A Clockwork Orange catapulted Malcolm McDowell to iconic status as an actor, and it seems that either he, or his later directors, decided that his approach to the role of Alex was gold dust, and should be replicated whenever possible. That cheeky, petulant arrogance behind a blue-eyed schoolboy face was his trademark, and admittedly, it works well for Caligula — an equally petulant and arrogant young man who doesn’t need asking twice when it comes to inflicting ultraviolence. But in Stanley Kubrick’s almost surrealist cinematic world, McDowell’s flagrantly piss-taking style of acting fits comfortably in a not-quite-real atmosphere; when carried over into other stories and styles, it can come off as hilariously overdone, as his performance in Caligula demonstrates. McDowell charges, completely uninhibited, at the role of a spoiled young Caesar to the point of giving a drag performance. The way he flounces around, cooing and screaming, brings him to the point of a pantomime dame; it is this style of theatrics in combination with the movie’s considerable violence and crudity that makes Caligula such a perplexing viewing experience. At least McDowell is in good company when it comes to over-the-top performances.
‘Caligula’ Is Considered One of the Worst Movies Ever
To this day, Caligula maintains a sordid legacy akin to those of the dingiest back-alley sex shows the clubs of Hamburg have to offer. Legend says that it fails to do everything it sets out to: as Roger Ebert once put it after walking out of a screening, “it is not good art, it is not good cinema, and it is not good porn.” It makes lists of the worst movies ever made, and the most controversial, which positions it perfectly to be sought out by those with a morbid curiosity for the freaks of the cinematic landscape. Indeed, this writer’s own family members recall seeing it in theaters upon its release, and watching with amusement as half the audience walked out in disgust. It is very in keeping with the ‘70s art movie scene, in that it doesn’t have to be good or thought-provoking, it just needs to be outrageous. And Caligula certainly is that. After all, how could a movie about one of history’s most infamous villains possibly be a tame affair?
If there is any real reason to watch Caligula, it is for the sheer spectacle of it all. There is something so incredibly unreal about it that it must be seen. What are all these well-known, respectable actors doing here surrounded by Penthouse Pets, being horribly directed and unflatteringly framed? What are these absolutely splendid but still ever-so-slightly fake-looking set pieces doing in a crappy movie like this? Was so much time and money spent on these sets that the costume department was caught short, and just decided to have all the extras naked to save a few bucks? Were the likes of Peter O’Toole and John Gielgud privy to what kind of movie they were making, or were they so perplexed or just resigned to a paycheck picture that they were actually taking the piss too? While there is very little going on in the story itself, which staggers on painfully for two and a half hours, there is so much real-life subtext, so much going on behind the scenes and between the lines that one cannot help but find it all perversely fascinating. It is the sort of movie that one might believe they had just dreamed up until evidence to the contrary presented itself.
Penthouse Backs 'Caligula'
The '70s were an interesting time for independent movie financing. Sex magazines had become a hugely profitable industry, and several of the top players sought to extend their brands and make more millions by getting into other forms of media. Playboy, of course, broke into TV, film and nightclubs, famously financing Roman Polanski’s Macbeth in 1971; Penthouse founder Bob Guccione was doing the same. However, as the filmmakers were to find out the hard way, having a name like Guccione or Hefner attached to what purported to be a serious movie did nothing for the project’s credibility. At the very least, Hefner largely left creative control to the directors he supported. Guccione, on the other hand, was determined to put the Penthouse stamp on whatever movie he financed.
If there were ever any doubt about Bob Guccione’s hand in Caligula, the opening credits ensure his is the first name to appear, and the opening sequence firmly establishes that vaseline-smeared-lens look and utter fantasy of the more ambitious ‘70s porn spreads. For most of the movie, Guccione and director Tinto Brass at least seem to try to weave their blue material into the story — and in all fairness, they do a fairly decent job of it in terms of editing — they evidently decided that there was just not enough sex in it for their liking. Eventually Guccione appears to get bored of pacing himself and just throws in a straight-up porn scene halfway through. Who are the two ladies involved in this scene, and what relevance do they have to the plot? None! No dialogue, no screen presence, they just show up to titillate and then vanish again.This would be the birth of one of Caligula’s more infamous rows, one that would bring it immeasurable attention upon release.
'Caligula' Walked So 'Game of Thrones' Could Run
The movie started out as the brainchild of sexual satirist Gore Vidal, to whom the original story is credited, much to his chagrin. He intended to emphasize the debauchery of Ancient Rome and explore the influence of lust and sexuality on politics. The more one thinks about it, the clearer it becomes that Caligula walked so Game of Thrones could run. Even in its finished state, which Vidal was far from amused by, it makes itself known as a trailblazer for the old sexposition that GoT would become infamous for, and for inserting explicit sex scenes into a historic epic where usually they would be only hinted at. It does so boldly, in a way that is perhaps the most prevalent example of the collaboration between adult and mainstream cinema that many had speculated the porno chic era was building towards.
An inescapable drawback of Caligula is that nothing much happens, despite a considerable runtime. In a nutshell, Caligula (McDowell) is an arrogant rebel whose only desire is to legitimately marry his sister Drusilla (Teresa Ann Savoy) and live his incestuous fantasy undisturbed. When he becomes Caesar, he is overcome with power, but still can never achieve his only real goal. So he marries out of obligation and spends his life consumed with debauchery. Then, inevitably, this Caesar’s public turns on him and exacts bloody revenge. It’s a classic tale of Ancient “civilization” and all the meddling, politics and ambition that goes along with it. Really, it’s a tale that could be adequately told in 90 minutes. At two hours and 36 minutes, Caligula is an exhaustingly long ordeal that doesn’t provide the material to warrant it. None of the space between the actual plot points does much to expand on the world or the characters. In this day and age, and in better hands, this movie would be a big-budget series, and in the great tradition of Game of Thrones, would make sure that there are some real stakes written into a compelling character-driven drama.
It is reasonable that some may have thought Tinto Brass a good fit with Gore Vidal’s vision: an experienced filmmaker who straddled the bounds of mainstream Italian cinema and adult film, he could craft a shot with that traditional overexposed dreaminess and comfortably incorporate the sexual elements. However, Vidal was considered an intellectual, with much ideology behind his stories. He intended for Caligula to be “the first realistic study of the Roman Empire ever on film… My Caligula is a story of power. It’s a character study of a normal boy, rather dull, who has had the world to play with and who breaks his toys. It’s the theme of the boredom of absolute power, of riches, and how Caligula remained trapped in it.” However, there was much tension on set from day one, and among the walkouts, Vidal soon either threw in the towel, or Brass and Guccione booted him. Once the duo had fully commandeered production, they set about appropriating it for their own purpose, which was essentially to turn it into the highest-budgeted porn movie ever made. Production dragged on for several years, during which time Brass and Guccione made many changes and additions, including sneaking onto sets at night to film porn scenes which they would later edit in, unbeknownst to the other actors who’d already completed filming.
'Caligula' Just Doesn't Work in the End
In the end, the whole thing winds up feeling really silly. The dialog and delivery is so over the top — particularly from McDowell and O’Toole — as is the sex, which derails the scarce threads of narrative. It feels like the fantasy of a teenage boy exploring what he considers to be the most outrageous ideas his young brain can muster. To give the movie too much credit, it could be suggested that this was an artistic choice to mirror the childish petulance of Caligula himself. After all, the world is shown from his perspective. There is a veneer of artificiality to the whole thing. Sets are imaginatively designed, costumes are lavish, but it all has an unpolished roughness that suggests it to be the sweatshop equivalent of couture. In fact, sweatshop couture very efficiently characterizes the movie as a whole. From a distance, there is plenty of exciting stuff going on, but up close, it all just falls apart at the seams, threadbare and moth-eaten. It masquerades as a big serious historical epic, while delivering the dramatic equivalent of a high school play, as if those making it are beginners in the craft.
For example, Silvano Ippoliti’s cinematography seems to only care for close-ups when they are of genitalia; there are far too many vague wide shots during conversations in which all nuance is lost because the audience can’t register the emotions of the characters. The soundtrack is made up almost entirely of pre-existing classical compositions that cause the movie to play out a bit like a jukebox musical, with the inherent implication that the filmmakers just couldn’t be bothered to figure out how to really use music to the movie’s advantage. Much of the intended satire is lost to a muddled tone, leaving the audience no option but to laugh at the movie rather than with it. A scene in which a feverish Caligula wakes up in bed next to a horse is an absolute knee-slapper for all the wrong reasons.
Casting aside any hopes of it being a good movie, there is still plenty of reason to watch it. Admittedly, over the years it took me five attempts (and the motivation of writing this article) to actually see it through to completion, but when I finally did, I was glad. Sure enough, it is an absolutely horrible movie that could never be looked to for genuine entertainment value, or for historical education. But it is one of those glorious failures somewhere along the lines of Showgirls, with which the audience can only find perplexed amusement and wonder just what the hell the filmmakers were trying to do. Was it meant to be good, bad, serious, stupid? Did they have any idea at all? Particularly considering its vast roster of now-legendary actors and massive budget, it has no right to be as bad as it is. And that’s what makes Caligula so brilliantly unforgettable.