Diabolical Dick(tator)

Blu Review: CALIGULA
18 – 152mins – 1979
Written by: Gore Vidal
Directed by: Tinto Brass and Bob Guccione
Starring: Malcolm McDowell, John Gielgud, Peter O'Toole, Helen Mirren, Teresa Ann Savoy
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Oh.

My.

Good.

God.

This is a genuine warning, CR@B fans: Any readers who thought Spartacus: Blood and Sand's penchant for fruity language and fruitier displays of T&A was too extreme for their chaste sensibilities – click away now. Seriously. This Penthouse co-produced picture is in a league all its own. 20,000 leagues under dignity, to be precise, and this rant– sorry: review does have to address some of these base issues in order to fully justify my shock.

Caligula, the infamously controversial taboo-flaunting “porn epic” has – for many years now – been floating around the foot of my “must see” film list. Not because I'm a giant perve (we-e-e-e-ell), but because I simply had to see a legitimate historical biography starring respected Hollywood thespians (just look at that cast!) which also features real hardcore pornography and explicit sexual violence – it just beggars belief! Rest assured you'll never look at The Queen the same way again...

But before I tackle the smut (oo-er), I will first flag up my concern over the casting: Fragile lead Malcolm McDowell didn't convince me at all as Gaius Caesar Germanicus, better known as the eponymous Caligula. Weedy and unimposing, he lacked any sense of gravitas necessary to lead an empire. Would his people really have bowed to his every demonic demand and sardonic whim? What the A Clockwork Orange actor does bring to the role, however, is a pair of authentically mad eyes, which, considering the Roman Emperor's obvious detachment from reality, does serve the immoral bastard well.

At a bum-numbing three hours, this notorious affair is a real schizophrenic failure: the “serious” drama segments concerning Caligula's murdering of his mad predecessor, Tiberius (O'Toole), and fall from grace once he has ascended to the throne and abused his power to the utmost, are overlong, undramatic and simply not in the least gripping; while the repeated insertion of shocking full frontal fetishistic sex scenes, castration, brutal murder and rape is distasteful and disturbingly off-putting to the extreme.

Supposedly representative of the decadence and debauchery prevalent in the Roman powerhouse, Caligula instead comes off as desperate – it's no wonder so many involved in the troubled three year production have since disowned what is little more than the highest budgeted porn film ever made. They can claim all they want that the explicit footage belatedly shot and inserted by Penthouse's Bob Guccione ruined their vision, but even without the all-too-obvious additions, Caligula is still an absolute mess! Almost ever other scene takes place in some new, vast and extravagant set – and yet all the camera is interested in is entwined naked bodies in all their up-close vulgarity. Trust me: you see e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

In one such jaw-dropping scene, Caligula is partaking in a menage a trois with his wife (Mirren) and beloved – in the carnal sense – sister (Savoy) while two random slave girls watch the incestuous depravity from a private room, becoming so turned on that they end up having lesbian relations themselves. The camera continues to dart between these two graphic displays for what feels like ten minutes too long, before jumping to the following morning as if nothing out of the ordinary has taken place. Just another day at the amphitheatre, then?!!

The eponymous mad-man is just so thoroughly detestable that you never once feel for this sister-fucking, mass-murdering, trust-abusing, backstabbing despot who sees no issue with torturing an innocent man until death, then encouraging his bevy of under-dressed minions to “seductively” urinate over the poor man's corpse!! Yet, when a blackbird flies into his bedroom, he squeals like a sissy!! Exactly how we are meant to embrace the “tragic” story of how his own inner circle eventually turned against him is beyond me. Just to preserve my sanity I had to view this obsene monstrosity in three instalments and I could easily have given up after each sitting. The things I do for you guys...!!


In a CR@B Shell: Eschewing art in favour of grot, this is a sick, pitiful and sorry exercise in torture – namely, ours! I really don't know how they got away with making this shameful and indecent mockery to the medium of film, but if you want to watch porn, then just watch porn and leave Caligula to rot like it deserves. Scandalous.
aaaaa

The Reincarnation of the Reincarnation of the Dean

Film Review: DEAN SPANLEY
PG – 96mins – 2008
Adapted for the screen by Alan Sharp
Directed by Toa Fraser
Starring: Jeremy Northam, Sam Neill, Peter O'Toole, Bryan Brown, Judy Parfitt, Art Malik
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Having read Lord Dunsany's 1936 transmigatory novella prior to watching this recent celluloid translation, I was left wondering not only HOW it would be possible to film Dean Spanley, but also WHY anybody would want to, given the somewhat unconventional concept and the wholly limited narrative progression. It is with great relief that I inform you that Alan Sharp's screenplay – whilst being a faithful tribute to the book – expands greatly upon both the story and the characters to such an extent that it is a whole different beast – and all the better for it.

Most noticeably, the nameless scientific writer whose research comprises the novella, becomes Henslowe Fisk (Jeremy Northam), an art publisher who weekly visits his crotchety, emotionally-stunted father, Horatio (played with cantankerous delight by Peter O'Toole), who has been unable to show affection since his youngest son was killed in the Boer War. It is at a time-frittering lecture on the “Transmigration of Souls” given by Swarmi Nala Prash (a cameo by Art Malik) that the Fisk's first encounter the eponymous Tokay-obsessed Dean Spanley (Sam Neill), whose curious canine memories hold the key to unlock Fisk Snr.'s jaded heart.

Unlike his literary counterpart, Henslowe Fisk has no ulterior motive in inviting the Dean to dinner, merely a curiosity which, over time, becomes bemused intrigue. Thus, his luring of the Dean by procuring bottles of Imperial Tokay from 'conveyancer' Wrather (a smirk-inducing turn by Bryan Brown) is less deceitfully immoral and more amicably genuine – he isn't after fame, only interesting company. And then the Dean mentions something which makes him prick up his ears...

Peter O'Toole is undoubtedly the star of the show, in a role entirely created for the film. Whether blunt and unsympathetic (“Poppycock!”), engrossed and mournful or blabbering on about his beloved childhood spaniel, O'Toole breathes authenticity and life into Fisk Snr. with a truly multi-faceted performance. Sam Neill, too, is wonderful, being given the unenviable job of bringing credence and sensitivity to Walter Arthur Graham Spanley's wild stories. Are they real, or has the dog-collar gone to his head?

The film was by no means a runaway success upon release (even Lord Dansany's novella was out of print for 30 years before the film resurrected interest), yet somehow this adds to Dean Spanley's charm; it is a hidden gem barking to be heard. Quirky, funny, original and delightful without being unrelatably ludicrous; when the emotionally-invested narrative comes full circle, only the toughest of hearts won't melt. Much like the smell of wet fur, Dean Spanley's lessons on love, life and happiness will stay with you for days.

CR@B Verdict: Alan Sharp has taken the biscuit base of Lord Dansany's novella and added fine cuts of meaty emotion to the story to create a pedigree film which is anything but a dogs dinner.
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