Hollywood and the Gladiators

If no one objects too strongly, we would like to nominate Romulus and Remus as the patron saints of the film industry. The reason? Romulus and Remus were the founders of Rome, and without Rome, where would the film industry be? We submit the following evidence:

Back in the diaper-days of movies (1902), Pathe, a toddling French studio, made a flickery attempt to film Quo Vadis, the Henryk Sienkiewicz novelization of one fraction of the decline and fall of the Roman empire. In 1912, an Italian outfit filmed the same story. In 1925, Emil Jannings rolled his eyes as Nero in a third version, and not long ago, MGM subjected Robert Taylor, Deborah Kerr and a long-suffering public to yet a fourth filming of the weighty tome.

Woven in, out and between these Quo Vadises were miles of celluloid from Hollywood and elsewhere, bearing such titles as Ben Hur, The Sign of the Cross, Fabiola, Androcles and the Lion, The Robe, Demetrius and the Gladiators, etc., etc., etc. These noble pageants have invariably been cut from the same seemingly endless bolt of cloth. All are concerned with persecuted Christians, depraved pagans, maidens in distress, orgies of various temperatures and, by way of climax, the burning of Rome or a gory carnival, or both. Indeed, all the Roman extravaganzas could be dumped into the same cauldron, stirred vigorously, and redistributed without anyone being the wiser. Like this: (continued on page 20)Gladiators (continued from page 15)

Fade-in: Longshot:

Rome, 69 B.C. The sumptuous palace of Emperor Slobbius.

Marble.

Gems.

Floating gardens.

Fountains spouting wine supported by gilded Christians.

Fountains supported by gilded Christians spouting wine.

Camera Moves in to Group Shot:

Emperor Slobbius, enjoying a pedicure performed by two lovely slave-girls dressed in Band-Aids. His mother, Lagrippina, is speaking.

Lagrippina: "Slobbius, I forbid you to have anything to do with that Christian girl, Frygia."

Slobbius: "Mother, don't be tiresome."

Lagrippina: "I'm speaking for your own good, my son."

Slobbius: (turning to a spidery synthesis of Iago, Mephistopheles and Mr. Coffee Nerves, who hovers near his left elbow): "Droolio ..."

Droolio: "Sire?"

Slobbius: "Can't you shut the old girl up?"

Lagrippina (the mother ever): "Dear, you mustn't split your infinitives."

Droolio: "Certainly, sire." (Stabs Lagrippina.) "Anything else, sire?"

Slobbius: "Yes. Clean up the debris, dismiss these pretties, and --" (Here, we cut to a close-up as his eyes gleam and his nostrils flap.) "--bring me Frygia!"

Droolio (strikes a gong. A girl is ushered in by two gigantic Nubians clad in spearmint leaves): "She is here, my lord."

Slobbius: "What efficiency! Oh, before you leave, Droolio, light a few Christians, will you? It's getting rather dark."

(As Droolio obeys, the rays of a dozen hidden Klieg lights crash, with great subtlety, upon the scene. Slobbius and Frygia are now alone.)

Frygia: "Well?" (She is the most ravishing Christian of them all: flaxen hair that falls like sea-foam upon her alabaster shoulders; eyes as blue as the Mediterranean and twice as wide; two cherry-red, bee-stung lips, courtesy of Revlon; and a snow-white skin as pure as the heart that chastely beats within her foam-rubber bosom.)

Slobbius: "Frygia, you certainly are built."

(Here, we should point out that Frygia is naked, save for the merest chiffon draped over a diaphanous chemise which conceals but little of her long flannel underwear.)

Frygia: "Why have you summoned me?"

Slobbius (dripping saliva): "Need you ask?"

Frygia: "You mean ..."

Slobbius: "Precisely."

(She spits in his face and turns on her heels to go.)

Slobbius (restraining her with a slug-like hand): "Or do you prefer-- the arena?"

Frygia (her false lashes bristling): "Yes, Slobbius! Rather than be profaned by your slug-like hands, yes, Slobbius, I prefer--the arena!"

Fast Dissolve as the musical score invites our divided attention. This music, written especially for the film, is an original composition pleasantly reminiscent of the Roman Carnival Overture, Entry of the Gladiators, The Fountains of Rome and, oddly, The Polovetzian Dances. It will soon be available on an LP disc.

Dissolve In: A longshot of the great arena. Cast of thousands. Cheering. Much waving of hankies.

Cut to: Slobbius' private box.

Slobbius (swallowing an anchovy-stuffed olive): "Hand me that tray of salted almonds, will you?"

Lagrippina: "Yes, dear."

(Note: The above is a discrepancy in editing. Lagrippina, of course, was killed in thelast sequence. Few movie-goers will notice this faux pas, however, and those who do might be able to rationalize the shot as a flashback. You might try that, too.)

Cut To: The arena again. Procession of tattoed elephants. Parade of highly polished Nubians. Lions, tigers, leopards, panthers, dachshunds. Gladiators versus rhinoceri. Gladiators versus gladiators. Abandoned dancing. Gladiators versus dancers. This goes, on for quite some time, to fill up the ten minutes of highly salaried music.

Slobbius (raising his hand): "Enough preliminaries! Let the main event begin!"

Frygia, bound to a pole, is carried in. The pole is hammered into the ground. Her golden tresses fall in disarray about her face. Tears roll down her pallid cheeks. She blushes--and little wonder, since she is naked, save for a triple layer of inch-thick rope which swaths her from larynx to toenails, leaving the remainder bare to every eye.

Cut to Slobbius' Private Box. The Emperor is flanked by four stalwart members of the Praetorian Guard--Brutus, Cassius, Marcus, and Pincus.

Slobbius (swallowing an olive-stuffed anchovy): "Toothsome morsel, eh, Pincus?"

Pincus: "The anchovy, sire?"

Slobbius: "No, you cretin! The girl, Frygia!"

Pincus (turning his eyes to the arena, in horror): "Frygia!!"

(Pincus is the handsomest Romantype soldier in Hollywood. His face is almost an exact replica of a Roman coin. So faithful is this resemblance that we must take care to photograph him only in profile: from the front, his face is been as thin as a Roman coin.)

Pincus: "But, sire--what are they going to do with her?"

Slobbius (leering damply): "She rejected me. Perhaps she will prefer the ardent embraces of--a gorilla!" (Laughs maniacally.) "Humorous, eh?"

Pincus: "Killing." (Laughs maniacally.)

But as he turns to the camera, we hear the laughter die in his throat. Excellent actor that he is, his quivering nether lip, straining eyebrows, and rapidly moistening orbs convey to us a bit of breath-taking exposition: namely, Pincus loves Frygia. Unable to bear the sight of the impending atrocity, he turns and stumbles blindly away.

A blast of trumpets bids the crowd clam up. Silence (except for the musical score which is now amusing itself with snare-drum rolls and fiddles in tremolo) reigns. All eyes turn.

From a door below the packed bleachers, a gorilla lopes ominously. His furry fingertips brush the ground. He searches for a flea, finds it, flicks it at the nearest gladiator, then drops his peepers on Frygia. One savage whinny of delight escapes him. He paws the ground and blows steam from his nostrils. With one brutish arm in mid-air and the other on his right hip, he skips toward her as the crowd yells in anticipation. Milking the house, the beast stops to salute Slobbius with a sporty gesture, then continues towards his fair and helpless prey.

To the swelling frenzy of the mob, the gorilla unwinds the quarter-mile of hemp from the screaming Frygia. As the last coils fall away, the camera shyly averts its eyes to a longshot of the beastie hoisting Frygia's stand-in on his shoulder and toting her through the door like so much barley.

The crowd applauds. Slobbius fiendishly exults at the thought of Frygia's fate and asks for the antipasto.

Cut To: Interior: The Arena Dressing Rooms.

Entering, the gorilla sets Frygia down.

Gorilla: "Fear not, my love."

And with this, the monster whips off a gorilla-like headpiece to reveal--

Frygia: "Pincus!"

Pincus (grinning): "Yes, Frygia--and in the nick of time!"

He rapidly divests himself of the rest of the costume. Frygia, at the sight of this, goes into Victorian vapors and crumbles to the floor. Disturbed, Pincus bends over her and rubs her wrists. With the gorilla-suit pared away, he is naked, save for--

Wait a minute! Cut! Hold everything! Call Costumes at once! No wonder the poor maid swooned!