Gladiator 2 is, to put it simply, the movie that Trump's victory deserves. And it's not so much a critique, which perhaps it is, as a description of a lost Hollywood unable to offer anything other than the same multiplied by a thousand. That the new installment of the gladiator who dreamed of an anachronistically democratic Rome (that's what happened in the first part) ends up being the vindication of messianic leadership against the bad deeds of corrupt and cowardly politicians is already a symptom. Another could be the muscular visceralness (let's call it that) with which a director as viscerally muscular as Scott exacerbates the testosterone always associated with the peplum (or Roman movie with muscleheads). And a third symptom of what is starting to look like a disease may perhaps be found in the overwhelming succession of anaphoric moments (whatever that may mean) that dot the film and do nothing but replicate the more or less memorable moments of its predecessor. It's not just a sequel, it is, above all, the celebration of being a continuation. The reelected president calls it revenge, but that's another matter.
The curious thing is that if you take the parts of Gladiator 2 separately, there is no possible reply or critique. The performance of Denzel Washington (the best, undoubtedly) as an intriguing character capable of playing on both sides of power, as a revolutionary among the dispossessed, and as a tyrant in the making, brings back to the genre the depth of well-constructed characters, with development, surprising and sparkling dialogues. The deranged fights in the arena with impossible rhinoceroses, monkeys that never existed, and sharks hungrier than Carpanta remind us that no one angers historians so much (whether Napoleon or Ancient Rome) as the indomitable octogenarian. For a moment, the feeling is that of being inside a retro-futuristic film more akin to George Miller than anywhere else and always a less pleasant place. And let's not forget the parodic exhibition, between Monty Python and the most basic homophobia, by Joseph Quinn and Fred Hechinger as the unlikely pair of emperor brothers who sometimes resemble Peter Ustinov as Nero or Malcolm McDowell as Caligula, and most of the time, the Calatrava brothers.
And then, lastly, there are Paul Mescal and Pedro Pascal. Or, to cut to the chase, Pedro and Pablo. Both live up to their status as rising stars almost touching the sky. Both are good, within their armor, profound when needed, and amusing when allowed. But, and this is what stands out the most, Pedro and Pablo are in a different movie. Their agent must have mentioned that Scott was aiming to make a kind of Shakespearean Julius Caesar with expensive special effects and fights that make Topuria's look like child's play. And they believed it so much that they started memorizing their lines, all spoken either in whispers or shouts, at the gym (or aqua gym, it doesn't matter). The unbalanced alternation of lyrical shots floating with slaps a la Zack Snyder is so disconcerting that, indeed, it leaves the viewer wondering more than once if they might have walked into the wrong theater. And let's not forget Connie Nielsen. The film itself takes care of that by punishing her with the most clumsy and wooden lines. Notice that she is the only woman, and notice the treatment she receives. This is not a movie for women.
In other words, taken one by one, there are a thousand movies in Gladiator 2 and probably all of them are good. It could have been a reflection on power and the role of good politics, as, at least in part, the 2000 film was, but it prefers to twist the plot until it ends up proposing the opposite of what it intends. It could have been a superb spectacle, and yes, it is, but let's admit it, the abuse of digital effects (a consequence of arrogance) largely weighs down the result. It could have been a film with all characters drawn like the gladiator trainer played by Washington, and there we find Denzel's most memorable performance, lonelier than a Roman's broken leg. And, of course, it disappoints. Especially after the thunderous advertising campaign that precedes it, which is also a symptom, another one, of something.
Furthermore, one of the issues that structures the film is the surprise of discovering that the protagonist is Maximus' son. In other words, that Paul Mescal is a descendant of Russell Crowe. We allow ourselves to mention it because inexplicably the trailer and even the advertising already do. Let's say that even that twist, which truly structures the entire plot and justifies the inclusion of moments from the original production, is mishandled in a film that aspires to be so much that it ends up being too little. Perhaps it is simply a sign of the times and of Hollywood, and there's no need to dwell on it.
Director: Ridley Scott. Cast: Paul Mescal, Pedro Pascal, Connie Nielsen, Denzel Washington, Joseph Quinn. Duration: 148 minutes. Nationality: United States.