Disaster Year: 20XX: December 2024

A ghost story designed around extreme emotional denial and stifling tradition that expresses itself with pulsing backgrounds and unnatural colour. Nominally, Mononoke The Movie: The Phantom in the Rain revolves around an impending celebration in a highly ordered harem that is being disrupted by supernatural events. The reason for this ceremony, the birth of a child, is of zero concern to director Kenji Nakamura's film. There is no wailing to be heard; and no danger directed at this infant. There are whispers that perhaps the baby will be an unsuitable heir, thanks to their gender, but that is simply muttered to massage the ascension of a different concubine to the lord's bedchamber. Glimpses of either the sitting power that conducts hundreds of women in total fealty or that of the uncanny underside that swallows up their dearest possessions are so brief as to be absent. Instead we are focused here on the human churn that caters to the uninterpretable. Adapted from a Toei Animation television series about a travelling spiritualist who is little more than an observer here, Phantom in the Rain is reminiscent of the work of Mahiro Maede, specifically his Gankutsuou: The Count of Monte Cristo TV series, in that every inch of every surface is alive with textured information. Patterns clash and combine, travelling over an environment that refuses to offer the viewer any space that could be considered safe or even normal. Everything here is blaring and aggressive, a setting of kaleidoscopic intranquility that crushes pleasant young women, transforming them into faceless automatons.

The latest in a long line of attempts to extract something artistically permissible from a Penthouse sponsored production that could, nevertheless, claim Gore Vidal as its screenwriter, Caligula: The Ultimate Cut is a reforging of director Tinto Brass' film that aims to re-make the piece into something more befitting of a cast of luminaries that can count the likes of Helen Mirren, Peter O'Toole, and Malcolm McDowell amongst their number. This newest assembly now sits alongside unrated theatrical versions, censored theatrical presentations, a variety of bowdlerised home video edits and even a 'clean' Director's Cut that was prepared for transmission (by Channel 4) on British terrestrial television. Compiled from nearly a hundred hours of dailies by editor Aaron Shaps, under the supervision of art historian Thomas Negovan, this Ultimate Cut proudly boasts almost zero commonality between itself and any previously sold release of Caligula. Although Negovan has spoken about his discovery that the takes selected by financier Bob Guccione were often not the most impressive, in terms of acting performance extracted, this particular edit does jettison some of the more memorable aspects of the original releases.

As expected, the more volcanic sexual acts have been completely snipped away but also the odd aside that gave insight into the unusual thought processes of McDowell's bullied princeling. Gone is the moment where Caligula inquires of John Gielgud's Nerva, who sits in a tub of steaming water with his wrists open, what it is like to die. As well the end credits no longer march up the screen, laid over images of a murdered family, blood-stained marble and McDowell's lifeless, accusatory gaze. It's unclear if these moments have been deemed tonally counterintuitive or just extraneous by a project whose stated remit is to stick a little closer to Vidal's original screenplay. Perhaps they had no equivalent in the alternative footage that was made available? Presumably, this film has been changed so thoroughly for a very specific reason, be that a pressing copyright related issue or a personal challenge set by the new compilers. Regardless, this Caligula - which premiered at the 2023 Cannes Film Festival - is now packaged to denote discovery. As well as an expanded and reorganised scene order, we have a prologue and opening titles centred around rotoscoped animation of McDowell's pained march, created for this revision by artist Dave McKean; pristine digital attributions at either end of the film; a suite of unconvincing library sound effects; and a new musical score that forgoes the previously spliced-in music from Sergei Prokofiev's ballet, Romeo and Juliet.

As ever though, Caligula is a tapestry of human cruelty. Cinematographer Silvano Ippoliti takes a theatrical perspective, often using audience-addressing master shots of production designer Danilo Donati's dizzyingly vertical sets; all of which teem with naked, vulnerable extras who behave as if they are being held at gunpoint. The removal of the hardcore pornography that Guccione previously insisted be threaded into the film not only goes some way to de-scandalising Caligula it also eliminates any sense of digression or levity in this emperor's unfolding madness. The sex we are shown in The Ultimate Cut is now either firmly based around imposed, hierarchical relationships or employed as an instrument of terror. With the likes of Lori Wagner and Anneka di Lorenzo clipped away, it is very clear now that absolutely no-one is enjoying themselves. Beyond these tonal corrections, Negovan's principle additions are a more detailed look at the relationship between McDowell's Caligula and Mirren's Caesonia. Previously a leashed accessory, Mirren's character is now, in the latter half of the film, clearly attempting to provide the same maternal comforts to her husband as Teresa Ann Savoy's ill-fated Drusilla did. The rote savagery of Caligula's rule is underlined in deed and conversation as well, harkening back to the words of Peter O'Toole's syphilitic Tiberius that his adopted grandson should be a punishment visited upon Rome. Most importantly, for anyone considering McDowell's career, there is now clearer connective tissue between this performance and A Clockwork Orange's Alex DeLarge. Both characters are plucky lunatics raging inside treacherous socio-political machinery who find themselves completely incapable of experiencing happiness and so turn to self-destruction.