TOP TEN - BIBLE FILMS

Pasolini's 
GOSPEL ACCORDING 
TO ST MATTHEW

REVIEWS

'Pasolini's Il Vangelo Secondo Matteo (The Gospel According to St. Matthew) was a strikingly unusual picturing of the story of Jesus, done with a cast of nonprofessionals on locations in southern Italy and directed by a man who was an acknowledged Marxist and atheist.

People waited for it with excitement. What sort of film could it be? What sort of interpretation of Jesus and the disciples would it present? What contrasts with the all-too-familiar type of Hollywood Biblical film would it afford?

This time the story of Jesus is told in the simple and naturalistic terms of a plain, humble man of the people conducting a spiritual salvation campaign in an environment and among a population that are rough, unadorned and real.

The Jesus we see is no transcendent evangelist in shining white robes, performing his ministrations and miracles in awesome spectacles. He is a young man of spare appearance, garbed in dingy, homespun cloaks, moving with quiet resolution across a rugged and dusty countryside, gathering his tough-faced disciples from toilers he meets along the way and preaching his words of exhortation to crowds of simple, sullen peasants and sprawling children.

His words are the straight words of the Gospel, spoken in flinty, barren scenes wherein the camera ranges from the speaker's fervent face to the rude, open faces of listeners to their spare stone houses beyond. The viewer has the mystical sense of being there.

Likewise, the cryptic performances of the miracles—the healing of a hideously grotesque leper, the feeding of the multitudes, the walking on water and others—are pictorially done so that they seem the simple, straight, quick-change recordings of inexplicable phenomena.

It is an extraordinary blending of black-and-white reality and the literalness of St. Matthew's Gospel. And the aspects of all the familiar happenings have a form and naturalness that are profound. The angel's annunciation to Joseph of Mary's impending grace, the visit of the Wise Men to the baby, the flight into Egypt, the carrying out of the slaughter of infants on Herod's orders—such things appear all too real, as do the literal brutality of the Crucifixion and the grief-hushed removal of Jesus' body from the Cross.

It is neither transcendent nor mundane, neither extravagant nor banal. There is a gathering of humanity and plausibility in Pasolini's film. And the natural development in Jesus is that of an ardent man who grows more inflamed and impatient as he proceeds with his ordained ministry, until his spirit and bearing are fiery when he cries woe to the scribes and Pharisees and he looks upon his delinquent disciples in Gethsemane with deep and curling hurt.

The consequence is a crescendo of excitement and involvement with the fervor and passion of Jesus and an accumulating sense of the irony and tragedy of Jesus' suffering, in historical as well as spiritual terms. The remarkable avoidance of clichés on Pasolini's part — the simple staging of the Last Supper, for instance, as a gathering of a tired, disquieted group; the omission of the sound effect of a cock's crow after Peter's third denial—helps to achieve a fresh illusion of the unfolding of an ancient tragedy, or at least the illusion of the performance of a most reverent and sincere Passion Play.

It is impossible to give full credit to all the earnest performers, so many are they. But the Jesus of Enrique Irazoqui, a Spanish student who was visiting in Rome, is an unforgettable portrayal of fervor and sensitivity. Settimo Di Porto's Peter is a fine, solid, foursquare man and Mario Socrate's John the Baptist is a subdued firebrand in a poet's angular frame. Otello Sestili's Judas, Paola Tedesco's schoolgirl Salome and Susanna Pasolini's older Mary, as well as Margherita Caruso's Mary in her youth, are performances by unskilled actors that will engrave themselves on your mind.

The musical score is surprising. It has a distinct eclectic range from Bach's St. Matthew's Passion to "Missa Luba," a Congolese mass sung to African intruments and rhythms. To hear, for instance, Odetta sing the famous American Negro spiritual "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child" behind scenes of Mary and the baby, or the rousing "Alexander Nevesky Cantata" of Prokofiev behind Herod's slaughter of the infants and the scene of Jesus' removal to Golgotha may startle and disturb the placid ear. But these are just further surprises in a most uncommon film.' 
(Bosley Crowther, New York Times)

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Comparing Pasolini's film with The Passion of the Christ:  
There's no question that The Passion of the Christ has affected some people profoundly, but that may be caused partly by the unfamiliar experience of seeing a mainstream film that rejects entertainment for serious inquiry and English for foreign tongues. If the film industry had more brains and more knowledge of cinema history, this audacious black-and-white 1964 masterpiece by the great Italian poet Pier Paolo Pasolini would be out in a major re-release right now as a meaningful alternative. Shot in southern Italy with a nonprofessional cast, and powerfully using both classical music and blues, this highly political interpretation of the passion is as scandalous in its own way as Mel Gibson's but more poetic, more contemporary in its impact, and more serious in its overall morality. 
(Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader)

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'Films about the Christian God are not exactly my cup of tea, being either maudlin or boringly dignified, and almost always badly acted. Who can forget Jeffrey Hunter in King of Kings, who caused the film to be nicknamed I Was a Teenage Jesus? But two at least are memorable: Monty Python's Life of Brian, which, as well as being very funny, had the advantage of being widely objected to; and Pasolini's The Gospel According to St Matthew, made in 1964 by a Marxist who was frequently accused of blasphemy by the Catholic church and whose attitude to religion was ambivalent.

Its portrait of the Messiah - played by Enrique Irazoqui, a young Sjpanish economics student with a scraggy beard - is far harsher than the usual soft saint that passes for Jesus. The actor wears no make-up and nor does the rest of the cast. Judas is played by a truck-driver from Rome (Otello Sestili), and Pasolini's own mother is the Virgin Mary. They are all amateurs, and the close-ups of their faces make the story seem more real than usual. The bleak hillside scenery of Calabria, where the film was made, gives the film a primitive feel that is augmented by grainy cinematography. The soundtrack - Prokofiev, Bach, Mozart and even Billie Holiday - surprises us but can be off-putting, considering the naturalism elsewhere. What Pasolini clearly wanted was a believable gospel, armed with real people, and the glories of the music sometimes work against this, since sublimity is not what Pasolini had in mind. He did say, however, that he was not interested in deconsecrating: "That is a fashion I hate. I want to 'reconsecrate' as much as possible."

It is a stark film (someone has described it as one-dimensional), but with clear-headed interpretative qualities that avoid the usual clichés. This Christ was a political animal, angry at social injustice. The silent cry from the cross is believable and the miracles avoid any kind of underlining comment - they just happen, with not a special effect in sight.'

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JESUS OF MONTREAL
1989

'Denys Arcand's intelligent, audacious ''Jesus of Montreal'' attempts to shake up stale religious assumptions, undermine religiosity with wit, and question the Gospels with a new reverence that springs from our modern, commercial world. Creating a band of actors hired to modernize a Passion play within the film, Arcand needs to balance satire and seriousness with daring and delicacy. And for the first hour, before it gives in to leaden, self-conscious Christ imagery, ''Jesus of Montreal'' succeeds.

The actor who is hired to play the lead and revise the Passion play at a Montreal shrine is a 30-year-old named Daniel (Lothaire Bluteau). From the start, he looks too traditional a Jesus, with a perpetual mournful expression. The film works best when he still seems human, before Arcand merges Daniel with Christ.

Daniel finds four other actors in unlikely places. One actor is dubbing his voice on a pornographic film. An actress is having an affair with the priest who hired Daniel. And another actress named Mireille, who will become the Mary Magdalene figure, is filming a perfume commercial, draped in a couple of skimpy scarves. ''The unutterable lightness of being,'' says a voiceover on this commercial.

Arcand effectively sets up the disjunction between the insane modern world and a faith that needs to be revitalized. It doesn't even matter that the actors have transparently become a little band of disciples, following Daniel around while he seems always to be off in the shadows gazing at them with some terrible foreknowledge of tragedy. ''Jesus of Montreal'' has not yet gone haywire.

But as the film weaves in and out of the characters' lives and their new version of the Passion, Mr. Arcand loses the wily, contemporary grip that makes his material effective. ''Jesus of Montreal'' starts out as a mix of Martin Scorsese's historically set ''Last Temptation of Christ'' and ''The Ruling Class,'' a satire in which Peter O'Toole is an English aristocrat who believes he is Jesus. But midway through, it turns into ''The Greatest Story Ever Told'' set in urban Montreal.

The new Passion play, in which the actors roam around the grounds of the shrine, is not lively enough to draw much of a crowd. It suggests new historical possibilities - that Jesus was the illegitimate son of a Roman soldier - but it is essentially quite traditional. Daniel, his body covered with bloody makeup so it looks as if he has been scourged, hangs naked on a cross on top of a hill overlooking the glittering lights of Montreal.

And as the film goes on, the parallels between Daniel and Jesus become more pronounced. Daniel does not develop a Christ fixation; Arcand simply turns his character into a contemporary embodiment of Jesus in unconvincing ways. When Mireille is asked to take off her clothes at an audition, Daniel smashes the refreshment table and video cameras as if he were Jesus casting the moneylenders out of the temple. Soon two police detectives approach Daniel on the cross, read him his rights, and arrest him for destroying the video equipment. The arrest is followed by a death and resurrection.

''Jesus of Montreal,'' which opens today at the Paris, is beautifully filmed by Guy Dufaux, who captures an eerie look for a candlelit scene of the Passion play and also makes a subway platform look suitably garish. But even a Christ figure needs more of an interior life than Arcand gives Daniel. ''Jesus of Montreal'' is finally not radical enough.' (Caryn James, New York Times)

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Denys Arcand's "Jesus of Montreal" suffers from a lethal case of Block That Allegory. Structured to follow the Stations of the Cross, the film is a satirical bouillabaisse with the Church, the theater and modern advertising as some of its topics. It features its own uncompromising, self-aggrandizing Christ, a Mary Magdalene who walks on water (through the magic of special effects) to sell perfume, even an entertainment lawyer who devilishly tempts the actor Christ with a variety of methods for cashing in on his success, including attaching his name to a cookbook.

"Jesus of Montreal" is a movie from a director with intelligence and refined sensibilities - the Canadian's best-known work is "The Decline of American Civilization."  In fact, it's entirely possible that his sensibilities are too rarefied. The variations on the Christ story are never less than clever, sometimes quite damningly so. But they're labored too and, on occasion, painfully obvious.

The picture, which is set in Arcand's home base in Montreal, begins when Father Le Clerc (Gilles Pelletier), a faltering Catholic priest, asks Daniel (Lothaire Bluteau), a frail but passionate young actor, to update a version of a passion play that the pastor stages every year. The piece is a classic, the priest assures him, but in recent years attendance has dropped off. It needs modernization, he tells the artist, something to give it a renewed relevance.

Given this mandate, Daniel seeks out the latest historical information on the life of Christ and, together with his cast of seasoned actors -- who come, variously, from their jobs as soup kitchen attendants and voice-over specialists for porno films -- pulls his version together. However, once the production is premiered, Father Le Clerc is horrified by the radical license Daniel has taken and agitates to have the show shut down.

In the meantime, the play has become a smash hit, and Daniel is the toast of Montreal. For all its pretenses to spiritual examination, the movie is at its best as a spoof of theatrical vanity, especially the narcissism of actors. One of Daniel's recruits agrees to participate, but only if somehow he's able to shoehorn in Hamlet's "To be, or not to be" soliloquy.

The early scenes, in which Daniel makes his casting rounds, parallel the biblical scenes in which Christ meets His disciples, and they're the movie's best. As he collects his collaborators, Daniel begins to feel his way into the Christ character, and we can see the messianic gleam in his eye as he examines the historically accurate drawings of crucifixions. Bluteau is one of Canada's most respected actors, and with his narrow shoulders and fragile, elongated face, he seems perfectly suited to his role. But there's a kind of mopeyness to this Christ; he looks as if what he needs most of all is a nice, long nap. Bluteau lacks fire, and in his scenes with other actors, your eye wanders away from him. He seems anything but the charismatic spiritual leader and the object of obsessive devotion and love.

The rest of the cast is accomplished, but aside from Catherine Wilkening's Mireille (the Mary Magdalene character), none of the characters is allowed to blossom. Guy Dufaux's shots of Montreal give the film an away-from-the-world feel. But Arcand's ideas suffer as much from isolation as the culture he pokes fun at; they seem oddly out of date, as if the film had sprung straight from the heart of the '80s. Once the play is staged -- Arcand makes the mistake of showing us the whole thing -- the picture comes to a dead stop and never quite gets going again. Still, Daniel's martyrdom and eventual resurrection are inspired -- so much so that it makes you wish the rest of the film had been on that level.' 
(Hal Hinson, Washington Post)

PASSION OF THE CHRIST

'Unless you've been living in a cave for the past six months, you already know that The Passion of the Christ focuses on the last twelve hours of Jesus Christ's life, namely the crucifixion. An extensive plot synopsis is unnecessary. The film contains the capture and trial of Christ, then the excruciatingly painful and graphic crucifixion that he endured, and briefly his resurrection. That's the film in a nutshell.

But as we all have seen in the weeks leading up to the film's release, what seems like a topical plot synopsis has a much deeper meaning worldwide. For some he is our Savior, for some he is a historical figure, and some are simply unsure of his meaning, or even his existence. Regardless of which group you fit in, this is simply one of the most powerful movies I have ever seen.

James Caviezel stars in the role of Jesus Christ, and his performance is simply incredible. He literally breathes the role of Christ in this movie, and also has a striking resemblance to how Christ looked, sans the darker skin. He reportedly experienced a good deal of pain himself during the filming of The Passion in the form of being struck by lightning, being accidentally whipped, and experiencing frostbite and pneumonia. I fear that in the wake of controversy this performance will be overlooked. He carries the film in his own right.

The two Marys (Bellucci and Morgenstern) are portrayed as spectators to Jesus' death, and are more often than not crying. After the gut-wrenching scourging scene, Mary (Jesus' mothers) slowly walks over and begins to clean up Jesus' blood with a towel. I found this to be one of the most touching scenes in a very touching movie.

Gibson has also included his vision of Satan, played by Rosalinda Celentano as an androgynous being that lingers in the background of several of the film's most crucial scenes. I found this interesting, and it added some horror elements to the movie.

Massive credit must also be given to The Passion makeup team and cinematographer Caleb Deschanel. There was not one moment when I wasn't convinced of the wounds inflicted upon Jesus. It has been reported that Caviezel went through six to eight hours of makeup daily, especially during the filming of the crucifixion. Astounding. Deschanel's photography does an incredible job of setting the scene, both in the dark garden of Gethsemane and exterior shots of Jesus' eventual crucifixion. Both of these aspects of the film play a crucial part in it effectiveness.

Subtitles accompany much of the dialogue, and I believe that their existence could possibly have been unnecessary. It is very easy to tell by the actions of the characters what is going, but the subtitles should have been complete rather than partial. I would have even supported them being removed based on the quality of the acting.

No review would be complete without acknowledging the controversy surrounding the film. Anti-Semitism charges have been first and foremost by many religious leaders across the country. Personally, I did not find it anti-Semitic. But, just like anything else, people who go into it thinking it is anti-Semitic will no doubt find sections of the film to defend their claim.

Instead, I think the Romans are shown in a much darker light. They are portrayed as drunken, vicious, and sickening. They take pride in their beating of a man who doesn't even fight back, and how many bloody wounds they can inflict with their barbaric weaponry. The Jews are portrayed as forcing Pontius Pilate to approve the crucifixion of Jesus, but ultimately the Romans emerge as the most despicably portrayed group in the movie. Let us not forget that Jesus himself was Jewish, and it's a Jewish man that helps him carry his cross. By no means did all Jews hate Jesus, and I feel that Gibson makes that very clear.

The violence depicted in the movie has also stirred up its own batch of controversy. It is indeed brutal, but not near as brutal as the "elite" media wants you to believe. My biggest fear entering the film was that Gibson would get carried away with blood and gore and knock us all into submission. Fortunately, he didn't. I'll reiterate again that the film is gruesome, but not unrealistically so. We see Jesus get pummeled by fists, the cat of nine tails (which is basically a handle with strings of chains that have shards of glass and spikes on its ends), bamboo sticks, whips, and ultimately nails during his crucifixion. From about the thirty minute mark on, it is relentless and graphically violent. Charges by many that the film should have received a NC-17 rating for violence is taking it a bit far. Similar films such as Saving Private Ryan and We Were Soldiers depict violence just as horrific and graphic, and didn't receive nearly the press about it. It should also be noted that this is NOT a film for kids. There were two pre-teens kids at the show I attended with their parents, and they were both mortified. Kids simply do not need to see this kind of brutality.

The final piece of the controversy puzzle regards Gibson and the effect this film will have on his career. He has even gone as far as to call this movie a "career killer." The bottom line is this: Hollywood loves money. They love it more than you, me, and most other things in this world. I am writing this review on day two of The Passion's theatrical release, and it has already reportedly grossed $24 million. He invested $25 million of his own money (actually more like $40 million after advertising), and it is going to pay off big-time. If Gibson is done, it is in regards to being in front of the camera. He will for sure be doing more work behind the camera, should he choose.

The Passion of the Christ emerges from all of the hype and controversy as one of the best films in recent years. It will no doubt be analyzed and talked about for the foreseeable future. It will also undoubtedly leave a lasting impression on most who see it with its brutality, setting, and interpretation of "The Greatest Story Ever Told." This is highly recommended viewing for those who are old enough and those who have strong stomachs. You will be seeing one of the best films of this decade.' 
(Bill Clark, From The Balcony)

The Passion of the Christ may be the most artistically and commercially ambitious feature film about Jesus to come out of Hollywood since the 1960's. It is certainly the most devout, though at first it seems odd that Mel Gibson should be the one to produce, write, and direct a film about the Prince of Peace.

From the buddy-cop Lethal Weapon franchise to revisionist epics like The Patriot, Gibson has specialized in playing violent action heroes who take bloody revenge for the deaths of their wives, children, and girlfriends. In Braveheart, the 1995 film for which he won the Best Director Oscar, Gibson kept the fatal wounds inflicted on William Wallace and his wife just out of frame, to spare his audience the full brutality suffered by these heroes, but he reveled in the gory details with which Wallace executed his personal enemies.

In some ways, The Passion seems like a repudiation of much of his career to date: last year, Gibson told Fox News's Bill O'Reilly he wanted to promote faith, hope, love, and especially forgiveness through this film. But The Passion also dwells, at considerable length, on the physical pain inflicted on Jesus. Has Gibson found a way to baptize, as it were, the sadistic impulses of his other films? Is it possible he is indulging himself under the cover of religious piety?

At times it does seem so. Much has been made of The Passion's adherence to Scripture, but in the rough cut shown to pastors and ministry leaders a month before the film's release, it was clear that Gibson often goes beyond the text. Jesus, played with inspiring sincerity by James Caviezel, is not even out of Gethsemane yet when the Temple guards knock him about and hang him over a bridge by his chains, swelling shut his right eye. During scenes like this, you cannot help wondering whether Gibson, as the one who conceived and directed all this simulated torture, is more complicit in the horrors on display than he would like to admit.

Yet Gibson does exercise restraint at crucial moments. The flogging of Jesus may go on and on—and Jesus himself seems to encourage it when he pulls himself up and stands defiantly erect after the first round of beatings—but as several characters begin to find the violence so unbearable that they have to look away, so does Gibson: His camera follows Jesus' mother Mary (Maia Morgenstern) as she retreats to another room, where she tries to cope with the cries of pain that she can still hear.

The film's violence has been defended as a sign of its historical realism and biblical accuracy, but one of the more striking and impressive things about The Passion is just how much artistic license it takes with its source material. Gibson erroneously identifies Mary Magdalene (Monica Bellucci) with the woman caught in adultery, and his depiction of the Crucifixion owes more to medieval art than modern scholarship. Taking their cue from historians and archaeologists, nearly every film and miniseries produced since the 1970s—including Campus Crusade's Jesus film and The Visual Bible's recent Gospel of John—has depicted Jesus carrying only a crossbeam, being nailed through his wrists, being crucified naked, or some combination thereof. Gibson rejects all of these details, though he does, oddly, have the thieves carry crossbeams, while Jesus carries his full cross.

Gibson does embrace at least one welcome form of realism by emphasizing the Jewishness of Jesus and his followers. Caviezel has been made up to look more Semitic, and the first time we see Mary, as she senses that something terrible is about to happen to her son, she recites a line that comes straight from the Passover seder: "Why is this night different from every other night?"

In addition, when Simon of Cyrene (Jarreth Merz)—who becomes a significant supporting character deeply moved by his contact with Jesus—is forced to carry the cross, one of the soldiers practically spits the word Jew at him, thus stirring our sympathies for this oppressed people.

Details like these may not satisfy some of the film's critics, who have said, with some justification, that it tends to divide the Jewish people into those who follow Christ and those who have him killed, with only the briefest of nods to those who might be neutral. And while the Roman soldiers may be unrelenting brutes, Gibson does cast a positive light on the Roman authorities, who chastise both the Jews and their own soldiers for their bloodlust. Pontius Pilate (Hristo Shopov), whose brutality and religious insensitivity are mentioned not only by secular historians but also in Luke's gospel, is virtually let off the hook. He comes off as an innocent pawn who tries to do the right thing until the mob forces his hand.

The real villain in Gibson's film, however, is no mere human. Satan (Rosalinda Celentano) is depicted here as a bald, pale, androgynous figure who lurks in the crowds and taunts Jesus at every turn—and it is in his bold, haunting, and audacious depiction of Satan that Gibson's vision turns truly surreal.

In Gethsemane, Satan prods Jesus to doubt his Father and sends a snake slithering his way, which Jesus quickly crushes underfoot. Later, Satan mocks Jesus' mother in a bizarre parody of Marian iconography that could have come from David Lynch. Satan is also absolutely ruthless with Judas (Luca Lionello), who is driven to suicide by seemingly demonic beasts and children. And—who knows?—Satan may even be behind the crow that pecks out the eyes of the crucified thief who mocks Jesus.

But Gibson's creativity is not limited to graphic depictions of evil; he also makes brilliant use of flashbacks to draw us into the mind of Christ. Most movies about Jesus have protected his divinity by treating him objectively, as someone to be observed and talked about, but not as someone with whom we can identify. More recent productions like Martin Scorsese's Last Temptation of Christ and the CBS miniseries Jesus have tried to humanize Jesus by treating him more subjectively—we see his dreams, we hear his thoughts in voiceover, and we get inside his head the same way we do with many other movie characters.

Where those films failed, partly because they demystified Jesus so thoroughly that he seemed to lose his divine authority, Gibson succeeds, by shooting much of the film from Jesus' own point of view and by using flashbacks to create the impression that we are being drawn into the flow of Jesus' own memories. When Jesus sees a man with carpentry tools, he thinks of his days as a carpenter; when he sees the street filled with people shouting at him, he thinks of his Triumphal Entry a few days before; when he sees Golgotha, he thinks of the sermon he gave on another mountain in which he told his followers to love their enemies.

By giving us the feeling of experiencing Jesus' thoughts, and by making us privy to the prayers Jesus offers up as he submits to the will of his Father, The Passion draws us toward Christ's full humanity like no film before.

For all that is praiseworthy in this film, it is still somewhat unsatisfying. Indeed, the flashback structure itself is part of the problem. In Scripture and in much of Christian tradition, the death of Christ is placed within the context of his life and Resurrection, but Gibson's film reverses that by placing small bits of Jesus' life within the overwhelming context of his death. As full of faith as The Passion is, it never gets beyond its raw and prolonged depiction of human and demonic cruelty; after vividly depicting the suffering and grief and despair of Jesus' followers for two hours, the film forgets all about them, while reducing the Resurrection to a couple of special effects tacked on to the end.

Watching The Passion is like experiencing a woman's labor pains—but never witnessing the joy that makes the pain worth it all.
(Peter Chattaway, Christianity Today)

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THE BIBLE
John Huston

'THE big motion picture called The Bible that Dino de Laurentiis has produced and John Huston has directed is actually a mobile illustration of only the first half of the Book of Genesis. So anyone who goes to it expecting to see what its title implies—the whole of the holy Bible—is due for a rude surprise.

It begins with the uproar of Creation, which goes on for perhaps a half hour, and the emergence of Adam and Eve as the first humans, fully grown, cleanly washed and luminously blond. It continues with Eve eating the apple from the Tree of Knowledge at the behest of a snake and being cast by the Lord from the Garden of Eden, along with Adam, for disobeying His command.

There's a sequence about Cain and Abel and a long (and by far more entertaining) account of Noah and the ark. Then, after an intermission, there's a curiously baffling bit about the building of the Tower of Babel, and a lengthy, mephitic episode involving Lot in the city of Sodom and fleeing with his daughters and his wife.

The picture ends with the inspirational story of Abraham and Sarah and the terminal cliff-hanging episode of the morbid and aborted sacrifice of Isaac, their son.

The next surprise and disappointment is this: for all its size, for all its extravagant production and its almost three-hour length, "The Bible" is lacking a sense of conviction of God in so much magnitude or a galvanizing feeling of connection in the stories from Genesis.

To be sure, the film is mechanically inventive. The scenes of the formation of the earth—the ecology of Creation—are awesomely evolved out of vast shots of gathering vapors, overwhelming clouds, mightily rushing waters, mountains of molten rock and eventual oceans, plains, giant forests and great fields of sparkling flowers.

The building of the ark is represented in the actual raising of a giant ship-like barn, the interior of which has the appearance of a primitive aircraft carrier's hangar-deck, into which a remarkably busy assortment of animals is packed and stacked. The great, dark city of Sodom is a triumph of the scene-designer's craft and a Walpurgis Night fermentation of Katherine Dunham choreography. The Tower of Babel is a skyscraping construction, the battles among the Canaanites are massive spectacles of desert warfare, and the enactment of the near-mountain is fearful and majestic scenically.

But where is the feel of faith and wonder in so much spectacle, where is the mounting of illusion that this is the consequence of a divine creative will? Certainly it comes not from seeing a naked young man emerge in a slow dissolve from a small mound of lemon-colored dust, while Toshiro Mayuzumi's music groans grotesquely and Huston's off-screen voice intones. "So God created man in His own image, in the image of God created He him."

Nor does it come from idyllic glimpses of the naked young man and girl (Michael Parks and Ulla Bergryd) ambling mutely through verdant glades, or from wild shots of Cain (Richard Harris) suddenly slaying his astonished brother in a field, again with Huston narrating what is happening in the words of the St. James's Bible.

It comes, if at all—and only faintly—in the way Mr. Huston plays Noah. (Yes, he plays Noah as well as directs the picture and furnishes the off-screen voice of God). He plays the primordial shipbuilder as a rustic, cloth-robed patriarch—a little bit of a crackpot, a little bit of a clown and a great deal of a man of simple, unswerving faith.

You can almost believe that this old fellow is tuned in on the voice of God, just as you can believe that susceptible children listen to Peter Pan. And when Noah shepherds his family together to build the freakish ark, marshals the circus parade of animals into the hangar-deck (digressing to hurry up the turtles or to gawk in wonder at the giraffes) or busies himself with the burdens of keeping the animals fed, you do feel a certain spiritual presence and sense the meaning of trust in the Lord.

Likewise, there is a feel of fervor in the stern-faced intensity with which George C. Scott brings the patriarchal person of Abraham to the screen. But his is a chill, forbidding figure, egocentric and aloof, without warmth even in his concubinal encounter with the handmaiden, Hagar (Zoe Sallis), or in his biological discussions with Sarah, his wife. Scott and Ava Gardner play the couple as though they were posing for monuments.

Something warm and mysterious comes, however, from the brief dialogic scene in which Abraham is visited by the Three Angels, all played symbolically by Peter O'Toole. From this confrontation comes the strongest feeling in the film of human minds searching for answers in the mystical presence of God.

But there's too little of this in the picture, and that's the fault of the script by Mr. Fry. It relies upon literal enactments and the sheer sonority of holy writ. And when it tries for a bit of commentary, such as having Lot's wife turn to salt on looking back on the destruction of Sodom and seeing a rising atomic mushroom cloud, the significance of the symbolism is puzzling, if not imponderable. (I wonder if Mr. Fry is truly saying what my cynical mind guesses he is?)

Anyhow, the misfortune of "The Bible" is that it does not live up to hopes. It does not employ the cinema medium to create a true 20th-century iconography. It simply repeats in moving pictures what has been done with still pictures over the centuries. That is hardly enough to adorn this medium and engross sophisticated audiences.' (Bosley Crowther, New York Times)

THE GREATEST STORY 
EVER TOLD

'By staging the story of Jesus against the vast topography of the American Southwest and mingling the mystical countenance of Max von Sydow, the Swedish actor, with a sea of familiar faces of Hollywood stars, the producer-director George Stevens has made what surely is the world's most conglomerate Biblical picture in "The Greatest Story Ever Told."

There are things of supreme and solemn beauty in this almost four-hour-long color film. There are scenes in which the grandeur of nature is brilliantly used to suggest the surge of the human spirit in waves of exaltation and awe.

There are glimpses of Mr. von Sydow, playing the role of Christ, that light the huge screen with revelation of the raptures and torments of a soul. And there are sections that develop sharp perceptions of the conflict between the evangelism of Jesus and the political powers of the day in Palestine.

But there are also annoying excursions into large-screen theatricality that contort some of the events in the career of Jesus into encounters that look extravagant and gross. There are too many scenes in which the preaching of Jesus to the disciples and to the multitudes is so drawn-out and repetitious that it becomes monotonous.

Distinctions about the authorizations of the different political powers are not clearly made. One unfamiliar with history might not gather that the Sanhedrin—or the assembly of high priests—is the ecclesiastical court of the Jews. And most distracting are the frequent pop-ups of familiar faces in so-called cameo roles, jarring the illusion of the moment.

Most shattering and distasteful of these intrusions are the appearances of Carroll Baker and John Wayne in the deeply solemn and generally fitting enactment of the scene of Jesus carrying the cross to Calvary. Suddenly, at a most affecting moment, the plump-cheeked Miss Baker appears as a woman of the streets (Veronica) to wipe the sweat from Jesus' face. And right at a point of piercing anguish, up pops the brawny Mr. Wayne in the costume of a Roman centurion. Inevitably, viewers whisper, "That's John Wayne!"

This sort of conscious intermingling of theatrical personalities with sincere dramatic intentions and occasional stunning effects is the ultimate evidence of distortion in Stevens's clearly calculated way of handling his familiar material hyperbolically.

There is very little simple realism in this massively scenic Passion Play. Virtually everything is given huge proportions on the screen. From the tiny hand of the infant Christ-child that fills the screen in an opening scene to a vast panorama of Death Valley in California that is meant to represent both the outlook and feelings of Jesus emerging from a period of temptation in Galilee, the concept and style of illustration are on an exalted level and scale.

Thus the scene of the Wise Men being guided by the star to Bethlehem is a brilliantly blue-white illustration that resembles a handsome Christmas card. The period of Jesus' temptation — his trial in the wilderness—is symbolized by a long and painful sequence of his climbing a rocky mountainside that becomes more precipitous and difficult as he ascends.

On the way up, he stops in the cave of a hermit—a devious rascal, played by Donald Pleasence—who makes him an ambiguous offer of being master of the world. The mouth of the cave is virtually filled by the image of an outsized full moon, which bears on its face the seeming profiles of continents on the earth.

These are pronounced examples of Mr. Stevens's theatricality. His use of exaggeration is more appropriate in other scenes. For instance, a scene of the disciples gathered with Jesus beside the Jordan at dusk, there to recite the Lord's Prayer, is staged at Glen Canyon in Utah—an awesome place, fringed by massive boulders, quite foreign to ancient Palestine. But this kind of arbitrary staging imparts a strong cathedral quality to what is a basically esthetic and reverential scene.

In these scenes—and, indeed, all through the picture— von Sydow moves with solemn dignity, developing an image and impression of an inspired, devout, benevolent man. But so firm and restrained is his performance that one senses Stevens may be working toward a presentation of the historical Jesus rather than the divine Jesus, until the episode of raising Lazarus from the dead.

So chary is Stevens of showing the working of miracles that he has only two in the picture—until the Lazarus episode. These are the curing of the lame man (called Uriah, played by Sal Mineo) and the giving of sight to the blind man (called Old Aram, played by Ed Wynn.) Both may be regarded as not uncommon medical phenomena.

Even in the episode of Lazarus, it appears until the end that the miracle may be a hallucination of the on-looking crowd. But then the miracle is confirmed by the emergence of Lazarus from the tomb and the thundering from the stereophonic sound-track of Handel's "Hallelujah" chorus—which, incidentally, is repeated with the Resurrection of Jesus at the end.

However, the earthly aspect of Jesus is best dramatized in the mounting anxiety that his preaching and his captivation of the excitement of the crowds causes the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, and King Herod and the high priests.

Although Mr. Stevens's juxtaposition of the ministrations of Jesus against the anxiety of the political leaders is slow, and involved mainly with the rebelliousness caused by John the Baptist, this is the crux of the drama in the film. 

Fortunately, the political figures are played exceptionally well. Telly Savalas makes a hard-boiled Pontius Pilate, the most realistic character in the film. José Ferrer is excellent as Herod, materialistic and sinuous. Charlton Heston's John the Baptist is a bit too much of a muscular, Tarzan type. David McCallum's Judas Iscariot oozes a chilling treachery, but it is not made clear precisely why he does his fateful deed.

Sidney Poitier's Simon of Cyrene, the African Jew who helps carry the cross, is the only Negro conspicuous in the picture and seems a last-minute symbolization of racial brotherhood.

Alfred Newman's music is conventional and generally tasteful, except when it bears down hard on the "Hallelujah" chorus and other triumphant bursts.

At the end, one may feel that almost four hours is too long a time to devote to a far-from complete dramatization of the last three years of Jesus' life. But Stevens has done it in a generous and often stunning style. And the quality of his reverence should captivate the piously devout.' 
(Bosley Crowther, New York Times)

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THE TEN COMMANDMENTS

'This spectacular biblical epic from legendary showman Cecil B. DeMille tells the story of Moses from his infancy to the triumphant moment when he led the Israelites out of captivity in Egypt. The film begins as the pharaoh's daughter (Yvonne De Carlo) discovers the abandoned infant Moses and takes him to the shelter of her family. Charlton Heston stars as the young man raised by the pharaoh as an Egyptian prince. Moses is righteous and kind, the favored successor to the kingdom, which results in the deep-seated jealousy of Prince Rameses (Yul Brynner). Rameses and Moses compete for the throne and the love of the young princess, Nefretiri (Anne Baxter), until Moses learns the truth about his origins and joins the Jewish slaves in their fight for freedom. After receiving the Ten Commandments from God, Moses helps free the Jews from the pharaoh's tyrannical rule, surmounting all obstacles in his way - including the parting of the Red Sea, in one of the movie's most famous scenes. DeMille's extravagant final film--and remake of his silent 1923 version--is a legendary combination of the master showman's love of historical realism, spectacle, lavish scenic design, and dizzying crowd sequences. The exodus alone is a stunning feat of modern cinema, featuring thousands of actors trekking through the arid desert as Pharaoh's chariots chase after them.'

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'According to Jesse L Lasky Jr, he and his fellow-writers 'felt so inoculated with significance that we hardly dared write at all, certainly not with such profane tools as pencils and typewriters'. The Ten Commandments won't be remembered as literature - the script is a sort of prose doggerel Biblespeak of unerring shallowness; or for its acting, with only Edward G Robinson and Hardwicke emerging as more than pawns in DeMille's vast game. Rather it's the gigantic vulgarity, the obsessive righteousness of the director himself, which keeps the show on the road and suffuses the movie with its daft power. There are two wondrous scenes. The exodus itself, gigantic aerial shots of the DeMillions underpinned by meticulous detail, is a genuine mover. The other goodie, surprisingly, is a dialogue scene in which Hardwicke, confronted by an enchained Heston, hands the succession (and Anne Baxter as a smouldering bonus) to Brynner. Most of the rest is arid nonsense a mile high. But you have to admire DeMille's seriousness of purpose. He took three weeks on the orgy scene alone.'

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With a running time of nearly four hours, Cecil B. De Mille's last feature and most extravagant blockbuster is full of the absurdities and vulgarities one expects, but it isn't boring for a minute. Although it's inferior in some respects to De Mille's 1923 picture of the same title (which used the story of Moses as an extended prologue to a contemporary tale) and some of the special effects look less plausible now than they did in 1956, the color is ravishing, and De Mille's form of showmanship, which includes a personal introduction and his own narration, never falters. Simultaneously ludicrous and splendid, this is an epic driven by the sort of personal conviction one almost never finds in more recent Hollywood monoliths.
(Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader)

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DeMille took a lot of flack from studio executives for wanting to remake his silent 1923 epic immediately after his crowd-pleasing The Greatest Show on Earth. Thinking the Biblical epic a tired genre, the studio wanted the legendary director to work with more marketable material. What a loss that would've been, as this supreme epic remarkably stands up over time despite its overly stylized choreography, touches of melodrama, and unintentionally funny dialogue flourishes. Part of why many continue to love it and religiously watch its traditional Easter showing on network television is due to the melodramatic delineation between good and evil that comes directly from the silent era. Elmer Bernstein's indulgent score completes the old style drama by overtly announcing the good and evil characters as they appear. You can almost sense the audience alternately cheering and hissing.

The overdone dialogue also is a real treat. Everybody repeats "Moses, Moses" whenever addressing him, including Pharaoh Sethi (Sir Cedric Hardwicke) on his deathbed despite previously ordering that the name "Moses" be erased from the memory of man for all time. Funniest are Nefretiri's (Anne Baxter) numerous flirtations ("Oh Moses, Moses, you stubborn, splendid, adorable fool!") that betray her obsessive lust and propel the plot forward. Nefretiri powerfully uses her sexual favors to get the jealous Ramses to do whatever she wants, whether manipulating him to give Moses a break or belittling him for allowing the Hebrew slaves to go.

Behind it all DeMille carves a story about man's first struggles for freedom. Not only does the 75-year old director dramatically step in front of golden curtains to preach the lesson, but he also emphasizes it during the narration (also performed by DeMille), and leaves absolutely no doubt with Moses' final dramatic send-off to Joshua as the people prepare to cross the Jordan River. Taken from Leviticus but more often associated with the Liberty Bell, Heston raises his arms and bellows: "Go, proclaim liberty throughout all the lands unto all the inhabitants thereof." Most directors would receive snickers for such a cheesy marriage of American and Biblical icons, but DeMille gets away with it with his grandeur and sincerity!

Metaphors a-plenty proliferate throughout the dialogue. Ramses consistently compares Dathan's slimy character to rodents—"You have a rats ears and a ferret's nose." But he piles most of them on Nefretiri, calling her a peacock before demonstrating proper Egyptian chauvinism: "You will be mine, like my dog, or my horse, or my falcon, except that I shall love you more—and trust you less." The flowery metaphors aren't only reserved for the Queen. Nefretiri describes Memnet as a "puckered old persimmon" while Dathan and Baka describe Lilia (Debra Paget) as a "mud flower" or "lotus" as they vie to woo her from Joshua (John Derek in his most notable acting role).

The Ten Commandments is BIG. With the largest sets ever designed, filmed both on location in Egypt and Sinai and on the Paramount back lot, DeMille literally directs a cast of thousands with the generous help of the Egyptian army as extras, organizing the grandest production of the first half century of filmmaking. A Bible scholar, DeMille took great pains during pre-production to recreate the period as accurately as possible—only taking cinematic liberties for dramatic purposes. A few examples:

1. Purposely leaving out colorful interior palace murals so that they don't dominate the cast.

2. Not allowing Moses tostutter as described in Exodus. It wouldn't be fitting to have the hero stand by silently as his brother Aaron delivers the message.

3. Only hinting at Moses' marriage to an African, as a direct reference would be too challenging to fifties audiences.

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THE ROBE

'Marcellus is a tribune in the time of Christ. He is in charge of the group that is assigned to crucify Jesus. Drunk, he wins Jesus' homespun robe after the crucifixion. He is tormented by nightmares and delusions after the event. Hoping to find a way to live with what he has done, and still not believing in Jesus, he returns to Palestine to try and learn what he can of the man he killed.

The panoply and splendor of Emperor Tiberius' Rome, the turbulence of Jerusalem and the dustiness of the Holy Land have never been shown with more magnificence or sweep on a movie screen than they are on the great arching panel installed for the showing of "The Robe." But personal drama is missed in the size and the length of the show, and a full sense of spiritual experience is lost in the physicalness of the display.'

Physical Action Stressed

This is not hard to fathom. The adaptation that Gina Kaus has made from Mr. Douglas' best-selling novel and the screen play that Philip Dunne has penned have emphasized physical action more than the drama of feelings and words. The power of Christ's presence and spirit upon a Roman tribune's slave and then, in time, upon the tribune is not developed in clear dramatic terms; it is simply presented as an assumption upon which the subsequent action turns. The consequence is that the inspiration of the spirt, which is the key to the story that is told, is a matter of sheer deduction from the surge of music and the expressions in eyes.

And when these eyes appear in faces that often loom upon the screen in close-ups of mammoth proportions, and when the music surges and swells from magnified multiple speakers that make up the system's stereophonic sound, the violent assault upon the senses dissipates spiritual intimacy.

Likewise, the slowness of the pacing through many of the major sequences and the intricacies of the plotting, which run the picture for more than two hours, tend to affect the burdened senses with a feeling of frank monotony.

However, the vastness of the images upon the sixty-eight by twenty-four-foot screen, the eye-filling vigor of the action and the beauty of some of the shots compensate with fascinations and excitements that keep the customer upright in his chair. And the performances by the actors are—all things considered—remarkably good.

Richard Burton, the young English actor who distinguished himself previously in Twentieth Century Fox "My Cousin Rachel," is stalwart, spirited and stern as the arrogant Roman tribune who has command of the crucifixion of Christ and who eventually becomes a passionate convert through an obsession about the Savior's robe. Jean Simmons is lovely and impassioned as the Roman maid who loves this headstrong man, Victor Mature is muscular and moody as the early converted Greek slave.

Michael Rennie is solemn and transcendent as Simon Called Peter, whom they call "the big fisherman"; Dean Jagger is full of piety as a humble convert and Jay Robinson is warped and shrill as Caligula. Several other actors comport themselves in minor roles according to the moods of the occasions that Director Henry Koster has decreed.

It is notable that Christ is seen only as a wide-robed figure on a distant hill and a tormented, indistinguishable victim burdened beneath the heavy Cross. In this respect the picture has dignity and restraint.

As for the esthetic nature and cinematic potential of CinemaScope, it is evident that the system has the advantage of great pictorial range. The expanse of the screen across the theatre gives opportunity for panoramic scenes of overwhelming beauty. And in medium shots, such as one here in which four horses charge toward the camera, there may be developed great power. The shape of the screen—wide and narrow—makes for occasional oppressiveness. A sense of the image being pressed down and drawn out inevitably occurs. Close-ups, too, become oppressive. However, the system seems fully flexible, and some exciting employments of it may be anticipated confidently. 
(Bosley Crowther, New York Times)

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The homespun robe worn by Jesus is the symbol of Richard Burton's conversion when the Roman tribune realizes he carried out the crucifixion of a holy man at Pontius Pilate's orders. Victor Mature is the Greek slave for whom Burton outbid the corrupt Caligula (Jay Robinson), the Roman prince regent.

Lloyd C. Douglas' original bestseller is a fictionized novel of Scriptural times, and thus Jean Simmons is cast as the love interest who, as the ward of the Emperor Tiberius, spurns her destiny as the betrothed of the Prince Regent for the love of Marcellus Gallio (Richard Burton).

The performances are consistently good. Simmons, Burton and Mature are particularly effective, and the sword duel between Jeff Morrow's heavy and Burton is a highlight.

The slave market, the freeing of the Greek slave from the torture rack, the Christians in the catacombs, the dusty plains of Galilee, the Roman court splendor and that finale 'chase' (with the four charging white steeds head-on into the camera creating a most effective 3-D illusion) are standouts.
(Variety)

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Fighting for fashion, in widescreen no less. A heavy Biblical dirge, bulging with blandfilmitis bigbudgetitis, The Robe was the first film in CinemaScope, Hollywood's answer to the threat of TV. Audiences (primarily Catholic schoolchildren dragged kicking and screaming by their teachers) dutifully poured into theaters to watch orgy-weary Roman officer turned luminous Christian Richard Burton (very stiff in a part he considered prissy and silly) and his equally shiny and suffering co-star Jean Simmons (who deserved better) fight for a bolt of cloth that J.C. wore before his death.
 Their opponent is evil emperor Caligula (Jay Robinson, in a flamboyant camp classic performance that must be seen to be believed). Luckily, Dick and Jean, who have an unfortunate date with death, have Demetrius (the Mature Vic, giving the film's best performance) on their side. He rescues the rumpled but revered wrap just in time to tote it with him to the sequel, Demetrius and the Gladiators, where he must face a more dangerous lioness than any Caligula ever kept penned up: Susie Hayward. Stick with The Ten Commandments.
(TV Guide)

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BEN HUR

Anno Domini: the seventh year of Augustus Caesar's reign. In the Roman province of Judea, Jews return to the city of their birth for the census. A bright star in the night over Bethlehem marks the birth of Jesus Christ. Years later, Roman commander Messala (Stephen Boyd), who was brought up in Judea, takes command of the Roman garrison in Jerusalem. His Jewish boyhood friend Judah Ben-Hur (Charlton Heston) greets him. Messala is delighted. But when Judah refuses to name Jewish patriots, Messala sentences him to the slave galleys and imprisons his mother, Miriam (Martha Scott), and sister, Tirzah (Cathy O'Donnell). Judah vows revenge. The story of Judah's search for his mother and sister, and his quest for revenge, intersects with crucial biblical events such as the Sermon on the Mount and the crucifixion. Director William Wyler gets fine performances from Heston, Boyd, Jack Hawkins (as a Roman admiral who befriends Judah), and Hugh Griffith (as an Arab sheik who dreams of racing his beautiful white horses against Messala). Among the vivid dramatic sequences are a violent sea battle and the famous chariot race that pits Judah against Messala in one of cinema's great action sequences.

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'Within the expansive format of the so-called "blockbuster" spectacle film, which generally provokes a sublimation of sensibility to action and pageantry, William Wyler has managed to engineer a remarkably intelligent and engrossing human drama in their new production of Ben-Hur.

Without for one moment neglecting the tempting opportunities for thundering scenes of massive movement and mob excitement that are abundantly contained in the famous novel of Lew Wallace, upon which this picture is based, Wyler has smartly and effectively laid stress on the powerful and meaningful personal conflicts in this old heroic tale. As a consequence, their mammoth color movie is by far the most stirring and respectable of the Bible-fiction pictures yet made.

This is not too surprising, when one considers that the drama in Ben-Hur has a peculiar relevance to political and social trends in the modern day. Its story of a prince of Judea who sets himself and the interests of his people against the subjugation and tyranny of the Roman master race, with all sorts of terrible consequences to himself and his family, is a story that has been repeated in grim and shameful contexts in our age. And where the parallels might be vague in the novel, which was first published back in 1880, they could be made clearer in the film.

Significantly, they have been, both in Karl Tunberg's excellent screen play and in Wyler's largely personal and close-to direction. For the interest is now focused on the character of Judah, son of Hur, and his emotional and spiritual development under the heavy shadows of tyranny, injustice and hate. And his final emergence from these oppressions imposed and aggravated by a slave state is achieved through his observation of the example and teachings of Jesus.

This pertinent theme of the story is appropriately and grippingly conveyed in some of the most forceful personal conflicts ever played in costume on the screen. Where the excitement of the picture may appear to be in the great scenes, such as those of the ancient sea battle in which Ben-Hur is involved as a galley slave or those of his final contention with Messala, the Roman tribune, in a mammoth chariot race, the area of fullest engrossment is the scenes of people meeting face to face—Ben-Hur verbally clashing with Messala, a Roman soldier suddenly looking upon Jesus.

Here is where the artistic quality and taste of Wyler have prevailed to make this a rich and glowing drama that far transcends the bounds of spectacle. His big scenes are brilliant and dramatic—that is unquestionable. There has seldom been anything in movies to compare with this picture's chariot race. It is a stunning complex of mighty setting, thrilling action by horses and men, panoramic observation and overwhelming dramatic use of sound.

But the scenes that truly reach you and convey the profound ideas are those that establish the sincerity and credibility of characters. Ben-Hur's encounters with his mother and his sister, who later become lepers during the time of their oppression, or his passing meetings with Jesus (who is never viewed in full face) are dignified and true. Likewise, the enactment of the Crucifixion is impressively personal, strong and real. It is not done in an aura of gauzy reverence but has the nature of a dark political deed.

For the performance of his characters,Wyler has a cast that impressively delivers the qualities essential to their roles. Charlton Heston is excellent as Ben-Hur—strong, aggressive, proud and warm—and Stephen Boyd plays his nemesis, Messala, with those same qualities, inverted ideologically.

Jack Hawkins as the Roman admiral who fatefully makes Ben-Hur his foster son, Haya Harareet as the Jewish maiden who tenderly falls in love with him, Hugh Griffith as the sheik who puts him into the chariot race and Sam Jaffe as his loyal agent—these also stand out in a very large cast.

Much more could be said in praise of the technical quality of this film, which vastly surpasses the silent version of the same story released back in 1926. Space does not permit it. Otherwise this review would run too long, which is the one thing this picture does distressingly. Three hours and thirty-two minutes of it, not counting intermission, is simply too much of a good thing. The stimulated soul may be willing but the tormented flesh is weak.' (Bosley Crowther, New York Times)

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'The grandest of Hollywood’s classic biblical epics, William Wyler’s Ben-Hur doesn’t transcend its genre, with its emphasis on spectacle and melodrama, but it does these things about as well as they could possibly be done.

Hollywood’s third adaptation of General Lew Wallace’s novel following two silent versions, Ben-Hur holds up better than such productions as The Ten Commandments in part because the biblical subject itself is reverently left in the background and another more appropriate tale is the subject of its melodrama. Though Christ’s life is traced from his birth, to his hidden life, to his public ministry, to his passion and death, we never see his face or hear his voice.

Instead, Ben-Hur is a classic revenge epic leavened with a pious message of forgiveness. Charlton Heston stars as Judah Ben-Hur, a Jewish prince whose boyhood friendship with a Roman officer named Messala (Stephen Boyd) turns to enmity over politics and betrayal. (In his autobiography Heston reports that although screenwriter Gore Vidal was let go after trying to imbue a homoerotic subtext into Judah and Messala’s relationship, Boyd’s performance in early scenes seems to reflect Vidal’s influence. At least if that element is there, it’s embodied by the pagan Roman villain, not the righteous Jewish hero.)

The sheer scale of the picture, in the days before digitally created crowds and computerized process shots, is astounding. The central set piece, the classic chariot race, remains a brilliant action sequence, with Heston and Boyd doing their own riding and nearly all their own stunts.

But the melodrama is flawed. It’s hard to make sense of Judah’s spiritual journey: Why, after retaining his faith throughout three years of galley slavery — during which he declares unswerving confidence that God will deliver him — does he lose his faith after that deliverance comes and his situation has become much more favorable? Later, a plot development involving Judah’s mother and sister telegraphs the climax to anyone with even the slightest knowledge of the Gospels.

Although not a spiritually profound film, Ben-Hur does include a strikingly evocative image of Christ’s redemptive death: Jesus’ blood pools at the foot of the cross and, mixed with the rainwater from a sudden deluge, runs down the mountain and over the land, touching the feet of Judah Ben-Hur as he walks unknowingly by.'
(Steven D Greydanus, National Catholic Register)

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LIFE OF BRIAN

FOLLOWING the star, the Three Wise Men make their way across the desert to the manger to adore the newborn babe, tended by his mum, a snaggle-toothed crone named Mandy. Until they produce their gifts, Mandy will have none of the Three Wise Men, whom she takes for fortunetellers. Mandy grabs the gold and the frankincense but is suspicious of the myrrh. "What is myrrh?" she asks with a sniff. "It sounds like some kind of animal to me. Something with horns . . ."

Thus begins Monty Python's Life of Brian, which should restore our confidence in the belief that not all of the earth's unnatural resources have been depleted. Just when you thought that the uproarious English comedy troupe had taken bad taste as far as it could go in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, along comes Monty Python's Life of Brian to demonstrate that it's possible to go even farther in delirious offensiveness. Bad taste of this order is rare but not yet dead.

Monty Python's Life of Brian succeeds in sending up not only movies like The Greatest Story Ever Told and King of Kings, but also a lot of the false piety attached to the source material. It is the foulest-spoken bibical epic ever made, as well as the best-humored — a nonstop orgy of assaults, not on anyone's virtue, but on the funny bone. It makes no difference that some of the routines fall flat because there are always others coming along immediately after that succeed. The film is like a Hovercraft fueled by comic energy. When it comes to a dry patch, it flies blithely over with no reduction in speed.

Life of Brian is the not-so-reverent account of the life, times and apotheosis of one Brian of Nazareth (Graham Chapman), a none-too-bright, would-be Judean freedom fighter who deeply annoys Pontius Pilate and whom people keep trying to turn into a messiah. According to the Monty Python gospel, the principal business in the Holy Land is the organization of inept liberation movements, while the people are made dozy by dozens of aspiring messiahs, including one fellow who warns of the coming of the awful day when "things will go astray . . . a father's hammer, various household items . . ."

The movie was directed by Terry Jones (co-director of The Holy Grail) and written by Mr. Chapman, John Cleese, Terry Gilliam, Eric Idle, Mr. Jones and Michael Palin, all of whom turn up in the film in dozens of major and minor roles, not all of which can be distinguished by anyone except the mother of the individual actor.

Some people who wander into this film will stalk out in as high a dudgeon as is possible in the dread darkness of a movie theater — as did one fellow sitting behind me at a sneak preview. Others will want to see it a second time to catch the dialogue overwhelmed by laughter during the first viewing.

There is no way to criticize these hijinks adequately, except to inventory some treasured moments. One that I recall most fondly is a sermon on a mountain so distant that the listeners can't quite catch the words. "Blessed are the Greeks?" says one man. "How very curious." "What did he say?" asks another fellow, "'Blessed are the cheesemakers?'" A third man explains: "He's not talking literally. What he means to say is blessed are manufacturers in general . . ." 
(Vincent Canby, New York Times)

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