TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE: Sweet Jesus!!!""

This year, in addition to revisiting all of the old holiday classics as Christmas approached, I decided to get right to meat of things and bone up on the big guy himself: good ol' JC. Investigating the way Christianity has presented itself in film over the years is quite the task. There's the epic route (Ben-Hur), the biographical route (The Greatest Story Ever Told), or the satirical route (The Miracle Woman). I couldn't help but notice, however, that there is a very specific trend in cinema that contrasts the majesty and power of Ancient, impenetrable Rome with the growing insinuation in the Republic of the all-powerful, omnipresent, Alpha-and-Omega God. Now, before I scare any non-believers, let me assure you that this is far from a "preachy" article, as my personal brand of religion is malleable but faithful at best and head-scratching and cynical at worst. My agenda here is to unlock the mystery of faith in film, not to attack you with my personal testaments. That being said, a lot can be learned from Jesus Christ, the way he reached the masses, the way his messages of love and peace encompassed them, survived monotheistic persecution, and continue to thrive today. As the following movies will show, God is good, but men? Men are bad. The formula to bring this evidence to the fore is fairly simple and unwavering. There is a pompous Roman soldier in conflict, a virginal woman who wins his heart, a power-hungry monarch, a prophet, and (most often) a whore. Mix the aforementioned with historical events, cast accordingly, and depending which director's Godlike hands the entree is entrusted into, the effects can be quite miraculous... or a miraculous waste of time. God be with you:

To begin at the beginning, on the first day in Hollywood, Cecil B. DeMille recreated good and evil in man's image and called it film: deliciously sinful and utterly devout. DeMille catches a lot of flack sometimes. People think he was a pompous, right-wing Bible banger who used his movies to spread religious propaganda. This is not true. Not wholly. Others think that DeMille merely used religion as an excuse to inject eroticism, nudity, and debauchery into his otherwise inadmissible, nearly pornographic films. This is not true either. Not wholly. DeMille too was holy and not holy. His genius was in giving people what they wanted while interpreting them as they were, as they fantasized themselves to be, and as they guiltily fretted. People were depicted as just as complicated as any of his intricate and textured mise en scenes. He can be accused of preaching a message, but the message preached is not always the one you would expect, yet he always preached in such a way that both a pious person and a sinner would find what he or she was looking for in the text. Hence: The Sign of the Cross (or That Movie Where Claudette Colbert Takes a Nude Milk Bath).

The film begins with the burning of Rome. The perfectly cast Charles Laughton stars as the infamous "Emperor Nero," who strums contentedly on his harp (or cithara perhaps), which history popularly remembers as a fiddle (left). With his cosmetically enhanced Roman nose, Laughton's roly-poly, immature, and deranged Nero is at once childish and dangerous. Sadly, there is too little of him in the film, but what moments he has on screen, he typically savors. Nero has burned Rome, it seems, simply "because." Because he, as the current Caesar, is basically ruling over his own personal tinker toy city and, like a small boy, he smashes his fist into it simply to see it topple. The only trouble is that the city is bound to rebel (after it douses itself), a fact that the simple-minded Nero has not considered-- he is much more perturbed when the string on his instrument breaks than by the sight of his kingdom in flames. Not to worry, he will point the finger of blame at the Christians, who have brazenly been worshiping a God other than He. (The Roman Emperor was worshiped as a deity in this era). The Christians irk him and insult his vanity, so he turns his city against them. Christians are to be found, executed, or sent to the arenas, where they will be brutally murdered before the hungry eyes of their supposed polytheist enemies. Already the war has started: do you worship a false God, an invention of a certain sect of brainless, meek people, or do you worship the true God of Rome, who sits before you on his throne, licking his fat fingers? Tough choice. Naturally, bigotry, prejudice, and blood lust spread as the Roman people seek to eradicate the Christians from their city.

Enter the Prophet, a man named "Titus" (Arthur Hohl), who has been schooled under none other than the great apostle Paul, and has come to spread his word. To find those like minded, he makes his identity known by making the sign of the cross in the dirt. The only problem is that this alerts the authorities to the interloper's presence, and soon he and his peer, "Favius Fontellus" (Harry Beresford) are being rounded up by a couple of beefy, Roman goons. Enter the Virgin, named "Mercia" (of course) and portrayed by Elissa Landi. Mercia defends Favius, who has acted as a father to her, and when Roman Prefect "Marcus Superbus" (Fredric March) intervenes on the ruckus, sparks fly between them. Looking less like an ancient Roman maiden and more like a modest flapper in a period costume, Mercia is an attractive proposition for Marcus. As he immediately wants to sleep with her, he can't muck things up by killing her foster father, and so he sets the corrupt Christians free. Unfortunately, Marcus's nemesis "Tigellinus" (Ian Keith) is looking for any way to usurp his power, and thus sets about locating the party that Marcus freed and finding out just why it was that Marcus freed them. The answer, sex, is quickly discovered, and Tigellinus will later use this to his advantage. The Empress "Poppea," the always amazing Claudette Colbert, too has it in for the lusty Marcus, but in a very different way. In mid-milk bath-- DeMille's testament to his own opulence and that of the absurdity of wealth in the Roman monarchy (right)-- Poppea is told that Marcus has refused her latest summons, which makes her certain that he has found another woman to warm his bed. 

Lust in ancient Rome is apparently a big thing, which is why this film and many in the same genre tend to establish the acceptance of Jesus Christ as synonymous with the domestication of the male animal. The goal of every human being, thus, is elevation: to rise above lust and find love, to rise above greed and find generosity, and to rise above death and the fear of it by creating new life in the name of God. The Romans, as depicted by DeMille, have no interest in this nonsense. They worship better Gods and Goddesses. They indulge in wine and orgies. The human experience is meant to be visceral, sensual, and encouraged by the persistent pursuit of pleasure. Marcus knows nothing of modesty or moderation. As the second most powerful man in Rome, he knows only that he gets what he wants, which is accordingly a bottomless pit of women. What attracts him to Mercia is her unattainability. Unlike Poppea, who possesses no virtue nor scruples and throws herself mercilessly at Marcus, Mercia has already given her heart to another: Christ. Ah, the un-gettable get. Yet, Landi's interpretation of Mercia is not the typical, doe-eyed innocent. Her attraction to Marcus is palpable in her eyes and manner. As he chases her, she openly flirts back. Interestingly, sex does not seem to be a sin to her, and she lets it be known that she is interested, though she holds back just enough to tease him (left). So tantalizing is her appeal, that Marcus's conquest to obtain her blinds him to his own safety, but his heart has not yet reached a place of love where her religion can claim him. When he comes for her at her home, he is halted by Favius and Titus, whom he chides as being ignorant fools that want to destroy the world. Titus corrects him: Christians merely want to make the world "spiritually free." This falls on deaf ears.

This idea of religion as freedom is shared by all films of this genre. Men in shackles, men enslaved, impoverished men, and as ever freedomless women, will all be utterly free in the Kingdom of God. This is the appeal of the faith. It delivers, not so much God or Heaven, but Hope, which is essential to any man, if he is to survive the life experience with any amount of joy. This is what Titus preaches to his followers in their secret meeting place. Without hope, mankind turns ugly. Without hope, man ceases to try, to succeed, to innovate. The idea of a reward for goodness, the idea that suffering will end, is the only reason for anyone to keep going. This is where Cecil's brilliance interjects. The story he is telling is not one of God, but one of Man. God may indeed be a spiritual force in our universe, he may not; but if he did not create the first cavemen, they invented him. Man needs Hope. Our defenselessness without these religious myths to soothe us is quite pitiful; but the reality, even with this hope, is really no better. DeMille reveals this when Titus's speech is interrupted by attacking Romans. As he preaches that "there is no death," one of his flock is unceremoniously and brutally stabbed. It appears that, despite prayers, there is no salvation in life. In life, God can't help you. God can't stop life nor death from happening. Under attack, a woman cries out to God for help, and the scene is so devastating that it makes her plea, not heartbreaking, but pathetic. Still, she needs that hope. God is great, certainly, but he is also far far away from where we are-- from where we are killing each other in his name or in fear of his name. The way the flying daggers take these Christians down is almost comical. Titus's paltry little cross too is not grand or heroic. The presence of God is thus not an awe-inspiring monument in this film. He remains intangible, hypothetical, and secondary to the human characters, and in particular the bad characters.

Everyone loves a martyr, but I spent most of this movie wanting to see more of Colbert and Laughton. As Alexander Pope said, "To err is human, to forgive divine." We, as human, are incapable of divine acts. It is above us. Erring is in our nature. Sinning is in our nature. Regret and guilt are in our nature, and after these things, we fall to our knees and pray for that aforementioned and unreachable divinity. Fredric March is much more alive in his scenes with Colbert, who is dripping with human, erring sensuality (right). Poppea's desire for Marcus is no secret. She wants him, and his refusal of her hurts, not only her pride, but her heart. This is where Colbert gives her character more depth than the typical villainess. When Marcus crashes his carriage into hers on his way to save Mercia from the Roman ambush, he rushes off despite Poppea's orders to stay. As he departs, her voice cracks as she calls for him: "Marcus!" It is not a yell, so much as a little girl's shocked pain at desertion. Later, she uses all her wiles to obtain him, and again her vulnerability is shown when Marcus rolls his eyes at her typical tactics-- he's been here before, and she is no different from any other desperate woman. Yet, he is ready to be enlightened. He wants a "virtuous girl," though he still does not understand why, (Time to settle down boy-o?). Poppea is pissed. Thus, she puts Mercia on Nero's radar, and her child-husband is easily manipulated into doing her bidding. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Poppea when scorned wants Mercia's head. 

Meanwhile, to protect her, the lustful Marcus has taken Mercia back to his home, where she is shocked to learn that he means to make her his concubine. Sex would be one thing, but the fact that he is asking her to turn her back on her Christianity is unforgivable. Marcus is equally shocked when she won't put out, and tries to convince her that it is her religion that is holding her back. He claims that Christianity is "vicious" for convincing her not to do what is natural to her. He is also ticked that he is expected to share her heart with this dead Jesus dude. Mercia is missing out on life! Marcus tries to convince her of this by having one of his gal pals (Joyzelle Joyner) perform a homo-erotic dance around her-- which was quite scandalous in its day, and is still uncomfortable to watch (left). However, any attempt to "warm" Mercia is halted when she hears the sound of her fellow Christians singing outside. The Roman guard interrupts the party on Nero's orders, and Mercia is taken to the arena where 100 Christians will be executed as a gift from the Emperor and Empress to their loyal people-- still frothing from the fire. After Mercia is taken and the doors closed behind her, Marcus assumes the pose of the Crucifixion, his arms draped upon the dead-bolts. His martyrdom is very different from Christ's. What Marcus feels isn't a sudden understanding for Mercia's faith, the faith that Christ died for, but a pain at the loss of Mercia-- a symbol of Hope and the woman he slowly is learning that he loves. He suffers not for a metaphorical God, but for the flesh and blood woman that he wants. In this way, DeMille interprets that Marcus's pain is somehow more real, and definitely more relatable, than the religious icon's.

Throughout the film, while Mercia is devout to the point of bland, the earthy guttural suffering of Marcus, and also Poppea, are much more believable. As the Christians are slowly sent to die-- by tigers, elephants, and gators-- they rise to meet their challenges still with hope in their eyes, but their faith doesn't stop the sounds of violent screaming from erupting from their bodies as they are torn to shreds (right). Mercia's death, by Poppea's vengeful order, is saved for last, and Marcus agrees to die with her, not for her God or his God but for himself. He tells her that, in a moment of desperation, he tried praying to her God, but He didn't hear him. Instead, Marcus prayed to her-- Mercia, the woman he loves. It is his new found faith in her-- that desire for hope and elevation that he could not comprehend until it was too late-- that has made a new man of him, and one even willing to die. Still, he begs her to renounce her God, keep him in her heart if she must, but publicly denounce him so that she and Marcus may live together and for each other. One almost wants to slap her across the face when she refuses. Marcus is offering her a chance at life; but she goes to the God of her dreams, one she deems so close, just on the other side of the arena door, where she will consequently meet her demise. Marcus is life; God is death. Mercia is immovable, so the lovers will die together. As Marcus climbs the stairs with her into the light, which makes the duo appear as if they are going indeed to heaven-- deceitful, considering what awaits them-- he does not look upward but at her.

Going to their deaths for the love of God.

Thus, the conundrum. DeMille served us up a movie about Jesus, yet ends the film with the vaguely insinuated idea that God ain't everything. Of course, this is a very harsh analysis. By the film's end, when we have witnessed every measure of humanity-- the pious, the bloodthirsty, the envious, the peaceable-- the one thing that all these beings exhibited was love. Love, whether in its most tortured or triumphant state, is the most intense and lasting thing about life. Jesus spread the word of love to mankind, but love wears many faces, and we as human beings constantly trip on ourselves when trying to find the right one. For this, we are not wholly sinful. Yet, no matter how far we have fallen, we can find redemption, not necessarily in God, but in the embrace of pure, selfless love for another human being. This is when love righteously wears the face of God. DeMille, despite his constant Christian rhetoric, therefore presents the idea that life should not be wasted on the worship of God, but should be spent in the worship of each other.

This theory could arguably be shared by the next film, The Robe, although this time around, the presence of and necessity of an almighty God in one's life is much more fixed and magnificent. What DeMille presented with a side of naughty, director Henry Koster presents with total piety. Unlike the silent spirit of Christ in The Sign of the Cross, the presence of God in The Robe is mighty (as evidenced even by the awesome opening score). He is also visible.  The film begins over 30 years prior to the burning of Rome. The Christians' numbers are slowly growing due to the public orations of someone known as the "Messiah" or Jesus the Christ. All of this is secondary and not too fretful where our protagonist, the Roman Soldier, is concerned: "Marcellus Gallio," played intelligently and passionately by Richard Burton in his break-out role. Youthful, curly-headed, and vain, Marcellus has the intense displeasure of serving under the fussy, infantile, and annoying "Caligula" (played with very little intrigue by Jay Robinson). The notorious gluttony and greed of Rome become apparent as Marcellus makes his way through the crowds on slave auction day. Scantily-clad and well-formed women are held up for buyers to drool over, and Marcellus has his eye on a couple of twins, (I mean that literally). It is to be assumed that Marcellus is just like the other ignorant and savage Roman beasts, trading flesh and swimming in wine, but there are indicators that Marcellus actually has a soul. He proves this by stopping an altercation when Greek slave "Demetrius" (a beefy Victor Mature) tries to escape. Marcellus then purchased him (left), thus saving Demetrius from a life of Hell with the also bidding Caligula. When Marcellus loses the twins to Caligula, the audience is also surprised to learn that he was purchasing the women for his mother and not himself. The way he and the openly corrupt Caligula banter, and the way Marcellus runs mental circles around his Emperor, also convinces the viewer that this Marcellus is not a bad guy at all.

Of course, he's not perfect, a fact that is made clear when a random woman (the Whore, with a blink and you'll miss it part in this film) chastises him for getting drunk and embarrassing her the previous night. A decent man and soldier, Marcellus may be, but a man he is nonetheless. However, the sudden appearance of the beautiful and pure "Diana" (Jean Simmons)-- a girl he knew in his youth-- and his instant attraction and affection for her are symbolic of the fact that he may be ready to close the book on his ruffian days and embrace the good man inside himself in toto. The honor of becoming Marcellus's wife is something that Diana has been dreaming of since her girlhood, and the duo quickly make plans (right). Unfortunately, Diana is being kept in Caligula's care, and after the earlier insult at the slave market, Marcellus and his new slave Demetrius are thus sent away to deal with a minor nuisance that is cramping Caesar's style in Jerusalem: Christianity. Before he departs on this punishment mission, Marcellus is instructed by his father to "take nothing on faith" and to "trust no one." It is dangerous where he is headed. Man must protect himself, and a man from a faithless society, that worships only the deities that can give the most enticing rewards, thus sails into the fray with nothing but instinct, orders, and smarts to protect him. 

In fact, he goes to murder faith.  Soon enough, Jesus Christ, whom Marcellus has only vaguely heard about, has been identified and sent to be executed by Crucifixion, which Marcellus will dutifully oversee. The audience sees it too. The faceless icon carries his cross through the streets, his arms are nailed to the wood, and he is left to die. It is all a sideshow to the Roman soldiers who perform the murderous act and proceed to play dice below his slowly dying body. Only the impoverished and the poor little children, including Demetrius, are taken in by the death of this man, whom they deem somehow magnificent beyond words. Demetrius bundles the Christ's discarded robe into his arms (left), but it is soon taken and used as a bargaining chip in the gambling game of which Marcellus has taken part. Marcellus wins the piece of cloth. Jesus dies. A storm begins. The winds have changed, and they are howling, and suddenly Marcellus is fearful and he knows not why. As he and Demetrius run for shelter, he tells his slave to cover him with the robe, but the minute the fabric touches his skin, he quivers in fear: "Take it off!!!" The spirit of God has become encapsulated in the threads of the robe of the Holy One, and Marcellus shrinks under its power and from the feelings of his own guilt. In his heart, he knew to crucify a man for nothing but words of peace was a sin, but a faithless man cannot sin, can he? Apparently, indifference and inaction was his crime, a crime shared by all the people who played their own small part in Christ's death-- Caligula, Pilate, the throngs watching Jesus crawl to his death, and even Demetrius, who received word that Jesus was to be betrayed and tried to find him and warn him, though he was too late. In his quest, Demetrius met only Judas, soon to pay for his sins. Marcellus has yet to pay for his.

Marcellus is summoned back to Rome, thanks to Diana's intervention, but he is a changed man. Scared, hollow, and mad, he is constantly tortured by the sound of pounding-- the pounding of nails into Christ's palms. The solution to his malady is to find the robe again, which has clearly "bewitched" him, and burn it. So, he searches far and wide for Demetrius, who has betrayed him and run off with the piece of cloth. Demetrius has freed himself through faith, and taken all power from his master and thus the mastery of Rome. On his quest, Marcellus bears witness to the miracle of the spreading Christian faith. He is puzzled and even angered like a child by the idiotic people who believe in the beauty of life when they are blind and crippled, unhealed by their departed God. Their faith reaches him through music, and something inside him, a window in his heart is being opened. He learns that Demetrius is with Simon Peter, Marcellus tracks him down, and tries to toss the robe with his sword into the fire. Yet, it falls into his arms and overcomes him in a fit of hysteria. Now, the power of the one true God is in his heart. He is bewitched no more; he is penitent (right). After Marcellus performs an act of mercy, stepping in to stop an ambush where many Christians will certainly be massacred, the Prophet, Simon Peter, asks him to join their crusade. Marcellus says that he cannot, because he is responsible for the death of Christ. Peter then shares the story of how he denied Christ three times on the day of his death. Peter obtained forgiveness by preaching his word; Marcellus will do the same in defending the Christian faith.

The rest of the movie is spent with Caligula trying to hunt down the Christians and most importantly his betrayer, Marcellus. Diana is not easily taken in by these myths of Christ, but she follows her beloved Marcellus gallantly wherever he dares to tread-- not dissimilar from Marcus Superbus's devotion to Mercia in the last film. Demetrius is captured and tortured by Caligula, then saved from death by the miracle of Simon Peter's healing prayers: more proof that there is a God who is more than any man can comprehend. Marcellus is eventually put to the ultimate test. He stands before Caligula and is given the option to either renounce his faith in God or be killed. He swears allegiance to Rome, but cannot recant his new faith. It is bigger than him, and worth dying for. Diana vows to die with him. The two march off to their deaths with looks of glory on their faces, and soon they are walking in the clouds of heaven. Thus, this movie presents the beauty that comes of accepting the Christian faith and the dishonor that is sure to follow if one does not. There is no gray area, as in DeMille's film. While the presence of the Lord is sometimes presented as sinister almost, in the way he haunted and eventually overcame Marcellus's obstinacy, there is only peace everlasting in the embrace of him. Christians are portrayed as nearly untouchable, and the brutality and savagery with which Caligula attempts to exterminate them is nothing compared to their triumph. 

A Walk in the Clouds...

Freedom through faith is the message. Faith is not the issue of fear in Rome. Freedom is. If the little people break their bonds and rise up against their masters, structure will be destroyed. Christianity is thus viewed as a dangerously spreading organism or disease that must be stopped before the nation is infected and order undone. This is the seed that when sprouted will cause Rome to fall, which it will, and God to rise. This is the opposite theory as postulated by The Sign of the Cross, where we were to look to each other for peace. Here, God is all. Yet, the two films do share and spread the ideas that we should try our best to make a Heaven of life on earth, that doing good to each other and acting toward our brothers as we would ourselves is the ultimate goal. The Robe presents this theory as much more attainable and glorious. While the film is not as interesting as The Sign of the Cross, it moves quicker and the performance of Burton-- with his eloquent, lyrical, staccato speeches and ever-present intensity-- is something worth witnessing. It too is a sweeping, spreading narrative, enticing to the eye and clearly worthy of being the first film made using the new CinemaScope process. The film also manages to fairly escape the cheesy factor, which is not easy when dealing with such subject matter. It succeeds perhaps because the presence of God is presented in such mythic and horrifying proportions that the audience feels as compelled to convert as Marcellus.

The same cannot be said of Quo Vadis, which is nearly all cheese. Quo Vadis is a fitting title, beings that I was indeed wondering where the Hell this movie was going since it was taking so long to get there. Nearly three hours in length, it is a tedious bit of work, so I won't dedicate as much time to its diagnosis. It had its good points, mind you. Bearing basically the same plot at The Sign of the Cross, it lacked in poetry what it made up for in pomposity. Visually, it is a splendor, ever moreso than The Robe. However, part one of the film is wasted as "Marcus Vinicius" (Robert Taylor) tries to creepily seduce "Lygia" (Deborah Kerr, both left). Kerr is so beautiful that she literally glows, and her piety to her faith, again Christianity-- identified in this film by The Sign of the Fish-- is so decadent that one can understand Marcus's incurable erection over her. Unfortunately, Taylor is terribly miscast, and he seems old and tired in the role. The boyish charms of his A Yank at Oxford days do not work here, and Kerr has to work overtime to make her attraction to him believable. His sexuality is sinister, overbearing, and clumsy, an error that Kerr cleverly tries to compensate for by making her interest in him seem more maternal than erotic. However, even her performance can't improve the chemistry, which is never on par.

The uncomfortable sex game is turned asunder by "Emperor Nero," this time played by Peter Ustinov, a comic light spot in an otherwise overbearing film. Ustinov's interpretation of Nero is not as calculatingly insane as Laughton's; he presents more of an overgrown boy who knows no discipline and thus no bounds. He is, essentially, an idiot. He thinks himself an artist, and is constantly writing atrocious poems and singing songs while his right hand man, "Petronius" (Leo Glenn, another plus) manipulates his mind in order to somehow keep Rome running (right, Leo stands, Peter sits center). Soon, Nero decides to burn Rome as an artistic statement, for only in the destruction of his art can he see it rise again anew and totally in his name. The fire is a test of his own power. Ustinov tends to go a bit too far, chewing the scenery as the infantile Nero, but he also seems like the only one in the film truly enjoying and stretching the limits of his role. After Rome burns, Nero is again convinced to put the blame on the Christians, a fact that the "Empress Poppaea" (the Whore, played by Patricia Laffan) suggests because she wants Marcus (God knows why), and she knows that the Christian girl Lygia is a threat to her conquest of him. The Christians are rounded up and sent to the slaughter, and their massacre is very long and overdrawn, as opposed to DeMille's equally sexual and frightening interpretation of the arena. The singing of the Christians as they go to their deaths is incredibly annoying to Nero, who wanted to hear screams and is very taxed by their apparent lack of fear. 

Lygia is saved for last, and Marcus (who is performed better at the end when Taylor gives up on the chest-beating and eyebrow raising) has come to her to die by her side. The two are married, again by the Prophet "Simon Peter" (Finlay Currie) who is soon Crucified upside down for his insinuations that there is a God higher than Nero. Lygia is tied to a post center-ring (left), and her loyal bodyguard fights a bull to protect her. If he can defeat the bull, Lygia will be freed. Surprisingly, he does, but Nero makes an error when he still gives the "thumbs down" signal to kill her anyway. This enrages the masses, who have witnessed already surprising courage in their supposed Christian enemies. They have been swept away by their fortitude and consequently turn on Nero. Marcus, who has been sitting by Poppaea's side, forced to watch his beloved's attempted murder, jumps into the pit and cries out for justice. The Roman legion too jumps to his defense, less out of anger or questions of faith than because they think it was rude of Nero to try to kill Marcus's girlfriend in front of him. Soon, the arena is in uproar, the lovers embrace, and Nero flees to his castle, where his favorite concubine convinces him to kill himself. He does. An interesting moment, either a wise move or a very unfortunate one, by director Mervyn LeRoy was to reveal the blood lust of the masses as they come to Nero's castle like a colony of angry ants. Despite the messages of Christ that have just been died for, man still seems to have learned nothing. One assumes that LeRoy meant for these bloodthirsty vermin to be interpreted as the brutish, unenlightened Romans and not as the recently freed Christians. Lygia and Marcus ride off into the sunlight, an unfortunate and sugary Hollywood ending that renders the film a total waste, and the film closes on an image of flowers blooming-- hope and beauty where there was none before.

I cannot say that I liked the film, but I too can't say that I hated it. In many ways it was impressive, including a brilliant live action recreation of Da Vinci's The Last Supper, but the story was stylistically over-exaggerated in terms of performance, the message was one note and uncomplicated, and the interpretation of God's power was not as effective-- He is construed as so loving and peaceable via the work of Simon Peter that He does not possess the same awesomeness and threatening nature that made his power so obvious in The Robe. Here, God can only assert himself through the faith of his people and not on his own, which is a worthy enough statement, but one never learns the value of believing in him. In fact, in many ways, LeRoy-- again, perhaps purposefully-- portrays the Christians as just as mindless for following their God as the Romans for following Nero. Give a group a leader, and away they go. At the end of the film, a new Emperor is announced, and the masses are just as fanatic for him as they were mere moments ago for Nero. 

Eunice and Petronius die for Love and Country.

The plus of the film is the concept that God, the true God, can only be found in Love. Again, women are portrayed (just as in all the previous films) as already being receptive and knowledgeable about the purity of love, so just as Mercia and Diana, Lygia is ready and willing to accept it when this message comes. She merely sits and waits for her chosen man to discover it, while he trips over the hurdles of whores in his way and matures into a man worthy of her virginity and spirituality. Marcus finds this lesson of love too, as does a very surprised Petronius, who finds himself in love with his slave girl "Eunice" (Marina Berti) who adores him, the highest being she knows, with the same faith of Lygia following her God. This love of a good woman makes more faithful, better men out of both Romans, but so cliched and over dramatic are the acts of devotion that one cringes at Eunice's ignorance and shakes the head in pity for Marcus's future, in which he will be sharing a bed with both his wife and Jesus. (One assumes that Lygia will spend most of the night praying and too little comforting her still horny husband). So, where The Robe had God and where The Sign of the Cross had humanity, Quo Vadis had neither. Yet, if you put the thing on mute and just look at it, it's pretty visually engrossing.

Well, after many many many words, I bring this to a close. Many thanks for reading, if you made it through, and my best (belated) wishes to you this Christmas. God Bless!

STAR OF THE MONTH: Rita Hayworth

Margarita Cansino ~ Rita Hayworth

In encountering or examining the true life of a hero, one is confronted with mixed emotions, depending on the subject. At times, one crumples in laughter; at times, one jumps to the defensive. One is occasionally met with disappointment; one is sometimes filled with almost welcomed envy. After "The End," one wants to move mountains, right wrongs, or reverentially pay tribute. In reliving the life of Margarita Cansino, one wants to do nothing but weep. The problem with adoring Rita Hayworth, who is so easy to adore, is that there never was a Rita Hayworth. Never, in all cinematic history perhaps, has there been a performer who so resolutely was able to draw a thick, impenetrable line between her screen persona and herself. The duality of Rita/Margarita is something that continues to beckon fascination and curiosity. As thoroughly and intelligently analyzed by Adrienne L. McLean in her book Being Rita Hayworth, the construction of Rita Hayworth the movie star was something that was not hidden, but sensationalized and avidly participated in by all concerned-- except for Rita herself. Rita was a sex kitten and the girl-next-door. She was dangerous; she was harmless. She was dominant; she was passive. The one thing that she was consistently was malleable: she was whatever everyone wanted her to be. This is why she remains one of Hollywood's greatest movie stars and actresses of all time.

~     ~     ~

Rita Hayworth's childhood was stolen from her in every conceivable way. A naturally shy girl, she was already at a disadvantage in jumping into the social whirlpool. Whatever chances she had of shedding her protective exterior were annihilated by her unfortunate, inherited circumstances. Her father, Eduardo Cansino, had achieved a measure of acclaim on the vaudeville dance circuit, where he and his sister Elisa-- both non-English speaking imports from their native Spain--  enchanted audiences with their exotic and graceful movements. After he and showgirl Volga Hayworth married, they quickly birthed their first child, Margarita Cansino, in Brooklyn, NY on October 17, 1918. Two sons would follow-- Eduardo, Jr. ("Sonny") and Vernon-- but neither showed the natural penchant toward the family trade like Margarita. Thus, after the original "Dancing Cansinos" went their separate ways, the silent and obedient eldest girl became Eduardo's newest dancing partner. As a sad and embittered Volga increasingly disappeared into alcoholism, Eduardo took on the role of the violent patriarch, coaching Margarita in grueling dance instructions and taking her on tour after her originally chubby, adolescent body started to form into that of a well-crafted athlete. She had no childhood friends, mostly because she received little formal education. She was pulled out of school to work. Neighborhood kids would pass her on their own way home from school and see her silently staring from her porch. If one was so bold to talk to the bashful statue, she would perhaps offer a few sparse words, before she was inevitably called indoors by her controlling father.

The distant Hayworth gaze: one can imagine that this is the same look

she held as a little girl on that front porch.

By now, the family was living in California. Eduardo had intentions toward a career renaissance in the new medium of film. If he worked Margarita hard enough, she could perhaps be his way in and his struggling family's salvation. She put up no argument against his tyrannical and abusive practice sessions, and more and more she became a mere dancing puppet-- seemingly hollow and lacking in identity. She did as she was told and hid her inner sadness behind a stoic, obedient face. The worst was to come in Tijuana, known as "Sin City," because it provided a pleasing outlet for those escaping prohibition. Eduardo claimed to be protective of Rita when they toured here, dancing their routines as "husband and wife"-- because it provided a better front-- but he had no qualms about parading her before the drunken, drooling men who looked at her gorgeous figure and face like starving men looking at a meal. While the thirteen-year-old danced nightly and exhaustively on stage-- usually forced to go out afterward and catch fish for dinner, because Eduardo had, of course, gambled all of their money away-- her brothers went to school and enjoyed comparatively normal childhoods under their caring but distant mother's watch. Volga was not there looking out for Margarita when Eduardo, at this point in the young innocent's life, started repeatedly raping her. As always, Margarita internalized, compartmentalized, and went on with the show. The thick, impenetrable veil she was building up would later become the most intriguing part of her characterizations. In later years, no one would know that the scintillating heat brimming beneath the beauty's cool surface was the burden of pain and shame.

When father and daughter returned, Volga was perhaps the only one who noticed a change in her daughter, and though she never stood up to her husband, she did begin sleeping in Margarita's room, joining the duo on tours, and leaving them alone together as little as possible. Unfortunately, the damage had been done. Despite Margarita's natural sweetness and passivity, inside she was a silent tiger pacing in its cage, waiting for the chance to get out. Ironically, Eduardo's solution of a cinematic career would allow her to escape through one trap door into another prison. But at this point, what choice did she have? A screen test, thanks to Fox production chief Winfield Sheehan, won her a contract with Fox, and soon she was dancing onscreen with Gary Leon in Dante's Inferno- choreographed by Eduardo, of course. Due to her dark features, she was typically cast in Latin roles or as other "exotic" types, such as her turn as Nayda in Charlie Chan in Egypt. Despite potential, she failed to break through to a place of real recognition. Enter the second manipulative man in her life-- Eddie Judson, who was a thirty-nine year old con-artist keen on turning the vulnerable sixteen-year-old into his meal ticket. After Fox dropped her, Eddie was able to land her a new seven-year contract at Columbia, headed by "White Fang" Harry Cohn. Columbia was the "hack lot," always borrowing other stars, because they had none of their own. Little did Cohn know when signing "Rita Cansino" that he had just grabbed a hold of his first, true movie star. Eddie Judson already knew, but he had to build her up before anyone else would see. 

Rita Cansino as she appeared in Dante's Inferno.

Thus began the transformation of Margarita Cansino to Rita Hayworth-- a much more American sounding name. Rita eloped with the man she hoped would be her release from Eduardo in May of 1937, but Eddie Judson proved to be as much of a taskmaster and, in effect, pimp as her father. He submitted her to ruthless diets and workout regimens, dyed her hair red, and forced her to endure months of painful electrolysis to heighten her hairline and create a widow's peak. Papa Eduardo thankfully no longer had a hold over his daughter, but this was sadly because she no longer existed. She belonged to another Ed, and he had total control. Judson initiated press releases about his young bride, keeping her in the public eye and pushing her into meetings with well-to-do executives and filmmakers out at the clubs where, dressed glamorously, the still shy woman ineffectually tried to hob-nob and schmooze. Due to her soft-spoken demeanor and lack of pretense, it was not an easy thing for her to do, and her nightly failures sent Eddie into rages. He even went so far as to tell her not to shy away from opportunities to use sex as a tool-- aka sleep her way to the top. Consider it a business investment. Just how much she listened to these suggestions remains debatable, but with such a soft backbone, one has to admit that in Rita's case, the worst is not only possible but likely. Slowly, Eddie's plans started to work. Rita started catching on in Only Angels Have Wings-- a big coup-- and gained a reputations as a hard-working, diligent actress who was equally welcoming of the press. She was labeled "The Most Co-operative Girl in Hollywood." Unfortunately, this did not make her the happiest. On set, she was silent. She would sit and wait for her scenes, perform, then retreat back inside herself. It was the only way she could hold herself together.

Rita performs with James Cagney and Olivia DeHavilland in

The Strawberry Blonde.

Success and notice grew in The Strawberry Blonde and Blood and Sand, during the latter of which she met close friend and choreographer Hermes Pan. The sensuous, confident, even malevolent women that she was able to craft onscreen were so vastly different from her true self that when people met her after seeing her films, they were shocked. She was a shy violet, a wallflower, and definitely not the man-eating glamour vixen Hollywood had painted her to be. She did possess enough fight to extricate herself from her sadistic husband, a decision that resulted after he tried to push her into a sexual relationship with Cohn. Rita refused. The results were one step forward and two back. While she gained her independence, Eddie walked off with nearly everything, and Cohn would develop an unsatisfied obsession with her that would lead to a complete invasion of her privacy and a possessive stranglehold over her life. Cohn even had wire-taps placed in her dressing room-- a fact that Rita's inner child enjoyed, for all she would talk about in this sacred area was how much she hated Cohn. Still, Cohn was right to want to hold onto Rita. Her popularity was growing every day. Her great talent as a dancer was put to use opposite Fred Astaire in both You'll Never Get Rich and You Were Never Lovelier, and a prime photo in Life Magazine became the pin-up item during wartime, rivalled only by Betty Grable's derriere extraordinaire shot. Though Rita fell into the arms of Victor Mature during My Gal Sal, a kind, down-to-earth guy who did much to support her during her divorce, she would soon fall into the maelstrom of another suitor, who had become enamored after seeing the infamous Bob Landry photo. Orson Welles was determined to make Rita Hayworth his (second) wife. As was his way, he got what he wanted.

Rebecca, Rita, and Orson.

Rita would forever recall Orson Welles as the love of her life. Dubbed "Beauty and the Brains"-- flattering to his ego, but bruising to hers-- the publicity surrounding the strange pairing was dynamite. Orson became the only man to whom Rita would confess her childhood abuse or the horror of her first marriage. But trust took time. Orson was intimidating. Embarrassed by her inferior education, Rita was put off by his interest at first, certain of what he was truly after, but  she later was surprised at his genuine interest and the way he could draw her out of herself. On their first date, he used an old mind-reading trick to actually get her talking. Suddenly, and surprisingly, she felt safe. But there was already danger. Was Rita really a full-blooded woman that Orson loved? Or was she a mere sexual experiment? Was he infatuated, fascinated, curious, or did he uncharacteristically hold deeper feelings? Rita adored Orson; the trouble was that Orson had the same problem. Orson Welles was in love with Orson Welles. If anyone ever came close to claiming his heart, it was indeed Rita, whom he remained protective over even after their marriage hit the skids. His affection remains evident as well in the fact that he was the only man Rita ever tried to win back after she had filed divorce papers. But she had her problems as well. Incredibly jealous and untrusting, Rita's insecurity acted as an isolator. She too had an inferiority complex that could only be quelled with sexual attention, a result of the abuse that she had suffered from her father. After having one child together, daughter Rebecca, Orson's philandering and Rita's mistrust finally got the better of them, and they called it quits. Of course, after seeing Rita's performance in the earth-shattering Gilda, Orson certainly must have had his regrets.

Gilda. There are no words, except "perfection."

Gilda remains the eternal Rita Hayworth film. A film noir, Rita is the perfect femme fatale, yet the life and humanity she gives her character makes her an imperfect villain who is still able to walk away with the hero's heart and the audience's approval. Richard Dyer pinpointed this phenomenon thus: "No other femme fatale dances." It was in her dancing that Rita truly came alive, and her "strip tease" sequence, the most famous moment of her career, is both a self-lacerating and a self-empowering act that proves yet again her amazing duality and complexity as a human being. This is no cardboard cut-out villainess. This is a she-wolf out for blood, but, most importantly, out for love. She would have future moments of genius, but no performance she would give would be so perfect. And there were to follow many brilliant moments, including an even more erotic and jaw-dropping strip tease in Salome. Rita's confidence and dominance presented itself always in her dancing: Cover Girl, Down to Earth, Tonight and Every Night, Affair in Trinidad, The Loves of Carmen, etc. These roles and her execution of them both maintain her status as a genuine talent and confuse the mind as to her unhappy personal life. 

One wonders how she was so able to completely draw the shade, to metamorphose from a child of deep sadness to a heroine of power, sensuality, and confidence. While watching her work, I have often caught myself thinking, "Rita, how are you doing this?!" On the screen she is vibrant, alive, and impassioned. In life, she was broken-hearted, used, misled, and constantly disappointed. Her flaws and sorrows would more ably be applied in her later, more mature roles. When Salome is asked to sell her body and dance for King Herod, Rita had a living well of reference to pull from. When Sgt. O'Hara  learns that Sadie Thompson is a prostitute who has given her body to countless men, he screams at her that she is "dirty!" The pain on her face is evident and echoes back into her very soul. And yet even more impressive is the profound joy and humor she injects into her more light-hearted roles. Rita is kind of a lovable ham! She is always beautiful and poised, but too she makes fun of herself. When she chews the scenery in numbers like "Poor John," she is clearly having a riot. The girl was extraordinary in this respect. While she never wanted stardom, she has the ability like few others to completely enthrall the camera and the viewer, and she had the talent to do it. Scene stealing from Gene Kelly is no easy feat, yet it is one she accomplishes simply by standing there and being Rita. 

The erotically charged and bare-footed dance that Valerie Bettis choreographed for Rita 

in Affair in Trinidad caused quite the scandal... and made more money than Gilda!

If only life had been as kind to her as the movies. Her true self continued to be clouded and her innermost desires ignored. A failed marriage to Persian Prince Aly Khan further proved to her the famous quotation-- always worded differently-- "Men go to bed with Gilda and wake up with me." She was never loved for herself. While Rita was adored, Margarita was unknown. Another con-artist, Dick Haymes, too swindled her into the marriage bed in order to escape his own legal problems, and this ended only in another physically abusive relationship and a subsequently shocking claim of child neglect. While battling out Dick's problems, Rita's children were left in the care of Dorothy Chambers in White Plains, NY. Living conditions were exaggerated by a Confidential press hound who took posed photos of the children playing with trash. Both Orson and Aly Khan (whose daughter with Rita, Princess Yasmin,  was too caught in the chaos) testified on her behalf. Rita finally extricated herself from Haymes and would endure only one more brief marriage to and divorce from producer James Hill before she succumbed to a darker master-- Alzheimer's. Despite all of her trials and tribulations, Rita had always been  a professional on the set. Then, suddenly, dialogue became difficult for her to remember, she became paranoid and frightened, and occasionally she would exhibit strange moments of confusion, memory loss, or erratic acts of anger. For many years, she remained undiagnosed, with no one understanding the source of her outbursts nor how to stop them. Her increased drinking only exacerbated the problem. It was as though, for far too long, Margarita Cansino had tried to be too many different people-- the dutiful daughter, the punching bag, the mother, the love goddess, the little girl lost, and the movie star, Rita Hayworth. Not once had she ever been who she truly wanted to be-- a simple wife and mother in a safe and secure home. The life she had had thrust upon her, the multiple demands made of her, and the countless characters she had played, had fractured her psyche to the breaking point. Maybe she finally wanted to escape, even to a place of not knowing herself. She had never really existed anyway. 

Orson Welles used The Lady from Shanghai as a way to diagnose and dissect his 

multi-faceted wife, a point made clear in the great mirror showdown.

Rita gave the world whatever it wanted. She divulged whatever side was necessary: the sex kitten, the hot-dog eating American gal, the exotic siren, the girl-next-door, etc. Her acting and natural gifts were always underrated due to her natural beauty and allegedly her lack of range. Because she came to set and did what she was told and nothing else, it has been recalled that she was merely another talking prop, a claim that many use when diagnosing Orson's nightmarish masterpiece The Lady from Shaghai. These critics do not take into account that the entire movie is supposed to read like a bad dream-- intricate, but unfeeling; authentic, yet hollow. Rita may have acted as a willing puppet to her husband Orson Welles (whom she was divorcing at the time), but if the effect of her performance is lost, the fault lies with him not her. He asked for a vacant villainess, and she delivered. If anyone can observe her dying character, bleeding out like a crocodile, crying with a savage and multi-layered howl-- "I don't want to die!"--  and not see some stroke of brilliance... well, God help you. This woman had no range? This woman was every range. From the ambitious, conflicted show-girl who breaks Gene Kelly's heart in Cover Girl, to the faded beauty and desperately grasping lost soul who comes calling for salvation in Separate Tables, Rita Hayworth was a force to be reckoned with. Had little Margarita Cansino had a chance, perhaps she could have ruled the world. Imagining the possibilities breaks the heart. Fortunately for us, it takes one mere viewing of Down to Earth to mend it again. But Rita Hayworth, Rita Cansino, Margarita Cansino, whoever, does not belong here with us mortals. A Goddess like that belongs in the Heavens with the rest of the stars.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Cecil B. DeMille

Cecil B. DeMille- Director and Renaissance Man.

That's right, this time around I chose to feature a director. Not just any director-- the director. The name DeMille still has a powerful resonance and serves at times as the very definition of Hollywood itself. This makes perfect sense, being that ol' CB was one of the founding fathers of this luxurious place we know as La La Land. And trust me, luxury has everything to do with it.


While DeMille was an artist and craftsman, working behind the scenes in the original days of Hollywood-- back when orange groves and pepper trees lined the major through street of Prospect-- at heart he was a showman. In fact, he studied acting first, attending the same school at which his father-- a playwright-- had once taught: The American Academy of Dramatic Arts (ring any bells?). Taking the brains of his father, the passion of his mother, and the flamboyance of family friend David Belasco, young Cecil matured from a curious and ambitious youth into a vivacious and unstoppable entrepreneur. He took odd jobs in the theatre circuit-- writing plays, directing, producing, even acting-- all of which he could perform ably, but it wasn't until a partnership with Jesse L. Lasky and Sam Goldwyn brought him into the cinematic world that his life was forever altered-- and our world as well. His first directorial effort, The Squaw Man, made with the help of Oscar Apfel, is still historically cited as the first full-length feature film made in Hollywood.

Jesse L. Lasky, Adolph Zukor, Sam Goldfish (Goldwyn), Cecil and Albert 

Kaufman- Founding fathers of Famous Players-Lasky.

The match was struck, and the fire in DeMille was ignited. He would work without even stopping for breath from 1914-1959. Forty-five years worth of dedication, drive, passion, and vigor would inevitably leave behind a legacy of unparalleled celluloid glory. After his contemporaries, including hero D.W. Griffith, disappeared into obscurity, DeMille always marched on, his energy for his work kept alive by the devout love of his craft. As the times changed, DeMille may not have exactly changed his own style, but he allowed it to expand, pushing the envelope further and further each time with respect to his artistic capabilities and his aesthetic extravagances. He loved movies, and he watched them as much as he made them, keeping up with the latest directors, the latest techniques, and the newest innovations. Over time, he fell into the immaculate cliche he had contrived for himself, that of the egotistical mouthpiece of God. His epic religious features, meant to strike the fear of a higher power into his viewers, too allowed them to indulge unapologetically in their sensual sides. While every film preached a lesson of love, brotherhood, and humility before one's maker, it too presented a very thorny and enjoyable segue on the crooked way to righteousness.

The King of Kings- DeMille's piety. (H.B. Warner as Christ).

Herein we have the two DeMille's: the craftsman and the poet, the moral liberal and the political conservative, the lover and the fighter, the tactician and the showman. DeMille is either accused of being a slave-driving fascist-- marching around the set in his boots and riding breeches, followed everywhere by his chair boy, and shouting out brash commands through his megaphone-- or a dastardly seducer-- injecting his sexual, sinful, and exuberant films with a moral lesson simply to get them past the sensors. The truth is, both versions are true. "Indulgent" is, in fact, the best word with which to describe CB. His brimming intelligence yearned to ask every question, his passionate side sought to fulfill every pleasure, and his spiritual side hoped to do honor to the only being he was humble before, God himself. His silent films remain dangerous and inventive contributions to a quickly growing and expanding medium, and his sound pictures have found their place in hedonistic kitsch. But in either case, the one unifying factor is detail: the composition of every enchanting frame in every rich scene. DeMille produced vivid, living texture-- films his audiences could very nearly reach out and touch. It is this reason beyond any other that they last. Beyond the story, beyond the cheesy dialogue, beyond the special effects that still leave directors like Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese spellbound, is the painterly, fluid, lusciously dripping quality of each masterpiece. This is why DeMille is synonymous with "Classic."

The Affairs of Anatol: DeMille's hedonism. (Gloria Swanson, the woman

he made a star, and Wallace Reid).

As controversial as DeMille remains, his lasting imprint on cinema is justified. But his impression was left on more than the screen. Those who knew him in his life were struck by how this cinematic God could so seamlessly come back down to earth. Many personal accounts recall the tenderness with which he dealt with those he loved and the generosity he provided to those in need. After his father passed away in his youth, the adult CB would always provide for his mother and even his brother, Bill (who too was a director, though a less notorious one), and his wife and children-- oh, and his three mistresses, who were not lookers but were intellectually vibrant and integral to his life. When actors from the silent period witnessed their careers disappearing into the abyss of sound, Cecil always found them parts in his films. He and his wife, Constance, began many charities, particularly for children and women. He lavished friends with gifts, enjoyed his wealth while living simply, and lived each day with the ambition of sucking all the marrow he could out of life. This he did up until the end, when, in 1956, his determination to re-make and improve upon his original silent film, The Ten Commandments, nearly killed him. In fact, perhaps it did. But he succeeded, and his last directorial effort became the pinnacle success of his career, (though The King of Kings remained his proudest film).

 Samson and Delilah: the DeMille unity. 

(Directing Hedy Lamarr and Victor Mature).

We cannot imagine a Hollywood without DeMille, for he was and is Hollywood. He built it as if with his own two hands, and he made it something bigger, something greater, something grander. Cecil and cinema are inseparable, which is why he was the necessary ingredient in Billy Wilder's Hollywood masterpiece, Sunset Boulevard. His mere name carried the context needed to relay all that movies are, all that they endow, and all that they represent. While a director in memory, he was at heart an actor, putting on the greatest show of his life by being the untouchable, indefinable Cecil B. DeMille. What he did, no one else could do, and the effort has taken down many men, (as Joe Mankiewicz could attest after his own Cleopatra debacle). CB gave his movies everything he had and gave us a limitless world in return. Vincent Price once said that you weren't a movie star until you had appeared in a DeMille picture. I suppose it goes without saying that you aren't a film lover until you've seen a DeMille film. With that said: All right, Mr. DeMille. We're ready for your close-up.