Caligula

Caligula is almost universally reviled, a film castigated for an endemic vulgarity that sees British stage thesps sharing screen space with clips of hardcore pornography. At best this film is thought of as a high concept oddity, a semi-serious sandal epic partially overwritten by the stroking urges of a smut peddler. This is a film about ugliness, why should it be anything but? Malcolm McDowell's Caligula is an incomplete person; his fraught upbringing, under the heel of Peter O'Toole's Tiberius, has done nothing but sharpen his instinct for survival. As Tiberius's last days drift along, we get a sense that Caligula is his favourite plaything: an almost equal trapped in the role of an indefatigable child. Caligula is able to neatly sidestep the constant threats upon his life, whilst maintaining a fixed smile. Tiberius appears to be grooming his heir as an instrument of extermination for the concept of Rome.

Once in power Caligula declares himself to be a God, then sets about equalising his cowed ego. He does this by heaping a relentless misery on anyone that happens to be within his reach. Lensed at the tail-end of the 1970s, you could read Caligula as a punk overlord, a venomous little shit given to humiliating the ruling class for their phony servility. This new emperor does eventually, when pressed for cash, draft laws that make whores of politician's wives. He does this so he can then declare war on nearby ponds, as a way to humiliate his armed forces. Equally, Caligula could be contextualised as a tyrant brat, a sulking infant who treats the world and everyone in it as his (easily replaceable) toys. Lives are meaningless to this monster. His inconvenience is a capitol crime, punishable by torture and death.

Fear pervades Tinto Brass' film, Caligula is absolutely fascinated by it. Having matured in a state of constant peril, the ruler seems to be daring his subordinates, at all times, to take up arms and kill him. It's as if he finds dominion boring, half-wishing to return to his former station so he can test how sharp his excuses have remained after years of bloated indulgence. Although not necessarily a good film, there's a certain honesty in weaving real orgies into a film obsessed with the idea of Roman decadence. Frequently the digressions take on a metatextual quality, simultaneously forwarding the idea that proximity to such Godhood is an all-consuming aphrodisiac, and filling in the blanks for the serious actors who are disinclined to fuck on film. Likewise, there's a sense of spectacle in seeing hundreds of nervous, dancing extras suffering against vast psychologically spare backdrops. Caligula the film is equal parts plucky and revolting, just like its subject.