss what has just happened. "Jesus will be forgotten after his death" he suggests, as if to help. But, by this stage, Mary has been inspired: "No", she counters, "it is by his death that he will begin to live". The film ends a little darkly, but given the audience knows the rest of the story it is not without hope. Perhaps such an ending poses a question to the audience. If nothing else it's one way of avoiding one of the central dilemmas of biblical epics - how to sufficiently appease the opposing beliefs of faithful and faithless about the events being depicted. That said, if this is the reason for ending the film at this point the logic seems inconsistent. Jesus has already healed Lazarus and gone beyond the miracles in the Bible by adding gthe miraculous (and somewhat spooky) materialisation following Mary's dance.

The materialisation scene is just one example of the film's unusual attitude to Jesus' physical body, Whilst Jesus is in one sense present far more than in films such as Ben-Hur and The Robe, the manner in which the camera is never truly permitted to fully behold him. In many scenes, including  when Jesus prevents Mary from being stoned and her visit to him in a cell before his execution, we see just his arm, or hear his voice as his body stands just off camera. In the materialisation scene his head is so hidden in the shadows it caused one scholar to mistake his body for being "headless".² Other scenes, such as his appearance before a crowd in Pilate's courtyard, are shot from afar, so that the audience can just about make out his body in full, but cannot distinguish the features of his face. Finally we come to the crucifixion scene which uses a combination of the above strategies. Firstly the scene is shown from afar; then as the sky grows dark and a storm begins to rage the camera closes in on Mary at the foot of the cross; then in two shot of Mary and Gaius Marcellus, Jesus' legs appear between them at the top of the shot. This is followed by the camera slowing panning upwards to reveal the body of the crucified Jesus in full, but in darkness contrasted against the sky. Finally, seconds before the end of the film, a flash of lightning finally reveals Jesus' body in for just a split second.

It's tempting to speculate as to why the film adopts such an attitude towards Jesus' physical presence. Given the final reveal, it works as a metaphor for Mary's slowly ascending faith finally reaching completion. But it also suggests that the filmmakers are uncomfortable with the nature of the incarnation and the idea of Jesus fully human body.

The film's attitude to Jesus' body contrasts starkly with its attitude to Mary's and whilst the decision to make Mary the central character could be read as a more feminist approach to the subject, the objectification of Mary's body is just one of a number of concerns with its attitude to gender. In particular Mary's financial dependence on Anan is contrasted with her concerns, at least, that she is growing too old to retain his affections. De Carlo was only 36 at the time.

This peaks in the dance scene. Mary is clearly hurt when Anan gives her a mask to wear during her performance, interpreting his insistence as a sign that he no loner finds her face attractive. When her masked performance fails to arose the captive follower of Jesus she throws it off in the hope that her face will succeed where her body has not. It does not. The man's rejection of her body seems in accordance with its almost gnostic attitude to Jesus' body. The film is also guilty of double standards in this respect on the one hand sexualising De Carlo's body in order to boost the film's box office appeal, whilst on the other, chastising Mary for appearing sexually "available".

Also problematic in terms of gender is the film's conflation of various female characters in the Bible into one, Mary. This contrasts with La spada's fleshing out of the role of various male characters who are only mentioned in passing in the biblical text. Other women do appear in the film notably Mary's virginal sister Martha and Pilate's wife Claudia, but the film's contrast between "virgin" and "whore" is the person of Mary is problematic even despite the fact she is not quite portrayed as being a prostitute.

That said La spada was arguably the first in a string of Biblical pepla where a woman was the leading character. The following year Solomon and Sheba (1959) would significantly enhance the queen's role to the extent that by the end of the film the audience is more invested in her character than that of her male counterpart. 1960's Esther and the King followed the two-names pattern but relegated Esther's co-star to a nameless "King", in the title at least. The Story of Ruth also released in 1960, went a step further and only named the female charcter in its title.

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1 - Various cuts of this film are available including a 97 minute English version and a slightly longer 101 minute Italian version which includes the trial before Pilate and a scene in which the subsequently freed Barabbas chokes Anan to death. Barry Atkinson also notes the existence of an even shorter 88 minute cut.²
2 - Atkinson, Barry (2018) Heroes Never Die: The Italian Peplum Phenomenon 1950-1967. London: Midnight Marquee Press. p.81.

The Christ Slayer (2019)

The Christ Slayer (dir:Nathaniel Nose, 2019) is the third and final instalment of The Quest Trilogy a series of films, written, produced and often starring actor DJ Perry. As with the other films in the trilogy it's a well-filmed, thoughtfully-crafted film that's not afraid to explore key moments in the gospels from a quirky angle. 40 Nights (2016) examined Jesus' time in the desert and features a more nuanced exploration of Jesus' temptations there than is typical. The following year Chasing the Star (2017) went back to the time of Jesus' birth and found the magi similarly in similarly introspective mood. As with 40 Nights the time journeying in the desert leads to discussions with the devil and reflections on their past, and therefore future lives.

It's to be expected, then that The Christ Slayer treads a similar path. The action, such as it is, has shot forward to Jesus' crucifixion. At the foot of the cross we find Longinus (Carl Weyant), a blind Roman centurion who is tasked with piercing Jesus' side. One of the things I have enjoyed about the trilogy is that Perry is not afraid to tweak the details in the gospels just a little in order to get closer to the heart of the issues he is exploring. Earlier this week Alex von Tunzelmann wrote a piece for The Guardian arguing that if films can encourage audiences to think more critically about the source material, then that is arguably more important than unswerving historical accuracy. Quest's deep dives do just that. I don't think Perry would claim his versions of what happened to Jesus, or to the Magi in the desert were what actually happened, but they raise bigger issues about faith and humanity. And so it is with The Christ Slayer. Here Longinus believes himself to be the man who killed the Christ and for a while it looks like the guilt will drive him insane. Much of the early part of the film feels like horror, with Longinus's various nightmares taking centre stage for a while.

But if that sounds like a 21st century reworking of The Robe (1953) the the film soon plots a different course. Longinus decides to return home to end his life. He sets off accompanied by his servant and friend Albus (Josh "Ponceman" Perry). Along the way the two encounter Jesus and gradually Longinus re-evaluates his plans for what remains of his life.

Josh Perry's casting is particularly notable given he has Down Syndrome. The role feels like it could have gone to any actor; there's nothing about it that indicates that the character has the syndrome or anything like it. At the same time though, because the story setting in a world before such a label had been created, it's perfectly plausible that someone with a similar condition could have been a servant for a man who was himself vision-impaired. I love that the film makes nothing of it. It neither feels like it's trying to make a point and yet it does. Perry does good work here with no special pleading and its to his credit and that of the other filmmakers for making it happen.

As with the other entries in the series the film perambulates along its journey. The destination is not really the destination, and rather than summoning up false peril to create a sense of urgency, the film is content to let the protagonists inner journey to take the wheel. Nose, like Jessie Low and Brett Miller before him provide some nice images of the landscape for such inner exploration to take place. For a series made with three different directors the three films still feel like they belong together.

It will be no great spoiler to reveal that Longinus eventually makes his piece with Jesus. Not only is it the typical place such films end up, but he is also now venerated in many church traditions as a saint. What is interesting is that just as 40 Nights was content with the idea that Jesus was not fully knowledgeable before his ministry, he also still had some things to learn after it. Some will find this point objectionable, offensive even, but I find it fascinating. After all, even having lived for thirty years amongst humanity, would anything prepare you for the trauma of crucifixion? The forty days of Jesus' ministry after his resurrected is often seen as about those he was to leave behind, but the stories from this period consist mainly of the things that happened in that first week. Why did Jesus stay around so long? Perhaps this is just my interpretation, but perhaps it suggests that Jesus's experience of humanity still had some way to go. To understand healing and forgiveness from a new, and difficult angle.

There's much to admire here, then. From one some unconventional takes to one of the late Rance Howard's final roles (again kudos to the producers for not overly exploiting that in their publicity). The film is not without its weaknesses - I'm not entirely convinced by some of the acting and the odd line doesn't quite land - but overall, its a fitting end to the trilogy. This is particularly true considering the series has had such a limited budget, and it's certainly a film that from which a lot of those making films for Christian audiences could learn a great deal.

Quo Vadis? (1913)

At the time, Enrico Guazzoni's Quo Vadis? (1913) was called "The most ambitious dramatic work ever seen in cinema" (New York Times). Today it remains overshadowed by it's 1951 Hollywood remake, a product of Hollywood, though that too was shot in Rome, in the Cinecittà studios. Both films and the 1902 (Pathé) original were based on Henryk Sienkiewicz's (Polish) novel, itself dating only as far back as 1890.

The film's creation, produced by the Rome-based company Cines, marks the coming together of a number of interconnected trends. Even at this early stage in cinema history there had been numerous adaptations of 19th century epic novels pitting Romans against early Christians from Edward Bulwer-Lytton's "The Last Days of Pompeii" (1834, adapted in 1908 and again in 1913) to Lew Wallace's "Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ" (1880, first adapted in 1907). Then, in terms of Italian output, the epic film was very much emerging. If Arturo Ambrosio and Luigi Maggi's 1908 Gli ultimi giorni di Pompei, an adaptation of Bulwer-Lytton's novel, can be seen as the first true epic film then just a year after the release of Guazzoni's Quo Vadis? (1913) was it's silent era high point - Giovanni Pastrone's still impressive Cabiria. Watch those three films back to back and suddenly much of the credit given to Griffith's Intolerance seems a little misplaced.

But the enduring impact and impressiveness of Quo Vadis? and Cabiria masks the level of turmoil that was present in the Italian industry at the time. Despite the acclaim for Quo Vadis? Cines hit a downward spiral plagued by poor business decisions and a failure to conquer America and was sold off just a year or two later (Tomadjoglou 108). By the time Christus was released in 1916, it was very much a different company.

The popularity of the epic film was itself part of a broader movement in Italian filmmaking around this time. Naturally there was a strong emphasis on Roman history. From Carthage (Cabiria) and Spartacus (1913's Spartaco), to the loose Shakespearean adaptations Anthony and Cleopatra (Guazzoni, 1913) and Julius Caesar (Guazzoni, 1914), through to Constantine (In hoc signo vinces, 1913), but the subjects covered were far broader, taking in subjects as diverse as Greek myths (L'Odissea,1911), the Crusades (Guazzoni's La Gerusalemme liberta, 1911) and Napolean (Guazzoni's Pro patria mori, 1912). Naturally there were no shortage of biblical titles either. Again Guazzoni was at the fore with Guiseppe ebreo (Joseph the Hebrew, 1991), I Maccabei (1911) and Quo Vadis?, but consider also Milano films' 1910 San Paolo, Luigi Maggi's Giuda (Judas, 1911), and Cines' Christus (1916).

Having said all that, please don't gain the impression from my rather overenthusiastic listing that the Italian film industry of the early 1910s was dominated by such offerings. In fact "historical films did not make up the majority of Italian production but, rather, were considered the flagship product, geared both to the domestic and foreign markets." (Muscio 163) This ties in well with what we know of the American industry at the same time. Many saw the cinema as disreputable so companies like Vitagraph sought to provide a higher quality of output. Historical films, based upon reputable sources like the Bible and Shakespeare were a much favoured route. I guess we could debate - comparing the way cinema is regarded in comparison to other art forms today - whether or not Vitagraph and the Italian film exporters like Cines' George Kleine were successful or not, but perhaps another time.

Nevertheless, the artistry and quality of the Italian films was what set them apart from competition abroad. According to Muscio's research "the most common traits of historical films pertained to the quality of the mise-èn-scene, which included the visual blocking of the masses, the richness of the scenographic details, frame composition, the quality of the lighting, and the use of landscape" (166).

In Italy the historical films were also considered an important medium for those looking "for literary kinships and a strong link with traditional culture" who were typically "wanting to educate the masses by popularizing the classics" (Muscio 166). In this we perhaps find the roots of Roberto Rossellini's later historical works, which were made with very much the same intention. But at home they filled a further role. The unification of Italy had only been completed forty years previously and was still a source of tension in some quarters. Historical epics had a "capacity to glorify history as a nostalgic escape from post-Unification disenchantment and the mounting social unrest of the present" (Muscio 168).

The film itself runs to around 100 minutes, far better paced than the 1951 remake which drags in places. Visually it's typified by the use of tinting and/or toning in almost every scene, and this technique is used to great effect, particularly as Rome burns. My favourite, though might be the way the colours change as the orgy scene progresses. Initially pink, is switches to a more sultry red as things hot up a bit. By the time we reach the last throws of the event the next morning, the colour has changed again to a pale sickly green.

As implied above the sets are certainly impressive as is the size of the various crowds which fill so many scenes, but the fire scenes and those in the Colosseum particularly stand out. It's also noticeable how well Guazzoni uses the available space and the film's depth of field. In the Colosseum scene an unfortunate group of Christians wait in the deep background for a pride of lions who emerge at the front of the shot and prowl terrifyingly towards them

The film opens by introducing us to each character in turn as one shots are alternated with intertitles giving us the names of each character and their actor in turn. Vincinius' arrival in the city is somewhat muted, as his attempted courtship of Lyggia is kept short. Less than nine minutes passes before she is arrested and then dragged to Nero's orgy. Once there, Vincinius' attempt to seduce Lyggia is far more uncomfortable viewing than the 1951 version. Things start off pleasant enough, but it seems like it might have ended in rape had not Ursus stepped in to whisk Lyggia away.

It's a surprise then when Lyggia so quickly decides to marry him, and he decides to convert. The two head off to find Peter in the first of many scenes in the catacombs. Peter is seemingly much more involved with the everyday goings on in the Christian community. He is far more hands on and less remote than Finlay Currie's take in the 1951 version. Later we also meet Paul and then, of course, Jesus. Peter's vision on the Appian way occurs right at the end of the film. By this point Nero has already burned Rome, blamed the Christians and murdered them in the amphitheatre by various grisly means. The Roman "games" scene features a Ben-Hur style chariot race (not found in the novel).

Jesus' appearance is shot using double exposure, a ghostly figure with hair that reaches down to his chest. Peter barely gets back to Rome before the legions have revolted and Galba has been declared emperor. Nero flees but dies shortly afterwards and an intertitle declares that "from the rain of strife and blood sprang a new life: the life of Christianity, in the sign of love and peace". The film's closing image, featuring a green tint, is Jesus stood in front of a glowing cross in the background, being worshipped by his followers. 

For Bible films fans there are appearances by Peter, Paul and Jesus, quite possibly the first production to do so. It seems unlikely the original adaptation would have had time to include the Paul scenes, and whilst one of the early films about Paul might have included both the apostle's brushes with Peter and a lifelike vision of Jesus on the Damascus road it's hard to imagine they had the running time either.

For everyone else, Quo Vadis? is rightly celebrated as a landmark film.It may not have a claim to fame for a historic first, but it's impressive sets, crowds, use of colour and set it above the films that were being made across the Atlantic and in neighbouring France.

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Muscio, Giuliana (2013) "In Hoc Signo Vinces: Historical Films", in Bertellini, Giorgio (ed.) (2013). Italian Silent Cinema: A Reader (New Barnett: John Libbey Publishing), pp. 161-70

Tomadjoglou, Kimberly (2013) "Rome's Premiere Film Studio: Società Italiana Cines", in Bertellini, Giorgio (ed.) (2013). Italian Silent Cinema: A Reader (New Barnett: John Libbey Publishing), pp. 161-70

Quo Vadis (1951)

Revisiting Quo Vadis (1951) after all this time I feel I should somehow have more enthusiasm for it - it was nominated for eight Oscars™, after all. How many Bible movies can boast that? Yet for all it's fabulous colours and spectacular crowd scenes; despite Miklós Rózsa much lauded score; and despite, even, Peter Ustinov's memorable take on Nero, I find myself strangely unmoved by it. I don't want to spend too much time on that - as ever I'd rather dwell on the positives and the aspects of it that do catch my attention - but, I guess, the central love story seems to lack the necessary drama or gravitas to pull everything off. Robert Taylor's Marcus Vinicius is far from the first hero to start off a film as a jerk only to reform his ways, but somehow I can't buy into the idea that forcibly removing a woman from their home and throwing them into the middle of one of Nero's orgies would ever fan the flames of love in a fair maiden's heart. Perhaps it's just the lack of action scenes, but watching it again with the kids, I'm a little embarrassed at how, well, boring it is.

Which isn't to say that there's not a few interesting things to discuss as well. For one thing, it wasn't until I re-watched this that it became apparent just how specifically the Coen Borthers parody this film in particular in Hail Caesar (2016). The opening shots of the Coens' film-within-the-film is practically a shot for shot homage to the opening of Quo Vadis. View these two short clips from the two films back to back and you will see what I mean. This is also film with the overly long trumpets which was parodied so mercilessly in Monty Python's Life of Brian (1979).

It's all too easy looking back on it almost seventy years later to only recall those films to affectionately mock it, but, of course it had huge impact at the time. Not only did it top the 1951 box with over $20M in worldwide income, it also inspired films like The Robe (1953) and a handful of other Roman-Christian epics that were to follow.

Yet as much as later films have reused, recycled and reinvented aspects of it, the film itself drew on works that went before it. Firstly there are the earlier adaptations of Henryk Sienkiewicz's 1896 novel. There were three silent versions of the film made in 1901, 1912 and 1924. The 1912 film (available to view online) is arguably the most famous - some credit it with being the first true epic. If nothing else it's this one, directed by Enrico Guazzoni, I feel most guilty about for not having seen. That might be something I put right shortly.

But as much as Mervyn Le Roy's 1951 retelling derives from both Sienkiewicz's novel and the various early adaptations, it also is influenced to some degree by another film. DeMille's The Sign of the Cross (1932) clearly draws a great deal from "Quo Vadis", not least it's plot, though presumably changes just enough to avoid a lawsuit. There's Nero and Poppaea and a Roman soldier who falls in love with a Christian girl. Despite the furore caused by the film it performed reasonably well, but more significantly it provided a bit of a template for how a proper adaption of the novel could be handled. Replace Charles Laughton with Peter Ustinov to play a similarly self-obsessed camp Nero, tone down the orgy a bit and hope the spectacle grabs the audience's attention. DeMille's film forms the bridge between the novel, the 1912 film and LeRoy's remake.

Having said that I'm not sure how to read the portrayal of Nero and, to a lesser extent Patricia Laffan's Poppaea. Ustinov plays Nero as a vain toddler without anyone to keep him in check. Leo Genn's Petronius peddles a fine line in providing sharp answers that cut both ways, only Nero cannot even conceive of the possibility that what sounds like praise might in fact be an insult. Ustinov was nominated for an Oscar™ (as was Genn) but lost out to Karl Malden's turn in A Streetcar Named Desire. His performance is memorably, but mainly for its over-the-topness. Of course, Nero was over the top, but Ustinov channels Laughton as much as anything. More to the point, despite his toned down sexuality, these days it just feels a little bit transphobic. Ultimately it also overshadow's Laffan's Poppaea a bit too much, at least to the extent that I would have liked to see a bit more of her character (who is, after all rather more instrumental in how events transpire between Deborah Kerr's Lygia and Marcus Vinicius). That said I also suspect that this would also have had it's problems.

Having come this far and only just mentioned Deborah Kerr, I feel I owe her the last word. I don't really know where this ranks amongst her films, but in the orgy scene she is particularly outstanding. As Marcus makes his arrogantly ham-fisted attempts to seduce her she bristles at the very prospect. On the one hand she remains calm and prim and proper. On another level she is clearly appalled and horrified at what is happening to her. And on perhaps another, part of the disgust she feels is because she is attracted to Marcus despite her misgivings. The film doesn't really make as much of her as it could. Marcus's story arc consists of his conversion; Petronius' his rebellion; but for Lygia (and I suppose, Paul and Peter) there's little to no story arc. As Christian's their characters have already reached their goal and the film, unlike, say Demetrius and the Gladiators (1954) gives little consideration to the possibily of regression (or even progression) following a conversion experience.

Despite my intentions, I seem to have ended on a negative note. Undoubtedly, there are things to admire about Quo Vadis. If you havent already seen it, you really should, but, perhaps only once.

Giuda (Judas, 1911)

Earlier in the year South West Silents organised an event called Treasures from the Turin Film Museum at the Watershed Cinema in Bristol which featured five silent Italian films with an ancient world theme including Pastrone’s Fall of Troy (1911) and two films produced by Arturo Ambrosio, The Last Days of Pompeii (1910) and Giuda (Judas, 1911)

None of the main texts from which I would expect to find something about the film even mentioned it. Neither David Shepherd's "The Bible on Silent Film", nor Campbell and Pitts' "The Bible on Film", nor Giorgio Bertellini's "Italian Silent Cinema" even mention it. Thankfully Carol O'Sullivan was kind enough to provide the summary she wrote for the screening notes for the afternoon in Bristol:

Giuda (1911), 10’
The courtesan Priscilla is fascinated by the preachings of Jesus of Nazareth. She tries to seduce him but he resists and invites her to abandon her sinful ways. In revenge, she prompts Judas to betray him, only to repent at the last minute when it is already too late.
The repentance is missing from the surviving copy of the film.

Despite the paucity of information about the film it seems likely that it was directed by Luigi Maggi. Maggi began as an actor but had been directing for several years by the time Giuda was produced. His most notable credit is probably Last Days of Pompeii (1908) which I watched last year. Whilst I didn't find the time to review it, I did post a couple of tweets at the time on that film's use of the depth of field in two particular shots, one of a discernible object in the background and another of a character staggering past the camera.

Interestingly the depth of field used in Giuda is even more striking, and once again we get another character, in this case Judas, who starts the centre of the frame in a typical (for the time) intermediate shot before staggering towards the camera and then past it. Whereas the character in Pompeii was drunk, here is is driven crazy by his love for Priscilla.

As interesting as that shot is on it's own, it's the camera's use of depth elsewhere that is of most interest. Whilst the first Jesus as a cameo film is probably 1909's L’aveugle de Jérusalem, this film is surely the first to deploy the strategy, which would become so prominent in later Roman-Christian epics, of keeping Jesus in the scene but minimising his presence in the shot.

Of the eight surviving scenes Jesus is in five of them, but in each he is placed in the distance towards the top of the scene. Whilst these shots are clearly only portraying the human side of Jesus, this positioning of a slightly detached skyward figure also conveys something of the divine Christ in heaven whilst life continues on Earth below.

What is striking though is how little reverence the camera treats him with. In the opening shot (above) Jesus preaches in the background, but the focus is on Judas and Priscilla the woman whose very presence has captured his attention (and ours). This dynamic is extended even further in the next scene, the Triumphal Entry. Normally this is one of the emotional high points of any Jesus film but here it's almost a sideshow. Jesus passes through in the background, the crowd cheers, but the camera moves from tracking him to focusing on Judas and Priscilla's second meeting. Jesus passes off to the side of the shot. Judas and Priscilla remain front and centre.

The next scene is shot in Priscilla's house where Judas has followed her. He suggests he will be able to get Jesus to come to Priscilla's house and goes off in search of him. When he arrives (in scene 4) Jesus is already preaching, but almost immediately the view of him is obscured by Judas talking with one of the other disciples. Even more remarkably Jesus begins to move forward and performs two miracles in slightly different locations, but both times the miracle is obscured by characters between him and the camera (above). Whilst this undoubtedly made life easier for the special effects department, its significance lies in the way it again keeps Jesus out of the picture.

When Jesus does arrive at Priscilla's villa (scene 5) he arrives at the back of the stage and does not descend down inside (like everyone else) and so remains at the centre, once again 'over' everyone. There's a hint of the ascension here, not least because there's a great use of a matte screen here with a painting of the countryside with a mountain in the background. His final appearance (in the surviving footage) is in the Garden of Gethsemane (scene 6, above). Again he remain top centre, this time he is eventually obscured by the stumbling Judas as described above.

From a technical angle, it is perhaps the penultimate scene (of the existing footage) which is the most interesting. One of the reasons the matte paintings work better here than they do in Last Days of Pompeii, is that they are used more sparingly, relying for the majority of the film on outdoor, location shooting. The scene, briefly introduced by the intertitle "The agreement", takes place alongside a pond, with the water itself forming the right of the picture towards a vanishing point on the horizon. Judas appears on the bank on the left hand side of the screen, but his attention is focused on someone behind the camera and to the right. At first he just glances in that direction, then he looks with more earnest, before ultimately gesturing and shouting. Eventually the character with whom he has been communicating (Priscilla) comes onto the screen from behind the camera on the right hand side of the screen. Far later films have been credited with creatively breaking the fourth wall, here we see almost the reverse. Compared to the relatively static and limited presence of the camera in most films up to this age, here the intention is to give the world that is being presented an extra dimension, (perhaps this could be called making the fourth wall).

The final scene (cropped at the very top of this post) shows a furtive looking Judas looking around and then ascending the steps to the temple. It's notable that the costumes of the various groups of soldiers are quite distinctively Roman in character, not Jewish (as if temple guards), which may reflect the films Italian origins, but in any case is less problematic for an angle on the story which could so easily lead to anti-Semitism. It's also notable that the scene where Judas has agreed to betray his master occurs after (or rather during) Jesus' prayers in the Garden of Gethsemane.

I've discussed the film's formal links to Last Days of Pompeii above, but there's more there in terms of plot summary etc. Both films are, on the surface, stories about an historical phenomenon (Jesus/Eruption of Mount Vesuvius), but instead of focusing on that directly they take a more oblique angle, foregrounding the historical referent with an invented love melodrama. As a result both films feel a little bit flabby, though Giuda is tighter than Last Days which even at under 17 minutes feels a little bit bloated.

What this love subplot does do is present a more human Judas and refuse to demonise him. Yes, his motivation is horrifyingly mundane, but he is a more rounded character and there's no indication that the devil has entered him, or that he is driven by greed. It could be argued, I suppose, that this makes things worse, but somehow lovestruck fool kills for his lover seems better to me. But then I've always loved Noir.
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I have been able to assemble some information about the film from various other sources so should anyone be researching it in the future it might their lives easier. Firstly, whilst IMDb doesn't contain a great deal about this film only the name of its three main stars (Oreste Grandi, Gigetta Morano, Mario Voller-Buzzi) and to report various dates of release including the UK on the 22nd October 1911 and the 1st November 1911 in the US, it does, include the following synopsis from Moving Picture World:

The picture opens with Christ preaching to the multitudes. Priscilla, a wealthy woman of great beauty, tells Judas to request the Messiah to rest at her house. Christ rebukes her with the words: "Woman, your thought is sinful: the Son of God will not stay beneath your roof." With his disciples, he then proceeds on his way, working miracles, healing the sick, etc. Priscilla, full of hatred, persuades Judas, who loves her, to go to the Romans and betray the whereabouts of Christ for a sum of money. Christ is taken by the soldiers, and Priscilla, from her balcony sees him pass to Calvary bearing the cross upon which he is to suffer. Remorse seizes her, and when Judas comes to claim the reward of his treachery a sensational scene takes place in which Judas is spurned. Rushing to the place of execution, Priscilla casts herself before the cross and begs forgiveness of the suffering Christ. Judas sees her, and filled with horror at the terrible act he has committed, he is so overcome by his accusing conscience that he ends his life by hanging himself to a tree.

The best source of information on this film is Museo Nazionale del cinema in Turin. It was Stella Dagna of MNC who brought the films to the Bristol showing and talked a little about them and their database contains the following synopsis.

Giuda
Judas (1911)

Production: Società Anonima Ambrosio, Torino. Original length: 390m – Length: 197m – Intertitles: English – Availability date: 09/1911

Cast: Oreste Grandi (Judas), Gigetta Morano (Priscilla, the courtesan), Mario Voller Buzzi (Jesus Christ)
The film preservation:
The preservation of Giuda was carried out by the Museo Nazionale del Cinema di Torino and the Cineteca del Friuli of Gemona in collaboration with George Eastman House and the National Film and Sound Archive of Canberra, based on an incomplete nitrate print which was donated by the Archive of Canberra to the Cineteca of Friuli. From the nitrate print, a dupe negative and positive color prints were printed on safety film, using the Desmet method.
The restoration was conducted at the L’Immagine Ritrovata laboratory in Bologna in 1997.

You can also scan through the Museum's scans of related film materials. You have to search for the film by name, but there are a few pieces related to this film which you can view online including a number of fascinating stills from the set including the one below takes from a scene in Priscilla's house.

The archive apparently also contains a "sceneggiatura" for the film which might be a script, but may just be a description of the scenario. That and a piece from the magazine “La vita cinematografica”, (vol. II, n. 15, 10 Sept. 1911, p. 7) though neither is available to view online. What can be viewed online, however, is a brochure publicising the film which contains it's own more colourful summary which I've written out in full below and translated (with more than a little help from Google Translate)

Come il Messia predica alla turbele parole di fratellanza e d'amore, Priscilla, la cortigiana, sente d'improvviso una fiamma arderle le vene e i polsi. Ordina ai lettigheri di portarla a casa e manda Omar a offrire ospitalita al profeta e ai suoi apostoli. Omar va, trova il Messia sulla piazza del Mercato tra gli sciancati e i lebbrosi e fa l'ambasciata. E il Messia viene, al tramonto. Ma non mette piede nella casa della cortigiana. S'arresta oltre la soglia e dice: Donna il tuo pensicro è peccato. Il figliuol di Dio non puo restare sotto il tuo tetto.

Priscilla impietrisce. Questa parole sono risuonate al sup orecchio come scoppi di folgore e hanno percosso l'anima sua come colp di verghe. Poi a poco il cuore le si gonfia e le lacrime le riempiono gli occhi.

Priscilla nella notte va all'uliveto.

Il Messia e in orazione nell'ombra. Dintorno a lui gli apostoli dormono distesi sull'erba. E Priscilla sente un alito sfiorarle la faccia e una voce mormorare piano: Ti amo! - Chi sei? chiede Priscilla. E risponde la voce: mi chiamo Giuda. L'apostolo e la cortigiana parlano nella notte e il suono delle loro voci si confonde collo stormire degli ulivi.

Il giorno dopo Giuda vende il Messia al principe dei Sacerdoti e guida i soldati a compiere l'arresto.

Ora Priscilla é vendicata. Guarda dalla bianca terrazza, ghirlandata di grappoli. Com'e pallido il Messia, com'è cosparso di sangue! E nell'anima della cortigiana, invece del piacere della vendetta, nasce a poco a poco un senso di pieta infinita e un cercare il premio del suo tradimento, Priscilla gli grida in un riso: Maledetto! Maledetto! e corre a piangere ai piedi della croce.

Respinto, avvilito, in preda alla disperazione Giuda sparisce nella notte a cercare la morte del traditore...

"As the Messiah preaches with a torrent of words about brotherhood and love, Priscilla, the courtesan, suddenly feels a flame burning in her veins and wrists. She orders the lawyers to take her home and sends Omar to offer hospitality to the prophet and his apostles. Omar goes, finds the Messiah on the market square among the crippled and lepers and makes the embassy. And the Messiah comes at sunset. But he does not set foot in the courtesan's house. He stops over the threshold and says: "Your thoughts are sinful. The son of God cannot remain under your roof.

Priscilla is petrified. These words resound in the air like bursts of lightning and strike her soul like lightning rods. Then her heart swells up a little and the tears fill her eyes.

Priscilla in the night goes to the olive grove.

The Messiah is in prayer in the shadow. Around him the apostles sleep lying on the grass. And Priscilla feels a breath touching her face and a voice murmuring softly: I love you! - Who are you? asks Priscilla. And the voice answers: my name is Giuda. The apostle and the courtesan speak in the night and the sound of their voices gets confused with the rustling of the olive trees.

The day after, Judah sells the Messiah to the Chief Priest and leads the soldiers to make the arrest.

Now Priscilla is avenged. She looks from the white terrace, wreathed in grapes. How pale is the Messiah, how he is sprinkled with blood! And in the soul of the courtesan, instead of the pleasure of revenge, little by little a sense of infinite pity arises and a search for the prize of her betrayal, Priscilla shouts at him in a laugh: Cursed! Cursed! and she runs to cry at the foot of the cross.

Rejected, dejected, in despair Judah disappears in the night to seek the traitor's death ..."

Whilst the BFI Archive does not hold a print of this film, it does contain three articles about it from The Bioscope as follows: vol.13 n261 (12 Oct 1911); vol.12 n257 14 Sep 1911; and vol. 12 n257 (14 Sep 1911).

Lastly, the ever reliable Hervé Dumont's "L'antiquité au cinéma" is practically the only published volume which actually mentions the piece, though it's unclear whether he has seen it or is just paraphrasing an existing summary.

1911 Giuda (Judas)(IT) Arrigo Frusta ; S.A. Ambrosio, To-rino (« Série d’Or »), 390 m. / 8 min. – av. Oreste Grandi(Judas), Gigetta Morano (Priscilla, la courtisane), Ma-rio Voller Buzzi (Jésus-Christ). –

Priscilla, une courtisane de Jérusalem, est émue par les paroles du Christ et l'invite chez elle. Jésus refuse de pénétrer dans la maison de la pécheresse et cette dernière, humiliée, cherche à se venger. La uit, sur le mont des Oliviers où Jésus prie, elle se donne à Judas. Au petit matin, poussé par Priscilla, Judas trahit son maître. La courtisane repentante se jette au pied de lacroix tandis que son amant se suicide. Un Judas égaré parl’amour.

(Priscilla, a courtesan of Jerusalem, is moved by the words of Christ and invites her to her home. Jesus refuses to enter the house of the sinner and the latter, humiliated, seeks revenge. On the Mount of Olives where Jesus prays, she gives herself to Judas. In the early morning, pushed by Priscilla, Judas betrays his master. The repentant courtesan throws herself at the foot of the cross while her lover commits suicide. A Judas lost by love.)

Salome (1953)

Salome (1953) was the last biblical epic to be made before the advent of widescreen later that same year, and it remains a fine example of what could be achieved with the academy aspect ratio, not least because of director of photography Charles Lang's compositions and striking use of technicolor. Yet for all that, it's a film that is easily, and indeed often, sneered at. For many, it seems it has become the poster-child for all that is 'wrong' with biblical epics: the camp; the excess; the fake piety; cheesy dialogue and bad acting; not to mention a plot that bears little resemblance to the scant source material. Yet on closer inspection it is a different film, a better film, than its reputation suggests.

It's true that, in contrast to many biblical epics, Salome seems to rather relish the lowness of its brow, in particular the elements of camp. Alan Badel portrays John the Baptist in super serious fashion, his clipped English accent and wide-eyed staring into the distance, contrasting with his camel-hair costume like Jeeves in leopard skin. In contrast Charles Laughton dusts off his performance as Nero in Sign of the Cross (1932) and "plays Herod like a giant, randy eunuch" (Lindsay, 107). And then there's the earnestness with which Rita Hayworth, once the forces sweetheart, plays a character fifteen years her junior.

Hayworth's role is particularly interesting. Tragically, as a star she is beginning to be remembered less for her movies than for her posters. Even amongst serious film students, the pivotal role of posters of her in The Bicycle Theives (1948) and The Shawshank Redemption (1994) seems to be overtaking her fine performances in films such as Gilda (1946) and The Lady From Shangai (1947).

Whilst it's true that at 35 she was perhaps a little too old to play a coming of age princess, it's certainly no worse than Henry Winkler playing "The Fonz" at almost forty, or, more recently, 31 year old Andrew Garfield playing the teenager Peter Parker in The Amazing Spider-Man 2 (2014). Indeed with this role there was even historical precedence; Alla Nazimova was 43 when she played the eponymous role in the 1922 version of the story. In contrast to all of those actors, Hayworth appeared fresh-faced and bright-eyed and was perhaps 'never lovelier', than as the princess who finds her homeland has more to offer her than Rome. Sadly Hayworth's career never really recovered from the film's critical mauling, though she continued working for another twenty years.

Salome also had a similar affect on director William Dieterle's career. One of many Jewish directors to flee 1920s Germany, his career never reached the peaks of Robert Siodmak or Billy Wilder, even though his 1937 film The Life of Emile Zola won the Academy Award for best film. After Salome he produced only a few more films over a twenty-year period, eventually returning to his native country in the late 1950s.

Yet the film was not the financial disaster all this suggests, going on gross $137 million at the box office. The film's success was, in part, down to a controversial billboard campaign featuring the Salome's love interest Claudius (Stewart Granger) leaning over a scantily clad Hayworth. The city council in Los Angeles claimed to have received "over 150 letters of protest" about the posters and so forced them to be taken down (Variety 1953a), although the subsequent court case was dismissed, finding that "(p)ublic morals were not shocked" (Variety 1953b). The controversy and resulting publicity only appears to have piqued interest at the box office, to the extent that in May 1953 Columbia were reportedly thinking of casting Hayworth in another biblical picture this time about Mary Magdalene (Variety 1953c).

However, contrary to what the controversy suggests, the film's real surprise, was the way it tried to redeem Salome and, by extension, Hayworth's image. In contrast to the marketing images of Salome, in her opening scenes she appears clad in a virginal white gown, dancing an innocent, rather than seductive, dance. It's interesting that whereas the filmmakers were taken to court but ultimately vindicated over the use of Hayworth's image, in the film Salome herself is exiled without any kind of trial or due process, an innocent victim.

This portrayal as Salome as a misunderstood innocent continues throughout the film. Forced out primarily on the grounds of "being a barbarian", her only real crime throughout the film is taht she is initially a little put out at her mistreatment. The male characters, and indeed, her own mother, consistently judge her based on little more than her appearance: Caesar banishes her, Pilate assumes she will be trouble, Herod lusts after her, the Baptist condemns her (or at least her family) and her mother deceives and uses her. Ultimately even the audience's primary expectation - that Salome will dance to condemn John the Baptist - is proven to be false. In a revision of the basic plot breathtakingly out of keeping with the traditional story, Salome dances not to condemn John, but to save him. Ultimately, John dies not because Salome is too corrupted, but because she proves to be too innocent, outwitted by her mother's machinations.

It's difficult to know what to make of the film's revisionist take on the story. Previous film adaptations, such as the 1922 silent Salomé, tended to take their lead from Oscar Wilde's 1891 play (and, to a lesser extent, Strauss's 1905 opera). Wilde provides a different motive for Herodias' daughter to the biblical story, where Herodias encourages her daughter to ask for the Baptist's head to silence his criticism of her affair with Herod. In Wilde's play, Salomé falls in love with John, but when he rejects her advances, she turns on him and dances for Herod in order to exact her revenge. However when finally presented with the Baptist's severed head, her old feelings return and she kisses it, an act that so appals Herod that he has her killed. Wilde's Salome, then, is presented as the archetypal femme fatale: attractive, lustful, capable of furious anger such that the cycle of the story can only be completed by her death. In other words it's a noir plot where a women is punished for her failure to conform.

Of course, aside from her posters, Hayworth is best remembered for her role in Gilda (1946) a typical film noir where she plays a typical femme fatale. It's not hard to imagine, then, that audiences expected her to undergo a similar comeuppance. Yet instead of a biblical Gilda they get treated to an innocent Hayworth who only agrees to use her sexuality when pressured by various characters, and for the noble cause of saving John. Thus whilst Forshey is correct to note that the curious revision of the plot still manages to appeal "simultaneously to the religious sensibilities and the prurience of the audience", it was surely not in the manner in which they were expecting. This is no doubt why even though the famous dance of the seven veils scene is more or less as might be expected, it ultimately feels out of keeping with the rest of the film.

Commentators on the Bible on film have tended to judge the film harshly for this very reason. For Babington and Evans the "wildly inventive" narrative is the result of "deformation piled upon deformation...producing an exhibition of the sub-genre's intrinsic interests, motifs and themes, though at the cost of historical plausibility" (186). Be that as it may, the revisionist plot does join together particular biblical details in an interesting fashion. The gospel accounts of John the Baptist's death never mention Salome by name - that detail is left to Josephus. Yet the name Salome does occur in Mark 15:40 and 16:1 as one of the women at the crucifixion and the empty tomb. This is usually taken to be an entirely different woman, as is perhaps likely, but there's a certain poetry to the theory that the daughter of Herodias did somehow become one of the followers of Jesus, possibly even one of the women of means who supported him.

Whilst the film doesn't explicitly make this claim, the final shot we see of Salome is her, again dressed in white, stood next to Claudius and listening to Jesus deliver the Sermon on the Mount. Christ's face is not shown, only his back is visible, both here, and in an earlier scene where he restores a man's sight (where we get a close up of his hand). As is typical for the Roman-Christian epic, we're left to infer the rest.

I can't help wondering, however, if the reason the subversion of the original story is so notorious is not so much because it diverges from the Bible - it would hardly be the first epic to be guilty of that - but because they've failed to properly smooth out the plot around the edges of the transplant. In particular, it's not really clear how come Granger's Claudius shifts from being banned from returning to Galilee in one scene, to turning up there hoping to save the day in the next. Nor is it clear why, when he does arrive, he's unable to do so. I imagine there's a cutting room floor somewhere that could tell a tale, but without scenes explaining this, the ending comes across as a bit of a mess.

Ultimately, though, I still can't decide about Salome. Is it a cynically exploitative take on the story made in the knowledge that, provided they could keep the censors at bay, the prospect of Rita Hayworth stripping off would prove to be box office gold? Or is it bold revision of the traditional story which not only attempts to rehabilitate the biblical character, but also the star that played her. Either way it provides an opportunity to revisit the biblical story in the light of the #MeToo movement. A girl of unknown age coerced into trading her body. If that's not a metaphor for the Hollywood of yesteryear, I don't know what is.

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-Babington, Bruce, and Peter William Evans. (1993), Biblical Epics: Sacred Narrative in the Hollywood Cinema, Manchester: Manchester University Press.
-Forshey, Gerald E. (1992) American Religious and Biblical Spectaculars Westport CT: Praeger
-Lindsay, Richard A. (2015) Hollywood Biblical Epics: Camp Spectacle and Queer Style from the Silent Era to the Modern Day, Santa Barbara, California/Denver, Colorado: Praeger.
Variety (1953a) "Rita Shows Too Much ‘Salome’ to Suit LA." May 5 
Variety (1953b) "Solon’s Not Hot ‘Salome’" May 19 
Variety (1953c) "Widescreen, Stereo Sound For Coronation Tinter" May 26

The Last Days of Pompeii (1935)

The Last Days of Pompeii is one of the few Bible movies that is also a disaster movie. From the moment it start we know how it's going to end - badly. It's title is the ultimate spoiler, in a genre hardly renown for its unexpected plot twists. Indeed perhaps the most surprising thing about this film is how it manages to span the time from well before the death of Christ circa 30 A.D. to the eruption of Vesuvius 49 years later within the adult lifetime of its leading character, Marcus (Preston Foster).

Marcus is already reasonably old when we first encounter him several years before the death of Jesus. His wife is run over by a chariot and Marcus ends up having to accept a fight in the gladiatorial arena to pay her medical bills. Yet despite his victory as a gladiator, when he returns home he is too late to save her life. Angered and grieving Marcus returns to the arena, works his way up the pecking order with success after success until he is able to retire and diversify into supplying fresh slaves for the arena.

Throughout the early part of the film Marcus maintains something of a moral core, even though he is pulled this way and that by anger, grief and the need to overcome poverty. So when his victory over an opponent leaves a young boy orphaned, Marcus decides to adopt him. Yet in order to be able to support the boy (Flavius) he takes a job capturing slaves and making orphans of their children - a point that is nicely underlined by a fade between a shot of a captured slave holding his son and one of Marcus back in Rome holding Flavius in a similar pose.

All of this is part of Marcus' transition from all round good, but tough, guy in the opening scenes to someone with a good heart increasingly trapped and shaped by their decisions, decisions made based on very limited options (at least that is what we are led to believe). But this is never really very convincing on either front. For someone with a supposedly good heart Marcus is persuaded to commit atrocities all too easily. Conversely, for someone struggling to make even a basic living honestly, he seems to climb to the top of the greasy pole, with all its wealth and power, with consummate ease.

Crucially, Marcus has a chance encounter with an old woman who precedes to tell him, (whilst ominously starring at the ceiling), that he must take Flavius to meet "the greatest man in Judea". So based on little more than the advice of her and one of her comrades, Marcus and Flavius head to Judea intent on going to meet Pontius Pilate. Before he gets to Jerusalem, however, they almost have a chance encounter with Jesus, except this time he's not quite in the mood for taking vaguely sage-like pronouncements from total strangers, so he presses on to the capital. The filmmakers offer little plausible reason for this inconsistency; it's just an eye-rollingly clumsy plot device, scantily clad in some cod-theology about fate and determinism. No-one quite walks on and says "Ah, but God moves in mysterious ways", but someone definitely thought it. At some point. For at least about two seconds before deciding to worry about something else instead.

Not dissimilarly Pontius Pilate (Basil Rathbone) is sat musing about his his need to find someone to covertly infiltrate and hamstring the Ammonites. "If I could only find a man" he utters, seconds before his servant mentions that our former champion gladiator turned horse-trader is coincidentally waiting in the lobby. Marcus agrees to go out stealing Ammonite horses for Pilate, but when he returns Flavius has been in an accident with a horse and is almost dead. As luck would have it, though, there's "a young man, a wandering healer passing through the village..." and so Marcus and his son get to have their chance encounter with Jesus after all.

Despite the fact, or perhaps because of it, that DeMille's The King of Kings (1927) had only debuted eight years previously, and was probably still doing the rounds here and there, the film opts not to show the face of Jesus. It's possible that this decision was based purely on artistic motives, but it's far more likely that it was indicative of the level of outrage that had been unleashed by Claudette Colbert's nipple popping out of that bath of milk in The Sign of the Cross three years previously. Things had certainly soured and it's striking to see how quickly the atmosphere had changed.

Instead of filming Jesus, the filmmakers shot much of the healing sequence (sorry about the plot spoiler, but it was never going to turn out another way) from Jesus' point of view. Marcus carries Flavius to the front of the crowd with his eyes, and the eyes of the crowd, all transfixed on the camera. The heavenly music kicks in, there's a wide, reverse shot from a distance behind the crowd, and then they and Jesus obligingly wander stage left, leaving Marcus on his knees and Flavius back on his feet.

Flavius's healing, though, appears to have been more or less Jesus' last. By the time Marcus has returned to Jerusalem Jesus is already on trial. Pilate washes his hands of it all, of course, and his duplicitous dealings with Marcus could easily have been spun into suggesting it was all for show. But the film opts instead for a shell-shocked Pilate putting his head in his freshly washed hands and murmuring "What have I done? What have I done?". There's some nice double meanings in their initial conversation, as Marcus nice-but-dim fails to appreciate that his new found friend is somewhat shell-shocked, but soon Pilate is complaining that he was "forced" to condemn that "poor man" and coming out with banalities such as "Oh, let men wallow in the quicksand they have made of life" and "Pin your faith to gold, Marcus". Whilst there's hardly any mention of the fact that the "mob" is predominantly Jewish the description of them, and the exaggerated extrapolation of their actions (to looting and violence) is certainly troubling from an anti-Semitism point of view.

In trying to circumvent this still-angry mob, Marcus inadvertently gets spotted by the man who led him to Jesus in the first place, who begs him to intervene to prevent him being crucified. When Marcus asks what he, one man, can do, all his friend can suggest is "You can die for him" without really explaining what that would do to help. He does lay a good guilt trip on him though. "When your world crumbles about you, you'll understand what you have done today". "Crumbles" geddit? I wonder how this is going to end...

Two contrasting shots of hilltops (three crosses atop Golgotha versus a smoking Vesuvius) lead to a jump ten or so years into the future. Flavius is almost grown up (and played now by John Wood) and Marcus, who now runs the arena, is wearing a greyish-looking wig. Unbeknown to his father Flavius is stashing away runaway slaves, intending to transport them to an uninhabited island, before a major celebration in the arena the next day. Flavius is somewhat haunted by his memory of Jesus, an encounter his guilt-hardened father is trying to pass off as a dream.

Things come to a head when Pontius Pilate turns up for dinner amid news that a slave has been captured who is going to reveal the hiding place of the others. Flavius refuses to "keep silent forever in the face of injustice and brutality" recalling his 'dream' of Jesus saying "You shall love your neighbour as yourself". Marcus tries to reassert his lie. Pilate cannot. Shame falls upon the two of them and suddenly everyone remembers exact quotations from their wordless encounter a decade (or five) before. Flavius returns to the slaves' hiding place, in undoubtedly the best photographed scenes of the entire film; the tight compositions and moody lighting perfectly supplementing the slaves' fear and paranoia. Flavius is accused of being a spy just as the soldiers arrive to capture them

The re-capture of the slaves is good news however for Marcus and the rest of the town's elite, deemed a better omen than smoke from Vesuvius. The games contain the most spectacular scenes of the movie, the grand arena, replete with a giant statue of a naked soldier with only a sword to preserve his dignity. When Vesuvius 'unexpectedly' explodes, initially with all the special effects expertise of a high-school chemistry set, the statue is the first thing to go, crumbling like a sandcastle on a spin-dryer. The scenes of the eruption are spectacular, howver, not least for the sheer scale of their destructiveness. DeMille's falling masonry of 1949 has nothing on this in terms of spectacle. If these scenes could have, perhaps, used more meaningfully human interactions, then the shots of people drowning in the choppy waters as they attempt to escape the lava pouring down the hill are, nevertheless, rather chilling.

I'm reminded of what Michael Wood ([1975] 1989: 178-182) says about "what is perhaps the most interesting of all the set scenes in the epic: the great crash." I'll quote at length (albeit abbreviating where possible).

...the idea of waste in these movies receives its fullest expression here...Here are costly sets, carefully built constructions, going up in smoke or toppling down in ruins, the very feats of engineering we have just been admiring are now thrown away. This is visible expense, like the crowd of extras, only more startling. This is money being burned...It is pure excess, a ritual expression of lack of need...Having all that cash to throw away is a sign of (apparent) financial health. But actually throwing it away is a sign of moral health, a sign that you are not hampered by your riches...I don't think this is a reaction against a past of puritan prescriptions. It is rather the oblique expression of a faith. Here is God's plenty...to save money or gasoline or energy is to doubt the profusion of Gods gifts...For many modern Americans worldly goods are so abundant that that it becomes a form of scandal to want to hang on to any of them for very long.

Here, in particular, the scale of this destruction is particularly suited to the story (or should it be vice-versa). Marcus starts the film care free and poor. It is only when he learns to worry about the future that he gets dragged down into immoral behavious. The message of Pompeii's destruction at the end of the film -- and it is a destruction quite in contrast to what actually happened. In real life Pompeii was preserved intact by falling lava, mud and ash; here it is levelled, destroyed by a shaking from below rather than above -- the destruction is Marcus' world being destroyed, along with his false gods and, I suppose, his idol of money. (SPOILER: Only once this happens is he liberated and able to see a vision of Jesus welcoming and accepting him with open arms. END SPOILER).

From a historical angle the few nice historical touches (like Marcus burning a pinch of incense to the gods) do nothing to paper over the monumental gaps in the historical masonry - the gleefully disregarded for credible chronology being only one fault line among many.

The directors of this film (Ernest B. Schoedsack and Merian C. Cooper) came to it having had great success with King Kong (1933) and their ability to create iconic spectacle and destruction comes good again. Combining models with live action footage is again very much to the fore. The impressive nature of these few final spectacular scenes is not enough, however, to rescue the film from its tiresome, overly earnest performances and the paper-thin characterisations. The plot of Kong was so extreme that weaknesses in these areas didn't matter. But this is an epic and the demands of believable plot and half-decent characterisations are greater (albeit only a little bit greater). Making a giant gorilla both terrifying and sympathetic is one thing. Doing the same for Foster and Wood is entirely another. Ultimately last Days is more giant turkey than great ape.

Ben-Hur (2016)

Whilst it's only been six years since the story of Ben-Hur was last on our screens, it's been 57 years since it was playing in cinemas, so, given the huge success of that 1959 version - itself a remake of a remake - it was only a matter of time before someone adapted it for the big screen once again. After all, two scenes in particular have resulted in some spectacular set-pieces in previous adaptations without either the 1959 or the earlier 1925 version receiving such acclaim that no-one dares to to touch the source material again. In fact, as the shortest of the non-animated Ben-Hur adaptations, this version seems to pretty much revolve around these two set pieces.

The episode for which Ben-Hur is now best known is the chariot race scene and that seems to have become the driving force (if you'll pardon the pun) behind many adaptations - early stage versions of the story had horses running on rollers, the first film adaptation way back in 1907, was little more than footage of a chariot race, and a recent "stage" version hired out the O2 arena in order to be able to have the race do laps around the auditorium.

Here, once again, the chariot race dominates. The film opens on the starting line, with Judah (Jack Huston) and Messala (Toby Kebbell) taunting each other through gritted teeth. The film then goes into flashback mode, which is a nice little device, but does rather highlight the film's emphasis on the chariot race. This is further underlined when the it turns out that the point in time to which they go back is Judah and Messala racing horses eight years before. Then the two were on far friendlier terms - Messala had been adopted into Judah's family and the two very much see themselves as brothers, even if Messala occasionally points out that he is not really part of the family when it suits him.

Indeed, as the opening scenes unfold it emerges that one of the ways in which it suited him to be not-a-part-of-the-family is his love for Judah's sister Tirzah (Sofia Black-D'Elia). The film draws this out a little more than other adaptations - it's Judah and Tirzah's mother's objections to their attachment that drive Messala off to join the army. In one way this works well: it renders Tirzah a far more rounded and interesting character than in the 1959 version (true of all 3 female leads). Yet that brings with it a few complications as well. How did Tirzah feel whilst he was away? Did she write to him regularly in the same way her brother did?

When Messala returns as a tribune he is far more concerned with his reunion with Judah than with his former love, but this is never really commented on. Perhaps we are meant to see his intimacy with Tirzah as the kind of youthful infatuation that this hard-hearted, career-driven soldier no longer has any time for. And of course, when Pilate is attacked by an injured zealot recovering in the Hur house, there's little reference to their previous tenderness. When Judah is sentenced to the galleys and told his mother and sister are being executed, for a moment I wondered if the more interesting story on a human level might be that of Tirzah rather than Judah. If only she also could have raced a chariot...

But of course the camera chooses to follow Judah, who by now is symbolically tied to a yoke and falls at the feet of Jesus. This, in fact, is Judah's second encounter with the man from Nazareth, though both take place in Jerusalem. Shortly before Messala's return, Judah and his slave-turned-wife, Esther encountered Jesus in the marketplace. For some reason he'd set up a carpentry stall there, although the main thing he seemed to be building is a soap-box from which to preach his message of love. Then Judah shruged it off. He's not exactly an atheist - he had joined in with his family's generic, sort of Jewish, religious festival a few nights earlier, for example - but he didn't have much time for Jesus's calls to love his enemies ("If he’s already decided my path, how am I better off than a slave?").

Yet now Judah is flat on his face on the road to the slave port and Jesus is pulling off a Jedi mind trick in order to give him a sip of water. This has always been a pivotal moment in Judah's story, and here it flashes back to him time and again, but it also proves pivotal for Esther (Nazanin Boniadi). Whilst Judah is away she joins Jesus'movement (apparently two years before it even starts) and does good works amongst the poor. In contrast to Judah' mother and Tirzah, Esther is rather poorly sketched, despite having more screen time than either of them. Despite her desire to do good works she doesn't, for example, seem to have made any in roads into tracking the fate of her in laws, nor does she seem overly perturbed by her father's death. And ultimately despite spending half a decade following Jesus, she doesn't really have anything compelling to say about him.

All of which leads us to the film's other set piece - the sea battle - and it's by far the film's most successful scene, defly combining horror, tension and excitement. The bravest, and most successful, decision that director Timur Bekmambetov makes is to leave his camera below deck for the entire fifteen minute sequence. This nicely captures the claustrophobia of the environment but it also allows the audience to share the slaves' disorientating experience - their knowledge of what is happening is fragmented and limited to the few words they overhear from above deck and what they can glance through the oar holes. They know they are in a battle, but it's a shock when they get rammed in the side by an enemy vessel. And whilst the way Judah somehow manages to free himself from the wreckage seems a little questionable, it actually improves upon the implausibility of the novel and subsequent adaptations on this point, even if it's a little convenient that he washes up on shore just a short distance away from a chariot racing expert/horse owner (Morgan Freeman).

It's here that the movie makes quite a sizeable leap which results in Judah landing himself in his much desired a grudge match. The chariot race itself is exciting, even if the odd pan of the crowd is let down by some bad CGI. Again the camera stays close to the action. Whilst it doesn't surpass its predecessors there's some good work here, particularly the pacing, which is so critical to a scene like this, and some impressive camera angles.

Another plus point is Pilate's presence at this "circus". There are some tenuous links between Pilate and the arena in Caesarea, which did host chariot racing during his governorship. What is particularly good is that the Pilate we encounter here is the kind of crude bloodthirsty thug that history suggests, rather than the mild-mannered philosopher of so many Jesus films. Pilate (Borgen's Pilou Asbæk) struggles to contain his excitement as the race progresses, blood is spilt and the bodies pile up. This isn't a man who would worry himself about executing a would-be messiah. (As a Borgen fan, it's also interesting watching Asbæk playing the top dog, rather than the pitt-bull like press secretary serving a middle of the road prime minister).

Where the chariot scene does let itself down a bit, is the sight of Freeman's character Ilderim scurrying around shouting advice to his rider as he swishes by. It's unclear if this is because the filmmakers realised they hadn't given Judah long enough to become a credible charioteer, or because they want to remind the people at home about all the things that are about to prove dangerous in just a lap or two's time. Either way the idea that as Judah thundered past he would catch a single word of Ilderim's advice - over the roar of the crowd - is laughable and detracts from what is otherwise a decent action scene.

The other problem with the scene is something that is so typical of all the films in general, and indeed all of the biblical films that Roma Downey and Mark Burnett have produced; their tendency to ramp everything up to the point of crassness. So Judah can't just win the race, he has to win his first ever race, against Rome's greatest and unbeaten champion, despite getting knocked out of his chariot and dragged along the floor for half a lap and managing just to cross the line before his chariot crashes and his horses all die. Some of that is drawn from the novel, but time and again the pair's productions push things far further than their source material, draining them of any subtlety and ensuring absolutely everyone in the audience is totally and completely aware of their point. Does Pilate need to have a brush with death near the start of the film? Get a zealot to shoot him with an arrow! Is Morgan Freeman good as dispensing wisdom? Have him offer a life lesson at every conceivable moment! Is this a tale of learning to forgive? Have Judah and Messala have a big hug and ride off into the sunset! Would more talented writers have stopped this repeated two-phase question/statement pattern I'm employing? No, do it more!...etc. etc.

That said some of the usual weaknesses in Downey and Burnett's work do seem at least a little reined-in here, not least the level of violence which, for once, feels more or less in keeping with the source material. And I quite liked the handful of places at the start if the film where Judah is challenged about the fact that his rosy world view is at least partially dependent on his privileged position of wealth and power. When Judah gives Jesus the question above about "how am I better off than a slave?" Jesus comes right back at him with "Why don't you ask her?", the "her" in question being Judah's former-slave turned wife, Esther. Another time whilst citing what has happened to the fields his father owned as evidence of injustice he is asked, rather pointedly, "and who owned the fields before your father?" Then there's the zealot who tells Judah "You confuse peace with freedom”.

This tendency to bring original and contemporary sounding dialogue into the film works rather well for the most part. After all Lew Wallace was hardly Shakespeare and the novel's prose is often leaden and turgid. The new dialogue often places Judah squarely in the middle between two more extreme and violent parties vying for control of Judea. It's unfortunate that the writing in the latter part of the film isn't as strong at the earlier part such that this, too, ends up also being a bit crass.

And what of the portrayal of Jesus? In the run up to the film's release I have heard people say both that the film minimises the role of Jesus and that enhances it and curiously both perspectives are true. Given the film's condensed run-time the material needed considerable abridgement, and to that end excising the nativity and that oh-so-convenient reappearance of Balthasar years later, is a wise move. I also quite liked the brief shot of Gethsemane, which I don't recall from the previous adaptations, though it is in the novel.

That said I've already highlighted a couple of areas where the portrayal of Jesus didn't really work for me, and though Judah undergoes a profound transformation at the foot of the cross, there's precious little indication as to what is occurring. As with other Downey/Burnett produced Bible films, I come away wondering what it was they were trying to say about Jesus. Is it simply that marketplace message of love for your enemies? Perhaps that in itself is actually enough.

I think, though, that there are two reasons why the crucifixion scene didn't do much for me. The first is actually a fault of the novel: I've always found the healing of Judah's mother and sister a bit too convenient. Not only does the Bible fail to mention any healing miracles occurring during the crucifixion, but it's such a lame plot device. And speaking of lame why do Judah's mother and sister get healed whilst his 'brother' remains an amputee?

But the other reason is that Jack Huston's performance as Judah is rather lacklustre. Whilst the filmmakers would have struggled to find a more similarly surnamed leading actor, Huston lacks Heston's intensity. There's a few lines in the film that suggest that Messala is struggling to emerge from his grandfather's shadow. Whilst Huston did some good work in Boardwalk Empire there's little here to suggest he is going to lose the 'grandson of John Huston' tag anytime soon.

Fortunately, for much of the film Huston isn't required to do a great deal because the chariot race and, most notably, the sea-battle are two great set pieces. These, combined with the film's natural sense of urgency and rhythm, mean that, ultimately, watching the film is more like spending the day at the chariot racing than spending life in the galleys.

The Shadow of Nazareth (1913)

Shadow of Nazareth is unusual amongst Jesus films because it sits, somewhat awkwardly between films that are primarily about Jesus, and those where Jesus is a peripheral player, making the odd cameo appearance in an occasional scene.

The opening credits give us a clue - only the actors playing Barabbas and the fictional Judith Iscariot (sister of Jesus' infamous betrayer) are named. Instead of the focus being Jesus it is on these two, whose role and relationship with Judas are pivotal in the events leading to Jesus's death. Jesus himself is a principal, but in terms of screen time he is far from the lead.

Whilst the full film runs to only a little over 30 minutes, it manages to include a reasonably complicated plot. Judith is very much the principal character, with whom not only Barabbas, but also a pharisee called Gabrias as well as Caiaphas are in love. An altercation between the three men results in both Barabbas and Caiaphas stabbing Gabrias, and then to further blacken the high priest's character he has Barabbas arrested for the murder. 18 months later and Caiaphas decides that the now imprisoned Barabbas is less of a threat than Jesus and so he persuades Judith to convince Judas to betray him. Jesus is condemned, Judas hangs himself and the liberated Barabbas heads to the nearest tavern.

That scene instantly reminded me of a similar one from Richard Fleischer's Barabbas (1961)  starring Anthony Quinn. Quinn returns from his ordeal confused but joyful, that is until he spies the now condemned Jesus dragging his cross past the inn's window. His mood darkens instantly. Whilst this later film lacks an obvious homage shot a combination of the actor's demeanour, the joyous bunch of Barabbas's friends surrounding him and the tavern location suggest a certain degree of connectivity.

Given the antiquity of this film, and the almost 50 year gap between the two it's perhaps unlikely that the Quinn film was directly influenced by Shadow. However, according to Rhonda Burnette-Bletsch, there is another connection between the two films.¹

Whilst it is uncredited, the plot for the film, right down to the inclusion of a character named Judith of Nazareth, is taken from an 1893 novel "Barabbas: A Dream of the World's Tragedy" by Marie Correlli. The lack of acknowledgement for Correlli's novel is all the more interesting given the, then still recent, verdict against the producers of the 1907 adaptation of Ben Hur. In that case the film used the novel's title, but was little more than a set up for a glorified chariot race. Shadow of Nazareth seems to have escaped any such censure so it's curious that not only did the filmmakers think the way to stay on the right side of this ruling was to use the plot but not the title, but that they also got away with it.

Correlli's novel was "a spectacular commercial success" in its own day, being "published in fifty-four editions...and...translated into over forty languages".², so it's not not unlikely that it influenced Pär Lagerkvist when he wrote his 1950 novel "Barabbas" and perhaps the similarity stems from there. However neither Burnette-Bletsch nor Larry Kreitzer³, who writes about Fleischer's adaptation of Lagerkvist's novel, mention the link. Curiously though Kreitzer does discuss a more recent work on Barabbas, Gerd Thiessen's piece of narrative exegesis "The Shadow of the Galilean".⁴

Given the ready made audience for this film, then, it's perhaps not surprising that Shadow of Nazareth performed fairly well. It was slated by many critics, and there is a certain self-seriousness about it, but whilst the film didn't make the link to the novel explicit, its fans nevertheless appear to have turned out to see the film version. There are a couple of nice shots, notably the one captured above which works far better as a moving shot than as a still, though several compound bad composition with over zealous cropping. There are also a few bits of symbolism and imagery, most notably the cross shaped twig that a repentant Judith finds in the garden where Judas has hanged himself, and of a cross symbol being imposed at the front of one shot. This was three years before Griffith would do something similar in Intolerance.

It could I suppose, be argued that, like this film, Griffith's film's comparatively short treatment of his Jerusalem story is another example of Jesus as a minor principal. Not dissimilar in this respect was L'Aveugle de Jérusalem four years before in 1909. Yet in the modern era there have been very few such films. Perhaps the closest is this year's Risen though there Jesus becomes more and more central as the film progresses, not unlike The Third Man's Harry Lime.

It's hard to escape the feeling that the disappearance of this cinema of the religious middle ground is the result of market economics coming more to the fore as producers became more sure footed in their understanding of different audiences, perhaps particularly in the context of evolving secularisation and a growing polarisation between those of faith and those without. Over time audiences have separated out into a segment of practising Christians who want to watch filmmakers adapt the Bible, and the rest of society, or at least the portion who want to just enjoy the spectacle and excess of the epic genre without the pluses and minuses that religion brings with it. Films like Risen are perhaps an attempt to build a bridge between the two groups: it's failure at the box office suggests that much has changed since 1913.

Whilst the entire film is not currently available outside of film archives, the first reel is available to view at archive.org

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1 - Burnette-Bletsch, Rhonda. "The Shadow of Nazareth: The Hermeneutics of an Unauthorized Adaptation" in "The Silents of Jesus in the Cinema (1897-1927)"; ed. Shepherd, David. (Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2016). p.132-157
2 - Burnette-Bletsch, Rhonda. The Shadow of Nazareth: The Hermeneutics of an Unauthorized Adaptation" in "The Silents of Jesus in the Cinema (1897-1927)"; ed. Shepherd, David. (Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2016). p.140
3 - Kreitzer, Larry J., "The New Testament in Fiction and Film: On Reversing the Hermeneutical Flow." (Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993). p.67-87
4 - Thiessen, Gerd. "The Shadow of the Galilean" (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1987) and subsequent reprints.