GLADIATOR (2000)

The Roman Empire once stretched from the Atlantic coast of Portugal to the arid plains of Iraq. Encompassing most of Europe and Northern Africa, imperial rule spanned an area of five million square kilometres. An estimated 90 million people (or 20% of the world population at the time) lived under Rome’s dominion. It was a colonial regime that spread through systematic violence, organised oppression, and an efficient, disciplined army.

In 180 AD, General Maximus Decimus Meridius (Russell Crowe) has just led the Roman army to yet another victory in Vindobona. The insurgent Germanic tribes have been vanquished. Their final stronghold has been crushed. It would seem that there’s truly no one left to fight. With the opposition slaughtered and Rome’s expansion continuing unabated, Maximus believes he may finally be given leave to return home: it’s been two years, 264 days since he’s seen his wife and son.

However, all his hopes will soon be dashed. With an ailing Marcus Aurelius (Richard Harris) and his ambitious, duplicitous son Commodus (Joaquin Phoenix) vying for power, Maximus soon realises that the fate of the entire Roman Empire hangs in the balance. As factions develop, and as fewer and fewer people can be trusted to behave selflessly, a megalomaniac tightens his grasp over a terrifying new totalitarian regime. If tyranny is to be thwarted, a hero must rise.

Ridley Scott’s Shakespearean action triumph isn’t just the greatest epic of modern cinema—after all, no one ever doubted that Gladiator was a deft, seismic spectacle of audacious set pieces. However, in retrospect, Gladiator feels like much more than this. Released a quarter of a century ago, it proves to be a surprisingly prescient film. Scott’s titanic period piece is a timely study of corruption, tyranny, and an authoritarian state. Moreover, as a trenchant meditation on the importance of the individual in resisting forces of evil, Gladiator is still capable of leaving viewers stunned in awed silence, making it a film for contemporary audiences to revisit now more than ever.

Part of the reason why Gladiator was met with such universal acclaim (not to mention why it’s still revered to this day) is because of the terrific balancing act director Scott and screenwriters David Franzoni, John Logan, and William Nicholson navigate. Placed firmly between a character-driven psychological tale and an expansive, rich piece of sociological storytelling, Gladiator never has a dull moment. Every single scene has a set purpose. Be it exploring a theme, developing a character, advancing the plot, or peeling back the layers of Roman society, the narrative economy on display is commendable. At 155 minutes long, the runtime feels like half that.

From the very outset of the story, there’s suspense, intrigue, and tension as the threat of tyranny looms large: the ageing Emperor of Rome has grown frail, and it’s apparent that his time leading the empire will soon be at an end. For many, this causes great concern; when he dies there will be a power struggle. Idle, playful chatter over the future of Rome is tinged with the unmistakable ring of nefarious scheming. The wise king’s demise will usher in a watershed moment—will the empire be returned to the people as a republic, or descend deeper into the clutches of despotism?

Much like how Shakespeare utilised pre-established conflict to keep his audience on tenterhooks, we can immediately identify the forces of antagonism that imperil our hero. Additionally, we’re given an inkling of how these resentments of Maximus are of the long-standing, festering type. Commodus, desperately jealous of the genuine admiration and affection his father and sister extend towards Maximus, is an inherently menacing presence. Imbued with tremendous power, but without the discipline to wield it nor the maturity to understand it, Commodus is representative of everything that makes infantile despots so supremely dangerous: he’s vindictive while professing compassion, fragile while masquerading as brave, and pretends to be sagacious while ignoring the wisdom of his advisors. In short, he’s an edifice riddled with contradiction and hypocrisy.

Besides the petulant scion, Maximus and Lucilla (Connie Nielson) must also contend with the unscrupulous and power-hungry senators who’d sooner advance their own social standing than the good of Rome. Much like in Game of Thrones (2011-19), which once soared as a piece of sociological storytelling, or even a show with a modern setting like The Wire (2002-08), a diverse range of characters enter and exit the story, each with their own unique set of motivations. All the while, we sense that daggers are only barely sheathed. The fickle loyalties of those with political ambitions must be treated with extreme caution. Ultimately, no one can sincerely be trusted, and it makes Rome an explosive setting fraught with internal conflict.

However, what makes Gladiator an inspiring story is the unshakeable belief that the idea of Rome is something worth fighting for, an ideal that must be protected. As Maximus gravely intones to his emperor: “I’ve seen much of the rest of the world. It is brutal and cruel and dark—Rome is the light!” There’s a fervent desire among the righteous to prevent what’s arguably the most developed region of the world from falling into ruin.

What’s more is that, even when faced with obviously insurmountable odds, those who are guided by their principles won’t capitulate to tyranny. In the opening battle, as a headless envoy returns on horseback to the chorus of Germanic warriors screaming from the forests, Quintus dismissively remarks: “People should know when they’re conquered.” Maximus turns to him, a somewhat reproachful look in his eye, and asks him: “Would you, Quintus? Would I?”

It’s in this single question that the inextricably human defiance of oppression is revealed; be it against invaders, despots, or one’s own family, there’s an innate and unquenchable urge to resist against tyranny. Within each person, there exists a will to fight back against authoritarian forces. In Timothy Snyder’s eye-opening On Tyranny, he asserts that the autonomous, moral individual has always been the greatest threat to a dictator.

So, in order to maintain power, an autocrat must eliminate the individual and create a mob. Gracchus (Derek Jacobi) describes the populism that has caused the moral decline of a once noble city, using rhetoric that could just as easily be used to depict the steep decline of modern civilisations: “Rome is the mob. Conjure magic for them and they’ll be distracted. Take away their freedom and still they’ll roar.”

That the immature and thin-skinned Commodus is so much like Donald Trump makes contemporary viewing all the more pertinent. The similarities seem to proliferate in almost every scene. Each are narcissists, who demonstrate a pathological, chronic resentment of those who have earned their attributes through hard work, diligence, and experience. Both men convey a pathetic, destructive need to be liked, admired, and loudly worshipped. And though the two men have come from a place of comfort, with wealth being the only thing they have ever known, they show an insatiable desire for more. Or, to paraphrase Christopher Hitchens, both Commodus and Trump prove how “nobody is more covetous and greedy than those who have far too much.”

It should come as no surprise that we eagerly anticipate Commodus’ downfall: he’s the evil king that can be found in countless folktales. And much like in these stories that have existed since time immemorial, we identify with the champion who seeks retribution for the cruelties that were visited upon himself and others. As Commodus remarks to Maximus: “The general who became a slave. The slave who became a gladiator. The gladiator who defied an emperor. Striking story!” Simply put, Gladiator is an exceptionally compelling story, and it continues to find appreciative audiences today because of its foundation in great narrative structure: it’s a resoundingly poignant tale, a classically mythical narrative of a hero usurping forces of evil that beset him on all sides, leaning on his unshakeable moral code.

So then, why did the 2024 sequel fail so miserably? After all, it replicated the original’s plot wholesale, without even attempting any worthwhile deviations. While one could point to any number of reasons (with a general sense of apathy to needless, unwanted studio sequels as gratuitous cash grabs being principal among these), the most obvious is that Gladiator’s successor wasn’t helmed by some of the greatest actors of its generation: with Russell Crowe at the helm, supported by the likes of Joaquin Phoenix, Oliver Reed, and Richard Harris, it’s difficult to imagine how such a collaboration could go awry.

As one of the greatest performances of his career, Crowe imparts so much with the subtlest of movements. He manages to convey distrust, despair, and ebullient rage with only his eyes. Meanwhile, Phoenix also delivers a career highlight, convincingly wearing the vacant look of a madman. Notably, his tremulous, doleful interrogation of the father who seeks to dispossess him of his birthright never fails to stun: “What is it in me that you hate so much? […] I would butcher the whole world… if you would only love me!” As a glimpse into a maladjusted psyche, Phoenix terrifies because he humanises evil with apparent ease.

Additionally, Oliver Reed shines (in a tragically fitting final role) as Proximo, an old man in pursuit of redemption. It’s impossible not to allow knowledge of Reed’s personal life affect how one views his character; it makes his every move feel all the more poignant. Connie Nielson provides fantastic support as the unjustly guilt-ridden Lucilla, while Djimon Hounsou and Ralf Möller both serve as terrific side characters.

As if the laudable direction, great screenplay, and mesmerising performances weren’t enough, Gladiator also boasts some of Hans Zimmer’s finest contributions to cinema. The pieces “Now We Are Free” and “Honour Him” are imbued with such tragic poignancy that it’s difficult not to connect with the film’s central message. It’s for this reason that historical accuracy becomes irrelevant. We can forgive both anachronisms and even complete fabrication when the story is good enough. Or, as Andy Warhol once put it: “Art is getting away with it.”

And Gladiator is about as artful as mega-blockbusters get. Succeeding both as an action spectacle and as a thought-provoking piece on classic themes of revenge, justice, and the governance of society, Scott’s modern masterpiece is a profoundly moving story of one man’s long journey home. As he passes his hand through the wheat fields of Elysium, treading the final walk to be reunited with the family who were taken from him, our thoughts go to those who are no longer with us. And we know in our hearts that, in some form, we will see them again… but not yet.

USA • UK • MALTA • MOROCCO | 2000 | 155 MINUTES (THEATRICAL) • 171 MINUTES (DIRECTOR’S CUT) | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Ridley Scott.
writers: David Franzoni, John Logan & William Nicholson (story by David Franzoni).
starring: Russell Crowe, Joaquin Phoenix, Connie Nielsen, Oliver Reed, Derek Jacobi, Djimon Hounsou & Richard Harris.