Caligula - The Ultimate Cut

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. 

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.

Bob Guccione