I am not Spartacus.

Rating: 7/10 (16 November 2011)

Some very impressive shots of Kirk Douglas's army of ex slaves and ex gladiators and their followers sweeping across the Italian countryside like a wave of army ants. This is Stanley Kubrick's first Big Movie. It largely succeeds as entertainment -- complete with Entr'acte -- because its colorful, splashy, and Kubruck is still in touch with his human roots. He was soon to be absorbed by technology as a food particle is absorbed by an amoeba.
In brief, Douglas is Spartacus who, in the years before Christ, was a slave trained as a gladiator. He led a revolt and marched his army to Bridisium (now Brindisi) where ships were supposed to be waiting to spirit him and his thousand followers out of the country to freedom. The pirates who were to man the ships were bought out by Spartacus's enemies in Rome, leaving Spartacus trapped between two or three Roman armies led by the nasty and determined patrician Lawrence Olivier. Spartacus's men put up a good fight but they lose and all are crucified. That's why I don't watch the last ten minutes or so. Before his own torture and death, Spartacus is forced to kill the harmless Tony Curtis, his best friend. And when Spartacus is strung up there, his girl friend, Jean Simmons, looks up at him and begs him to die. That, I don't need.
In fact, with the exception of two scenes -- the exhilarating rebellion at the gladiator school and the pastoral love scene at the pond between Douglas and Simmons -- it's pretty tragic all around. It's as if John Brown had succeeded in freeing the slaves in the South, then went around looting plantations, having a good time, and causing all sorts of discomfort until, finally, Washington sent the army down, led by Robert E. Lee, and crushed him. I don't know how closely the story matches historical reality but, if I remember, the march to Brindisi wasn't all wine and roses. Spartacus had a falling out with his friend and colleague Crixus and the group split up, didn't they?
There's a hilarious conversation between Olivier and his body servant, Curtis, while Olivier is in the bath. It was cut from the first release print but has been restored. "Do you like oysters?", queries Olivier. "When I can get them, Master," replies Curtis, who is tenderly washing Olivier's back. "Do you like snails?" "No, Master." "You see, it's a matter of taste. I myself enjoy both oysters and snails." (Something like that.) It's all code for homosexuality, which was not exactly unknown, let alone condemned as immoral, in Ancient Rome. As a matter of fact, without any particular interest in the subject, I noticed among the principals in the cast one who was thoroughly committed to snails, one who apparently enjoyed both snails and oysters, and one who preferred oysters although he'd tried snails at least once. I can't speak for the supporting players or the thousand extras.
Douglas does okay by the heroic but unlucky Spartacus. Jean Simmons is a nice lady but, once out of adolescence in Dickens and Shakespeare, she seemed mundane. Woody Strode, of all people, has a marvelous scene. (Strode's character, a gladiator, has hardly any lines.) He's sitting in the bull pen with Douglas. The two men, who are fellow slaves, are about to be forced to fight to the death for the enjoyment of a couple of really slimy aristos. We can hear the clang of swords from the arena outside and the gasps of the crowd. Strode and Douglas don't say a word. Douglas is biting his tongue and staring at Strode, and Strode slowly looks sideways at him with the sweetest, gentlest, most enigmatic smile you can imagine. It only last a minute but it's the best minute that Woody Strode ever committed to celluloid.
The winner of tonight's prize of a whole Smithfield ham must be divided between Lord Lawrence Olivier, as the rabid Patrician who wants to be dictator, and Peter Ustinov as the comical and servile brown noser -- "Oh, yes, whatever you wish, Your Pulchritude." The two fight like gladiators to upstage one another.
According to Kirk Douglas, who was Executive Producer, there was some argument over who should get writing credit on the movie. Dalton Trumbo had, after all, been blacklisted during the McCarthy era. Did they dare give Trumbo screen credit. Maybe not, but then who would get it? Should they invent a fake name? Kubrick, in all seriousness, piped up with, "Use my name. I'll take the credit." Douglas was disgusted.
The score by Alex North is loud and martial, except for a saccharine love them associated with Spartacus and Varinia, but it's uninspired. I'd have preferred the borscht that was always served up by Dmitri Tiomkin -- those cow bells and flatulent trombones -- but North's score is an improvement over the ominous chords of Miklos Rozsa.
It's a decent movie with some fine scenes in it but, Lordy, it's depressing.