TV antiquity: Swords, sandals, blood and sand 9781526100078

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TV antiquity

series editors sarah cardwell jonathan bignell steven peacock already published Paul Abbott  beth louise johnson Alan Bennett  kara mckechnie Alan Clarke  dave rolinson Jimmy McGovern  steve blandford Andrew Davies  sarah cardwell Tony Garnett  stephen lacey Trevor Griffiths  john tulloch Troy Kennedy Martin  lez cooke Terry Nation  jonathan bignell and andrew o’day Jimmy Perry and David Croft  simon morgan-russell Lynda La Plante  julia hallam Jack Rosenthal  sue vice Joss Whedon  matthew pateman

sylvie magerstädt

TV antiquity Swords, sandals, blood and sand

Manchester University Press

Copyright © Sylvie Magerstädt 2019 The right of Sylvie Magerstädt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by Manchester University Press Altrincham Street, Manchester M1 7JA www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN  978 1 7849 9532 4  hardback First published 2019 The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Typeset by Toppan Best-set Premedia Limited

To John Mea lux, meum desiderium

Contents

LIST OF FIGURES GENERAL EDITORS’ PREFACE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Part I  The ancient world as serial television drama

page ix x xii 1

Part II  Pepla and politics: the emergence of a television genre (1960s)

21

Case study 1  The Caesars (1968)

30

Case study 2  Odissea/The Odyssey (1968)

42

Part III  Costumes and censorship: the BBC’s Roman Empire (1970s)

57

Case study 3  I, Claudius (1976)

66

Case study 4  The Eagle of the Ninth (1977)

88

Part IV  Cult and kitsch: Graeco-Roman myths on US television (1980s–90s)

103

Case study 5  The Last Days of Pompeii (1984)

115

Case study 6  Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995–99)

127

Part V  Expanse and spectacle: the postmillennial revival of a genre

143

Case study 7  Rome (2005–8)

152

Case study 8  STARZ Spartacus (2010–13)

172

viii  Contents CONCLUSION: WHAT IS THE FUTURE OF TV ANTIQUITY? BIBLIOGRAPHY FILMOGRAPHY

194 205 216

INDEX

220

Figures

1 Menelaus looking up in his throne room with Agamemnon’s armour in the background in Odissea (1968, RAI) 2 Aeolus in Odissea (1968, RAI) 3 Livia’s hand closing Augustus’s eyes in I, Claudius (1976, BBC) 4 Caligula shortly after murdering Drusilla, I, Claudius (1976, BBC) 5 Marcus with the Mithraic mark on his forehead, The Eagle of the Ninth (1977, BBC) 6 Hera as the ‘Evil Stepmother’ in Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995–99, MCA Television) 7 A dying elephant after the Battle of Thapsus, Rome (2005–8, HBO–BBC) 8 The Thracians survey the Roman camp, Spartacus: Blood and Sand (2010, STARZ) 9 Emperor Commodus posing victorious in the arena at the end of the trailer for Roman Empire: Reign of Blood (2016, Netflix)

page 49 51 75 82 93 135 156 177

203

General editors’ preface

Television is part of our everyday experience and is one of the most significant features of our cultural lives today. Yet its practitioners and its artistic and cultural achievements remain relatively unacknowledged. The books in this series aim to remedy this by addressing the work of major television writers and creators, and important and interesting genres of programme. Each volume provides an authoritative and accessible guide that focuses on either a particular practitioner’s output or a body of related work, and assesses its contribution to television over the years. Books in the series give a carefully-researched, historically-based overview of the material addressed, and make a case for the importance of the work considered, by means of close textual analysis integrated with other materials. Many of the volumes draw on original sources, such as specially conducted interviews and archive material, and all of them list relevant bibliographic sources and provide full details of the programmes discussed. In comparison with some related disciplines, Television Studies scholarship is still relatively young, and the series aims to contribute to this vigorous and evolving field. This series provides resources for critical thinking about television. Whilst maintaining a clear focus on writers, creators and programmes themselves, the books in this series also take account of key critical concepts and theories in Television Studies. Each book is written from a particular critical or theoretical perspective, with reference to pertinent issues, and the approaches included in the series are varied and sometimes dissenting. Each author explicitly outlines the reasons for his or her particular focus, methodology or perspective. Readers are invited to think critically about the subject matter and approach covered in each book. Although the series is addressed primarily to students and scholars of television, the books will also appeal to the many people who are interested in how television programmes have been commissioned,

General editors’ preface  xi made and enjoyed. Since television has been so much a part of personal and public life in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, we hope that the series will engage with, and sometimes challenge, a broad and diverse readership. Sarah Cardwell Jonathan Bignell Steven Peacock

Acknowledgements

A large number of people have provided inspiration, support and feedback for this project and it is impossible to thank them all individually here. But, a few extraordinary individuals stood out. First of all, I am extremely grateful to my colleague and friend Beverly Graf for reading earlier drafts of this book and providing me with such helpful and detailed feedback. My appreciation also to Robert White and his vast knowledge of quirky and obscure television programmes, which in one way or another inspired this book. In addition, I am grateful to Amanda Potter for bringing the shows The Serpent Son and Roar to my attention. Finally, I would like to thank my editors at Manchester University Press for their support and confidence in this project. Moreover, I want to acknowledge my employer, the University of Hertfordshire, who provided me with some additional research time that facilitated the completion of this book. Last but never least, I would like to express my deepest gratitude to my wonderful husband, John, whose love and support is always there when needed. I look forward to our next visit to Greece.

The ancient world as serial television drama

Part I

When Samsung introduced its new curved television screen in 2014, I was struck not by the technology but by its official television advert. Rather than using science fiction or another ultra-modern environment to showcase this innovative new gadget, the advertisement featured a father and son in their pyjamas in the middle of a gladiatorial arena. All the tropes of screen antiquity were represented in the 30-second clip: the crowds, the arena, the evil emperor and of course the gladiators with their swords and sandals that defined the genre. What this advert encapsulated for me was not only that the audience’s interest in antiquity was alive and well, but also that there was an intrinsic connection between fictional antiquity and the (no longer so) small screen. Less than a decade earlier, the television series Rome (2005–8) managed to capture massive audiences in the UK and the US, just as its famous predecessor I, Claudius (1976) had been a cultural icon in the 1970s. Throughout television history, high-profile shows like these have appropriated classical sources to attract sophisticated and mature audiences – often through boundary-pushing portrayals of sex and violence. Yet, other shows, like the successful Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995–99) and its spin-off Xena: Warrior Princess (1995–2001), have achieved a cult following by happily mixing various ancient myths and settings with very contemporary ideas and language in order to create a more family-oriented entertainment. All these programmes are part of a tradition of representing the ancient world on television, which, as this book hopes to show, is just as fascinating as its history on the big screen. Although it is very much indebted to its cinematic predecessors, TV antiquity has from the outset tried to develop its very own style and language. In this way, it also added a new dimension to representations of antiquity in popular culture. Yet, for a long time, antiquity in television has remained in the shadow of its more spectacular cousin. This might have been due to its strong association with the

2  The ancient world as serial television drama large-screen epic form. A number of books have explored representations of antiquity in Hollywood cinema and beyond, e.g. Elley, 1984; Wyke, 1997; Solomon, 2001; Richards, 2008; Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011. Several recent publications have focused on popular contemporary television shows like HBO–BBC’s Rome (2005–8) and STARZ Spartacus (2010–13), such as Cyrino, 2008 and 2015, while others mention select television programmes in works that focus primarily on the large screen (Solomon, 2001; Richards, 2008) or the ancient world in popular culture more broadly (Joshel et al., 2001). However, though much has been written about the ancient world on the large screen and some recent small-screen successes, a systematic and more substantial examination of the portrayal of antiquity on television is so far lacking. In addition, as most of these works have been written by classicists, the focus has naturally been on the reception of the ancient world, rather than on television history and culture. This book aims to address this gap in the literature in two ways. First, by offering a systematic overview of the genre throughout television history, and second by connecting the representations of antiquity to a wider discussion of developments in television aesthetics and style. Here, I will demonstrate why the genre is relevant not only to those interested in representations of the ancient world but also to scholars of television history and aesthetics more broadly. Somewhat paradoxically, the emergence of television has often been credited for the popularity of large-screen epics during the 1950s and 1960s. For example, Jeffrey Richards (2008: 53) writes that ‘[m]ore feature-length films based on the Bible and/or the history of the Roman Empire were made by Hollywood between 1950 and 1965 than in any other period of film history. Why? One obvious reason is the rise of television.’ More specifically, during this period, cinema could offer what television could not – vivid colours and enormous scale. The ancient world epic allowed filmmakers to showcase the technological advances of their time, such as Technicolor, Panavision or CinemaScope, all of which featured prominently on the film posters advertising those spectacles. Yet, if screen size, colour and spectacle are indeed the main features of screen antiquity, then how can television offer an effective and stimulating portrayal of the ancient world? The case studies in this book will provide answers to this question by emphasising the features that are arguably distinct to television, namely seriality, complexity and intimacy. In addition, recent developments in technology have created new opportunities for representing the ancient world on-screen, including some of the elements that were for so long the unique selling point of cinema. This book aims to explore these developments and outline

TV antiquity  3 the trajectory of antiquity through television history. It will investigate how the various technological and commercial developments in the television industry home and abroad have impacted on this specific type of programme. As we will see, these developments are also always linked to broader cultural debates, for example around censorship and the educational aspect of television. As noted, cinematic antiquity has long been one of the key subjects for large-scale epics. From the first silent film productions in the 1910s and 1920s and the golden age of the genre after the Second World War to its recent revival with films like Ridley Scott’s Gladiator (2000), so-called sword-and-sandal epics have experienced a number of ups and downs throughout its history. Some scholars have tried to categorise these various waves of popularity, such as Michael G. Cornelius (2011), who argues that early productions such as Cabiria (1914) were the first-wave, Italian peplum films of the 1950s and 1960s the second, followed by a third wave of films in the early 1980s (Conan, the Barbarian (1982); Lou Ferigno’s Hercules (1983); the original Clash of the Titans (1981)), and the recent – fourth-wave – revival. Not all scholars agree on his inclusion of the more fantastical works of the 1980s into this genealogy. This already indicates one of the key issues for all of us interested in the topic of screen antiquity, namely where to draw the boundaries of the genre. Before I address this issue, however, we need to emphasise, as Alistair Blanshard and Kim Shahabudin (2011: 218) have done, that the Graeco-Roman epic never really disappeared from our screens in between those high points and that epic films set in antiquity ‘continued to play a significant role in shaping the reception of the ancient world in popular culture’. For example, many of the popular sword-and-sandal epics of the 1950s and 1960s had a second life on the small screen in the subsequent decades. The authors further suggest that classical epics ‘proved to have certain advantages here [as their] length makes them highly suitable to fill daytime television viewing slots on Sundays and public holidays [and their] coy attitude to sexuality and largely off-screen violence make them inoffensive for family viewing’ (Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011: 218). As we will see throughout the book, TV antiquity did not always share this same ‘coy attitude’ and many of the serial dramas made for television are distinctly not suitable for ‘family viewing’. One of the key problems when analysing screen antiquity is finding the right terminology to describe such diverse works as I, Claudius, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys and Spartacus: Blood and Sand (2010). With regard to cinema, scholars have similarly struggled to find coherent criteria for representations of antiquity ranging from Hollywood epics like Spartacus (1960) and arthouse productions like Pasolini’s Medea

4  The ancient world as serial television drama (1969) to mass-market Italian musclemen films and comedies like A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (1966) and Carry on Cleo (1964). In addition, there are numerous overlaps with other genres, in particular with fantasy and action adventure, as evident in films such as Clash of the Titans (1981) or Percy Jackson & the Lightning Thief (2010).1 Other genre crossovers are also evident, particularly in television, such as gangster film, melodrama, comedy and soap opera. I will explore these in more detail in the relevant case studies and in the conclusion at the end of the book. The most common terms used in the literature to characterise these works are peplum, sword-and-sandal films and cine-antiquity. The first of these is primarily used to describe a particular subset of films set in antiquity, namely the Italian-made musclemen films of the 1950s and 1960s. As Andrew B. R. Elliott (2011: 59) suggests, ‘a great deal of scholarship has rendered this term in and of itself problematic, [but] the most precise . . . definition . . . restrict[s] the use of peplum to the group of films depicting the ancient world made in Italy by Italian directors in the period 1958–65’. It is named after the peplum or peplos, a short skirt dress worn frequently by the male heroes that feature in the films that are set in ancient Greece. The term has subsequently been used more generically to characterise a wider range of films set in antiquity, but it is also often used dismissively. Therefore, it is unable to capture the full range of representations outlined above. Second, sword-and-sandal films similarly take their cue from the costumes and props that feature in one way or another in pretty much all of the films and television programmes set in antiquity. As Kevin M. Flanagan (2011: 90) notes, unlike other genre specifications, the term does ‘not ascribe an abstract psychological term (horror), or suggest an experience delivered through a specific mode of performance (the musical), but instead provide[s] a group identity through the material accoutrements’. As such, it is wonderfully evocative. But, like the term ‘peplum’, it is often used negatively and rarely applied to more artistic films representing antiquity, for example Fellini Satyricon (1969) or Michael Cacoyannis’s The Trojan Women (1971), even though both films feature swords as well as sandals. What is worse, the term distracts from the ‘emphasis on less generalizably recurrent elements [such as] mythological and historical source material . . . narratives that focus on heroism and moral righteousness; value ascribed to physical strength and sacrifice for one’s people’, which, according to Flanagan (2011: 93), are the more interesting features of these films. Moreover, sword-and-sandal films are also more strongly linked to spectacular epic productions. This link has meant that other forms of representation of antiquity were

TV antiquity  5 often overlooked. For example, as Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 216) highlight, ‘responses to Gladiator’s release showed that, in the popular cultural imagination, the ancient world on film (indeed, for many, the ancient world generally) had become the ancient world in epic film’. In contrast, the authors point out that when Gladiator was seen by many as ‘the re-animation of the “dead genre” of cine-antiquity’ many overlooked the fact that ‘cine-antiquity never did die, although it did stop appearing in the form of the epic film’ (2011: 216, my emphasis). By separating screen antiquity from the epic form and using the label cine-antiquity to discuss a much broader range of works, Blanshard and Shahabudin make it easier to extend the analysis of screen representations towards television. Hence, I will use the label ‘TV antiquity’ to characterise the diverse range of programmes presented in this book. The advantage of this term is that it also captures what Richards (2008: 9) called the ‘Ancient World genre’, which is defined quite broadly by ‘archaeological authenticity, emotional truth, visual power and a desire to educate as well as to entertain’. Overall, TV antiquity seems to be the most inclusive term, able to capture both ends of the spectrum of representations, from Shakespeare’s Roman plays to Kevin Sorbo’s Hercules who tells his opponents: ‘Relax, enjoy the ride’. As such, it continues a line of depictions of Greece and Rome in art and literature that has always blurred the boundaries between history and myth and between education and entertainment.

Screen antiquity between high and low culture When looking at the artistic predecessors to cinema and television, Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 3) emphasise that ‘it was not just high art that was attracted to antiquity [as popular] nineteenth century circus acts and burlesques often invoked the ancient world’. This dichotomy between high- and low-culture representations of antiquity continues on-screen. From the outset, television more generally has been trying to find a balance between education and entertainment. In particular, the public broadcasting framework in European television early on put an emphasis on sophisticated programming that emphasised the educational aspects of the new medium. Adapting classical literature therefore had a special appeal for British and other European television stations, as the early case studies in this book will indicate. However, the success of peplum cinema in the 1950s and 1960s also showed that stories set in antiquity need not always appeal to high culture. Television shows like I, Claudius and The Last Days of Pompeii (1984) have attempted to be

6  The ancient world as serial television drama both sophisticated and entertaining by blending the content of popular historical novels with the conventions of soap operas. Series like Hercules: The Legendary Journeys further pushed TV antiquity towards the ‘low culture’ end with its iconoclastic approach to myth and its often gaudy production values. With regard to contemporary television, Michael Curtin (2003: 124) identifies two creative strategies, one that ‘focusses on mass cultural forms [that demand] low involvement and are relatively apolitical’ and one that creates ‘products targeted at niche audiences [which] pursue intensity [and] seek out audiences that are more likely to be highly invested’. This dual approach is also evident in TV antiquity. The success of HBO and the emergence of online-streaming channels have favoured the second strategy, suggesting a distinct focus on quality. While ‘[ad]-driven networks struggle to be identified as sources of quality programming, by whatever terms their audiences may define as “quality” . . . mere membership in the culture . . . of HBO is a guarantee of quality TV, because HBO has made itself, not just its programming, the very brand of “quality”’, as DeFino (2014: 12) argues. However, international collaborations complicate such clear-cut definitions. As a collaboration between HBO and the BBC Rome, for example, follows the style of other HBO shows whose combination of sex, violence and witty dialogue appeal to a mature, niche audience. But, being broadcast on the BBC in the UK, it does not necessarily fit the label ‘niche’, although it is consistent with the emphasis on quality. Moreover, the public broadcasting status of the BBC and the subscription-based business model of HBO have in common that both are independent of the demands of advertisers. Yet, regardless of the reasons for aiming at quality, the ‘most successful “quality” series play to both high- and low-brow constituencies without offending or dismissing either, but it is a tough balance to maintain’, as DeFino (2014: 12) states. As the example of I, Claudius and others demonstrate, references to literature have long been regarded as one indicator to signify quality in television. For example, the hugely successful HBO drama The Sopranos was ‘hailed for its “cinematic” and “literary” qualities . . . its “Not TV”-ness’, as DeFino (2014: 16) highlights. Moreover, critics described it ‘as having the characteristics of a novel (its length and complexity, its combination of epic and intimate scale, its focus upon character development)’ (DeFino, 2014: 16). In contrast, as we will see in Part II, early television shows were criticised for not being ‘televisual’ enough and too reliant on literary and theatrical conventions. It seems that at a time when television was still coming into its own, a more distinct break was favoured. Instead, contemporary works seek continuity with literary and cinematic predecessors in order to gain ‘legitimacy, first by

TV antiquity  7 demonstrating its capacity to adapt itself to “high” culture, and second by inviting literary scholars to impose their critical perspectives on the programming’ (DeFino, 2014: 116). As I will demonstrate throughout the book, both low- and high-culture varieties of TV antiquity demonstrate that the ‘past has proved a very useful vehicle for conveying lessons about the present’ (Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011: 1). Many of the television shows discussed here follow in the footsteps of literary predecessors. Especially the nineteenth century was rich with historical novels set in antiquity (the Roman Empire in particular) as they offered a wide range of opportunities for reflections on political issues. Everything from the French Revolution to the British Empire found allegorical references in the stories of antiquity. As Richards (2008: 6) notes, this fashion for Roman[-themed] novels essentially began with Bulwer-Lytton’s The Last Days of Pompeii (1834) and climaxed with General Lew Wallace’s Ben-Hur (1880) and Henryk Sienkiewicz’s Quo Vadis (1896), novels by an Englishman, an American and a Pole respectively, but all hugely popular bestsellers worldwide, endlessly reprinted, translated and adapted for and performed on the stage and, during the twentieth century, in the cinema.

This statement also highlights the global appeal of these stories and the universality of their themes. All of the novels listed here have found their way onto both the large and small screen. The differences in adaptation between cinema and television, which I will explore in the case studies, provide significant insights into the unique potential of televisual representations of these themes. Apart from historical novels, classical epics naturally provide a wealth of material for contemporary filmmakers, especially the works of Homer. His Odyssey, for example, has twice been serialised for television, as we will see in the second case study. More generally, screen representations of Homer’s works have ‘taken up one of the most ancient art-forms and propelled it into the present day covered in twentieth-century ambitions, anxieties, hopes and fantasies’ (Elley 1984: 1). In addition, Elley regards the spectacular epic films as ‘merely the cinema’s own transformation of the literary epic’s taste for the grandiose, realised on a sufficient scale to impress modern audiences’ (1984: 1). As such, we could suggest that cinema simply follows in Homer’s footsteps. Television, however, as we will see throughout the book, largely subverts the epic form by finding distinctly ‘un-epical’ ways of telling ancient stories. Yet, this does not mean that it is therefore not suited for adapting classical works like those of Homer. What it lacks in ‘epic taste’, it makes up with another feature of classical literature and one that television does best – seriality.

8  The ancient world as serial television drama Serial storytelling In her essay ‘“Surge and Splendor”: A Phenomenology of the Hollywood Historical Epic’, Vivian Sobchack (1990: 42) suggests that The miniseries .  .  . transforms the Hollywood historical epic in a .  .  . profound way – formally altering its temporal field, and thus its construction of History. Indeed, miniseries is a revealing nomination. It suggests that the spatial displacement from cinematic to electronic representation has changed the existential sense and terms of epic excess, and that the electronic medium’s new mode of episodic and fragmented exhibition has changed the sense and terms of the expansiveness, movement, and repetitiousness of epic – and historical – time.

Yet, this move towards a more episodic and fragmented narration in television is not altogether a new invention. As Elley (1984: 10) emphasises, ‘the Iliad and the Odyssey [started life] as a number of separate tales composed by wandering minstrels during the ninth and eight centuries bc [and] their content, while drawing on a common stock of tales with some foundation in historical fact, could be embellished to suit the particular tastes of the listener’. With regard to television, John Hartley (1992: 11) argues that it similarly ‘performs a “bardic function”, rendering into symbolic form the conflicts and preoccupations of contemporary culture’. This episodic style is also found in other ancient sources. When reading classical historians like Appian, Suetonius or Plutarch, we note that history is often recounted as a loose chain of events, heavily influenced by the cultural background and personal position of the individual storyteller. Moreover, myth and history frequently overlap, as is evident in Vergil’s Aeneid (see Stahl, 1998) and the histories of Herodotus. Even contemporary historians writing about the ancient world generally have to draw on a ‘combination of scholarship, conjecture and fiction’, as Mary Beard (2014: 172) claims. Other serialised forms of narration have also had an impact on screen antiquity. For example, as Flanagan (2011: 92) suggests, ‘American adventure serials [have provided a] template for the episodic, thrilling exploits of Italian pepla and the 1980s sword and sorcery cycle’.2 Moreover, Glen Creeber (2004: 6) highlights that historical ‘novels often find their “natural” home in the television serial [as the] . . . separate episodes allow greater room for the adaptation of a complex and dense novel’. Two of the case studies discussed in this book – I, Claudius and The Last Days of Pompeii – are directly based on such works. While these examples were not serialised in their original form, ‘television [also] owes a great debt to literary serials: in particular the Victorian novels of Trollope . . . Thackeray . . . Elliott, and most importantly Charles Dickens’, as DeFino

TV antiquity  9 (2014: 117) notes. Although the scope of this book does not allow for an in-depth exploration of literary adaptations on-screen more generally, key issues will be addressed in the relevant case studies. However, DeFino (2014: 117) also acknowledges that the ‘serial narrative is much older . . . going back at least as far as the Homeric epics’. This trajectory from Homeric epics via historical novels and US adventure serials to the most recent screen representations is also reflected in the development of TV antiquity outlined in this book. The influences on the shows mentioned here range from Shakespeare to comic books, from Homer to Bulwer-Lytton and Plutarch to Robert Graves. As noted above, when it comes to seriality, though, it is Dickens’s work in particular, where ‘each instalment [is written] as a distinct episode, with its own rising and falling action and resolution, punctuated by cliffhangers meant to entice readers back’, that has inspired serial television drama (DeFino, 2014: 117). In addition, Dickens’s talent for ‘creating imperfect but ultimately sympathetic characters, and evoking story worlds that offer complexity, continuity, and closure’ (DeFino, 2014: 117), chimes well with more recent works of TV antiquity. For example, the soldiers Pullo and Vorenus in the series Rome or the prostitute Chloe in The Last Days of Pompeii are such ‘Dickensian’ characters trying to find their way in the complex world they inhabit. Nevertheless, there are a number of significant problems in simply comparing televisual and literary works. As DeFino (2014: 118) emphasises, although Dickens’s work was ‘rich in character and story, [it] lacks the moral and narrative ambivalence of .  .  . later [televisual] works’, leading him to conclude that maybe ‘the cynicism of Trollope, or the relentless realism of Balzac would have better suited the HBO writers’ room’. As we will see especially in the first case study, this cynicism does not only apply to most recent works of TV antiquity, but has also been a feature of earlier television shows. As seriality is one of the key advantages of television in comparison to cinema, this book will focus on serial drama rather than other madefor-television feature films. As Creeber (2004: 2) suggests, it is the ‘drama series . . . [that reflects and celebrates] the inherent dynamics of the medium for which it has proved to be so uniquely suited’. Quite often, made-for-television feature films merely mimic their cinematic counterparts and thus do not offer a unique way of storytelling. Moreover, due to developments in technology, these films, are ‘now almost indistinguishable . . . from cinema’, as Creeber (2004: 20) argues. As we will see, serial drama has, perhaps surprisingly, not always been a staple of television. Early television, in the UK in particular, preferred to invest in single television plays as their trademark for quality drama. Consequently, early shows like The Caesars (1968) tended to refer to

10  The ancient world as serial television drama each of their episodes as individual plays (see case study 1) rather than emphasising their seriality. As DeFino (2014: 110) argues, when television first emerged in the 1950s and 1960s, networks ‘shied away from serials because of their potential to alienate viewers unwilling or unable to stay current with a program’s story’, as well as ‘the unpredictable nature of television [that led to] unexpected hits and cancellations’. Here, the single play provided a much safer option for creating high quality (and thus more expensive) programmes. Yet, changed viewing habits, brought about by the emergence of recording devices and more recently onlinestreaming services, have over time made it much easier for audiences to engage with serial drama without the necessary commitment to a particular time slot each week. Trends such as ‘binge watching’, where several episodes or even a whole season are watched in one sitting, have further helped the popularity of serial television. Together with high-profile successes such as I, Claudius and more recently Rome, these serial dramas have become increasingly more attractive for television audiences and producers alike. If done well, the structure and length of serial drama make it possible to ‘produce a breadth of vision and a narrative scope [that] can capture an audience’s involvement in a way equalled by few contemporary media’ (Creeber, 2004: 4). This can happen in a number of ways. Sometimes, the breadth is produced by narrative complexity, particularly if the programme borrows from other television genres such as soap opera or crime drama. Here, multiple character arcs, large and diverse casts and complex relations between characters create multilayered and multifaceted storylines that would not fit into a two or three hour film. However, other shows discussed in this book take the almost opposite approach and achieve audience involvement through intimate character studies of a limited cast. Here, one could argue, as does Creeber (2004: 6), that serial television ‘drama is intrinsically better suited [than cinema] to explore and dramatise the complexity of character psychology as a whole’. Apart from seriality, intimacy is another criterion to distinguish TV antiquity from its cinematic counterpart. As we will see, TV antiquity is able to offer a vision of the ancient world that does not depend on the spectacular. Here, the notion of intimacy provides an important counterpoint to the monumental spectacles of the big screen. As suggested by a number of writers, the presence of television in our homes affords it a level of intimacy not matched by cinema. From the in-depth psychological studies of Tiberius in The Caesars and the family antics displayed in I, Claudius to the intimate portrayal of ordinary citizens in Rome, TV antiquity draws the audience into its stories and makes us accomplices in their plots. Nevertheless, spectacle is not entirely absent

TV antiquity  11 from small-screen representations. As we will see, there is a notable increase in the visual spectacle in the most recent shows, not least due to developments in technology, such as HD and larger-screen sizes. Yet, spectacle is not always a matter of visual impact, action and scale. For example, Sandra R. Joshel (2001: 120) suggests that I, Claudius ‘altered the cinematic spectacle of Roman imperial power and corruption [by inverting] the spectacle [that in film] is externalized, fully staged in elaborate, often monumental, sets’ and instead made ‘the family .  .  . the spectacle’. In order to distinguish these different types of representing antiquity and spectacle, I will draw at times on Friedrich Nietzsche’s characterisation of types of history. In his essay ‘On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life’, the philosopher distinguishes between monumental, antiquarian and critical history (Nietzsche, 1874). Later, the French philosopher Gilles Deleuze applied these concepts to cinema. Deleuze associates monumental history with the large-screen epics of DeMille, Griffith and others. Yet, in contrast to monumental history, which ‘considers effects in themselves .  .  . antiquarian history .  .  . stretches out towards the external situation and contracts into the means of action and intimate customs, vast tapestries, clothes, finery, machines, weapons or tools, jewels, private objects’ (Deleuze, 1986: 154). In other words, antiquarian history is more concerned with the minute details of everyday life and the personal than with the grand political events and their key players. While Deleuze sees Nietzsche’s notion of antiquarian history mostly represented in some of the details of major historical films, I want to propose that antiquarian representations of history on-screen can most readily be found in television. In contrast to epic representations of antiquity (with their focus on individual heroes and epic battles), televisual representations move the complex layers of intimate relations and everyday details into the foreground. As such, the shows can take the approach of Nietzsche’s antiquarian historian, who explores the history of the city in all its minute detail, ‘its walls, its towered gate, its rules and regulations’ and finds in it ‘an illuminated diary’ that at its best creates an ‘antiquarian sense of veneration of the past’ (Nietzsche, 1874: 73). More recently, scholars have noted a shift in focus from a reverential – antiquarian – perspective to a much more iconoclastic and cynical reinterpretation of history, especially in contemporary shows. More specifically, DeFino (2014: 159) argues that ‘nostalgia [. . .] is becoming rarer and rarer in television, thanks in part to the influence of HBO historical dramas like . . . Rome . . . which supplant the reverie of older programs .  .  . with a dark, brooding, anomic realism now common even to historical pulp like Spartacus: Blood and Sand’. Yet, as we have

12  The ancient world as serial television drama already noted, fictional representations of antiquity have always provided a fruitful opportunity for critical reflections not just on history, but also on contemporary issues. Here, TV antiquity might come closer to what Nietzsche called critical history, which highlights ‘how unjust the existence of anything – a privilege, a caste, a dynasty, for example – is, and how greatly this thing deserves to perish’ (1874: 76). Each of these approaches to history can be spectacular in its own way. More specifically, Helen Wheatley (2016) argues that television can be spectacular in a way quite distinct from cinema, offering visual pleasure that is not (necessarily) in conflict with realism or intimacy. On the contrary, ‘[television’s] potential to be immersive, leads to an intensity which is found in the medium’s proximity, rather than the awed and enraptured distance of the cinema spectator to the screen, and thus to a different form of fascination’, as Wheatley (2016: 205) argues. As we will see, various developments in the television industry and technology, such as ‘greater choice and competition in broadcasting, changes in image quality and clarity and changes in the screens on which television is watched’ have all had an impact on the ways in which we interpret spectacle in contemporary television productions (Wheatley, 2016: 5). Throughout the subsequent case studies, I will explore how television shows have adapted to these changes and produced their own versions of antiquity by using the tools of seriality, complexity and intimacy in a variety of innovative ways. Nevertheless, there remains the issue of how to define serial television. More specifically, seriality is not merely a question of additional length. For example, the television remake Ben Hur (2010) is listed as a miniseries on IMDB. It consists of two episodes with a total running time of three hours. While this is longer than the average feature film, it is actually shorter than its famous cinematic predecessor (1959), which has a length of 3h 32 minutes. Here, we can argue that the split into two episodes was primarily done for ease of broadcast, taking into account the added length due to advertisement breaks and enabling the station to retain its audience over consecutive days. The television film is not episodic or serialised in the same way that shows such as I, Claudius or STARZ Spartacus are. The latter series offers a particularly good example of a serialised version of the Spartacus story clearly distinct from its cinematic predecessor as I will explore in more depth in case study 8. Similarly, Odissea/The Odyssey, my second case study, demonstrates the difference in adapting Homer to both the small and the large screen. It seems that, although length is important, we need more comprehensive criteria to define serial television. Creeber is one of the few television scholars who have attempted to offer a more systematic definition of

TV antiquity  13 different types of serialised television drama. More specifically, Creeber (2004: 8) assumes that there is ‘a distinct contrast between the narrative form and structure of the series and the serial (sometimes referred to as a miniseries. . .)’. For him, the key distinction is that ‘the traditional series is usually never-ending and involves self-contained episodes that can frequently be broadcast in any order [while] a serial follows an unfolding and episodic narrative structure that moves progressively towards a conclusion’ (Creeber, 2004: 8). However, in reality, this is rarely true of any television series as most have some progressive development, even if the story arc of individual characters stretches out over long periods of time. For instance, looking at the case studies in this book, we could argue that Hercules: The Legendary Journeys with its 111 episodes over six seasons and loose story arc counts as a series. In contrast, all other examples should be classified as serials or miniseries, even if their length varies from three episodes (The Last Days of Pompeii) to thirty-nine (STARZ Spartacus including the prequel Gods of the Arena). However, although some of the episodes of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys could without doubt be shown in alternative order, there are nevertheless key developments from season to season (e.g. the death of Hercules’s sidekick Iolaus, the destruction of various adversaries) that prevent an entirely random order. Overall, contemporary shows in particular often blur the boundaries between serial and series and ‘pure’ series have become a rarity on television, limiting the usefulness of this classification. More importantly, though, Creeber also distinguishes series and serials in terms of quality. Here, he suggests that serial dramas are ‘usually broadcast post-watershed . . . [combine] a mixture of “flexi-narrative” techniques within a loosely defined narrative arc . . . [sometimes] reveal a tendency towards more “experimental” techniques . . . [and offer] examples of a new relationship between politics and the self’ (2004: 12). There are a number of possibilities with regard to how this new relationship pans out as shows such as The Caesars, I, Claudius, Rome or STARZ Spartacus, all offer their own take on the issue as I will discuss in detail in the respective case studies. However, not all serials fulfil Creeber’s ‘post-watershed’ criteria, as The Eagle of the Ninth (1977) and Warrior Queen (1978), for example, were miniseries aimed at younger audiences, as I will discuss in Part III. To further complicate matters, there are significant inconsistencies in the literature when it comes to serialised television drama. For example, in contrast to Creeber, Richard Paterson (1998) uses the term ‘serials’ to describe everything from soap operas to game shows, while ‘drama series’ describes shows like Bonanza and Star Trek and ‘short-form series’ are programmes that others have labelled ‘arc-show’ or (even more confusingly) ‘long-form drama’. Therefore, as

14  The ancient world as serial television drama my focus is on the representations of antiquity rather than the intricacies of different types of serial drama, I will eschew such complex distinctions and use the term series throughout to include all serialised television shows that extend beyond the scope of a film. Nevertheless, Creeber’s observations on the various qualities of serialised drama are still valid and will provide a background for further discussions throughout the book.

Greece versus Rome A final point to address before we embark on our journey through the history of TV antiquity is an issue that has already troubled cine-antiquity – namely the on-screen battle between Greece and Rome. It has to be said that in terms of quantity, Rome, especially in its imperial form, has dominated both the large and the small screen. For Richards (2008: 133), Hollywood’s lack of interest in ancient Greece (and Egypt) ‘reflected audience reaction, as the Roman and Biblical epics drew the crowds whereas the Greek and Egyptian did not’. He claims that this ‘reinforces the interpretation that one of the appeals of the Ancient World epics was religious as the Roman epics generally dealt with the Christian, and the Biblical epics with the Jewish, struggles against tyranny’ (2008: 133). While this might be true for cinema, it does not explain the dominance of Roman narratives in television as the shows are often notable for their conspicuous absence of a Judeo-Christian perspective as I will discuss in more detail later on. Although Elley (1984: 52) also cites the lack of opportunities for Judeo-Christian messages as one of the reasons for cinema’s struggle with Greece, he also notes the absence of ‘any immediate rapport with present-day life’ as well as the fact that ‘Greek history lacks the unity, vastness and ambition of other civilisations, with no imperial age, no absolute autocrats and no tradition of persecution with which to appeal to twentieth-century imaginations’. Although I would challenge the claim that ancient Greece has no rapport with present-day life (think democracy, the alphabet, Olympic Games to name but a few), with regard to visual culture, Rome has arguably left a stronger imprint on our cultural consciousness. Especially, as Elley (1984: 88) suggests, the ‘paraphernalia of Roman spectaculars: the vast temples, the marble floors, the Imperial orgies, the thundering chariots, the clattering brass and leather of the Roman soldier, the Christians thrown to the lions, the milling crowds, the huge battles’ are ever-present in the imagination of cinema audiences. Although in fact many features of ancient Rome have their origin in Greek culture, ‘Rome absorbed the quality and

TV antiquity  15 depth of Greek thought and added to it her own predilection for size’ (Elley, 1984: 76). Consequently, the existence of an imperial age seems the most convincing aspect for the on-screen superiority of Rome as it provides numerous opportunities for discussing contemporary concerns with regard to colonialism, dictatorship and cultural imperialism, which might be more complicated to convey with regard to ancient Greece. The Trojan War and Alexander’s conquests are notable exceptions here and it is perhaps not surprising that those are among the most popular examples of ancient Greek history on-screen. Particularly in the decade since Gladiator, films like Troy (2004), Alexander (2004) and 300 (2006) demonstrated that Greece has much to offer for contemporary filmmakers. Although television has maintained the dominance of Rome during this decade, there has also been an interesting shift away from imperial Rome towards the Roman Republic, the reasons for which I will explore in more depth in Part V. There are two important exceptions to cinema’s preference for Rome: the Italian peplum and fantasy films set in antiquity. As far as the first is concerned, their focus on individual heroism meant that there was less need for complex political allegories and the superhuman strength of the hero allowed filmmakers to draw (often very loosely) on a range of mythical examples. Elley (1984: 7) even suggests that it ‘cannot be stressed too often how incalculably we are in the debt of the Italian peplum for exploring areas of history with which Hollywood could never have found sympathy’. Moreover, post-war sentiments understandably meant that Italian filmmakers especially shied away from portrayals of ancient Roman megalomania. Second, the strong links between myth and history are one of the problems often faced by filmmakers dealing with ancient Greece. Films like Troy tried hard to rationalise and/or eradicate the divine apparatus of the Greek epic, as I have argued elsewhere (Magerstädt, 2014). Thus, films and television shows set in ancient Greece often focus on the fantastic, from Jason and the Argonauts (1963) and Clash of the Titans (1981) to action epics like Immortals (2011) or Hercules (2014). This trend has continued in television programmes such as Hercules: The Legendary Journeys. Yet, overall Greece has remained a rare occurrence in TV antiquity. While the preference for Greek myth meant that Greek history was pushed in the background, the focus on (imperial) Roman history meant that Roman mythology (and to some extent early Roman history) is also largely excluded. Moreover, by creating a false dichotomy between myth and history we ignore the fact that, as noted earlier, mythology and history were often closely intertwined in the ancient world. Homer’s

16  The ancient world as serial television drama Iliad with its backstory of divine interferences beautifully illustrates this point. Moreover, as Elley (1984: 12) emphasises, with regard to cinematic representations of the ancient world ‘mythic’ [means] not simply ‘mythical’, although mythology carries its own magic; when dealing with basic moral concepts like heroism, nobility, virtue, bravery, evil, the superhuman is often called into play and for this reason the true epic form relies on the romantic possibilities of past civilisations rather than the more identifiable settings of recent centuries.

In a similar vein, Vivian Sobchack (1990: 28) suggests that the ‘historical epic is not so much the narrative accounting of specific historical events as it is the narrative construction of general historical eventfulness [, which] is perhaps why the genre is popularly conceived as such an admixture of different kinds .  .  . of past events: mythic, biblical, folkloric, and quasi- or “properly” historical’. Flanagan borrows Patrick Lucanio’s terms mytho-history and mytho-fantasy, to distinguish between programmes and films that appeal ‘primarily to an appearance of, or lip-service to, actual historic events’ and those ‘situating [its] genre credentials firmly outside any historical sphere in favour of fantastic invention’ (2011: 94). The advantage of these terms is that they allow us to distinguish between shows that focus primarily on the historical narrative and fantasy films, which emphasise the mythological elements. Yet, at the same time this classification also acknowledges that both forms of storytelling are ‘mythic and mythical’ to some extent.3 As such, the terms also emphasise that the apparent historical narratives are most often just as legendary and prone to reinterpretation, exaggeration and falsification by various storytellers, from ancient historians to contemporary novelists. As Richards (2008: 1) and others insist, historical films can never ‘represent history accurately as they inevitably play fast and loose with characters and events to meet the constraints of time, the demands of drama and the expectations of the audiences’. It is perhaps for that reason that filmmakers working in this genre ‘lay such great stress on the visual authenticity of costumes, props and settings and put so much effort and expense into background research’ (Richards, 2008: 1). The same applies to television productions portraying antiquity. While budgetary constraints in some cases prevent more expansive historical sets and details, the serial format has enabled producers to create a universe that has the capacity to represent the spectacular as well as the mundane elements of classical antiquity. Despite this awareness, issues of authenticity and historical accuracy have played a large part in the reception of TV antiquity throughout television history. For example, the topic features surprisingly often in journalistic reviews of the various programmes discussed. Similarly,

TV antiquity  17 audiences also seem to care much about accuracy. While very little data is available for the early programmes, five out of nine IMDB reviews for The Caesars make reference to historical truthfulness or accuracy. While these numbers may be statistically insignificant, they are supported by the figures for later programmes. Reviewing I, Claudius, half of the viewers (52 of 100) refer to its connection to ‘real’ history in one way or another and even in reviews of the obviously fantastical Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, almost 37 per cent of reviews (18 of 49) still make some reference to its accurate portrayal of myth (or lack thereof). As we will see in later case studies, accuracy also played an important role in newspaper reviews of Rome, and I will continue to explore these issues throughout the book.

What to expect As indicated in the previous section, this book will focus on serial television drama, with its opportunity for complex narratives and intimate insights into the relationships of its diverse characters. The emphasis will be on outlining a representation of antiquity quite distinct from cinema. Rather than being simply a cheaper alternative, I hope to demonstrate that TV antiquity can encourage a way of storytelling that at times is much more akin to the ways in which myth and history was originally told. Moreover, the broad overview of key drama productions from the 1960s to the most recent examples also provides significant insights into major developments in television more generally. Many of these examples have never before been explored in any detail. As the book brings to light a number of lesser-known shows, it significantly expands the examples available for discussing the representation of antiquity on-screen, but also discovers shows that have developed the style and aesthetic of serial drama in innovative ways relevant to film and television scholars. While I am aware that there are a number of other significant international outputs that would fall into the remit of this discussion of TV antiquity, for reasons of scope and economy the main focus of this book will be on serial dramas produced in the UK and the US. However, the second case study will provide an example of a European production that is significant both in terms of television history but also in its focus on the Greek epic tradition. Similarly, while biblical epics form a significant part of the portrayal of antiquity on-screen, I have decided to exclude shows whose primary focus is biblical. On the one hand, the scope of this book would not allow me to do justice to the range of biblical television dramas available. On the other hand, I

18  The ancient world as serial television drama would argue that in many cases the production of biblical television dramas is driven not only by cultural considerations, but often aimed at a particular religious broadcasting market, particularly in the US. This makes those shows and their respective success somewhat difficult to compare to other television dramas. Moreover, I feel that this particular area would be deserving of its own book-length study. In terms of structure, Parts II to V will provide an overview of key developments in the television industry in general and TV antiquity in particular from the 1950s to the second decade of the new millennium. In addition, each part will feature two case studies that explore significant examples of the period in more depth. These case studies will allow me to position the television productions in their respective historical, political and social context and provide opportunities to compare and contrast both the content and style of these various works. Selecting the case studies has not been easy as it is necessary, as Bignell (2007: 27) suggests with regard to television history more broadly, ‘to choose examples that will stand in for a broader grouping of programmes, and thus the choice . . . depends on its function as typical rather than exceptional’. Yet, on the other hand ‘the selection of an example makes it exceptional simply because it has been chosen from a wide but not infinite field of other possible examples’ (Bignell, 2007: 27). As far as my selection is concerned, the aim was to include both examples that were well known and works that have been to date overlooked by scholars, which I think deserve to be known more widely. At the end of this journey through sixty years of television history, I hope to have gathered insights into the ways in which the ancient world was perceived and interpreted throughout the six decades under consideration and how ongoing concerns in each period have influenced this reception. This will also enable me to discuss the wider cultural relevance of TV antiquity and the continuous interest in these stories. In my conclusion, I will discuss more broadly issues relating to televising Graeco-Roman antiquity and consider possible future directions. Throughout, the book takes an interdisciplinary approach, bringing together disciplines such as film and television studies, classics, history, philosophy and literature. More specifically, I will draw on research in television history and aesthetics to analyse the shows in relation to the conventions of their particular production period and the technological capacities of the medium at a particular time. Findings from classical reception studies will connect these shows not just with their own cultural context, but also with a long history of representations of the ancient world. Literary theory, in particular findings from adaptation studies, will offer further insights into how historical novels have both adapted ancient

TV antiquity  19 works and have been adapted for the screen. Finally, philosophical ideas on history will underpin the discussion of the various ways in which television drama has engaged with the past. By bringing these different strands into dialogue with each other, I hope this book will enrich our understanding of classical works on screen and television history alike. For scholars of television, this book will offer an insight into an important, popular, yet often overlooked genre and for others a chance to explore new and familiar representations of antiquity in their wider cultural context. So now, all that remains to be said is: relax and enjoy the ride.

Notes 1 Percy Jackson & the Lightning Thief uses Greek myth as its basis, but is set in modern times rather than the ancient world as the other examples mentioned here. 2 The term ‘sword and sorcery’ refers to period action films with a magical/mythical twist; the term adapts the ‘sword and sandal’ label of classic epics and adds a magical component. 3 ‘Mythic’ is here used in the sense of ‘exaggerated or idealized’, and ‘mythical’ as ‘fictitious’ and ‘legendary’ as defined by the Oxford English Dictionary.

Pepla and politics: the emergence of a television genre (1960s)

Part II

As noted in Part I, Graeco-Roman and biblical epics gained popularity in cinema in the 1950s and early 1960s to counter the apparent threat of television. Epics set in antiquity were particularly equipped to offer cinema audiences what television could not – large sets, sweeping panoramic views of ancient landscapes, crowds of extras and brightly coloured costumes and decorations. In other words, ‘Hollywood’s reaction [to the threat of television] was to seek to do things not open to the small flickering black and white box in the corner of the average living room’ (Richards, 2008: 53). If this is correct, is there any scope at all for antiquity on the small screen in the early days of television? At first glance, one might have to concede that there is not much, as TV antiquity seems sparse during this period, unlike other cinematic genres such as the western and science fiction, which transferred more easily to the small screen. Yet, on closer inspection, one can find, for example, some important British productions in this period, as well as more subtle ways in which antiquity appeared on-screen. A more in-depth examination of the broadcasting market in the US and the UK reveals that the ancient world was more prominent on early television than we might have previously thought. Similar to cinema’s attempt at distinguishing itself from television, producers of television shows were discussing during this period ways in which their programmes could be different from cinema. The serial format was one such advantage and the ‘BBC saw the serial as the way forward, particularly if it had a historical setting and thus evaded a turbulent present’, as Thumin (2001: 154) notes. She further argues that serial drama offered popularity with audiences ‘and, more importantly, political neutrality’ (2001: 154). As we will see, however, TV antiquity did not always remain as politically neutral as Thumin suggests, although the distance in the time period might have helped to avoid any all-too direct allusions.

22  Pepla and politics (1960s) In a very broad sense, television in the 1950s was starting to become more widely available and the 1960s could be described as the decade when television really came into its own, starting to develop a distinct style of programming. Several writers have labelled the television culture of the 1960s as a golden age (for example Johnson and Turnock, 2005; Bignell, 2007; Holmes, 2008). Before looking at the development of TV antiquity in particular, it is therefore worthwhile to have a brief look at the situation of the television industry as a whole during this time. As we will see, the distinct developments in the television market between the US and the UK had a significant impact on the types of programmes that were produced. As I will explore shortly, this is particularly relevant to TV antiquity insofar as in the UK, an emphasis on high-quality programming that was part of a public broadcasting ideology created a more favourable environment for new television dramas set in the ancient world than that on the other side of the Atlantic. In the US, commercial considerations were in most cases at the forefront of programming decisions. As a consequence, ‘game shows, soap operas, variety shows, dramatic anthologies, and sitcoms’ (Solomon, 2008: 12) were the most popular genres, as were live events, which really showed off the advantages of the new medium. Consequently, representations of antiquity, which possibly highlighted the disadvantages of the small screen rather than promoted it, were sparse in the early years of US television. But antiquity was not entirely absent from television. First, a significant number of large-screen epics found their way onto the small screen during this period, as noted in Part I, thus familiarising the audience with seeing the ancient world on television. During these years, ‘hundreds of European sword-and-sandal films of the late 1950s and early 1960s had already been playing on local channels’, as Solomon (2008: 12) notes. This can in part be credited to the Paramount decision of 1948, a landmark ruling that forced the big film studios to divest themselves of their movie theatres, which would change the way Hollywood films were produced, distributed, and exhibited. As a consequence, major studios such as Paramount, 20th Century Fox or Warner Bros. sold their back catalogues to companies that provided content for the emerging television market as they assumed that with the loss of exclusive rights to theatres, there would now be less opportunity to show their old films. The other way in which antiquity entered US television screens during this period was through individual episodes of other television programmes. The fantasy sitcom Bewitched (1964–72), for example, included an appearance of Julius Caesar (season 6, episode 3, ‘Samantha’s

TV antiquity  23 Caesar Salad’). Most of the references to the ancient world, however, can be found, somewhat surprisingly, in science fiction programmes. For instance, ABC’s The Time Tunnel (1966–67), featured several visits to the ancient world. In episode 7 (‘Revenge of the Gods’), we witness the Fall of Troy, episode 20 (‘The Walls of Jericho’) is set in biblical times and in the rather bizarre episode 19 (‘The Ghost of Nero’), set in the early twentieth century, a young Mussolini is accidentally possessed by Emperor Nero’s ghost. The popular British television series Doctor Who as well as the US show Star Trek also featured numerous examples of scenes or episodes set in antiquity, mixing futuristic science fiction with ancient world settings. Doctor Who, for example, featured the Roman Empire under Nero (The Romans, season 2, serial 4, 1965) and Homer’s Iliad (season 3, serial 2, 1965)1 during the 1960s.2 The 1967 Star Trek episode ‘Who Mourns for Adonais?’ (season 2, episode 2) featured a time-travelling god Apollo as the nemesis, while ‘Bread and Circuses’ (season 2, episode 25), broadcast in 1968, involved a visit to a planet that resembled the Roman Empire, but used modern technology. In ‘Plato’s Stepchildren’ (season 3, episode 10 of Star Trek) the crew of the Enterprise encounters the Platonians, an alien race that has adopted a form of society based on ancient Greek culture. The use of ancient philosophy as a reference point for an entertainmentfocused science fiction programme might support the idea, suggested by Djoymi Baker (2006), that critics of early US television insisted that more emphasis should be put on the educational aspects of the new medium. The aim was to capture some of the ideals advocated by public broadcasting in the UK and elsewhere. Here, programmers and television producers saw classical myth and literature as one of the ways in which they could achieve education and entertainment for both adult and child audiences. It is thus not surprising that ancient myth and history also appears frequently in programmes aimed at children and teenagers during the 1960s. Baker (2006) argues that [although] ‘myths can themselves be extremely violent, their judicious appropriation within children’s programming could nonetheless be used to bring a sense of cultural legitimacy to the medium’. Not only did myths provide ‘pre-existing stories without copyright complications [they] could be considered educational in their own right’ (Baker, 2006). She cites the popular children’s programme Mr. I. Magination (1949–52) and You Are There (1953–71) as examples of programmes that included, if not exclusively, ancient myth and history. In addition, the animated show The Mighty Hercules (1963–66) was a successful predecessor to Disney’s revival of the character in its own 1990s animation, as I will outline in case study 6.

24  Pepla and politics (1960s) Another programme aimed at adults that featured episodes drawing on classical antiquity is the drama anthology Omnibus (1952–61), hosted by Alistair Cooke, who later also provided the introduction to the US broadcast of I, Claudius (see case study 3). Omnibus was a live television show featuring everything from live discussions to original works of fiction. In season 3 (episode 21), the show offered a 90-minute rendering of the Iliad. Discussing a review of the show published in Variety at the time, Baker (2006) notes that it describes ‘the program as “impressive as a spectacle”’, but suggests that ‘this receives what must be considered a television-specific qualification: the spectacle is achieved through “the illusion of magnitude” rather than its actuality’. According to Baker, the reviewers further comment on the size of the cast and thus the scale of production, which is interesting insofar as cast size in particular has often been a point of criticism with regard to UK production as we will see in the discussions of The Caesars (1968) and I, Claudius (1976). What is interesting here is that the reviewers seem to be complimenting the show for trying to capture something of the spectacular aesthetic of large-screen epics (large casts and sets, armies, battlefields, etc.) while at the same time curbing the expectations of the audience by qualifying this spectacle with regard to television. Here, the grandeur is hinted at rather than shown in its fullness, but the suggestion or ‘illusion’ is nevertheless appreciated. For Baker (2006) , this also points towards the fact that ‘[rather] than merely comparing the Homeric epic directly with its television adaptation, Variety understands this textual relationship via the mediation of cinema’. Her argument here suggests that audiences will not perceive television versions of antiquity as a direct adaptation of a classical source and judge it accordingly, but will always interpret the shows in relation to more familiar cinematic representations. As we will see throughout the book, it will take some time for both audiences and reviewers to acknowledge the particular qualities of the medium, and comparisons to cinema always loom large when discussing the ancient world on-screen. In the UK, the establishment of ITV in 1955 also added a commercial component to the British broadcasting market, which was up to that point monopolised by the BBC.3 As a consequence, ‘by the early 1960s [British television] was poised for a decade of much greater expansion and innovation in terms of programme hours and formats, more channels, transmitters and an ever-expanding, “mass” audience’ (O’Sullivan, 2003: 35). Moreover, the ability to show advertising provided another way in which antiquity entered the small screen as it was the peplum classic Hercules Unchained (1959), which became ‘the first film in Britain to receive nationwide TV advertising’ (Elley, 1984: 21). While the screening

TV antiquity  25 of Hollywood classics as mentioned earlier brought big-screen epics onto television screens, advertising for cinematic releases on the small screen encouraged audiences to return to the cinema. However, far from simply mimicking the US commercial television market, ITV was still very much established within the ethos of public broadcasting. For example, while the new channel was able to generate revenue through advertisement, the ITA (who distributed the licences) still controlled the nature and quality of the advertisements. This emphasis on quality is also a crucial aspect with regard to the fictional programmes discussed later in this part. In addition, although ITV was possibly more flexible in its programming than the BBC, with a stronger focus on entertainment, the public service remit was still upheld, stipulating that programmes ‘had to be balanced [and] of suitable quality and variety’ (O’Sullivan, 2003: 33). Nevertheless, when reading television histories, one often finds the rather elitist notion of the BBC’s superiority in programming with regard to both quality of production and intellectual value of its content. For example, as Johnson and Turnock (2005: 3) note, ITV was ‘popularly associated with lowbrow quiz and game shows, light entertainment and action adventure series’, while the BBC allegedly focused on serious drama and documentary. This, however, is challenged by several writers who argue that ‘there has also been a general consensus that the BBC and ITV came to occupy a shared ground in the 1960s and 1970s’ (Holmes, 2008: 15; see also Johnson and Turnock, 2005). In fact, as Su Holmes (2008: 22) suggests, it can be considered ‘a measure of the prevailing strength of a public service ethos that ITV was actually set up as an extension of this concept’ and that the new channel, despite its commercial framework, still had to conform to it. We can read the production of a high-quality drama series like The Caesars (1968) in the context of this ethos, as I will do in the following case study. More broadly, dramas set in antiquity chimed well with the high cultural and educational values of UK broadcasting at a time when Latin and Greek still featured prominently in the school curriculum, particularly at elite institutions. It is thus not surprising that antiquity featured more prominently on UK television screens. Before ITV’s The Caesars, which will be discussed in more depth in the case study, the BBC made an attempt at TV antiquity with its 1963 production The Spread of the Eagle. The programme can be regarded as a noteworthy contribution to the history of TV antiquity, not least because many of the stylistic features applied in The Spread of the Eagle (extensive close-ups, long establishing shots) have had an important influence on television aesthetics more generally. The Spread of the Eagle, a nine-part television series produced

26  Pepla and politics (1960s) and directed by Peter Dews, was based on Shakespeare’s Roman plays Coriolanus, Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra. The programme was originally aired between May and June 1963 and later also shown in the US on local television stations, such as New York (16 September 1964) and Los Angeles (13 September 1964). Not only is the show interesting as an adaptation of classical literary works onto the television screen, it also offers several important links to later series discussed in this book. Consistent with my previous argument regarding a public broadcasting ethos, reviewers of the show emphasised the educational aspects of the programme. However, in the same breath they also criticised the show for its lack of spectacle. For example, a reviewer in The Times (1963), argues that: Mr Peter Dews has been content to keep his actors within a broad, theatrical concept of Shakespearian acting and not bothered much about making it all ‘televisual’; it is, rather, an efficient recording, with as much variety as possible within these limits, of a straightforward stage reading intended for millions never likely to see it on the stage.

Not surprising given its Shakespearean roots, the comparison here is not with cinematic epics, but with theatre. However, the notion that it is not ‘televisual’ enough, deserves further exploration. It is by no means a given that using Shakespeare as a source automatically leads to a more theatrical production. In fact, Shakespeare’s plays have been a popular choice for cinema and television adaptations from historic drama to romantic comedy. Similarly, as Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 79) state, producers of screen antiquity, ‘have traditionally seemed happier translating Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar into cinema than commissioning entirely new scripts based on the life of the Roman dictator’. One of the reasons for this popularity of (some of) Shakespeare’s Roman plays for screen adaptation might be, as Elley (1984: 95) observes, that despite Shakespeare’s ‘essentially non-epic approach to his characters, there is an underlying romanticism in his works which chimes well with epic form’. The question is then one of whether it translates equally well into arguably less epic television drama. The producers of The Spread of the Eagle clearly attempted to adapt the plays into a more televisual format. This is evident when looking at the structure of the programme. Three episodes each are dedicated to Shakespeare’s three Roman plays: Coriolanus (‘The Hero’, ‘The Voices’, ‘The Outcast’), Julius Caesar (‘The Colossus’, ‘The Fifteenth’, ‘The Revenge’) and Antony and Cleopatra (‘The Serpent’, ‘The Alliance’, ‘The Monument’). The structure and episode titles already indicate the attempt at incorporating the three separate plays more neatly into one more or less coherent television series. In

TV antiquity  27 addition, it is interesting that the producers decided to give the series an overall title more reminiscent of sword-and-sandal epics than of Shakespearean tragedy. Critics, however, have noted that this attempt at merging the individual plays into a continuous series is problematic, as the ‘connexion between Coriolanus . . . and the two other classical histories is tenuous, while the presence of Mark Antony in both Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra does not disguise the lack of unity in their aims’ (The Times, 1963). Michael Brooke (2003–14) suggests in his commentary for BBC Screen Online that the show attempts to address these issues by using visual clues to give the plays a more coherent appeal. For instance, the Forum in Rome is shown to be under construction in Coriolanus, but completed by the time the Julius Caesar episodes start. He further observes that in ‘contrast to the more intimate approach favoured by later projects such as the BBC Television Shakespeare, Dews here attempted a genuine sense of scale’ (2003–14). It seems that the producers did not yet appreciate the capacity of television to create audience involvement through a sense of intimacy and instead aimed to mimic the style of cinematic productions. This attempt at epic scale is particularly evident in the later episodes. In the final episode (episode 9, ‘The Monument’), for instance, we see Cleopatra sitting on a giant sculpture that has some reminiscence of her entrance into Rome in the famous film version (Cleopatra, 1963), which was released just one month after the BBC series had aired. According to the biography of actor Peter Cushing, who plays Cassius in the series, the programme actually reused costumes from the legendary Hollywood production (Miller, 2005). Consequently some critics have compared the programme more with the sword-and-sandal epics of its time than with theatre. One reviewer of the first episode argues that ‘televisually [it] is a terror at the beginning: all battles and crowds, politics and exposed kneecaps, with little chance for cameras to move in expressively’ (Shorter, 1963a). Like the review in The Times quoted above, this reviewer criticises the show for not fully understanding the requirements of the new medium, but the criticism is not related to its theatricality but to its (failed) attempt at mimicking the epic form of cinema. However, with regard to the following episode, the author suggests that the ‘play itself improves, though it is scarcely the stuff of television [but it] becomes less of a military squabble and more of a political–moral problem play, arrogant integrity versus what people want’ (Shorter, 1963b). Overall, the first episodes based on Coriolanus disappointed reviewers and audiences, but the show was saved by the more popular Julius Caesar story. It can be assumed that this was due in large part to the greater familiarity of the audience with the destiny of

28  Pepla and politics (1960s) Julius Caesar, no doubt aided by previous screen iterations as mentioned above. As Wyver (2012) notes, ‘especially in the third part, The Revenge [episode 6], Peter Dews achieves a sense of scale and even grandeur’ and he describes it as ‘the most effective of the three episodes’, contrasting to good effect the intimacy of the ‘tent scene’ with the battle clashes that follow. Shorter (1963c) also suggests that the later part ‘promises to be a street or two ahead of “Coriolanus”, as the play itself, in addition to its long-recognised theatrical virtues of intelligent melodrama, lyrical conspiracy and swift plotting, is far more telegenic’. The issue of finding a particular ‘televisual way’ to portray antiquity by shifting the focus way from epic battles towards ‘political–moral problems’ will also be relevant for later shows, such as The Caesars and Rome, while melodrama and conspiracy dominate in series like I, Claudius and The Last Days of Pompeii. Aesthetically, Miller (2005: 98) describes this television production as ‘more sophisticated’ than earlier dramas, with ‘1960’s graphics and elaborate camera set ups’ that indicate ‘a deliberately modern approach’. He also defines the acting as ‘naturalistic’, with ‘television cameras [that] are noticeably less kind’ to the actor’s faces (2005: 98–9). This is consistent with a more general point made by Michael Barry, then Head of Television Drama at the BBC, who noted early on that the ‘television camera is very penetrating. It shows what is going on in people’s minds. Sincerity is, therefore, the most important quality required of both writers and actors . . . A great deal of television work is done in close-ups. Thus, elaborate sets are often wasted’ (BBC Written Archive Centre, P655, 5 January 1953, as cited in Thumin, 2001: 184). This focus on people’s thoughts is quite evident in The Caesars, which largely avoids crowd scenes and complex sets, which were considered not to be ‘televisual’, both due to screen size and limited budgets (Thumin, 2001). However, with regard to The Spread of the Eagle, the apparent ‘naturalism’ of the acting is significantly undermined by the use of the original Shakespearean dialogue, which ultimately makes it appear stagy. This is addressed much better in later productions, as I will explore shortly. The presence (or absence) of colour in television is another important aspect when discussing the aesthetics of early television programming. Colour television was introduced in the US in 1954. However, due to high costs and scarcity of colour television sets, most stations continued to broadcast in black and white for another decade. In the UK, BBC2 became the first station to transmit in colour in 1967. BBC1 and ITV followed in 1969, a year after The Caesars, which was still shot and broadcast in black and white. As Mee and Walker (2014) outline, the introduction of colour television led to a number of critical discussions,

TV antiquity  29 especially within the BBC. When promoting this new aesthetic feature, emphasis was put on presenting a realistic and naturalistic image rather than using colours for ‘spectacular’ effects, producing something that is ‘merely pretty’ (Mee and Walker, 2014: 153). Unlike cinema, which was keen to emphasise the spectacular qualities of colour film, television from the outset tried to offer a different aesthetic that avoided the gaudiness of some of the big-screen productions. Several producers continued to argue for the artistic value of producing some programmes in black and white, free from the distractions of colour. Despite being broadcast in the same year as The Caesars, Odissea/The Odyssey, was already shown in colour on ORTF (France), which introduced colour transmission in 1967. However, the first Italian broadcast of the series was still in black and white. As we will see in the following part, it will take well into the 1970s for colour television to dominate the market, especially in the UK and Europe. As already mentioned, in the first case study I will examine the 1968 ITV production The Caesars. Like The Spread of the Eagle, The Caesars is to some extent based on a classical text, namely the writings of Suetonius. However, as Suetonius wrote histories (some historians have argued gossip) rather than plays, it had to be adapted into dramatic form, giving scriptwriters more freedom in developing their own narrative. The Caesars here offers a more direct reinterpretation of ancient sources. The second case study, Odissea, also draws on a classical text, Homer’s Odyssey, which it adapts quite closely. This creates similar issues to those faced by The Spread of the Eagle, namely how to adapt theatrical language, mostly written in verse, into televisual prose. Although this book overall focuses on English-language productions, there are several important reasons for including this case study. First, it offers a counterpart to other shows discussed in this book, because it is one of the few significant television dramas dealing with Greek myth rather than Roman history. Second, it is also significant from an aesthetic point of view, as its experimental visual style with nods to Italian Neorealism is in stark contrast to other productions of TV antiquity. Finally, it enables me to at least briefly include a take on TV antiquity that is connected (yet different) to the Italian peplum films made during this decade. Overall, as we will see, productions used various experimental techniques to take advantage of the new serial format and create intimate character studies to engage their audience. While the limited cast did not allow for the multilayered narrative that is offered by later shows, the detailed examination of political power plays in the early Roman Empire or the literary features of Homer’s poem nevertheless create a level of complexity that would be difficult to reproduce on the large screen.

Case study 1: The Caesars (1968)

As noted, the history of ITV programming has had mixed reviews and scholars have criticised that ‘official histories of British broadcasting . . . have depicted the emergence and impact of ITV in rather damning tones’, failing to acknowledge that ‘the history of ITV programming is also one of innovation and experimentation’ (Wheatley, 2003: 76). The Caesars is an excellent example of this. It not only demonstrates that ITV could indeed produce high-quality drama, but also features a number of innovative techniques successfully applied in later series, such as BBC’s I, Claudius. Wheatley (2003: 79) also suggests a significant change in ITV programming during the period in which The Caesars was produced, from ‘the entertainment culture . . . of the 1950s and early 1960s . . . to a journalistic culture in the later 1960s and 1970s’. I will argue that this ‘journalistic culture’ is also reflected in The Caesars, which can be read as a critical commentary of contemporary politics in addition to being an entertaining piece of historical drama. As mentioned in Part I, stories regarding the Roman Empire provided particularly ample scope for an allegorical critique of the politics of any given time and this case study is no exception. The six-part television series The Caesars was produced by Granada Television for ITV, featuring as its subject matter the period between Emperor Augustus’s death and Claudius’s accession to the throne. Written by Philip Mackie, it draws heavily on classical sources, primarily Suetonius’s The Twelve Caesars. According to the Daily Telegraph, Mackie insisted that ‘every happening was submitted to research with similar care’ (Clayton, 1968a). The series was directed by Derek Bennett and aired in autumn 1968 on consecutive Sundays between 22 September and 27 October. The show was generally received quite positively at the time. For example, Sylvia Clayton (1968a) in the Daily Telegraph suggests that ‘Mackie tells an absorbing story in an adult way’, but criticises that he ‘captures the dignity of Rome but not its dynamic.

TV antiquity  31 These were violent men [yet] often they sounded more like classics masters reading from a Latin primer.’ The Daily Mail (1968) described the ‘Granada-produced prestige series’ as ‘a major triumph’ that ‘has brought acclaim for 41-year-old Freddie Jones playing Claudius’. This notion about ‘prestige’ indicates the significance of this programme for ITV and its growing reputation as an innovator. Given the critical acclaim that the show received at the time, it is maybe surprising that when looking at publications on screen antiquity, most writers do not mention The Caesars. This is particularly disappointing as the show has much to offer, both as a document of television history and in comparison with more recent works on TV antiquity. One of the reasons for this oversight might be that unlike later shows like I, Claudius, the programme has rarely been repeated and has only recently become widely available again when it was released on DVD in 2006. It is maybe more surprising that it is also rarely mentioned in histories of British television of the 1960s, considering it won a number of prizes, for example the top drama award at the Australian World Television Festival in Adelaide in 1969 and Actor of the Year for Freddie Jones at the Monte Carlo Television Festival. This apparent marginalisation of The Caesars may be due in part to the earlier mentioned duopoly in British television, where ‘ITV has not been readily understood as a producer of “quality” programming’ (Johnson and Turnock, 2005: 3). Another reason, as suggested by Richards (2008: 162), might be that BBC’s ‘I, Claudius’ blend of melodrama, gossip and soap opera was so successful that it banished the memory of the historically superior and far more accurate’ earlier series. The fact that I, Claudius seems to have almost entirely overshadowed this earlier show is particularly surprising, as one could argue, as Angelini (2007: 1) does, that it was the ‘huge popular success’ of The Caesars at the time that ‘reignited interest in this kind of historical output, paving the way for the [later] series’. Moreover, contemporaneous television reviews of I, Claudius actually drew on The Caesars for comparison, with the earlier show coming out more favourably, as I will explore further in case study 3. The notion of historical accuracy in the comparison between the two shows is also interesting here. As the above-mentioned review in the Daily Telegraph indicates, appeals to historical ‘truthfulness’ seemed to have been a selling point of the series. Indeed, there are sections of dialogue throughout the series that recite almost verbatim passages from Suetonius and Cassius Dio. For example, in episode 6 (‘Claudius’), Caesonia (Barbara Murray) asks Caligula (Ralph Bates) why he married her despite being ‘neither beautiful nor young, and the mother of three daughters by another man’ (Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars, Life

32  Pepla and politics (1960s) of Caligula, 25). Later in the same episode, Caligula tells his audience that Caesonia gave birth to their daughter Julia Drusilla only a month after their marriage, which is noted in Cassius Dio (Roman History, 28). However, other aspects of Suetonius’s writing, such as Tiberius’s alleged debauchery, which is referred to in great detail in I, Claudius, is almost completely absent from this series, the possible reasons for this I will explore later in this case study. As indicated, regardless of prejudices, ITV was indeed a broadcaster that provided innovation and quality, both in terms of visual aesthetics and storytelling. With regard to aesthetics, director Derek Bennett ‘pioneered the technique repeated in I, Claudius of eschewing spectacle, shooting entirely in the studio and depending much on close-ups to explore the interpersonal relationships’, as noted by Richards (2008: 162). The programme takes a different route from The Spread of the Eagle, drawing on crime drama and even film noir for its aesthetic rather than the historical epics of the big screen. At times, the framing in The Caesars can be described as almost expressionist. For example, columns in the palace are often used to break up the screen or block off parts of it, creating a more claustrophobic atmosphere. In addition, the cinematography makes use of canted angles and oversized objects (palace doors, statues) that dwarf their human counterparts as well as deep shadows, in which people often hide. Marco Angelini (2007: 1) suggests that ‘the choices to film in black and white and to concentrate on interiors certainly convey the internecine menace and claustrophobia of the political and personal machinations of the Julio-Claudians’. Thus, the show manages to make a virtue out of necessity by being more televisual in the sense that it focused on melodrama rather than trying to imitate the look of cinematic epics. Consequently, it presents the audience with an intimate character study of the key players in this troublesome period of Roman history. The storytelling also offers a number of innovations and was significantly influenced by scriptwriter Philip Mackie’s previous experiences. Norman Frisby (2003: 121), then press officer at the Manchester TV Centre, recounts that Mackie, after producing a number of more experimental anthologies of short stories in drama form, ‘went on to apply some of the same flair . . . to a more sustained, if still unconventional, storyline in The Caesars’, which he describes as among ‘the bravest costume serials ever’. There is no instance of talking directly to the audience or off-screen narration as in Up Pompeii! and also later in I, Claudius. However, there are occasional metatextual references, such as when the dying Augustus (Roland Culver) asks his family to applaud the role he played, which Clayton (1968a) calls the ‘most striking moment in the first play’ or

TV antiquity  33 when Tiberius remarks after Augustus’s death that ‘dying messages make convenient quotations’. In general, irony plays a big part throughout the episodes, which makes the show feel modern at times and connects them to the sometimes dark cynicism of contemporary television drama. Although Angelini (2007: 1) claims that ‘the theatricality of the staging and acting owes a great deal to the dramatic conventions of the time’, contemporaneous critics compliment the show, noting that the ‘Granada Romans use a dignified, disciplined speech, free from historical fustian’ (Clayton, 1968a). This is significantly different from the Shakespearean dialogue of The Spread of the Eagle. The serial format was also used more effectively in the ITV production, presenting in-depth character studies of Roman emperors rather than trying to mimic the scope of cinematic epics. In particular, the ‘multi-episode format permitted the detailed exploration of the ruthless and labyrinthine dynamics of politics’ (Richards, 2008: 163). The complexity of the political situation of the early empire is explored in great depth and reflected upon, mostly by Tiberius. Interestingly, in her reviews, Clayton refers to the episodes as ‘a series of plays’, suggesting that both viewers and reviewers were still caught up in the conventions of the single play, then regarded as the most likely format for high-quality drama. While it is certainly true that each episode has a particular focus, I would think it difficult to understand for example Tiberius’s character and actions from just the episode entitled ‘Tiberius’, because much of his character development takes place in previous episodes, as would be expected from a television series.

Political power plays Against Thumin’s earlier claim that historical serial dramas provided a politically neutral space, avoiding the concerns of a troubled present, Richards argues that The Caesars ‘was part of the fascination of 1960s’ and 1970s’ television with power politics, whether in the contemporary board room . . . or in British History’ (2008: 162–3). Richards’s position here is consistent with the aforementioned ‘journalistic’ turn of ITV in the mid-1960s. More specifically, as I will outline shortly, The Caesars continuously and critically evaluates the role of politics and government. It is to the credit of writer Philip Mackie that he managed to outline ‘the manoeuvrings and machinations of imperial power plays with impressive clarity and understanding’ (Richards, 2008: 162). The focus on politics, or more specifically on drawing a parallel between the politics of the ancient and the contemporary world, is maybe the key selling point of the series. This is supported by a striking advertising campaign that

34  Pepla and politics (1960s) appeared in the Financial Times, The Times and Sunday Telegraph before the first episode went on air.4 The quarter-page adverts feature a bold black background that announces in large white font ‘SOME COUNTRIES WILL PAY ANY PRICE FOR INTERNAL SECURITY’, followed by small print at the bottom in black on white: The Roman Republic, for instance, in the first century, after years of civil war. The Romans knew all about terror as an instrument of government; they had generations of practice. This is the world of the Caesars, when government was a court, the laws made by fratricide and assassination. In the name of the common good, of course. THE CAESARS is a series of six one-hour plays about power at the top, the ruthless struggles to achieve it, and the hazards of one-man rule. Starting Sundays at 10:10 p.m. on I.T.V.

This advert firmly places the show in the context of then-current politics, such as the Cold War, in particular the events of the Prague Spring earlier the same year, as well as the ongoing Vietnam War. According to Clayton (1968a), ‘Tacitus describes [the time of the Caesars] as a black and shameful age, ruled by men made mad by awful, limitless, power’, adding that ‘Mackie, has made this power-struggle the central theme of his deliberate dramas’. In her review of the final episode of the series, Clayton (1968b) notes that this was ‘one of the most brutally dramatic of the series, [but] also the most effective, illustrating most clearly the corruption attendant on absolute power’. This focus on power and its corrupting effect is indicated by making Tiberius the central character of this narrative. Not only does this give us a view of the events from his perspective, which is unprecedented in screen antiquity, the series completely changes the way we perceive the character. In previous screen representations, as in most classical literature, he has been primarily cast as the villain, a recluse and gloomy tyrant, described by Pliny the Elder as ‘the most unsociable of men’ (Natural Histories, XXVIII.5.23). Such a negative portrayal can be found for example in films like Salome (1953), The Robe (1953) and Ben-Hur (1959). In The Caesars, André Morell (who incidentally also appeared in Ben-Hur, in the role of Sextus) plays Tiberius as ‘brooding, sardonic, austere and mistrustful’, as Richards (2008: 163) writes. Yet, this is contextualised with regard to the political and personal pressures that he faces. Overall, the series offers a more complex picture of Tiberius. He is no longer simply the brutal tyrant persecuting Jews and Christians, but also as a shrewd politician. I would agree with Richards (2008: 163), who suggests that this portrayal of Tiberius is ‘altogether richer and more complex .  .  . than George Baker’s admittedly more vivid but essentially single

TV antiquity  35 note Gravesian caricature in I, Claudius’. By giving Tiberius a voice, the show presents ‘an emperor reluctantly shouldering the burden of empire and endeavouring to secure the succession to ensure political stability and to maintain the peace without entanglement in foreign wars’ (Richards, 2008: 163). For example, in The Caesars, Tiberius regularly questions his generals, his mother Livia (Sonia Dresdel) and his advisers if violence is really necessary. He is visibly troubled by bloodshed, even if he carries it out efficiently and ruthlessly in the end. Moreover, Tiberius appears visibly grieved at the death of Germanicus’s son Nero Caesar, which is presented as ordered by Sejanus (Barrie Ingham) rather than Tiberius. He also reacts with shock when Macro (Jerome Willis) reports the killing of Sejanus’s entire family. When discussing his failures as an emperor with his old friend Marcus Cocceius Nerva (Donald Eccles) in episode 3 (‘Tiberius’), Tiberius remarks that ‘the management of men which we call politics is a contemptable business’. Nerva replies that ‘ruling is politics, politics are dirty. Every good ruler yet has been in muck up to his elbows and enjoyed it.’ Tiberius in turn notes drily, ‘You’re right, I’m not a good ruler’, offering another glimpse of the cynicism noted above. Tiberius’s fault, it seems, is not that he is more violent than other Roman dictators and emperors, but that he does not savour his power in the same way. Towards the end of Tiberius’s life, in episode 5 (‘Caligula’), both men once again discuss Tiberius’s rule. The emperor recounts all his achievements, such as twenty years of peace, a healthy and prosperous economy, solid laws. Yet none of this seems to have been enough, he complains, because he has not had the power to charm people. This is consistent with classic sources that generally treat Tiberius’s reign dismissively. For instance, Suetonius bemoans that Tiberius never built any significant buildings or had any games put on. One might think Nerva’s main criticism would be about all the people Tiberius has put to death, particularly in the last years of his reign when he grew increasingly paranoid. However, as Nerva notes, Augustus in his prime killed many more people than Tiberius ‘and still managed to appear virtuous’. This is an interesting comment as it points towards a rather cynical appraisal of tyranny, which is not judged by the atrocities committed, but by overall popularity. Augustus, whose own reign is littered with bodies, is widely admired and worshipped as a god. Although by no means a hero, Tiberius is portrayed throughout the show not in a way that either glorifies or condemns him, but shows him as an ordinary man, daunted by the task at hand and with no other tools than bloodshed at his disposal. It is scenes like this, which demonstrate that ‘Mackie’s script, intelligent, literate and sinewy, was an impressive study of realpolitik which

36  Pepla and politics (1960s) explored the dangers of absolute monarchy from the police state of Tiberius to Caligula’s reign of terror’, as Richards notes (2008: 162). Yet, it also highlights a certain kind of pessimism applied to politics more generally, as when Tiberius suggests that ‘people can have either freedom or order and security and I gave them the latter’. This same notion is postulated in the advert mentioned earlier and is one that might make The Caesars equally relevant for audiences in the twenty-first century. It demonstrates clearly that serial television drama can be both political and entertaining. It is the distance of the historical past, however, that may make the lesson palatable.

Eccentricities and class With the focus on Tiberius, other competitors for the throne are often portrayed as ‘not fit for the job’, presenting Tiberius as the most suitable candidate. This is already introduced in the first episode of the series when Augustus tests his grandson and potential heir Agrippa Postumus (Derek Newark) about what would be his first action as an emperor. Postumus’s answer (killing the man who guards him, because he has shown disrespect) ultimately seals his fate as Augustus orders his death after his own passing. Similarly, Germanicus (Eric Flynn), although popular, is shown as a rather inept statesman and strategist, seeking constant reassurance from both his wife and his centurion and is often criticised by both. This is in stark contrast to I, Claudius, which continuously portrays these characters as more virtuous and suitable successors, murdered by Livia in order to install her own family line on the throne. The Caesars, however, shows first Augustus, then Tiberius as ruthless for the sake of preserving what they think is best for the state, in an environment lacking qualified rulers. This broader theme of good versus bad forms of government permeates the show and elements of it will reappear in I, Claudius. Notably, in The Caesars it is Tiberius, not the marginalised Claudius, who advocates a return to republican rule, even if it is not entirely clear if he is serious or simply pretending to be modest, as his critics assume. In a dialogue between Augustus and Tiberius that will reoccur in almost the same form in I, Claudius between Livia and Tiberius, Augustus explains to Tiberius why it is necessary that Rome is ruled by one man only. He makes a strong case against democratic rule, taking the civil wars of the late Republic as its justification. In I, Claudius, it will be Livia, who uses the same argument to justify her murderous pursuits, while first Augustus and then Claudius advocate a return to democracy. Tiberius not only hesitates

TV antiquity  37 when taking over as emperor, but also suggests openly to the Senate a return to republican rule after his passing, especially once he has lost his son Drusus as his heir. With Tiberius having taken on the role of commentator, Claudius in The Caesars is a more ambiguous figure here. Freddie Jones’s performance of Claudius is superb, but he is shown in a less idealised light than in the later show. In the early episodes of The Caesars, he is mostly drunk and despite the occasional clever observation, there is little indication of his skills as a scholarly writer. As Clayton (1968b) writes, the ‘irony of [Claudius’s] survival, a slobber-tongued, stammering, drunken weakling among braver and more able men, was not lost on Claudius. Freddie Jones managed to convey both the strangeness of Claudius’s behaviour and his self-preserving wisdom.’ Often, he complains to both Tiberius and Germanicus about not having any tasks, the absence of which he credits with his drinking and general disorder. Most significant, though, when the Pretorian Guard declares him to be emperor at the end of the final episode, he takes on his role quickly and without hesitation. In the very next scene he is seen with two senators who ask him to reinstate the Republic. Claudius refuses the request in a haughty fashion, stating that he is the new emperor and offering his ring to be kissed. This is quite in contrast to I, Claudius, which features his lengthy attempt at refusing the role despite the efforts of the Praetorian Guard and his friends to put him in charge. Despite his physical disabilities, the Claudius of The Caesars remains aware of his noble birth and the elevated position that follows from it. As such, the portrayal is maybe more consistent with the more critical view of Claudius’s reign in many ancient sources than the glorified hero of Graves’s novels. More generally, considerations of class and a person’s place in society play a role throughout the show, reflecting many of the social debates of the 1960s. In episode 1 (‘Augustus’), for instance, Augustus tells Agrippa Postumus that his family comes from a more middle-class background (rather than high aristocracy as Livia) and therefore needs to be more careful in their actions ‘for the first hundred years’. Tiberius on the other hand, even though he is the offspring of Livia’s allegedly more elevated Claudian family, continuously questions his own worth and suitability as an emperor, claiming he is more suitable as an ‘accountant’ rather than a ruler. These class conflicts still play a role in contemporary dramas like Rome, for example when Atia of the Julii disapproves of her daughter Octavia’s connection with a wealthy merchant daughter or when Lucius’s wife Niobe is discreetly mocked for her modest dress at Atia’s party. However, they are likely to have been a more prevalent issue for audiences in 1960s Britain.

38  Pepla and politics (1960s) With the focus of the show firmly on politics, sex and decadence do not play as much of a role in The Caesars as they do in later series. Tiberius’s depravity, which is so clearly emphasised in I, Claudius (see case study 3), is here only mentioned briefly when in old age, he admits to a friend his ‘occasional debaucheries’ of his youth. This is one of the few occasions, in which the script deviates from Suetonius’s account, which revels in these excesses, although these details are not supported by other historical accounts, e.g. Tacitus or Velleius. In The Caesars, the primary vice seems to be drunkenness. For instance, in a later episode, Tiberius, Caligula and Claudius are all shown getting drunk together in Tiberius’s villa on Capri, but no women are present and there is definitely no orgy. The latter is in fact entirely absent from this series. Overall, even in the episodes featuring Caligula, the focus is on the excesses of power rather than sexuality, focusing on his ‘capricious cruelty allied to absolute power [which] produced an atmosphere of sheer terror and madness’ (Clayton, 1968b). Although Caligula is portrayed as sexually promiscuous and extremely selfish, he is also seen as clever and calculating in his actions. When taking over the reign, he very clearly outlines his strategy to establish power and to be loved by the people, for example by burying Germanicus’s and Agrippina’s ashes in Augustus’s tomb. He is not shown as being responsible for his father’s death when a child, as he is later in I, Claudius, thus giving him a less inherently evil persona. The Caligula in The Caesars is cold, calculating and cruel, but not as frivolous and insane as in later versions. In the scene in which he kills his sister Drusilla (Pollyanna Williams), he is shown accidentally strangling her during sex. This is shocking, but not to the same extent as her deliberate and brutal slaughter in I, Claudius (more on this in case study 3). His ‘madness’ is even presented as a calculated political strategy, for example when he explains to his guests that he ‘invented uncertainty’. In episode 6, Caligula claims that ‘the secret of being a successful emperor is to have everything depend on one’s whim so that no one will know what will happen until the emperor says this or that . . . so that everyone must seek to please me without knowing what will please’. To which his friend Lepidus (Sean Arnold) replies, ‘I drink to a most successful ruler’. Like his predecessors, he ruthlessly disposes of potential rivals to the throne. When he kills or blackmails wealthy Roman aristocrats this is not simply done on a whim but to support his precarious finances. The more outrageous events of Caligula’s reign are narrated by others rather than actually shown. For example, Claudius recounts Caligula’s command to have his army collect seashells when they reached the English Channel (as noted in Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars, Life of Caligula, 45). Yet, having Claudius

TV antiquity  39 tell the story already moves these episodes into the realm of legend, instantly raising some questions about their veracity. This is similar to the way in which Odysseus’s narration in the Odyssey puts into question some of his more fantastic encounters, as I will discuss in the next case study. Only shortly before Caligula’s assassination is his insanity emphasised, such as when he claims to make love to the moon goddess. Consequently, his murder becomes politically justified.

Strong women at the margins Elley (1984: 88) argues that when it comes to the cinematic epics of the 1950s and 1960s, in ‘Imperial Rome the sexual imagery becomes more related to power . . . Rome . . . takes on a “masculine” identity – more specifically, extremes of masculine qualities which find qualification and redemption through “feminine” contact’. Although The Caesars exemplifies this focus on the masculine, it offers little opportunity for redemptive women. Yet, interestingly, ‘villainous’ women as the ones dominating I, Claudius, are also sparse throughout the show. It is, therefore, worthwhile looking at the female characters that do feature in The Caesars and how their portrayal varies from later series. With both Augustus and Tiberius shown as clever and calculating in their own right, the role of Livia as the chief manipulator is somewhat diminished in The Caesars, especially in comparison to the centrality of her character in I, Claudius. Nevertheless, Clayton (1968a) compliments Sonia Dresdel for her portrayal of the Empress Livia, who convinced her ‘absolutely that she would poison any enemy in her path’. Although Livia still attempts to influence the state and admits to ‘a number of poisonings in her time’ (episode 2, ‘Germanicus’), she is not blamed for all possible deaths that occur. Especially, she is not shown as responsible for Augustus’s death and seems genuinely distraught at his passing. Therefore, she appears much less monstrous than in the later show (see my discussion of Augustus’s death scene in I, Claudius in case study 3). In The Caesars, Livia is primarily portrayed as an ‘ex-empress’ who has lost the power to rule. This becomes very clear in a dialogue in episode 2, when Tiberius tells her that he ‘never thought that women should meddle in politics, they are too much swayed by personal feeling’. An outraged Livia tells him that ‘Augustus took my advice and was glad for it’ and then asks him: ‘Are you trying to deny me any part in ruling this empire?’ Tiberius answer is a resounding ‘yes’. This patriarchal take on politics may be read as influenced by the attitudes of the times in which the show was made, indicated by the fact that in the UK by the

40  Pepla and politics (1960s) end of the 1960s, there were still only twenty-six female representatives in the House of Commons (out of a total of 630 members). While this suggests a rather more negative view on women in politics, assessing the treatment of women in The Caesars is somewhat more complicated. Although women are clearly more marginalised here than in later shows if you look at screen presence, they are also not as villainised as, for example, in I, Claudius. For the most part, the women in the series do adhere to the clichés of manipulative Roman elite women as suggested by Ragalie (2006). However, while women in The Caesars are overall just as power-hungry and scheming as men and as calculating as in later shows, they are not sexualised in the same way. Even Macro’s wife Ennia (Wanda Ventham), who in agreement with her husband seduces Caligula, is shown in relatively few licentious scenes. The most promiscuous women of later shows, such as Tiberius’s wife Julia or Drusus’s wife Livilla do not feature at all or have very minor roles. Moreover, Claudius’s notorious wife Messalina (Nicola Pagett) is only introduced towards the end of the series, so that her alleged sexual conquests, which are so boldly portrayed in I, Claudius, do not feature in the series. Her brief appearance in the show is nevertheless interesting. When we see her entering the throne room, both Caligula and Claudius comment on her beauty, but she is by no means simply sexualised as both men seem intimidated by her. In the previous scene, we saw her rebuke Claudius for being such a coward and not having the courage to assassinate Caligula before voicing her disappointment that there is no man in Rome brave enough to take on the corrupt emperor. In fact, shortly afterwards she is the only one at court bold enough to openly defy Caligula when, unlike Claudius, she refuses to kiss the emperor’s foot when commanded. Rather, she turns and leaves the room. Other female characters have similarly brief but confident appearances. After Caligula’s death, it is his wife Caesonia who commands a reluctant officer of the Praetorian Guard to take her life thus actively choosing to die rather than becoming a helpless victim in the aftermath of her husband’s assassination. As far as violence is concerned, very little of it is actually seen. Some of it is still based on stage conventions and appears a little silly now, such as when Agrippa Postumus is first stabbed by the guard and rather obviously clasps the sword under his arm. Nevertheless, the lack of graphic violence does not mean that the show lacks shocking moments. The cold and passionless reporting of atrocities throughout the series, for example, is no less troubling than the more explicit violence of later shows. In episode 4, after the fall of Sejanus, Tiberius receives a report of the atrocities committed against Sejanus family, such as

TV antiquity  41 the rape and subsequent strangulation of his young daughters (raped first because the law forbids killing virgins). What makes this scene so chilling is the ‘bureaucratic’ style of the reporting and simple reference to customs and necessities, reminiscent of Nazi distancing strategies in the Holocaust. This general focus on unemotional matter-of-factness may also be a reason why religion in all forms is almost entirely absent from The Caesars. Telling the story from the Roman perspective means that Tiberius’s role in the persecution of Jews, which is the main reason for his inclusion in most of the cinematic epics mentioned earlier, does not appear in The Caesars. This is nevertheless surprising as one might assume that because the character had previously been established in that way, the producers would attempt to offer their audience some link to the well-known films. There is also little evidence of Roman religious practices in the show, apart from Caligula declaring himself a god in the later period of his reign. The one element that could be considered within this context is Tiberius’s reliance on his astrologer Thrasyllus, which is consistent with historical sources.5 Interestingly, Kevin Stoney plays the astrologer in both The Caesars and I, Claudius, although the relationship between Tiberius and Thrasyllus seems more pragmatic in the earlier series, where Thrasyllus displays a more critical attitude. On the surface, we could argue that Tiberius’s confidence in astrology is somewhat at odds with the level-headed strategist that I described earlier. Yet, Tiberius frequently emphasises throughout the show that to him astrology is a ‘science’ rather than something mystical or magical. In fact, he condemns the apparent superstition of both Augustus and Germanicus, who believed in divine signs and curses. While this distinction may seem odd from a contemporary point of view, we need to keep in mind that in the ancient world, astrology was perceived as a legitimate science. In summary, The Caesars offers an insightful drama that shines a critical light on the machinations of politics both ancient and modern. Its minimalist style, at times reminiscent of film noir, is in stark contrast to the rich visuals offered in later shows. Nevertheless, as Angelini (2007: 1) notes with regard to the recent DVD release, the ‘production stands up remarkably well to contemporary viewing, due to its focus on the grim and pitiless realities of the exercise of political power that hold true for any period’. One might hope that its rerelease will eventually mean that more scholars of television antiquity will consider this work, not just in comparison to I, Claudius. Having already noted a number of similarities and significant differences between the two shows, I will return to this in my analysis in case study 3.

Case study 2: Odissea/The Odyssey (1968)

As the title suggests, Odissea (Italian original title)6 or The Odyssey is a television miniseries based on Homer’s famous poem. As such, it is one of the few television shows set in Greek rather than Roman antiquity, making it an interesting comparison to most of the other series in this book. The show is a co-production between a number of European broadcasters, most prominently RAI (Italy), Bavaria Film TV (Germany) and ORTF (France). It was first broadcast in Italy, where it was watched by over 16 million viewers, and later shown in Germany (1969) and France (1970). Subsequently, it was also dubbed into English and broadcast in the US and Canada. Filming for The Odyssey took place mainly in former Yugoslavia, with the coasts of what is now Croatia and Montenegro standing in for the Greek islands of the original myth. The Italian and initial French broadcast split the series into eight episodes of 55 minutes each, while the German and a later French-Canadian version consisted of four slightly edited episodes of circa 105 minutes each. An edited version was also later released in cinemas and in 1978. In 2008, a DVD version was released in Germany. The scale of this international co-production presented a milestone in European television history as its budget was unprecedented at this point. It also set a standard for numerous international collaborations that were to follow. The budget is interesting here as limited finance is usually seen as one of the key limitations of television in comparison to cinema. Yet, some high-quality drama did manage to attract larger budgets than were common in television at that time. In particular, although ‘unable to match the scale of cinematic epics, the mini-series usually enjoyed a higher budget and longer episode duration than other television programs’ as Baker (2006) writes. The Odyssey is one such example. This was reflected especially in the reviews of the show when it was broadcast in the US and Baker (2006) notes that ‘Variety emphasised that it was “the costliest venture in Italy to date”’. Yet,

TV antiquity  43 it was not just the money that mattered, but also the quality of the adaptation. Baker further quotes the review, which claims that ‘The Odyssey becomes a demonstration of how to preserve the dignity and epic tone of a classic while infusing the fabulous adventure with a realistic popularization of fact and legend’ (Werba, 1968, as cited in Baker, 2006). As a classical work, it fitted the educational demands for more intellectually stimulating programmes, while its fantastical mythical creatures ensured high entertainment value. This is, however, to be read in the context of other television works of the 1960s as the slow pace, off-screen narration and lack of action all undermine the ‘entertainment value’ of the programme from a contemporary point of view. As such, the show is a strong indicator of the public broadcasting ethos that dominated the European market at the time and facilitated the production of such a demanding artistic work as The Odyssey. In fact, most European countries preserved their public broadcasting monopoly much longer than the UK. In Italy, attempts to introduce independent commercial television only started in 1971 and France followed in 1975. In Germany it was not until 1984 that commercial television channels started to enter the market. This is relevant insofar as the attempt at reproducing Homer’s Odyssey in a relatively faithful way, eschewing spectacle in favour of poetry may not have been possible in a more entertainment driven, commercial environment. It is likely that the series would have been done differently as is indicated by the 1997 television version that I will briefly discuss later in this case study. As mentioned, the significance of this series, both in its international scope and style and its link to significant peplum productions of the time, offers a good touchstone to discuss the developments of subsequent television dramas set in antiquity. This is further emphasised when looking at some of the key people involved in the production. The series was directed by Franco Rossi, Mario Bava and Piero Schivazappa. Among other things, Franco Rossi later went on to direct the 1985 television adaptation of Quo Vadis?. Mario Bava, who gained particular recognition for directing the Polyphemus episode in The Odyssey, had previously worked on peplum classics such as Hercules (1958), Hercules Unchained (1959) and Hercules in the Haunted World (1961). The producer of the series, Dino de Laurentiis, also had previous experience with the subject, producing the extremely successful cinema epic Ulysses (1954) with Kirk Douglas as the eponymous hero and Anthony Quinn as Antinous. The film is described by Jon Solomon (2001: 109) as ‘the finest of all film versions of the Homeric poems’, and I will discuss shortly how the television series fares in comparison. This film was also co-directed by Bava, although he was uncredited at the time. Actress Irene Papas,

44  Pepla and politics (1960s) who plays Penelope in The Odyssey, also had previous experience with sword-and-sandal productions like Theodora, Slave Empress (Teodora, Imperatrice di Bisanzio, 1954) and Attila (1954) and went on to star as Helen of Troy in The Trojan Women (1971). She later even returns as Anticlea, Odysseus’s mother, in the 1997 television version of The Odyssey, creating a link to the 1968 series that is likely to escape most of the audience. Baker (2006) also argues that the ‘The Odyssey mini-series . . . [was] received in remarkably similar terms [to earlier cinematic versions], revealing a degree of continuity in the association of myth with cultural status but also with modes of display’. The notion of cultural status can be connected to the educational ideals outlined earlier, while ‘modes of display’ here means the extent to which previous cinematic versions have influenced the reception of the series. It is likely that most audiences will be familiar with Odysseus’s story from such screen iterations rather than from reading Homer. In addition, despite its high-culture credentials, the series has also links to the peplum cycle popular at the time. This is the case not just in terms of production history but also with regard to some of the stylistic elements as I will discuss shortly. In addition to these aesthetic considerations, I will look at how the show adapts the mythic–divine framework of the original story and transfers Homer’s complex literary work onto the television screen, particularly with regard to the notions of intimacy, complexity and seriality. Elley (1984: 60) notes that although the ‘Iliad and the Odyssey do not contain every aspect of epic form . . . they do, between them, encapsulate the Greek experience’. The fact that the overall story is mostly familiar to the audiences poses a challenge as well as an opportunity for filmmakers. On the one hand, not every detail needs to be shown or narrated, but on the other, people have a preconception of what to expect. As noted above, many television viewers would also have been familiar with the film Ulysses, which would have influenced their expectations. While the film focused on the adventures of Odysseus and his eventual return home, the television series, at almost four times the length, is able to include many episodes of Homer’s poem that are often excluded in popular representations of the story. This is especially the case of the events that feature in the earlier books of the Odyssey, but even so, some episodes were shortened or omitted. Given the space to develop a mode of storytelling distinct from its cinematic counterparts and taking advantage of the serialised form, the producers of the programme not only included less familiar episodes, but also attempted to mimic the rhythm of the Homeric poem. In terms of complexity, the series closely follows Homer’s original poem, preserving its complex temporal structure and various layers of narration. This includes the back and

TV antiquity  45 forth between locations, repetitions and changing narrators. This lack of a linear narrative, however, can at times disorient the audience which may not be familiar with the original text.

Action versus poetry Before the title credits commence, the series starts with a documentarystyle visit to the ruins of Troy. As the camera sweeps over the tumbled stones and remaining columns of the historic site, a narrator tells us: Before our adventure starts, we invite you to come with us and have a look at these settings, now dark and lonely, where the whole story began. This is the shore of the Dardanelles, in modern day Turkey, here is the plain of Troy, where the Trojan War took place 3,000 years ago, inspiring the work of Homer. This rubble on the hills is all that remains of the city. When you visit the ruins you can see traces of nine cities, one built on top of the other . . . . The one sung by Homer was the last one, it was flourishing and peaceful until the Greeks demolished it around the year 1200 bc.7

This introduction firmly grounds the mythical narrative that is to follow within a factual historical setting, making it appear initially more like a contemporary docudrama than ancient poem. The narrator also informs the viewer that the reasons for Troy’s destruction have probably nothing to do with Helen and the legendary account of her abduction. One could argue that this outline of historical findings somewhat undermines the story that follows and puts the audience at a critical distance. The camera then moves to the museum in Athens, showing us the death masks of the Greek heroes of the Trojan War before dissolving to start the ‘story proper’. The first episode proceeds to portray roughly the first four books of the Odyssey, which deal with the situation at Ithaca’s court and Telemachus’s search for his father. During this episode, Telemachus (Renaud Verley) visits Menelaus (Fausto Tozzi) and Helen (Scilla Gabel) in Sparta who have returned after the war and are living a quiet life. Although this episode features a short chariot ride, this is done with very little action and shown mostly from the distance, which is representative of the first episode more generally. Overall, there is little drama and excitement to be found in the stories told by Menelaus and Helen. The early episodes presenting the earlier parts of the poem, before Odysseus’s adventures start, are mostly dominated by either off- or on-screen narration. This gives the show a much more elegiac tone than The Caesars. Although The Odyssey makes frequent use of outdoor settings, in contrast to the limited studio sets of The Caesars, these outdoor scenes are still often

46  Pepla and politics (1960s) isolated and closely framed. The few battle scenes shown throughout the series consist of mainly one-to-one combat and are generally brief. In comparison to the cinematic version, but also to contemporaneous television shows like The Caesars, the pace of The Odyssey is painstakingly slow. It is an hour into the first episode that we initially encounter a barechested Odysseus (Bekim Fehmiu) on a small handmade float – more Robinson Crusoe at sea than Greek hero – and we are counting the days of his lonely journey until we reach seventeen days in total. The cruel calmness of the sea is finally broken by a dramatic scene when Odysseus is hit by a storm. However, we only see the storm from a distance and not really his boat and his peril. In another storm scene later in the series, when Odysseus loses his ship and all his men, the camera shifts between brief close-ups of the crew on board and long distance shots of the sinking ship. This allows the audience to be drawn more closely into the story, emphasising the sense of loss and despair. In the earlier episodes, however, the action is often left to the audience’s imagination, which is somewhat similar to the atrocities recounted in The Caesars. Unlike The Caesars, however, The Odyssey provides a lot of additional narration explaining the background and even the emotions of the characters. The Caesars mostly provided this information in dialogues between characters, making it more conversational and involving – and arguably more televisual. It is of course the nature of Homer’s poem that it includes a number of narrators telling stories, such as the poets at the courts in Ithaca and Phaecia, or Odysseus telling his own story. But the series also uses off-screen narration and indirect speech, often more or less directly citing from the original text, in cases where these could have been easily dramatised. For example, in the final episode, shortly before the showdown at the palace in Ithaca, we see Odysseus and Telemachus from the distance as they prepare the hall, while the narrator tells us: ‘Father and son were hiding their weapons when a ray of light showed them the way. Before Telemachus could talk, Ulysses said: Ask no questions, my son, and trust the Gods.’ While the narrator gives us this dialogue, we see both Telemachus and Odysseus silently in the frame. It would have been just as easy, and certainly more televisual, to have the characters speak these words themselves. All this distances the audience from the story in a similar way that the Shakespearean dialogue did in The Spread of the Eagle. You may appreciate the craftsmanship of the adaptation or the beauty of the original poetry, but it does not create the same intimate audience engagement than other shows are able to as the style distracts from the story. Even when events are not told via off-screen narration, they are often presented by a character

TV antiquity  47 giving a lengthy monologue. Moreover, throughout most of the episodes, the majority of the characters talk in a similar, monotonous pattern of speech with very few raised voices, despite the obvious conflicts and tumult that are portrayed. When Odysseus is finally asked to recount his adventures half-way through the second episode, the pace picks up. At first, the adventure episodes are constantly interrupted by a cutback to Odysseus telling the story. Although this disrupts the story, it also enables us to get a sense of how his listeners react to the story. When we reach the encounter with the Cyclops Polyphemus (Samson Burke), the audience is treated to more action. Here, Bava’s experience with working on Ulysses and the Hercules films probably had a positive influence as the focus is more strongly on the on-screen action. In fact, the scene is quite brutal, which comes even more as a shock after the calmness that preceded it. For example, when one of the Greeks is picked up and eaten by Polyphemus, we hear his screams, the sound of breaking bones and see his head being bitten off. Other Greeks kneel and pray for their lost comrades. The scene is much more intense than its preceding cinematic version. The more the scene progresses to its dramatic climax, the less it is interrupted by off-screen narration or cutbacks to Odysseus. The emphasis on adherence with the original Greek poem returns, however, in episode 4, when Odysseus’s thoughts and the events in general are commented on by what one might call a chorus with reference to Greek tragedy. In general, this chorus consists of women that narrate the scene, often clad in black and at one point bearing shields. While they are in the frame and thus in the story, they are also at the same time outside of it as it is not clear if they are part of the same diegesis as the other characters, putting us once again in the position of outside observer rather than drawing us into the story. When discussing the film version, Solomon (2001: 110) noted that the merging of episodes from the poem produces an ‘economical form appropriate to cinema’ while still preserving the spirit of Homeric poetry. One could argue that in trying to preserve Homeric poetry more literally, the series to some extent ignores the opportunities and requirements of television.

Recreating antiquity between tradition and modernity Apart from the narrative, the aesthetic features also distinguish the series from other examples of TV antiquity. Here, it at once follows some of the features established by traditional peplum cinema and

48  Pepla and politics (1960s) attempts at a more realist aesthetic that emerged during this period. First, although made at the same time as The Caesars, The Odyssey is filmed and broadcast in colour rather than black and white, which is one of the most obvious stylistic features that distinguishes it from the British series. Beyond being a simple aesthetic detail this is relevant insofar as one might assume that The Caesars appears more old-fashioned in its use of black and white and its exclusive use of studio and indoor scenes. In contrast, The Odyssey offers more innovative features such as colour and on-location shooting. Yet, the slow pace and focus on narration rather than action makes the latter at times feel much more theatrical than the ITV series. More generally, The Odyssey faces the problem of how to develop a distinct look for its ancient and mythic Greek setting, similar to the challenge encountered by the Italian peplum cycle of this period, as noted in Part I. One of the key issues with portraying Greek antiquity is that ‘Rome had already co-opted so much that was Greek that it left little room for a distinctive cinematic vocabulary of Greekness’, as Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 68) observe. Therefore, filmmakers face a challenge when trying to create a unique look for this early part of antiquity. Discussing the visual features of Italian peplum films, Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 66) argue that ‘costuming, music, and landscape were all deployed to create a vision of Greece that stood in contrast to Rome’. A similar tendency can be found when comparing the two television series discussed in this part. With regard to peplum classic Hercules (1958), Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 66) suggest that the scenery is ‘austere’ and the show does not ‘begin with lavish settings’, which is similarly the case in The Odyssey, even though we are at the royal court in Ithaca. Other kingdoms that feature in the television show, such as Sparta and even the Phaeacian court at Scherie, are equally bare in their sets. It is evident that in this series as in other peplum films, there ‘is none of the usual opulence, grandeur, or casts of thousands normally associated with the ancient world’ (Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011: 66). The notion of austerity is not only applicable to costumes and landscape as ‘Greek interiors [also] tend to be comparatively sparse spaces’ (Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011: 66–7). Throughout the series, houses and even palaces are very primitive, portraying a primitive, rural society rather than a highly cultivated metropolis as in representations of ancient Rome. Most interiors are largely devoid of décor with only minimal furnishings. These furnishings are often primitive stone or wood items, mostly without any elaborate carvings or decorations. Menelaus’s palace, for example, appears more like a cave dwelling carved into a cliff face. The circular

TV antiquity  49

Figure 1  Menelaus looking up in his throne room with Agamemnon’s armour in the background in Odissea

room, in which he and Helen receive Telemachus, contains nothing but a few benches carved out of rough stone around the edges and a stone table in the middle. Agamemnon’s armour is the only decorative feature in the room (see Figure 1). Surprisingly, these almost prehistoric interiors are at times contrasted with some distinct 1960s looks, for example Cassandra’s (Stefanella Giovannini) short and distinctly 1960s haircut or the rather surreal council that Odysseus encounters at Scherie, home of king Alcinous (Roy Purcell). Upon Odysseus’s arrival here, he is placed in the middle of a sparsely furnished room and food and drink is put in front of him. He is eating alone, surrounded by the court, which is separated into various groups of people – each group with their own specific and strange uniform outfit. These groups, including the royal family, are all withdrawn to the sides and corners of the room watching Odysseus while he eats. We see their faces in close-up while they are watching and a strange, esoteric music plays in the background. The scene here combines the austere, prehistoric settings mentioned above with science fiction-style costumes. In general, costumes in The Odyssey are an interesting mix of attempted historical accuracy and 1960s glamour. While everyone in Ithaca – from the queen to the peasants – wears rather modest and unassuming woollen clothes, the dresses of members of the Phaeacian court are more elaborate.

50  Pepla and politics (1960s) King Alcinous and queen Arete (Marina Berti) are dressed in flowing robes of metallic fabric – silver and gold respectively – when they are listening to Odysseus’s story. Their daughter Nausicaa (Barbara Bach) wears a dress that makes her look more like a medieval princess than a Greek maiden. Another feature observed by Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011) with regard to 1950s peplum films, is that heroes often do not wear armour, which is also the case in The Odyssey. Men in general wear the short skirt that gave the peplum its name, while women mostly wear long robes that cover their bodies. Even the seductress Circe (Juliette Mayniel) is mostly covered in fabrics, even if some of it is sheer. The primitive weapons used by the Greeks are another indicator of a period significantly before the Roman Empire and its iconographic images of Roman soldiers. As noted by Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 68), the ‘combination of cloak and muscled cuirass, although a Greek invention, is so firmly associated with the Roman legionary that it proves impossible to reclaim or be rid of its Roman associations’. In addition, basic tools and the roughly woven, unadorned clothes of the Greeks in Ithaca and Odysseus’s men all add to the impression of a time before history. It thus firmly positions the story in a mythical age rather than being more closely linked to the ancient history familiar to us from the big screen. It is also consistent with the notion that history as a genre only really appeared after the great poems by Homer, even if the Greeks would have thought of them as presenting events of their past. In addition, it is also evident that costumes are used to signify different places. While the court in Ithaca reflects a modest realism, the more fantastical episodes of Odysseus’s journeys also feature more fantastical costumes and sets. The most surreal scene is arguably Odysseus’s visit to the home of Aeolus (Vladimir Leib), keeper of the winds. In this odd mountaintop dwelling, we encounter Aeolus feasting, surrounded by his wife and children. Interestingly, the series here reduces his children to three sons and three daughters, rather than the twelve (six each) named in Homer’s poem and classical myth, no doubt due to reasons of economy. The most striking features, however, are the family’s silvery unisex spacesuits and big white-silvery wigs, combined with strong black eyeliner and turquoise eyeshadow. In addition, the feast is accompanied by cupid-like children with harps, silver hair and long silver gowns. The whole set looks like it would not be out of place in a science fiction film (see Figure 2). These scenes of artifice are, as mentioned, contrasted with an otherwise realistic representation of ancient Greece that is more reminiscent of later arthouse works, such as Pasolini’s Medea (1969) or Cacoyannis’s The Trojan Women (1971). In an attempt to break with

TV antiquity  51

Figure 2  Aeolus in Odissea

the conventions of the peplum that was typical in Italy in the previous decades, these works, like The Odyssey, aim to develop a new, distinct visual style for antiquity. This new look preserves some of the austerity established by the peplum films, but also adds features from more experimental cinematic styles that emerged during these decades.

The Greeks and their gods As noted in Part I, however, one of the biggest challenges when recreating ancient Greece is how to deal with elements of Greek mythology within a realistic representation, especially the gods. As Hannah Roisman (2010: 322) observes, the ‘question of how to handle the ancient pantheon presents a challenge for all cinematic adaptations of Homeric texts’. Similarly, in his discussion of epic cinema, Elley (1984: 59) suggests that with regard to Greece, there is a particular ‘problem of reconciling an expected sense of gravity with a fidelity to the spirit of the original myth’. And yet, as Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 68) suggest, one way ‘in which on-screen Greece was established was through constant reference to mythological exemplars’. The recent attempt by the BBC and Netflix to adapt Homer’s other epic – The Iliad – in Troy: Fall of a City

52  Pepla and politics (1960s) (2018) onto television screens, once again highlighted the problematic aspects of integrating the mytho-historic account of the Trojan War with the omnipresence of the god is this conflict, as its portrayal of the gods led to much discussion among viewers and critics. Another issue with Greek myth is that the ‘Greeks pictured their gods and heroes like themselves, and this is part and parcel of the great humanity of their art and literature’, as Elley (1984: 59) notes. This is quite different from a post-classical understanding of divinity as inherently different – and better – than us. The Odyssey faces a similar challenge on portraying the gods and monsters without undermining the gravitas of Homer’s literary work. Particularly the gods feature prominently in The Odyssey. Solomon (2001: 111) describes the Odyssey as ‘the earliest fantasy novel of Western civilization’ and that may pose a problem to filmmakers trying to aim at realism as discussed above. While we could argue that the events of the Iliad can to some extent be stripped of their mythological content by focusing on the war, as was done in Troy (2004), the events of Homer’s Odyssey with its array of fantastical creatures and mysterious encounters are impossible to narrate without any reference to the mythic–divine. The way this is done in The Odyssey, however, is rather different to other films and television shows featuring the Greek myths. Works such as Jason and the Argonauts (1963), Clash of the Titans (1981) or Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995–99) wholeheartedly embrace the fantasy element, whereas The Odyssey maintains its naturalist aesthetic. Straight after the aforementioned introductory scene in the ruins of Troy and the display of the death masks in the museum is followed by a discussion among the gods. This clearly establishes a mythical framework that underpins the story. However, although we hear the voices of the gods, we actually only see the white marble statues of these gods in the museum. Thus, the series avoids the problem of how to personify the gods by sticking to classical representations in sculpture. Yet, at the same time, this representation also maintains the quasi-documentary style of the earlier scenes that contrasts archaeological finds with the fictional stories told in ancient times. As such, The Odyssey is presented as just one layer in the archaeological history of the site. Once the story has started, however, we encounter other representations of the gods, especially Athena (Michèle Breton), who features as prominently throughout the series as she does in the original myth. She appears in various disguises to Penelope and to Odysseus. Sometimes she appears as a boyish-looking peasant girl, later she takes on the persona of an old man at court. Apart from Athena, Hermes also appears regularly, looking more like a traditional cupid with blond curled hair than his more common portrayal in antiquity with winged helmet and

TV antiquity  53 sandals. At the end of the final episode, the filmmakers return to a more indirect representation, when we ‘see’ Athena and Zeus in conversation, presented again using indirect speech and the sculptured heads of both divinities, thus taking us back to the museum. Apart from simply being a feature of ancient Greece, the presence of this divine apparatus is also a way to distinguish Greek TV antiquity from the shows set in Rome. Not only does it present the gods themselves, it also shows human beings in their interaction with and worship of the gods. In contrast, as highlighted with regard to The Caesars as well as in later case studies, religious practices in Roman antiquity were often either excluded or portrayed as merely political instruments.8 In contrast, in Greek mythology, it is often the humans that are being instrumentalised by the gods. Odysseus is a prime example of this as almost all of his actions seem to be subject to either support or sabotage by the gods. Penelope’s last words in The Odyssey confirm the importance of this divine apparatus: ‘Our fate is in the hands of the gods, they have the power over our lives, and nothing else can be done, but to watch and to listen’. By presenting the mythological framework as being part of the psyche of the ancient characters, the show is able to include these fantastical or even surreal elements into its otherwise realistic representation. A noteworthy instance of this is a striking scene in episode 3, in which Odysseus encounters the shadows of the underworld. Alone in a cave, Odysseus is approached by an army of the dead, cloaked in black and reaching out to him like zombies. To emphasise this link to horror film, they ask to drink the blood of the goat slaughtered by Odysseus. This is, of course, close to the original myth, written at a time when blood sacrifices were still common, elements that now reappear in contemporary popular culture primarily through the genre of horror. When Odysseus eventually converses with the dead seer Tiresias (Giulio Donnini), the latter’s mouth is also smeared with blood. As he is giving his prophecy, Tiresias’s bloody face is gradually overlaid with the face of Odysseus, providing an eerie image of the Greek hero’s own vulnerability. This dependence on the gods, however, also leads to another key issue when adapting Greek mythology for contemporary audiences, namely its very different moral framework. For example, faithfully following Homer’s story, the series is unapologetic about Odysseus’s slaughtering of the suitors – as well as the women that liaised with them – when returning to Ithaca. Yet, it is Athena who gets the blame for this savage act of revenge: ‘Athena is merciless’ as the chorus confirms. In addition, Odysseus’s infidelity with Circe is blamed on her magical powers. While the aforementioned film Ulysses circumvents the issue by casting the same actress in the roles of both Penelope and Circe,

54  Pepla and politics (1960s) thus suggesting a psychological deception rather than the desire to be being unfaithful, The Odyssey provides no such loopholes. This might be due to the fact that the television series appeared in the late 1960s, a time of increasing sexual liberation, rather than the more conservative 1950s during which Mario Camerini’s film was made. The absence of blame for either violence or promiscuity is also significant in contrast to the rulers in The Caesars and other films and TV shows set in Rome. In the latter, the excessive use of sex and violence by the Roman elite is often used as a cautionary tale about the corruption of power. Such sentiments, however, are mostly absent from the Greek myth and The Odyssey here faithfully follows the literary original without adapting it into a contemporary moral framework. As stated, Greek mythology may seem to appear less frequent onscreen than Roman mytho-history. Yet, Homer’s Odyssey is one exception that continues to prove popular. Camerini’s Ulysses, for example, is still regularly repeated on television. In 1997, NBC made a fresh attempt at reinterpreting the legendary adventures with its two-part miniseries The Odyssey. In contrast to Odissea/The Odyssey, this more recent version tries to simplify the complex narrative structure and presents the events chronologically rather than in medias res as the earlier series. On the one hand, the removal of Odysseus’s storytelling (and other narration) draws the audience more closely into the action and presents the story in an arguably more televisual way. On the other hand, however, the removal of the framing also means that ‘the rhetorical astuteness of the hero is also absent, and whatever fictional quality the story may have is lost. Thus ironically, what is presented in the epic as fiction turns into a “reality” [in the miniseries]’ (Roisman, 2010: 317). While The Odyssey (1968), as we have seen, used various devices to present the story as an ancient work of art (documentary-style framing, off-screen narration, etc.), the more recent series focuses more strongly on the hero and his adventures. The earlier show, as demonstrated here, uses serialisation to provide a more faithful rendering of the Greek poem, illustrating the links between the episodic narration of Homer and the serial format as outlined in Part I. In contrast, the more recent show seems to use the extra time to expand the action-adventure element of the story. Moreover, the hero of the more recent retelling is also significantly adjusted to contemporary tastes and moral codes. This is similar to the way in which the Greek hero Heracles is transformed in the 1990s television show Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (see case study 6). As Roisman (2010: 319, 324) notes, much of Odysseus’s megalomania is edited out of the 1997 version to make him a more conventional twenty-first-century hero, ‘a “nice guy” and psychologically adult leader’, treating ‘Odysseus’ pride

TV antiquity  55 as a failing that must be overcome and charts his painful acquisition of humility’. As we will see throughout this book, the portrayal of heroism is a particularly interesting indicator of cultural mores throughout the six decades of television history under consideration. The Odyssey (1968) appears as an exception in its maintaining of (sometimes uncomfortable) ancient moral codes. Here, the complexity of the original narrative is transferred to the television screen, while seriality allows for a more expansive rendering of the Homeric poem than was possible in cinematic versions. The preservation of poetic language and confusing temporal structure sometimes comes at the expense of intimacy. But the moments when we observe a troubled Penelope alone in her room praying to the gods nevertheless enable us at times to get an intimate insight into her personal conflict and emotional trauma. The artistic freedom granted by its high-culture status and its public broadcasting environment no doubt had a significant influence on this, making it a significant and valuable contribution to the history of TV antiquity.

Notes 1 Unfortunately, all of the four episodes that were part of this storyline are now presumed lost. 2 Two more recent Doctor Who episodes, ‘The Eaters of Light’ (season 10, episode 10, 2017), which explores the mystery of the missing IX Legion and ‘The Fires of Pompeii’ (season 4, episode 2, 2008), which is set in Pompeii and recycles sets used for Rome, will be discussed in later parts. 3 ITV or Independent Television was launched in 1955 under the auspices of the Independent Television Authority (ITA, later the Independent Broadcasting Authority, now Ofcom) to provide competition to the public broadcasting channel BBC. It consists of a network of regional channels that share programmes and services across the network as well as producing their own content. For further details on ITV’s history, see Johnson and Turnock (2005). 4 See ‘Granada Television’, Financial Times, 20 September 1968, p. 19, Financial Times Historical Archive, 1899–2010, tinyurl.galegroup.com/tinyurl/52de57; ‘Granada Television’, Sunday Telegraph, 22 September 1968, p. 3, Telegraph Historical Archive, tinyurl.galegroup.com/tinyurl/52dhh2; ‘Granada Television’, The Times, 20 September 1968, p. 15, Times Digital Archive, tinyurl.galegroup.com/tinyurl/52dig3 [all accessed 27 September 2018]. 5 Both Suetonius and Tacitus make reference to Thrasyllus as Tiberius’s court astrologer. 6 The title is also sometimes given as L’Odissea, although I will follow the spelling as specified on IMDB. I will use the English title throughout this case study, although I will refer to Odissea/The Odyssey in other parts of the book in order to avoid confusion with the 1997 television series The Odyssey. 7 It is now the archaeological consensus that Homer’s Troy is ‘Troy VII’ rather than the final layer as stated here. However, although excavation at the site started as early as the mid-nineteenth century, it was not until the late 1980s that more evidence was found to support the theory that the seventh layer was Homer’s

56  Pepla and politics (1960s) Troy. While the identification of the final layer with the mythic city is incorrect in this statement, the date of its destruction is consistent with current archaeological assumptions. 8 For example, when Tiberius in The Caesars asks his astrologer to make sure he has the right answers or when Julius Caesar in Rome bribes the augurs in order to convince the people that the gods love him as outlined in the respective case studies.

Costumes and censorship: the BBC’s Roman Empire (1970s)

Part III

As we have seen in Part II, from the 1950s onwards cinema had come under increasing pressure from television. Epics set in the ancient world were seen as a tool to counter this trend, with their spectacular sets, crowds and colours. Yet, by the mid-1960s, cine-antiquity had also reached a crisis point. Excessive and costly productions like Cleopatra (1963) and the dramatic failure of The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964) led to the temporary disappearance of the genre from the large screen. Maybe surprisingly, it was now ‘television which came to the aid of the Ancient World’ (Richards, 2008: 158–9). More than merely reviving antiquity in the form of serial drama, these ‘[t]elevision miniseries were so visible and so financially successful . . . that they encouraged producers to make a handful of theatrically released feature films set in antiquity’ during the following decade (Solomon, 2001: 17–18). Part III, then, will investigate how TV antiquity consolidated itself in the 1970s, and explore the different trajectories in the UK and the US. In particular, I, Claudius (1976) emerged as one of the key examples that made the BBC a standard-bearer for historical drama series in the decades to follow (see also case study 7). While I, Claudius became one of the corporation’s most successful shows of all time, The Eagle Of The Ninth (case study 4) was virtually the last attempt by the BBC to portray a series embracing ‘the grandeur that was Rome’ until the recent revival of the genre. In addition, this part will also examine how wider developments in television drama during this period, especially issues around censorship, had an influence on TV antiquity in the subsequent decades. The key technological development within the television market during this decade was no doubt the continuously growing number of colour television sets. As Giddings and Selby suggest, colour television ‘brought a revival of interest in classic novels which could be set in luscious locations, classy architecture or rhapsodic landscapes’ (2001:

58  Costumes and censorship (1970s) 30). The ambitious production of I, Claudius and other historical dramas during the 1970s seem to support this claim. However, audiences were still divided on how they were able to view these shows. As Wheatley (2016: 63) notes, by 1972 ‘only 17 percent of households were equipped with colour TV’ in the UK. Therefore, most television audiences in this country were still watching programmes in black and white until well into the 1970s. It was not until 1977 that colour TV licences overtook those for black-and-white sets. This also has some implications for TV antiquity. As noted before, cinema producers used colour as one of the key selling points for its cinematic epics and as a way to differentiate it from television. While screen size will continue to be a distinguishing factor, colour gradually took over the television market and contributed to the success of TV antiquity during this and the following decades. As I have outlined in Part II, in the UK, concerns about the television market were also in significant parts related to the growing popularity of ITV during this period. As Hilmes (2003: 69) argues, following the increase in competition through ITV throughout the 1960s, the BBC responded ‘with a wave of innovative populism of its own’ as the ‘renewed emphasis on serious drama [. . .] sparked further innovation and led to the production of high-quality . . . drama programmes such as . . . I, Claudius’. Nevertheless, ITV’s Jesus of Nazareth (1977), a co-production with Italian broadcaster RAI, was an equally significant production, prompting a resurgence of biblically inspired television dramas in the coming decade. Both productions are noteworthy due to their enormous success with television audiences both in the UK and abroad. Yet, apart from these well-known examples, a number of other interesting productions were made in the UK during the 1970s, which explored different aspects of the ancient world, as I will discuss shortly. However, it needs to be noted that despite the enormous success and popularity of BBC’s I, Claudius on both sides of the Atlantic, there were overall surprisingly few attempts at TV antiquity during this decade, particularly in the US. One reason for this absence might be related to the format itself. Although serial drama started to gain momentum in the UK in the late 1960s, commercial stations in the US were initially wary of this new format. However, the ‘serial’s re-branding as the “miniseries” in America during the 1970s and 1980s’ meant that ‘American television began to conceive the serial in a particular light viewing it as the perfect vehicle for the dramatisation of popular novels’, as Creeber (2004: 9) argues. He proposes that the demise of the single play as the format for high-quality drama even ‘signalled the very “coming of age” of television drama’ (2004: 2). However, as case study 4 illustrates, the miniseries format is not always connected to higher budgets or production values as has been suggested, although

TV antiquity  59 both I, Claudius and The Eagle of the Ninth are indeed dramatisations of historical novels. Despite the growing popularity of miniseries in the US during the 1970s, however, it took the creation of the Public Broadcasting Services (PBS) to first provide an outlet for high-quality dramas set in antiquity, in particular those purchased from the BBC (Solomon, 2008). This increasing focus on quality entertainment in the US was also related to the way in which audiences were now measured. The change towards ‘compiling viewer numbers based not only on audience size, but socio-economic demographics’, meant that broadcasters realised they ‘could attract higher-value advertisers to programs that appealed to the most desirable group – affluent, educated 18–49 year olds’, rather than simply trying to develop shows that appealed to the broadest possible audience (DeFino, 2014: 111). This led to a demand for more sophisticated programming in the US. Eventually, as Richards (2008: 166) suggests, it was the success of Jesus of Nazareth (broadcast in the US by NBC) ‘and I, Claudius, a hit on the American Public Broadcasting System [that] led producers to embark on a series of three-, four-, and five-hour ancient world epics made specifically for television’ over the next decade, some of which I will discuss in Part IV. More broadly, the genre of serialised historical drama became ‘increasingly popular . . . during the late 1970s and 1980s, winning large audiences at home, selling internationally and often attracting important co-production money from abroad, especially from America’ (Creeber, 2004: 20). These included a number of ‘great cinema epics [that] were remade for the small screen .  .  . almost none of them came near to eclipsing the achievements of their big-screen predecessors’ (Richards, 2008: 166). Richards’s main criticism here is that these shows failed to make the most of the benefits of long-form storytelling, in particular the possibility for greater variety and complexity of characters and storylines and the creation of intimacy. It seems that some of the earlier attempts at long-form narration struggled to disengage from a more ‘cinematic’ way of thinking (with its focus on a single hero/heroine, supported by a limited number of characters and a focus on dramatic action rather than the everyday). Adaptations of novels seemed to be more successful than the attempts at recreating cinematic epics for the small screen as they could draw on the more complex relationships and/or a focus on a more detailed recounting of everyday occurrences that are usually provided by the literary works. This focus on what Nietzsche characterised as an antiquarian approach to history as outlined at the beginning of this book is particularly evident in the two case studies that follow. While I, Claudius focuses on the multiplicity of relationships and intrigue in its ensemble cast, The Eagle of the Ninth deploys its minimalist sets and

60  Costumes and censorship (1970s) cast to explore the interaction between empire and colonies via detailed character studies of Marcus and Esca. It is, however, important to note that most of the shows produced in the US during this period were set in biblical times, with a primary focus on the religious aspects. As such, the motivation for these shows might be found as much in the prominence of specific religious broadcasting and production in the US as in an interest to portray subjects set in antiquity. Such productions included the miniseries The Story of Jacob and Joseph (1974, ABC), CBS’s Moses, the Lawgiver (1975) and another ABC attempt with The Story of David (1976). While there are of course substantial overlaps with the TV antiquity shows analysed in this book, their focus and target audience was arguably different. It is interesting, however, that this preference for religious antiquity in the US contrasts with the centrality of the history of the Roman Empire presented in the British shows of the period, which almost entirely eschews religious references, as I will demonstrate in the case studies. The obvious exception is ITV’s Jesus of Nazareth, but even this programme attempts to make the story more ‘realistic’ by leaving out many of the more mystical elements and giving Judas’s betrayal a political spin. In the UK, TV antiquity in the 1970s started not with serious drama but with comedy. Up Pompeii! was a British sitcom broadcast in thirteen episodes (over two seasons) from March to September 1970, after an initial pilot was shown in September 1969. Cull (2001) notes that from a British perspective, the time of the late 1960s and early 1970s was a period particularly suited to an exploration of Roman antiquity as British culture came to terms with the loss of its own empire and the rise and potential threat of a new cultural empire, the US. He writes that ‘Classical Rome was a singularly appropriate location for such discussion; classics sat at the heart of the British public school education . . . [and] . . . Rome remained a cultural icon for those who, like the mandarins of the BBC sought to preserve high culture’ (2001: 163). This elitist notion of high culture informed even a lightweight comedy full of double entendres and bad jokes like Up Pompeii!. Allegedly, the BBC here aspired to copy Plautus, the comedic playwright from the time of the Roman Republic. While the audience was very happy to accept the innuendo and promiscuity implied in Up Pompeii! as part of the humour, the sexual content in a serious drama like I, Claudius challenged the notion of what was acceptable on television at that time. Although rather tame by contemporary standards, particularly in comparison to Rome or STARZ Spartacus, the show brought to the fore a number of issues with regard to

TV antiquity  61 censorship and broadcasting standards. ‘[L]ong scenes of Sheila White’s barely concealed nudity marking Messalina’s sexual conquests’ (Wheatley, 2016: 192) were especially noted. Similarly, the moment when Caligula cuts out the foetus from the womb of his pregnant wife/sister Drusilla (Beth Morris) and eats it, was considered among the most extreme things to be broadcast on television at the time. As director Herbert Wise notes in the documentary I, Claudius: A Television Epic, which accompanies the DVD release of the programme, he was keen to keep the most graphic details off-screen. He claims that this was not because of censorship, but because Claudius’s look of shock when he peeks into the room that contains Drusilla’s body is far more suggestive and interesting. Nevertheless, despite this, the scene was edited still further when released in the US. According to John Hurt, who plays Caligula, the US broadcast was more cautious than the BBC screening, also omitting the moment when Caligula’s bloodstained face appears at the door and warns Claudius not to enter. I will come back to this scene in the case study, but the difference in the restrictions is relevant here. As a consequence of the increasing attempts at pushing the boundaries of what was permissible on television at the time, the 1970s brought about significant changes with regard to censorship and media regulation both in the US and in the UK. Elana Levine (2007: 19) claims that during the 1970s in the US, ‘inter-network rivalry produced the new sexual culture, ensuring its ubiquity, its limited diversity, and its commodified base’. On the other hand, an awareness of the ‘increasing role of television within social life [which] led to a growing concern over its power’ (Vahimagi, 2003–14). Citizen groups and advertisers had a significant input into these debates, forcing networks to restrict their content so as not to offend customers. In addition, voluntary self-regulation could also be seen as a pre-emptive measure to avoid potential political interference. As Levin notes, while central censorship was unconstitutional in the US, the television industry addressed viewers’ concerns by engaging ‘in self-regulation of content’, which took place ‘at an industry-wide level . . . as well as at the more immediate levels of individual network and station owners, executives, and standards and practices editors’ (Levine, 2007: 47). In contrast, debates in the UK took place on a more political level, as censorship ‘was frequently debated in Parliament throughout the 1970s, with regular calls for more stringent legislation’, as noted by Sian Barber (2012: 23), leading to the constitution of the Committee on Obscenity and Film Censorship in 1977. In addition, the BBC set up the independent Programmes Complaints Commission in October

62  Costumes and censorship (1970s) 1977, which considered complaints from the public with regard to radio and television programmes. Moreover 1979 saw the completion of a study by programme makers, led by Monica Sims of the BBC, recommending guidelines for the portrayal of violence in television programmes. Sims’ report was thoroughly examined by the Board of Governors after it had been endorsed by management and discussed at length with the BBC’s Consultative Group on the Social Effects of Television. The BBC working party report on Violence on Television was published in March 1979. (Vahimagi, 2003–14)

Despite this governmental attempt at regulating television, restrictions in the UK were still less severe than US self-censorship, as the example of I, Claudius shows. Independence from advertising revenues meant that the BBC was able to approach more challenging subjects in a more liberal manner. In addition, as Jane Arthurs (2004: 24) argues, ‘genre addressed to high-status audiences are [generally] allowed to be more explicit and controversial’, a point that can also be applied to shows like I, Claudius. Here, portrayals of classical antiquity were popular as many of the more morally dubious and shocking aspects were justified with an appeal to ‘historical accuracy’, even though this could often be challenged. However, portrayals of antiquity did not always have to push the boundaries of taste with regard to sex and violence. For instance, during the 1970s, British television also produced two Roman-themed serial dramas aimed at a younger audience. Following the aforementioned BBC production The Eagle of the Ninth (1977), which I will discuss in case study 4, Thames Television produced the six-part series Warrior Queen (dir. Michael Custance and Neville Green) for ITV in 1978. This show is set in Britain under Roman rule and centres around the legendary Britannic Queen Boudicca and her fight against the Romans. Like The Eagle of the Ninth it was aimed at a teenage audience and shown in thirty-minute slots in the afternoon/early evening. Significantly, Boudicca is played by Siân Phillips, who stared as Livia in I, Claudius only a couple of years prior. Rather than enacting the ultimate villainess, Philips is now the (doomed) heroine. In contrast to I, Claudius and its colourful spectacle of royal palaces, Warrior Queen displays a relatively unsentimental realism with some challenging scenes and concepts (such as the rape of Boudicca’s daughters), especially when considering the young target audience. In fact, discussions about the portrayal of violence featured prominently in the reviews to this show. For example, Richard Last (1978) in the Daily Telegraph comments that ‘Warrior Queen is rough stuff – you can’t massacre 100,000 Britons without spilling blood – and Thames are

TV antiquity  63 wise to mark it “For children aged 10 upwards ”’. He adds, somewhat cynically, that ‘[n]urtured as they are on “Starsky and Hutch” I doubt if it will disturb them unduly’ (Last, 1978). Maire Messenger (1978) in The Listener writes along similar lines: Monday night is slaughter night for our juvenile viewers [as] the story of Queen Boudicca and her rebellion against Britain’s Roman rulers . . . has been averaging, per episode, at least two Romans with their throats cut, a couple of crucified slaves, a few raped and pillaged Britons and several shots of death-heads ranged around a Druid cove.

Yet, it is not the body count but the quality of the production that made her wonder if the show should not have been aimed at a more mature audience, as she suggests that ‘Warrior Queen .  .  . was a very good serial – so good that I had to keep looking in TV Times to make sure it really was for children’ (Messenger, 1978). For her, the quality of the series is displayed in its attention to detail and historical accuracy rather than televisual aesthetics, giving the story depth and complexity. ‘Every scene’, she argues, ‘with carefully authenticated huts, pots, costumes, weapons, rituals and jewellery, showed us what Boudicca and her allies were fighting for: a family, a way of life, a community, a religion, a tradition’ (Messenger, 1978). Similarly, Last (1978) also describes the series as ‘a six-parter of quality to be set aside beside all but the very best of the BBC’s famous Sunday afternoon series’. And, despite claiming that he is ‘not too worried about the historical minutiae’, he also suggests that the ‘big plus for Warrior Queen is the authenticity conveyed by the location shooting, on outside broadcast cameras, among constructed Iron Age huts and carefully chosen battle sites. Surrounded by hairy warriors, hissing Druids, and beacon fires, you really get an I-was-there feeling’ (Last, 1978). However, not all reviewers were as captivated with the quality of the show. Like The Eagle of the Ninth, the low production values and lack of spectacle undermined for some the epic scale presented by the conflict between the Roman Empire and the British tribes. Stanley Reynolds (1978) in The Times, for example, complains that ‘the worst faults of Warrior Queen are the battle scenes [, which] are done on the cheap and they look it. Slow motion and shouting only make it look all that more like fringe telly attempting Cecil B. de Mille’. In the 2000s, television producers tried to rectify this flaw by reviving Warrior Queen in 2003 with the two-hour television drama made for ITV titled Boudica (sic) (released in the US as Warrior Queen). Although more spectacular in its battle scenes and scale, the show was generally derided for its lack of authenticity and poor script, aspects that the earlier version was particularly praised for. This suggests that especially when it comes to

64  Costumes and censorship (1970s) television drama, minute details, dense narration and close character studies might be preferred over large-scale action scenes even if those are technically possible. In short, it supports television’s preference for an antiquarian take on history over the monumental representation preferred by epic cinema, and creates an intimate study of the historic environments and the people that live in them. Apart from these Roman-inspired shows, we also got a glimpse of Greek antiquity towards the end of the decade in The Serpent Son (1979, BBC2). The three-part television adaptation of Aeschylus’s Oresteia was broadcast on consecutive Wednesday nights. While the first episode (‘Agamemnon’) preserved the original title of Aeschylus’s first play, episodes two and three (‘Grave Gifts’ and ‘Furies’, adaptations of Choephoroi/ The Libation Bearers and Eumenides respectively) opted for titles more accessible to a general audience. The programme was based on a new prose translation of Aeschylus by Frederic Raphael and Kenneth McLeish. The translators even added their own version of Aeschylus’s lost satyr play, a thirty-minute comedy entitled Of Mycenae and Men, directed by Hugh David, for which they provided the script. However, both the new translation and the television series were badly received by critics. Sylvia Clayton (1979) complained that the ‘translation was prosaic, lacking both rhythm and tact’, and notes that only ‘Athene [Claire Bloom] . . . brought some cool sanity to the psychedelic razzmatazz’ of the television show. The series features among other noteworthy stars a young Helen Mirren as Kassandra, whom she played according to the Observer ‘as an amalgam of Régine, Kate Bush and Carmen Miranda’ (James, 2017). Siân Phillips appears yet again, this time as leader of the Furies in the final episode. As the above review suggests, the design of sets and costumes offered a startling mix of ancient Minoan features and science fiction that frustrated many viewers (Wrigley, 2011). The look strongly reminded me of the more fantastical scenes from The Odyssey (1968) as described in the previous case study. Producer Richard Broke defended the controversial look of the show with the fact that ‘Aeschylus drew his characters from myths and legends’ rather than reality (Wrigley, 2011). This further emphasises the link to The Odyssey, where the more surreal costumes and sets appear in scenes that are narrated by Odysseus and thus belong to the realm of legend on two levels (as part of Homer’s play and as part of Odysseus’s story told within the play). The series also introduced some innovative framing devices, such as ‘the use of decorative borders around the moving image’ (Wrigley, 2011). Yet, not all perceived these innovations as a positive development. Chris Dunkley (1979) in the Financial Times suggests that for him, the most ‘distracting of all was a whole collection of optical effects [with large] parts of the

TV antiquity  65 small screen . . . masked off to show a single head in the opposite to a close-up and several scenes [that] seem to have been shot through the lid of one of those plastic tissue box covers’. This illustrates some of the difficulties that television producers faced when trying to balance creative innovation with the demands and needs of the audiences. Overall, these shows indicate that TV antiquity was more continuous and varied during this period than a focus on exceptional successes like I, Claudius reveals. The following case studies, then, will explore both the famous and the obscure, starting with one of the arguably most influential television dramas set in antiquity, before Rome raised the genre to new heights in the 2000s.

Case study 3: I, Claudius (1976)

As noted in the introduction to this part, TV antiquity had a mixed history in the 1970s. It was also set against a backdrop of significant cultural change. One of those changes was that television viewing in the UK more generally increased significantly during this decade. According to Alwyn W. Turner (2008), the ‘first Social Trends survey showed that in 1971 the average Briton watched 18.6 hours of television a week; by 1978 that figure had risen to 22 hours’. Interestingly, while the focus of Turner’s book is on the sociopolitical developments of 1970s Britain rather than television history, he starts his discussion of the tumultuous political years 1976 and 1977 with a comparison to what he calls ‘probably the most upmarket soap ever broadcast’ – I, Claudius. Indeed, it is hard to underestimate the cultural significance of this show, regardless of what one might think about it artistically. When researching this book, I was surprised that every time I mentioned to someone that I would be writing about television series set in antiquity, I, Claudius was almost always the first thing mentioned. Even people not generally interested in ancient history or the classics or even television, seemed to have heard of this programme. For Turner (2008), what was significant about this show was that throughout the series, ‘behind the lashings of sex and violence was a lurking fear that this society was inherently unstable, that it might yet slip back into conflict and anarchy’, which perfectly reflected the anxieties of UK audiences at this particular time. Despite the significant differences in the cultural context between the US and the UK, which I will discuss later in the case study, the US also faced an identity crisis during this period. As Joshel (2001: 128) suggests, for some, the situation in the US in ‘the 1970s appeared to be the culmination of a dramatic coming apart of American power abroad, American society at home, and a masculine maintenance of power’. As such, portrayals of the Roman Empire provided a powerful metaphor for discussing sensitive issues of political corruption and moral decline.

TV antiquity  67 For US audiences, the reflection on and promotion of republican values that runs through I, Claudius (e.g. Claudius’s insistence on returning to the Republic after Caligula’s death) might have been of particular interest. It is within ‘this televisual experience of contemporary crisis [that] the very nature of the medium conditioned the reading of ancient empire in I, Claudius’ (Joshel, 2001: 130). More specifically, the television medium with its ‘permeable boundaries . . . drew ancient Rome into a continuous present, mixing an [sic] historical fiction of the Roman empire with the contemporary news of the American empire’ (Joshel, 2001: 131). Yet, it is not just the relation between fiction and current affairs that framed the reception of I, Claudius. In the US, the premiere of the series also coincided with the first television broadcast of The Godfather (Joshel, 2001, n. 16), which features another dysfunctional yet powerful family. Yet, while The Godfather to some extent romanticises the criminal Mafia family, I, Claudius does the opposite with the ruling family of Rome. The reasons for this might be that while the criminal milieu was often romanticised during this period as rebelling against the power structures of the time, the Julio-Claudian family epitomises these power structures. Although I, Claudius is now considered a milestone in television history, the initial reception by the critics in the UK was not very enthusiastic as various cast members note in the aforementioned documentary on the production. In this case study, then, I will first look at the key elements that ultimately made the show so successful, in particular the ways in which it mixes politics and domesticity and transforms Graves’s novels into a serialised format by drawing on soap-opera conventions to create intimacy. We will also explore the show’s sometimes problematic representations of Roman women (and men) as corrupt and promiscuous, and examine the role of religion in I, Claudius. Finally, I will examine more closely the differences in reception between the US and the UK, which adds another layer of complexity to the overall narrative, and the legacy of the programme for later shows. I will follow the episode count as presented in the DVD edition, which features twelve episodes, although the original broadcast split the first episode (‘A Touch of Murder’) into two parts, bringing it a total of thirteen episodes. The television series I, Claudius is based on the two historical novels I, Claudius and Claudius the God by Robert Graves, both published in 1934. According to Richards (2008: 159), ‘Graves . . . revealed that he decided to tell the story of the Emperor Claudius in order to pay off his debts. Inspired by the works of Suetonius and Tacitus, he wrote two novels . . . in the form of a memoir written by the emperor himself.’ Although some of the content of the show overlaps with that of The Caesars, the

68  Costumes and censorship (1970s) series offers greater scope by showing both Claudius’s childhood and his reign as an emperor up to his death. The miniseries was also one of the reasons why this format became popular in the 1970s as the fact that ‘grand historical epics are now commonly regarded as prime material for serialised television drama’, is because shows like I, Claudius ‘demonstrated the genre’s potential to take on large and difficult narratives that covered huge areas of both space and time’ (Creeber, 2004: 6–7). Yet, this might only be partially correct when looking at I, Claudius. While it indeed covers a significant time span, space is often only implied. Apart from the imperial palace in Rome, few other sets are shown and even the streets of the capital or the army camps of Germanicus and Caligula offer not much sense of the vastness of the Roman Empire. There is actually very little that distinguishes these various studio sets from each other. The show’s exclusive use of interior shots has sometimes been criticised, but it might also have been an advantage that made the production possible as previous attempts at adapting the novels in a more spectacular way had failed. While, in some instances, adaptation of historical novels proved more effective in cinema than on the small screen, with regard to I, Claudius, television was the more successful medium. The story of Alexander Korda’s failed attempt to turn Graves’s books into a large-screen epic in the 1930s has now almost become one of cinema’s own myths. The BBC had shown interest early on in the subject and recounted the disastrous film project in the BBC documentary The Epic That Never Was (1965). As a consequence of Korda’s failure, the books were long considered ‘unfilmable’, until the serialisation of the novel for television in the 1970s. Here, as in other examples discussed in the book, the wider scope of a television series in comparison to a film, particularly with regard to time, characters and level of details, proves to be more able to encompass the content of the novel. While I, Claudius followed the track of other historical miniseries of the time that were adapted from novels or other literary texts, it also offered something distinct. Its mix of genres from soap opera to crime drama added complexity to the narrative and challenged the conventions of traditional British historical drama, which was often perceived as ‘overly theatrical, formulaic .  .  . aesthetically unimaginative, conservative, and nostalgic’ (Butt, 2012: 160). This, however, also led to some confusion, as noted by Richards (2008: 159): Initially, the actors were unsure of what was required as Herbert Wise, the director, told them he did not want the series to have the respectful, discreet BBC classic-serial style. He urged them to relish the villainy

TV antiquity  69 and not seek for psychological motivation. They soon got into the spirit of it when [writer] Pulman indicated that he saw it as a black comedy version of the Mafia, and Wise, pointing to the dominant and ambitious mothers, described it as ‘a Jewish family comedy’. Christopher Biggins, who played Nero in the final episode, called it a ‘Roman Coronation Street’.

It is interesting to note that while the British production team tried to avoid a ‘classic BBC style’, for US audiences, it was indeed this perceived ‘British theatrical style’ that actually gave I, Claudius the ‘aura of an elite cultural event’ (Joshel, 2001: 120). I will come back to this distinction in promotion and reception towards the end of this case study. While the initial appeal of the show may have been for many viewers an interest in the ‘historical context of the story as a whole, its serialised narrative structure meant that it kept them as hooked as any soap opera or drama series’ (Creeber, 2004: 24). This further highlights the benefits of seriality for TV antiquity. In addition, the use of soap-opera structures also facilitated the engagement with the complex historical events for a broader audience, as by ‘the time of the first broadcast of I, Claudius, the generic rules of . . . soap opera were familiar even to viewers who had never seen a soap’ (Joshel, 2001: 137). The comparison with soap opera appears frequently in both scholarly analysis of I, Claudius and contemporaneous reviews of the show and contributes to the notion of intimacy that draws us into the intrigues of the imperial family. Creeber (2004: 23), for example, argues that ‘the very “soap-like” dynamics. . . actually [make the show] an unusually versatile vehicle for exploring and investigating the philosophical nature of history’. These ‘soap-like’ features are, more specifically, the melodramatic twists and turns in romantic as well as family relationships, the emphasis on gossip, and a focus on the female domestic life. In terms of aesthetic ‘soap-opera features’, such as the use of studio sets, close-ups and a limited cast, I, Claudius is actually not so dissimilar to The Caesars. Yet, it is the focus on classical gossip and central female characters that mostly explains the very distinct feel of the latter series. Consequently, I will first look at how the show deals with history, before exploring the role of domestic melodrama and female characters throughout the show. When examining the series one quickly notes that I, Claudius’s blend of history and gossip is even discussed within the narrative of the series. For instance, in episode 10 (‘Fool’s Luck’), Emperor Claudius (Derek Jacobi), the storyteller of the show, reveals to his friend Herod (James Faulkner) that he is writing a book. Herod inquires what kind of book he is writing, to which Claudius replies ‘A truth’. Herod asks surprised: ‘Will you tell everything?’; and Claudius answers: ‘Everything. As a historian

70  Costumes and censorship (1970s) should. Not great tales of heroic exploits as Titus Livy wrote. But the plain facts, the kitchen details, even the gossip.’ This mention of gossip instantly challenges the notion of ‘truth’ and ‘plain facts’. It points to the sometimes problematic portrayal of ancient histories as factual, given that its writers were often highly biased in their accounts of the lives of significant figures and events. This self-conscious reflection on historical writing and the inclusion of other ancient historians as characters in the series, such as Livy (Denis Carey) and Pollio (Donald Eccles, who also appeared as Tiberius’s friend Nerva in The Caesars), constantly underlines for the audience the complex relationship between fact and fiction. When the young Claudius encounters both these figures in episode 3 (‘What Shall We Do About Claudius’), Pollio challenges Claudius to determine, which of them (Pollio or Livy) is the greater historian by asking which he would rather read. Claudius replies that this depends on the purpose of reading, as Livy offers beauty of language, while Pollio’s strength is the interpretation of facts. Not surprisingly, Livy is unhappy about this answer and accuses him of displeasing both him and Pollio, but Claudius is baffled by the feedback. He claims that he ‘wasn’t trying to please, just to tell the truth’, to which Pollio replies wryly, that Claudius ‘might make a historian after all’. In this exchange, beauty of storytelling and historical accuracy are contrasted and Claudius’s continuous emphasis on telling the truth encourages the television audience to also perceive the historical fiction on-screen as truth. In addition, the first episode had already established the issues by allowing Claudius to break the fourth wall, stare straight at the audience and tell us that we will find his writings some 1,900 years later: ‘You will find it, I promise you’. Thus, the show makes the audience conspirators in the uncovering of Claudius’s narrative and its apparent historical truths. The prominence of Claudius’s own writings throughout the show, both as framing device and as part of the plot, further emphasises this point. As Sobchack (1990: 34) argues, written text often features in historical epics, ‘both invoking “the past” in visual onomatopoetic reference to antecedent forms of writing, to “original” documents, and claiming the anonymous authority the written word has secured in our particular culture’. Alternatively, she suggests, ‘voice-over narration also performs the function of doubly exposing time, [but] its authorizing power is different. The narrators . . . call particular and reflexive attention to their own personal . . . authority as a means of further authorizing and “authenticating” the dramatic material’ (1990: 34). Both forms of authorisation appear prominently throughout the series as is already indicated in the narrative structure that evolves around Claudius writing a personal history and Claudius as a historian. By making him the

TV antiquity  71 central character of the story, I, Claudius emphasises the process of making history. Although he is occasionally duped, e.g. by Messalina, he is in most instances a knowing participant in the events. Even his death at the hands of Agrippina at the end of the show is framed as a conscious choice, suggesting that he deliberately ate the poisoned food. However, the series also takes time to occasionally undermine Claudius’s attempts at writing ‘serious history’ as most friends and relatives regularly dismiss his works. In one amusing scene in episode 7 (‘Reign of Terror’), Claudius gets into an argument with the scribe Atticus (John Franklyn-Robbins) about the inclusion of illustrations in Claudius’s history of Carthage. Claudius is outraged: ‘This is a serious work, just because I mention elephants in the text, why do we have to see them? . . . I mention Hannibal’s mistresses, I suppose you’ve drawn concubines all over the text, too.’ Claudius is strongly opposed to such ‘frivolous’ additions as images, suggesting that this might undermine the gravity of his work. The scribe, on the other hand, argues that these are now fashionable and would make the work more sellable. We are left to wonder what this Claudius would have made of the embellishments to his family history in a twentieth-century television programme. In addition to the layers of narrative framing already inherent in the show itself, the US broadcast as part of the Masterpiece Theatre programme on PBS added another layer of narration. It preceded each episode with an introductory talk by its host Alistair Cooke, in which the historical accuracy of certain aspects of the story was affirmed (sometimes falsely as shown below). The particular nature of television, where a show like I, Claudius is broadcast as part of a continuous programming, also means that unlike ‘films and literary texts’ this show does not present a ‘series of discrete, isolated texts’, as Joshel (2001: 130) notes. Its meaning is to be understood and influenced by its context – fictional and non-fictional. For example, Masterpiece Theatre’s introduction ‘defined in advance the way the audience should read Augustus’ (Joshel, 2001: 130). Before the first episode ‘Cooke explains: “Augustus . . . proclaims himself emperor, but he promised, like a good republican, to rule with the advice and consent of the senate. All he wanted to do now was to fix the borders of the provinces, build public works, and settle agreeably into middle age”’ (Joshel, 2001: 148). This is consistent with my earlier remark that the US broadcast aimed to emphasise the republican sentiments evident in the show, by further highlighting that not just Claudius, but also Augustus were republicans at heart. Yet, as Joshel (2001: 149) rightly criticises, ‘Cooke’s historical facts are largely fictions . . . and the emperor was a military autocrat, not a “constitutional monarch”’ or, one might add, a closet republican, as the show sometimes seem to suggest.

72  Costumes and censorship (1970s) Even more problematically, by linking Augustus to the US legislature, suggesting that he ‘wrote a constitution which, through the channel of Roman law, passed first to Britain and then to America’, he makes Livia even more evil. As Beard (2014: 134) argues, in ‘this American version, in murdering Augustus, she is not simply a scheming menace . . . with a fondness for poison . . . [but] guilty of destroying the political foundation of the American State’. I will come back to the problematic differences in the US and the UK reception towards the end of the case study. These flaws in the interpretation of history continue with the character of Claudius. Despite being the narrator and apparent ‘hero’ of the show, his portrayal is overall problematic. Elley (1984: 116) complained in the 1980s that the ‘biggest tragedy is that the cinema has yet to produce a balanced portrait of the emperor Claudius, except as a harmless spectator to Caligulan court intrigue’. It seems that although television provides him with a more significant and complex role in I, Claudius, the focus of his long and overall successful reign is still on corruption, intrigue and his lack of control. This is in part due to the changes that the series producer made when adapting Graves’s novels. Leaving out most of Graves’s discourses on Claudius’s administration and political achievements, including his successful conquest of Britain, the series ‘boils Graves’s story down to its domestic bare bones, focussing almost exclusively on the relations and struggles among members of the imperial family’ (Joshel, 2001: 141). As a consequence, the tentative ‘politics of Graves’s novels and any critique of empire disappear; in their place are family dysfunction and corruption’ (Joshel, 2001: 143). In contrast, The Caesars almost entirely excluded Tiberius’s private life, especially his second wife Julia, who does not feature in the earlier series, and instead portrayed him as brooding over political developments. In line with the soap-opera conventions outlined above, I, Claudius not only makes the frivolous Julia (Frances White) an important character, but also revels in the portrayal of Claudius’s various problematic marriages. On the other side, the show also portrays Claudius as much more benevolent than the historic emperor, effectively recasting him ‘as an endearingly dotty old academic’ (Beard, 2014: 104). This is quite in contrast to his image in the ancient world and largely excludes Claudius’s own track record of political executions or framing these as the fault of others. This is most likely inspired by the need to provide a positive character in the array of villains with whom the audience can sympathise. As the focus on the imperial household prevents the inclusion of the traditional ‘virtuous Christians’ of much of cinematic antiquity, Claudius has to stand in as the flawed but nevertheless good hero of the story.

TV antiquity  73 Roman soap opera The focus on family melodrama at the expense of politics in I, Claudius also means that the series ‘retains only the familial aspects of Graves’s story and then enlarges them by dramatizing what Graves only mentions’ (Joshel, 2001: 142). This focus on the domestic sphere makes this programme distinct from cinematic antiquity, as it eschews the spectacle of imperial warfare and conquest and puts in its place the intricate relationships and conflicts of a large range of characters. For instance, although Tiberius (George Baker) is a successful general before becoming emperor, his achievements only feature in the brief reports he gives to his mother (or sometimes to Augustus). This shift of emphasis is most evident in a scene in episode 3, in which the imperial family attends gladiatorial games. Yet, the only gladiators we ever see are the ones that Livia talks to in the bowels of the arena, to which I will come back to shortly. During the games, however, the camera focuses ‘on the imperial box with sound effects representing the crowd and the gladiatorial conflicts’ (Richards, 2008: 162). We never see the actual arena or the crowds. As one reviewer of the show expressed it poetically, the ‘games remain[ed] a gleam in the sound engineer’s eye’ (Purser, 1976). As noted in Part I, Joshel (2001: 121) argues that the spectacular elements of Hollywood cinema have become inverted and internalised, so that in the end the ‘spectacle of I, Claudius consists primarily of sex and talk’. It is the juicy gossip that captivates and thrills the audience and creates intimacy by making us privy to the machinations of the family. The emphasis on the domestic sphere is further emphasised by the dominance of interior sets. As Richards (2008: 162) writes, the ‘style adopted was totally opposite to the expansiveness of the Hollywood epic’ as it ‘was shot entirely in the studio, making much use of close-ups’. These studio sets are actually quite similar in style to those from other historic court dramas, such as the six-part BBC production The Six Wives of Henry VIII (1970), which like I, Claudius was shown as part of PBS’s Masterpiece Theatre.1 The imperial palace with its crowded spaces, ornate doors, heavy wood panelling and rich fabrics seems to have more in common with the Tudor settings of the earlier production than with the sparse sets of The Caesars or the airy villas we encounter in Rome. This is significant insofar as the above-mentioned focus on family and domestic affairs further emphasises the centrality of interior spaces. As Joshel (2001: 132) notes: The domesticity of television and the familial nature of television spectatorship set the cultural production of I, Claudius in a mirroring relation with its reception. In I, Claudius, interiors predominate: palace, senate

74  Costumes and censorship (1970s) house, rooms in private houses, tents in army camps. The few scenes that take place out-of-doors are shot in fairly tight focus; most convey a sense of space that barely includes a front door or patio. Crowds are kept to a minimum, and, generally family members occupy the frame.

In The Caesars, this close framing and focus on indoor scenes created a rather claustrophobic, expressionist atmosphere, which emphasised both Tiberius’s growing sense of being trapped and Claudius’s skill at hiding in the shadows – literally and symbolically. In I, Claudius by contrast, crowded interior spaces suggest domesticity and decadence. As outlined above, the connections with soap opera in the series are not merely aesthetical. More significant are the characters and their relations to each other. In particular, in ‘classic soap-opera manner, the series was dominated by strong-willed matriarchs often in conflict with each other’, as Richards notes (2008: 162). The difference in the portrayal of several key characters between The Caesars and I, Claudius is illuminating here as it highlights this shift from political to domestic drama. In stark contrast to the shrewd and calculating Augustus we encounter in The Caesars, the Augustus of I, Claudius (played by Brian Blessed) is much more of a bumbling fool, largely content with spending time in his garden, particularly in later years. At times, it is hard to imagine how he created his empire. This portrayal of Augustus shifts the emphasis more strongly to Livia and illustrates, as Joshel (2001: 123) observes, that for ‘Graves, female power depends on male weakness’. Here, the series writer Jack Pullman, as Beard (2014: 128) notes, ‘recast Graves’s novels . . . much more radically than is usually recognised, in particular making Livia the dominating, evil presence of the first half of the series’. Livia is no longer just scheming in the background as she did in The Caesars (and also in Graves’s novel): she is effectively running the empire. And Augustus’s weakness not just appears in relation to Livia, it is also emphasised by other (male) characters. In episode 4 (‘Poison Is Queen’), for instance, Postumus (John Castle) tells Augustus dismissively: ‘I never knew a man that cries as easily as you’. Yet it is not just Graves’s influence that is at play here. Augustus has much in common with the naive husbands of many soap operas and sitcoms of the time. I, Claudius here coincides with big cultural changes, such as second-wave feminism, the rise in single-parent households, new perspectives on masculinity, etc. that are explored in other 1970s television shows like The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1970–77), Maude (1972–78) or Man About the House (1973–76). Although the historical setting prevents the show from addressing such issues more directly, the ideas are nevertheless evident in the way the characters are adapted onto the screen. At the very

TV antiquity  75

Figure 3  Livia’s hand closing Augustus’s eyes in I, Claudius

least, audience reception of the programme would have been influenced by their knowledge of those shows. Livia’s dominance and control becomes most evident in Augustus’s death scene at the end of episode 4, described by Beard (2014: 128–9) as one ‘of the most striking scenes of all [which significantly] has no direct link whatsoever to the original novel’. The camera lingers first on the anguished expression of Augustus who lies in his bed after having taken ill, while Livia starts recounting all his flaws and the ways in which she has helped him in the past. The camera continues to stay on Augustus’s face while she paces the room to continue her story, and it does take some time for the audience to realise that Augustus’s eyes staring out towards the audience are now those of a dead man. Only at the end of the scene, we see Livia’s hand entering the frame from the right of the screen to close Augustus’s now dead eyes (see Figure 3). The audience here unwittingly witnesses Augustus’s death by poison at the hand of Livia. He is helpless while her voice – and therefore her side of the story – dominates the narration. This attempt at drawing the audience into the experience of the victim is later revised in episode 6 (‘Queen of Heaven’). As Joshel (2001: 145) writes: Graves’s bare notice that Livilla poisoned Castor becomes, on television, a death scene that puts viewers in the position of the male victim. We look at a close-up of Castor’s ill face as he opens dying eyes; from his

76  Costumes and censorship (1970s) point of view, we see Livilla and Sejanus together looking down on him (us). Sejanus strokes her breast, she covers his hand, and the image fades. Castor closes his eyes and the screen fades to black.

This scene is, however, also in contrast to the earlier scene of Augustus’s death, where we take on the outside perspective, staring at Augustus’s dying face, while the camera makes us complicit with Livia. In the same manner that Augustus’s authority is diminished, Tiberius is not portrayed as a thoughtful bureaucrat and reluctant emperor, but as a man driven mad by his passions. He is the (almost) helpless victim to his mother’s ambition and ruthlessness, unloved and disrespected. His uncontrolled and at times hysterical nature is in stark contrast to André Morell’s cold and controlled rendering of the emperor in The Caesars. For example, in episode 2 of I, Claudius (‘Waiting in the Wings’), Tiberius breaks into hysterical laughter when he hears of the death of Lucius, who together with his brother Gaius was Augustus’s adopted son and heir. The soldier who relates the tragic story of this ‘accident’ (the audience already knows that it is Livia’s doing) is increasingly bewildered and confused while Tiberius continues to laugh uncontrollably. Even Claudius, the apparent ‘hero’ of the show, is presented as a weak character. Not only is he more clearly manipulated by women, his stammer and general demeanour are much more pronounced than they were in The Caesars, where the speech impediment was more frequently linked to drunkenness. With Claudius as narrator, the series at times blends the realism of the historical drama with fantasy elements. At the end of episode 4, we see old Claudius raging madly against an empty chair while Livia’s laughter is heard from off-screen, resembling more that of a wicked queen in a fairy tale than a Roman empress. Claudius’s death at the end of episode 12 (‘Old King Log’) is followed by the golden mask of the Sybil hovering over his deathbed, a scene that is very theatrical – rather than televisual – and more akin to the epilogue in Greek tragedy. Yet, Claudius’s role as narrator also highlights the focus on domestic melodrama as he as ‘a member of the family, tells the family’s story from a point of view inside spatially as well as relationally’, as Joshel (2001: 139) emphasises. She further notes that, as I have suggested earlier, the television adaptation omits significant parts of Graves’s novels, which highlight his actions as a statesman in favour of focusing on his domestic problems. This is, for her, consistent with soap-opera conventions, where all socio-economic and political relations of the characters are ‘subordinated to their personal relations’ (2001: 138). Yet, we can also challenge this particular interpretation. Livia’s scheming to put her son on the throne is not inspired by her love for

TV antiquity  77 her son (whom she does not even seem to like much) or by any personal notion of dislike or revenge against any of the other characters (as is the case, for example, with Atia’s and Servilia’s feud in Rome – see case study 7). On the contrary, her focus is on social status and the attempt to put her family line – the Claudians – on the throne. Moreover, her dislike is mostly directed against republican politics and any potential threat to reinstate it. This might be a personal perspective, but it is also a highly politicised one, based on Livia’s perception of social status and her idea of state. As she explains to Augustus on his deathbed, for her the value of her noble family supersedes that of Augustus’s Julian line, being more suited to imperial succession. While this might be historically incorrect, it is consistent with the characterisation by historians such as Barthold Georg Niebuhr (1844: 284), who described the Claudian family as distinguishing itself ‘by a spirit of haughty defiance, by disdain for the laws, and iron hardness of heart . . . tyrants by nature’. This description fits Livia perfectly. Therefore, although politics is not as foregrounded as it is in The Caesars, it is nevertheless an important part of the narrative, albeit one that is hidden behind personal intrigue and excess.

Tempting vices Many critics at the time of the show’s release, and since, have highlighted its focus on sex and excess. For example, Anisa K. Strong (2008: 223) suggests that I, Claudius ‘closely associates ancient Rome with sexual debauchery, nudity, and deviance’. She continues to describe the first scene of the series, which presents us with a shot of ‘the bare breasts of a group of African dancers, whom both the camera and the Roman elite characters casually objectify’, while ‘other scenes in the series feature a variety of more and less risqué orgies’ (2008: 223). More generally, Elley (1984: 116) complains that ‘studies of the Caligula/Messalina/Claudius period have [often] been so dazzled by its mixture of court intrigue and moral anarchy that they have been unable to treat the characters in properly human terms’. I, Claudius is by no means as extreme as other cinematic versions, most notably the notorious Caligula (1979), as its status as a television event has meant that it was aimed at a broad and varied audience, at least in the UK. Despite her criticism, Strong acknowledges that the show is not as debauched as later series and ‘generally [does] not show any nudity by principal characters or any unorthodox sexual acts or partners’ (2008: 223). When compared to shows like Rome and STARZ Spartacus, women in I, Claudius are fairly modestly clad and generally wrapped in long flowing fabrics, even in

78  Costumes and censorship (1970s) the sex scenes, although with some significant exceptions. The most extreme depravities are usually narrated rather than shown. Therefore, it is probably more helpful to analyse the portrayal within the context of the particular period of its production. Nevertheless, many critics have raised concerns over the portrayal of women in I, Claudius as almost exclusively villainous and promiscuous. But, I would like to draw out a more nuanced reading of female ‘vices’ in I, Claudius than is often acknowledged. For this, I will examine more closely three key characters: Livia, Messalina (Sheila White) and Antonia (Margaret Tyzack). All three represent Roman elite women and none is shown in a particularly sympathetic light. However, the reasons for this differ significantly. As many have noted, empress Livia is the ultimate villainess of the show, although she only appears in the first half of the series. McCullough (2015: 132) describes her as conniving and ruthless, arguing that ‘Graves faithfully reproduces the anti-Augustan Livia [as presented in Tacitus and Suetonius] with dramatic flair . . . she is brutal, immoral, arrogant, ambitious, and overbearing’. He adds that while this was already the case in Graves’s novels, the television series ‘goes even further to emphasize her malignant force’ by making her plots more complex and showing her as actively ‘murdering Augustus and his nephew Marcellus, among others’, which is only implied in the books (2015: 132–3). Her cold and controlling attitude and her disregard for people’s lives are demonstrated on numerous occasions, not only those directed at her family. For example, as mentioned above, prior to the gladiatorial games in episode 3, we find Livia in the bowels of the arena, chiding the gladiators. Livia tells them that the ‘games are being degraded by the increase of professional tricks to stay alive, and I won’t have it’. She encourages them to kill and die properly, offering a decent burial to those who do the latter. What is interesting, however, is that while Livia is cold and cruel throughout the show, she is also the most entertaining female character in the series and has a number of comedic moments. Early in episode 5 (‘Some Justice’), for instance, we see her casually chatting to the professional poisoner she has rescued. In this scene, the two women whose business is poison are trading tips and ideas on which potion works best for what. This scene provides another, somewhat perverted, display of domesticity in showing the two poisoners chatting away as if exchanging cooking or beauty tips, as women in more conventional soap operas or sitcoms might do. Yet, despite the murder and mayhem caused by Livia, I would argue that the least sympathetic character of I, Claudius is actually Antonia, who provides an interesting counterpoint to the general narrative of morally corrupt women in the series. It is perhaps for this reason, that she is

TV antiquity  79 hardly ever mentioned and if so only as a side note. In I, Claudius, she could be considered as the only Roman matron sticking to old Roman virtues of chastity and honesty. She is not involved in any schemes in the way that Livia is, has no affairs and constantly scolds and condemns the depravity around her. Based on this, she should be considered a role model, so what makes her so dislikeable? Like the young Octavian in Rome, her haughty and emotionally restrained behaviour – that sets her apart from most other characters (good or bad) in the show – frames her as cold and uncaring. In addition, she is also judgemental, which we might argue is a particularly bad thing in our morally relativistic society, where ‘following your passions’ is considered a desirable attitude.2 This also sets her apart from Livia, who is passionate in her own way. When Antonia brings about her own daughter Livilla’s death as punishment for her affair with Sejanus and their joint murder of Livilla’s husband, we might at a push regard this as a supremely courageous act of putting moral duty before her motherly feelings. However, her perfectionism and the unkind treatment of her disabled son Claudius, which results from it, cannot be veiled with such higher motives. Here, her stoic restraint and constant reproach is simply cruel. This provides another odd contrast to Livia, who at least sometimes acknowledges the value of Claudius, not least because it has been prophesised to her that he would be emperor. Antonia’s stoic attitude extends to her own death and her decision to end her own life. While this action could be seen as a brave act of defiance against Caligula’s depravity, in practice it further alienates her from the audience. When outlining her plans to Claudius, she comments pragmatically that ‘I’ve stayed too long and I’ve always considered it the height of good manners to know when to leave’, providing no consolation to her distraught son, before telling him off one last time: ‘please don’t make a muddle of the valedictory’. This also makes her even less sympathetic than Livia, who in her last moments shows not only a more ‘human’ fear of death but also an awareness of her own sins. Antonia’s flaw is that she is too controlled and proud, in the same way that Rome’s Octavian and his cold-hearted strategising disregards the emotions, needs and wants of his family. Her ‘stiff upper lip’ that might have been admired by previous generations is no longer appreciated in a society increasingly influenced by the hippie culture of the late 1960s and 1970s. Finally, Messalina’s primary vice is of course lust, but in contrast to other promiscuous characters in the show, such as Julia and Livilla, her character is not only driven by sexual instincts, but also by a longing for power. In many respects, she aims to emulate Livia, protesting right from the beginning that she is not involved enough in politics. In episode

80  Costumes and censorship (1970s) 10, after the birth of her first son, she complains to her mother that breastfeeding her children would interfere with her ‘job’ as an empress and keep her away from affairs of the state. Her reasons for no longer sharing a bed with Claudius are not exclusively about her intention to have lovers, but also about her attempt to avoid further pregnancies by her husband. Here, Messalina introduces very contemporary concerns into the narrative at a time of sexual liberation and the challenge of second-wave feminism against women’s role as housewife and mother. To some extent, Messalina’s character is consistent with Betty Friedan’s argument that women unfulfilled with their assigned role as mothers and homemakers try to find their satisfaction in sexual promiscuity, which she discusses in her seminal book The Female Mystique (1963). Again, the television show emphasises these aspects of moral corruption more strongly than the original novels, bringing ‘the theme of corrupt and voracious women to the forefront of its plot’ (Ragalie, 2006: 7). This is also highlighted by a number of other scholars, such as McCullough (2015: 133), who notes that ‘the BBC adaptation pays more attention to sex [than the novel], forefronting Messalina’s contest with a prostitute’. Similarly, Joshel (2001: 142) points out that in the novel, this contest ‘takes up a single paragraph . . . on television [this] becomes two fully visualized scenes’. Although sex and excess on the surface dominate much of the narrative, of the key women discussed here, only Messalina fits this label. Moreover, while it is indeed the case that in I, Claudius, ‘some malicious, controlling women vie for dominance . . . while others’ uncontrollable sexuality leads them astray’ (Ragalie, 2006: 7), we could argue that in most cases even the latter seek control and power. Livia’s and Antonia’s ‘excesses’ are of a different kind, but both are distinguished from other, especially male, characters by their cool and controlled actions and their lack of emotional engagement with those closest to them. Moral corruption in I, Claudius is, however, not limited to the female characters. Caligula’s excesses are, of course, legendary, but Tiberius’s alleged beastliness is also emphasised throughout the show. This is in stark contrast to The Caesars as noted previously. At the start of episode 6 of I, Claudius, for example, the noble Lollia (Isabel Dean) recounts to her dinner party guests her experience of a forced orgy with Tiberius before dramatically committing suicide. The scene is described by Purser (1976) as ‘all the more unsettling for being unseen and only obliquely described, compared with the rather dainty debauchery actually presented’ in other episodes. Later in the same episode, Caligula visits Tiberius and presents him with an obscene scroll, linking Tiberius’s moral corruption to that of Caligula. As noted, this is in contrast to The Caesars, although some commentators still argue that the ‘excesses of Tiberius [in I, Claudius]

TV antiquity  81 were, perhaps fortunately, rather played down’ (Turner, 2008). Lollia’s dramatic report and the shocked reaction of her guests also indicates that the programme did not simply present these depravities as a common feature of Roman society at the time, but highlights that the actions of Tiberius, and more so Caligula, were just as shocking to the Roman citizens at the time as they are to contemporary audiences. What sets Caligula apart is not his promiscuous sexual behaviour, but forms of sexuality not acceptable even in a very liberal society, most notably incest. Again, the television series departs from Graves’s books here, who only briefly mention Caligula’s relationship with his sister Drusilla, while the television show ‘makes [this] the focus of [an] episode’ (Joshel, 2001: 142). In addition, intimate moments between Livia and Caligula and later Agrippinilla (Barbara Young) and her son Nero were clearly supposed to shock the audience, setting ‘a high bar for any attempt by [later shows] to depict an even more extreme representation of Roman sexual decadence than previously displayed on the small screen’ (Strong, 2008: 223). Although ‘I, Claudius could claim historical authenticity .  .  . it made the most of moments such as Nero going to bed with his mother . . . or Caligula (John Hurt) groping the breasts of his great-grandmother, Livia’, as Turner (2008) observes. As already noted, the claim for authenticity rarely holds true, as the classical sources are often just as unreliable as contemporary interpretations (see Beard, 2014). In addition to incest, Caligula is also differentiated by his casual brutality and violence. Possibly because of the links to domestic drama, issues of graphic battle violence were somewhat secondary to issues of sexual corruption linked with the female element in I, Claudius. Unlike the depictions of sex, violence emerges more gradually throughout the show and becomes more extreme and explicit as we move from Augustus to Caligula. Apart from Augustus’s death by poison in episode 4, the first violent deaths only appear on-screen at the end of this episode, when Livia orders Augustus’s heir Postumus and the emperor’s friend Fabius (Jonathan Burn) murdered. However, these deaths are very swift and stagy with little blood to be seen. Subsequently, although numerous deaths are reported during Tiberius’s reign, little is actually shown. As a consequence, the next event at the end of episode 7, which contains some graphic violence, comes as quite a shock to the audience. After the fall of Sejanus, the camera presents us with a shot of the senate steps strewn with dead bodies including a severed head, which is the most graphic image up to that point in the series. The killing of Sejanus’s children is also ordered, but we do not see it nor is there a report after the deed. The suggested rape of Sejanus’s daughter is implied, but not as explicitly discussed as it is in The Caesars. In addition, the soldier

82  Costumes and censorship (1970s) tasked to execute the children shows moral concerns and discomfort about the act, in contrast to the cold and distanced reporting in the earlier show. From this, the series becomes increasingly more explicit, both in terms of violence and sex. In episode 8 (‘Zeus, by Jove’), the first shock occurs when Macro walks into the room to present the bloody severed head of the young boy Gemelus. Yet, the most shocking scene is the aforementioned finale of the episode and involves both incest and violence. At first, we encounter a drugged Drusilla in full frontal nudity, shortly before she is bound and killed by Caligula as he cuts his unborn son from her womb in order to eat it.3 This ‘terrifying scene’, which ‘has no source either in ancient accounts or in Graves’s narrative’ (Beard, 2014: 137) caused much debate at the time even though the most graphic elements are not actually shown. In particular, we do not see the moment when Caligula cuts Drusilla’s foetus out of her womb and there is some speculation about whether this was ever filmed or not. In the scene as presented in the DVD edition, we only hear Drusilla’s screams, followed by a crazed, blood-soaked Caligula coming to the door, advising Claudius not to enter the room (see Figure 4). As noted in the introduction to this part, the producers here made a conscious decision not to show all the details. Apart from avoiding more stringent censorship, this meant that the audience had to imagine the horrors,

Figure 4  Caligula shortly after murdering Drusilla, I, Claudius

TV antiquity  83 similar to Lollia’s haunting report. Nevertheless, as noted before, the scene was still omitted from the US broadcast.

Superstition and prophecy In the aforementioned scene and others, the show emphasises, in accordance with historic accounts, that Caligula’s increasingly insane actions were inspired by his perception of himself as a god. This delusion of Caligula is one of the few instances in which religious references appears explicitly in the show. Similar to The Caesars, Tiberius’s persecution of Jews and Christians does not feature in the series, nor do the expulsions of Jews from Rome under Claudius. Once again, the only religious actions featured are Tiberius consulting his astrologer Thrasyllus, played by the same actor (Kevin Stoney) as in the earlier show. However, prophecy in general plays a much more significant role here than in The Caesars. This starts in episode 2 when the child Claudius catches a wolf cub dropped by an eagle and consequently is predicted to be the saviour of Rome, although he is unaware of the prophecy until much later. Not until episode 6 does Livia reveal to Claudius that it has been foretold to her that he will be emperor. Although Livia’s interaction with religion is largely instrumental, for example when she manipulates the Vestal Virgins to let her read (and change) Augustus’s will, she seems to have a genuine belief in prophecy. This belief also sets her apart from other characters that dismiss the prophecy, including Claudius himself. In her later years, she is also increasingly obsessed with the wish to be made a goddess after her death (she asks first Caligula, then Claudius). This desire is not primarily inspired by her inflated sense of self-worth. On the contrary, Livia is concerned that she will end up in hell, as a consequence of all her murderous actions. Being a god, she reasons, liberates her from such issues, as gods are above human moral concepts, such as not committing murder. Her notion of hell here conflates the Graeco-Roman idea of Hades with the Christian concept of hell, a surprisingly common occurrence in screen antiquity.4 Nevertheless, her idea of divinity as redemption from sin is an interesting one, as it perverts a Christian notion of redemption from sin. Yet, Livia is not the only character in the show aspiring to a divine status. As noted, Caligula declares himself a god, while Claudius is made a god by the people in Roman Britain, who dedicate a temple to him. Apart from these instances of Roman pagan rituals, the Jewish prince (and later king) Herod Agrippa provides almost the only reference point to the Judeo-Christian background of the Roman Empire at the time.

84  Costumes and censorship (1970s) As a friend of Claudius, he provides a distanced commentary on the political machinations of the time, including often ironic remarks about Jewish people. Herod himself does not seem to be particularly interested in religion until late in the show. However, in episode 11 (‘A God in Colchester’) we are suddenly treated to a scene that could be described as a bit of biblical exegesis, albeit under the headline of ‘telling the other side of the story’. Read in the context of the traditional scenario of corrupt pagan emperors versus upright Christians, this scene turns the premise of screen antiquity on its head. It presents us with an enlightened and benevolent Roman emperor dealing with religious fanaticism that threatens the state. The scene begins with Claudius’s advisers Marsus (Manning Wilson) and Pallas (Bernard Hepton) reporting on recent developments in Judea and is worth quoting here at length: claudius: What exactly is this M-Messiah? marsus: A king, Caesar, who is to come and redeem Israel of all its sins. Philo . . . has declared that he must be descended from King David and born in a village called . . . Bethlehem? claudius: In what year? marsus: Well, opinions differ, as of course they always will in events of this kind. Claudius: Have there been any candidates recently? marsus: No, not recently. The last one, I heard from a learned Jew, died fifteen years ago [. . .] claudius: Who was this man? marsus: His name was Joshua Bar-Joseph, a native of Galilee. He had a large following amongst the uneducated and used to preach to gatherings by the lakeside. He was also called Jesus by the Greeks. claudius: And was he born in . . . Bethlehem? marsus: Well, it’s not precisely known. There was some scandal concerning his birth. A Greek soldier was supposed to have seduced his mother, who was a tapestry worker at the temple. pallas: What happened to this Joshua? marsus: Well, he tried to form a new religion out of Judaism, but of course he lacked the authority. He then began identifying himself as this Messiah. He was executed as a heretic. claudius: Did you find out what King Herod thought of him? marsus: Not very much, I imagine. He recently executed one of his followers, a man called James. He is looking for another one called Simon. claudius: He has followers, then? marsus: Ah, yes, yes, yes. It’s a cult. There are always cults. pallas: All this is most interesting for you Caesar, with your fascination for strange religions. But what more does it tell us of King Herod’s intentions?

TV antiquity  85 claudius: I will tell you, Pallas. King Herod’s mother was on her way to Jerusalem for her lying-in when she was overtaken by her pains in a small village. King Herod was born there. The name of the village was Bethlehem. There is no doubt in my mind. My friend Herod believes himself to be this Messiah. And worse – many others believe him to be this Messiah. His intentions are clear. Borne on this great wave of religious fanaticism, he intends to free the east from the dominion of Rome. He intends to make war on us . . . If we don’t move quickly, Herod will seize the Eastern Empire and we shall lose Egypt. My friend has become my enemy.

The significance of this scene is that religion here is shown as a threat to the order of the empire, as a pretext for war. The show echoes some of the critique of organised religion and zealotry that later satires, such as Life of Brian (1979), presents to audiences, although the critique here is limited to a small scene towards the end of the series. Also, it seems to show Herod turning from a charming, worldly-wise politician to a religious fanatic and emphasises Claudius as the enlightened – and non-religious – emperor. This is, of course, reading Claudius in a very contemporary light, removed from the context of Roman state religion. The show thus follows an apparent trend in TV antiquity that is distinct from its large-screen predecessors. With the focus on antiquarian rather than monumental history, there seems to be less need for contrasting two clear opposing powers (such as Rome v. Christianity). Instead, I, Claudius focuses on the complex, manifold and changing relationships between individuals and between people and society.

Old and new empires This particular reading of Claudius as the enlightened emperor battling religious fanaticism, however, may be particular to a European cultural framework at the time. As noted earlier, religious narratives were popular on television in the US throughout this decade and ITV’s Jesus of Nazareth was subsequently broadcast on mainstream network NBC rather than the more ‘niche’ PBS. While I, Claudius, as previously noted, was still an enormous success in both countries, its reception in the US and in the UK was significantly different, complicating any possible identification with Claudius by the audience. As John Hartley (1992: 13) has observed, ‘in television . . . “the local” is a contradictory term . . . [as the] . . . same shows, formats and structures are found around the world, but what they mean can depend quite crucially on how they are scheduled into the public semiosis of a given locality’. In the case of I, Claudius, it may have

86  Costumes and censorship (1970s) been the appeal at historicity and British high culture, which enabled the ‘more sexually adventurous’ British television show to be shown on US television (Strong, 2008: 225). Like their British counterparts, audiences in the US saw in the corruption of imperial Rome parallels to the current political climate of the respective countries. However, unlike British audiences, the PBS broadcast ‘disrupts allegorical identification with the soap opera-like imperial family .  .  . [and] .  .  . constructs the Romans as “not us” by making them British’ (Joshel, 2001: 153). This association between Britons and imperial Romans follows a long-standing ‘tradition’ in screen antiquity of linguistically coding Romans with British accents. But, this association between Romans and Britons is not new to screen antiquity. In his aforementioned essay on history, Nietzsche quotes Goethe, who apparently claimed that they say Shakespeare ‘hit off the Romans admirably; but I don’t find it so, they are all nothing but flesh-and-blood Englishmen, but . . . the toga sits on them perfectly well’ (1874: 85). This perceived link between the ancient Romans and British elites still appears in reviews of the most recent shows. For example, writing about Rome, Robin Lane Fox (2005) notes that ‘the senatorial class of British actors projects a fine British accent throughout. We knew that the young Octavian, the future emperor, Augustus, was the grandson of a municipal banker, but until tonight you may never have guessed that he went to school at Harrow.’ I, Claudius, however, does not simply use British accents to signify Roman nobility. The show also gives its lower-class Roman soldiers Cockney accents, thus creating a linguistic dichotomy between upper and lower classes that might be familiar to British audiences from other daytime soap operas. Abroad, especially in the US, this contributed to the perception of I, Claudius as a distinctly British programme, but one that was also linked to monarchy and British imperialism. Here, the show’s reception in the US adds an interesting twist to the often cited fear of ‘Americanisation’5 in European television by offering a sort of counter-narrative. For some, the ‘perceived advantage of British productions in this sort of programming raises the spectre of cultural imperialism, when, in fact, Masterpiece Theatre is one of the few successes of British television in a world televisual market dominated by American producers’ (Joshel, 2001: 153–4). On a more positive note, it is this perceived advantage of British television know-how with respect to historical drama that later encouraged the co-production of shows like Rome.6 It is undeniable that the series has left a lasting legacy, both for TV antiquity and for television drama more broadly. Not surprisingly, as indicated, it had a significant influence on the HBO–BBC collaboration for Rome. Scholars discussing the more recent show have regularly

TV antiquity  87 drawn on I, Claudius; for example Anna McCullough (2015: 133), who argues with reference to Livia’s character that the ‘strong emphasis of . . . I, Claudius on sex and female machinations is also displayed in the series Rome, even though it ends in 29 BC, before Livia’s worst alleged offences’. She further adds that given ‘the fact that the popularity and quality of I, Claudius have ensured its influence on later portrayals of ancient Rome, Graves’s work and its subsequent interpretation by the BBC seem to be the modern links between Rome’s Livia and Tacitus’ (2015: 133). While there is some consistency between the old Livia of I, Claudius and her young alter ego in Rome as several writers have noted (see case study 7), the old Augustus could not be more different from the young Octavian as I have highlighted earlier. Nevertheless, these changes and developments between the two series are able to point towards a number of cultural and industrial developments in the four decades that separate their productions, as I will continue to explore in Part V.

Case study 4: The Eagle of the Ninth (1977)

The six-part television series The Eagle of the Ninth is a BBC adaptation of Rosemary Sutcliff’s popular children’s novel, first published in 1954. The programme was produced by BBC Scotland and filmed in Aberdeenshire. It was directed by Michael Simpson and Baz Taylor, both of whom had previous experience with documentaries and realist drama, which as we will see also had an impact on the aesthetic of this series. The show was broadcast on consecutive Sundays in the early evenings. The Radio Times featured the programme in a one-page spread in its starting week, but unlike Warrior Queen (as mentioned in the introduction to this part), The Eagle of the Ninth does not appear to have received much attention from critics after its launch. This is all the more surprising as Sutcliff’s story seems to have been a popular subject for adaptations. As early as 1957, the BBC turned it into a six-part radio dramatisation, which was broadcast again in 1963 as an edited 90-minute radio play. This was followed by another radio dramatisation in 1996. In 2010 and 2011, two feature films returned to the subject. The 2011 film The Eagle by Scottish director Kevin Macdonald closely follows the story of Rosemary Sutcliff’s novel. In the featurette accompanying the DVD release, Macdonald explicitly cites his childhood love for the books as his motivation for making the film. In contrast, Neil Marshall’s Centurion (2010) offers a sort of prequel to the story of The Eagle that shows how the Ninth Legion was destroyed and why all records of it have disappeared. In addition, the legend of the Ninth Legion also featured more recently in an episode of Doctor Who (‘The Eaters of Light’, 2017), where its disappearance is blamed on aliens. Despite this fanciful plot twist, the look and setting of the episode is actually not that dissimilar from the original television show discussed here. With all this apparent interest in the story, it is somewhat surprising that the television adaptation is so little known and even rarely noted

TV antiquity  89 in the literature on Sutcliff’s work. For example, while Philip Burton (2011) acknowledges in his article on the book both the recent cinematic adaptations and the older radio programmes, his detailed analysis of Sutcliff’s work makes no reference to the BBC television series. Unlike the famous I, Claudius, which was broadcast only a year earlier, this show seems to have been lost in the annals of British television history. Part of the reason for this might be the fact that the programme was, like Sutcliffe’s novel, aimed at children and young adults. Yet, as indicated above, other series aimed at a similar target audience, such as Warrior Queen, did receive more attention and commentary, at least at the time. Moreover, as Burton (2011: 101) notes, the ‘border between children’s literature and more popular forms of adult fiction . . . is particularly hard to police’ and the early evening slot of the programme suggests that it was aimed at families rather than just children. Both The Eagle of the Ninth and Warrior Queen do in fact address a number of important ‘adult themes’. In this case study, then, I want to demonstrate that The Eagle of the Ninth can indeed be of interest to scholars of television history in general and TV antiquity in particular. With its extensive outdoor scenes and understated acting it also provides an interesting stylistic counterpoint to the colourful studio sets and dramatic hyperbole of I, Claudius. While its intended audience of children and young adults also meant that it neither had the production budget nor the high culture status of a show like I, Claudius, a comparison between the two shows nevertheless reveals a number of interesting similarities and differences. Shown only a year after I, Claudius, The Eagle of the Ninth may indicate an attempt by the BBC to capture at least some of the audience’s fascination with TV antiquity that remained from the earlier show. Finally, there exists of course a nice continuity between the two shows as it was Emperor Claudius who at last conquered Britain some sixty years prior to the events of The Eagle of the Ninth. The story of the series centres on the young Roman centurion Marcus Flavius Aquila (Anthony Higgins), who arrives in Roman Britain with an auxiliary cohort to be stationed at a garrison in Isca (Exeter). However, his choice of assignment is no coincidence and is inspired by the wish to redeem his father’s honour. He plans to do so by finding out what happened to his father’s legion – the Ninth – which disappeared under mysterious circumstances in the wilderness beyond Hadrian’s Wall. Shortly after his arrival, the garrison is attacked by local tribes and although successful in defending the position, Marcus is severely wounded and discharged from the army. He spends some time convalescing at the villa of his uncle Aquila (Patrick Holt), where he befriends local girl Cottia (Gillian Bailey). Once recovered, he goes

90  Costumes and censorship (1970s) on a secret mission, following a rumour that the lost Eagle standard of the Ninth Legion was seen with one of the Northern tribes. He is accompanied by Esca (Christian Rodska), a local tribesman who he bought as a slave and later set free. Together they venture into the dangerous territory beyond Hadrian’s Wall and eventually manage to retrieve the eagle. Sutcliff’s novel took its inspiration from various other works of fiction and non-fiction, in particular several of Rudyard Kipling’s works, most notably Puck of Pook’s Hill (1906) (Burton, 2011). In contrast to other screen epics inspired by more ‘serious’ historical novels such as I, Claudius, The Last Days of Pompeii or Ben-Hur, The Eagle of the Ninth might have more in common with other works for younger audiences set in antiquity, such as Hercules: The Legendary Journeys or the more recent Percy Jackson films (Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011). However, unlike the latter two series, The Eagle of the Ninth takes a more serious approach with a focus on historical context rather than fantasy. The style of the series is naturalistic, eschewing the spectacle of large sets and crowds of extras in favour of outdoor settings, minimal cast and understated acting. The series presents a more limited cast than I, Claudius, and even fewer extras, with rarely more than two or three people in the frame. In addition, most of the action is narrated rather than shown. Nevertheless, there are also some more fantastic elements to be found in the series, similar to the visions of the Sybil that occasionally haunt Claudius. For example, in episode 4 (‘The Lost Legion’), Marcus has a disturbing nightmare vision of marching skeleton soldiers that is actually quite frightening when considering the show’s target audience. There are two elements in Sutcliff’s writing that I would argue make her novel particularly suitable for television adaptation. First, she has a keen eye for detail and an interest in not just creating drama but recreating an authentic notion of everyday life and the time (Detter, 1985). As noted before, the ability to allow time for the ordinary is one of the key advantages of television in contrast to cinema. In particular, ‘it is the details which Sutcliff includes – details of a soldier’s experience, of life in a provincial city, of the rituals of the Northern tribes’ (Detter, 1985: 83) that also enrich the television adaptation. Sutcliff here reflects the antiquarian historian, who ‘greets the soul of [her] nation across the long dark centuries of confusion as his own soul; an ability to feel [her] way back and sense how things were, to detect traces almost extinguished’ (Nietzsche, 1874: 73). This is further supported by the aforementioned Radio Times (1977) review, which claims that when ‘a book is going well Rosemary Sutcliff enters into, almost becomes her characters’. This seems to be particularly true of The Eagle of the Ninth,

TV antiquity  91 which she describes as her favourite book: ‘Part of me was Marcus, and part was in love with him’ (Radio Times, 1977). Some of this love and reverence for the ancient world also translates to the screen as the makers of the television show were keen to draw people into the rituals and practices of the Romans as well as the Celtic tribes. Second, as Detter (1985: 83) remarks, ‘Sutcliff was a professional artist before she turned to writing, and she has a painter’s eye for the precise detail, the evocative hint that can bring a scene to life.’ This sense for the visual and the ability to invoke images even in writing aids the job of adapting the novel for the screen. It is thus not surprising that the television adaptation often follows Sutcliff’s descriptions closely, including the local Seal people, which were her invention, although based on some connections with Northern tribes at that time. Despite these opportunities for visualisation, off-screen narration is frequently used and even poetry is recited, mimicking the narrative of the book, rather than offering a more televisual adaptation that focuses on dialogue and emotion via close-ups. Yet, in contrast to The Odyssey (1968), which in parts maintained the poetry of Homer in order to faithfully adapt the original artwork, the poetry in The Eagle of the Ninth rather functions to reflect Marcus’s moods and thoughts. From the outset, it is clear that the emphasis of the series is not on spectacle and action – although action scenes are included. Rather, it focuses on the friendship between Marcus and Esca as well as Marcus’s attempt at coming to terms with what happened to his father and his own disability. The battle scenes that are included most clearly show the lack of budget. Despite the fact that a ‘fight arranger’ is credited in the titles, the battle scenes often appear clumsy and theatrical, particularly when compared to later shows. In addition, the lack of extras also poses a problem. For instance, the first proper action occurs in episode 1 (‘Frontier Fort’) when Marcus, newly appointed commander of the fort, and his troops are attacked by local tribes. The director here takes advantage of the fact that this is a night attack. This provides an excuse for blurry and badly lit battle scenes, which mostly take place in the dark and are quickly over. In addition, it appears that several shots are used repeatedly and while injured soldiers are seen afterwards, no injury is actually seen being inflicted during battle. This is quite in contrast to the sometimes graphic battle violence in more recent films and television series, even in The Eagle (2011), which in the UK had a PG-12 rating. As a television programme aimed at children, The Eagle of the Ninth naturally had much stricter rules to follow than a show like I, Claudius, which was shown after the watershed. Yet, even when compared to Warrior Queen, which as noted earlier raised eyebrows about its violent content, the

92  Costumes and censorship (1970s) action of The Eagle of the Ninth seems understated. After the battle, the subsequent punishment of villagers is only narrated with brief images of a burning village. But, even the narration here spares much of the brutal details that would no doubt have been the reality.

Pagan religion(s) Interestingly, religion (especially pagan) appears to be more prominent in this programme than it did in I, Claudius. As Burton (2011) notes, novelist Sutcliff was fascinated with the anthropology of James George Frazer and his theories on the role of myth and ritual in native religions. However, similar to other shows discussed in this book, the series also treats these practices with suspicion, at least in parts. One of the first things Marcus is warned about is the wandering Druids. There is another parallel here to Warrior Queen, in which the Druids are also presented as fanatics that stir the otherwise peaceful local tribes to rebellion. The outgoing commander describes the actions of the Druids, somewhat anachronistically, as holy wars, ‘which are always the worst’. Moreover, as Detter and others observe, Sutcliff’s story is full of various ‘rites of passage’ and the conflict of lifestyles is a recurring theme in her novels. They also figure prominently in The Eagle of the Ninth, not just with Marcus, but also with the young men of the tribe, which we see involved in the sacred rituals of their clans. In her review of Warrior Queen, Messenger (1978) had argued that ‘what lifted [the show] way above . . . other trigger-happy adventures . . . was its clear sense of the clash of two different cultures’. A similar atmosphere is created in The Eagle of the Ninth. I will come back to these wider cultural implications shortly. First, however, I want to explore more closely the depiction of religion in the series. Apart from the problematic Druidism indicated, there is another type of pagan religion that features prominently in the series – the Mithraic mysteries, later known as Mithraism. This is practised by the Romans, most specifically Marcus. In one of the first scenes of the show, we see him praying to the god Mithras in his quarters at the garrison. This link to Mithraism further indicates the influence of Kipling’s work on Sutcliff as the Roman centurion Parnesius in Puck of Pook’s Hill is also a Mithraist. Marcus is regularly seen praying or referring to the god Mithras throughout the following episodes. The fact that Mithraism features prominently in the series is interesting, as it only appeared throughout the Roman Empire around the time the

TV antiquity  93

Figure 5  Marcus with the Mithraic mark on his forehead, The Eagle of the Ninth

story is set, in the late first century ad. The television show (following Sutcliff) makes an interesting point here as the Roman military was one of the key groups in which Mithraism first emerged (Beck, 1998; Clauss, 2001). In episode 2 (‘Esca’), Marcus reminisces nostalgically about his participation in the cult during his time in the military; in episode 4, Mithras is explicitly mentioned as the guardian of the legions. Before entering the northern territory, Marcus covers up the symbol on his forehead, which marks him out as Mithraist (see Figure 5). But he reveals the mark when encountering one of the soldiers of the lost legion in order to identify him. Incidentally, this mark is indeed referenced by some scholars as a possible branding that is received during initiation into the rites of Mithras (see Vermaseren and Van Essen, 1965: 229). On the one hand, Roman religion here is aligned with other pagan cults, such as those practised by the local tribes and the series makes an effort to show them to be equally valid. This is also consistent with Frazer’s notion of the comparability in ritual and myth between different religions. A good example of this occurs in episode 5 (‘The Wild Hunt’) when Marcus and Esca have invaded the sacred cave of the Seal People where the golden Eagle is kept. The candles that provide their only light source start to flicker and are at risk of being blown out. Marcus

94  Costumes and censorship (1970s) and Esca pray simultaneously to their own individual god(s) in order to prevent this from happening. On the other hand, however, there is also a strong attempt at Christianising Mithraism. Several instances throughout the series, in which Mithras is referenced to, sound distinctly Christian. For example, when Marcus takes leave from his friend and confidante Cottia in episode 3 (‘Across the Frontier’), he says to her ‘the light of the sun be with you Cottia’, to which she replies, ‘and also with you Marcus’. This is rather similar to the words of the peace in some versions of the Christian liturgy: ‘May the peace of the Lord be with you – and also with you’. Marcus also refers to his ‘evening prayers to Mithras’, a more Judeo-Christian than pagan practice, and later in episode 4 tells the soldier that the ‘Lord of the Legions forbid that I shall be your judge’. Again, the notion of a god sitting in judgement over our actions is a more Judeo-Christian concept. The most significant instance of this attempt at ‘Christianising’ the pagan religion might be the scene briefly mentioned above in episode 2. Here, Marcus evokes the feast of Mithras when convalescing at his uncle’s villa: ‘It’s difficult [to focus] on this night of all nights, the eve of the birth of Mithras, in camps and forts wherever the Eagles fly, men will soon be gathering to his worship, I long for the old life’. The howling wind outside and generally gloomy atmosphere of the scene further seem to indicate a mid-winter celebration, which some scholars have associated with the Mithraic feast day (Vermaseren and Van Essen, 1965). Some scholars have argued that the decision to celebrate Jesus’s birth on the twenty-fifth of December is due to this being the feast day of Mithras, thus creating more explicit links to Christianity. However, this is strongly challenged by others. For example, in a review of Reinhold Merkelbach’s book Mithras (1984), Roger Beck (1987: 299, n. 12) criticises the author for deploying once again ‘that hoariest of “facts” about Mithras . .  . that he was born on December 25th’. Beck suggests that there is very little actual evidence for this claim, and consequently for its link to Christianity. Yet, we need to keep in mind, of course, that the aim of the television writers was to closely follow Sutcliff’s story rather than contemporaneous scholarship. Moreover, it is unlikely that most children (or adults) watching the programme would have been aware of these connections. Nevertheless, as the BBC ideal of educating as well as entertaining was still strong at the time, especially in children’s television, it can be assumed that the producers were at least attempting to provide a plausible portrayal of religious connotations commonly drawn at the time. Interestingly, none of these references to Mithras appear in the 2011 film, apart from Marcus being seen very briefly praying to him at a shrine in his quarters at the beginning of the film. This is consistent

TV antiquity  95 with the attempt of more recent cinematic epics to downplay religious content altogether, as I have argued elsewhere (Magerstädt, 2014).

The triumph of the outsider One of the distinct features of the television agenda of the 1970s was a shift towards the underdog or outsider in the latter half of the decade (Vahimagi, 2003–14). Marcus, the hero of The Eagle of the Ninth, fits the notion of the outsider in three ways: his family background, his infirmity, and his attitude towards the norms of Roman society. As Detter (1985: 83) notes, Sutcliff ‘writes about the outcast – the loner seeking a place in the scheme of things’. Although he is the offspring of a relatively wealthy Roman family, the tragic disappearance of his father and the legion he commanded as well as the subsequent death of his mother, leaves Marcus isolated, dispossessed and disgraced. He is a skilled soldier and commander, but nevertheless stands out within the Roman army. When taking over the garrison in Isca (Exeter), he is initially treated with suspicion by soldiers and centurions alike. This is due to his young age and inexperience as well as the rumours about his father’s history and connection with the legendary (and presumed cursed) Ninth Legion. Eventually, he manages to prove himself by successfully defending the garrison and receiving an honorary laurel wreath for his legion. Yet, while this gains him the respect of his troops, it also results in his becoming more literally an outsider. Seriously wounded in the battle, Marcus manages to recover well enough for ‘ordinary’ life, but he is discharged from the army. This means, in his own words, having to say, ‘farewell to everything, life with the Eagles, hope, ambition’. There are a number of biographical reasons for Sutcliff’s hero having a disability that affects his movements as she herself suffered from the consequences of juvenile arthritis. However, I want to discuss this aspect less in relation to her writing, but in connection with I, Claudius. Like Claudius, Marcus has a physical disability that makes him an outsider in his social group (imperial family and military respectively) despite leading an otherwise privileged life. Yet, being considered an outsider also enables both Marcus and Claudius to gain a special insight and achieve things that others cannot. This is possible not despite, but because of their status as outsiders. Claudius survives longer than most other members of his extended family because he is not perceived as a threat. He is able to carry out scholarly work rather than being sent off to the military like most male relatives, which means he can become a skilled historian and later statesman. Marcus can venture into the northern

96  Costumes and censorship (1970s) territory because people no longer see him as a soldier and his discharge from military means he is free of other obligations. Finally, his attitude towards societal issues also sets Marcus apart from other Romans. For example, he disapproves of the scale of destruction ordered as punishment of the locals by Claudius Maximus, who comes to the aid of the garrison. Marcus tells his centurion wistfully that ‘huts are easily rebuilt, salted fields will bear again in three years, but not all the time in eternity will bring back the young men of the tribe’. Marcus here voices some of the worries of post-war society reflected in the novel. Burton (2011: 94), for example, claims that Sutcliff’s work ‘reproduces the concerns found in The Dam Busters over the ethics of revenge and the killing of non-combatants’.7 Marcus later clashes with the arrogant tribune Placidus (Darien Angadi), who strongly supports the view that slaves are mere property. Although this was arguably the Roman attitude to slaves, Marcus is more liberally (and modern) minded. Not only does he consider his slave Esca as a friend, he also shows respect to the native population. Maybe because of his own position as an outsider, he is more empathic towards the plight of other ‘outsiders’, such as local tribesmen and slaves. It is well documented that some of Emperor Claudius’s most trusted advisers were also freemen (freed slaves), although they were not presented in a very positive light in I, Claudius. For Marcus, the notion of personal freedom is an important one. Even before his connection with Esca, Marcus discusses the issue with his uncle. When they both visit the gladiatorial games in episode 2, Marcus voices his objections, not to the games itself, but to the use of slaves in the arena. He admits that he enjoys a staged fight of two trained gladiators, but not the use of slaves or the abuse of the games as an execution tool. The emphasis is once again on personal freedom and freedom of choice. Esca, Marcus’s closest ally, is another outsider, not just because of his status as a slave. He appears throughout the show as a proud and confident warrior, who from the outset challenges the narrative of being owned by Marcus. He declares to Marcus in their first encounter: ‘It would have been easy to escape on my way here, the old, gouty one could not have stopped me. But I chose to come because it was in my heart that it was you we came to.’ This is in stark contrast to the Esca in the later film version, who continues to be mistrusting and cold towards Marcus until very late in the story. Initially, he only serves him out of obligation for saving his life, even though he did not want Marcus to do so. The televisual Esca is much more proactive and proud and as such more equal to Marcus as a friend. When we first encounter Esca, he is fighting his opponent in the arena rather

TV antiquity  97 than refusing to fight as he does in the film. When Marcus decides to purchase him as a slave, it is because he reminds him of Cradoc (Patrick Malahide). Cradoc is a local charioteer who takes Marcus hunting at the start of the series and later leads the attack on the garrison. The boundaries between master and slave are blurred quickly, and Marcus is even dismayed that Esca still regards him as his superior. Early in episode 3, Marcus declares: ‘I have not thought of slave or freeman in my dealings with you, but you are too proud to do the same with me.’ Of course, Marcus here is somewhat naive with regard to the realities of slavery and chooses to ignore the simple fact that at this point he still owns Esca. The destiny of Esca is also metaphorically connected to that of a wolf cub, which Marcus raises. Soon before leaving to venture north, Marcus sets the wolf free. This ‘offer of freedom to Cub anticipates Marcus’ manumission of Esca, and Esca’s decision to follow Marcus of his own free will’, as Burton (2011: 98) suggests. As Marcus states, ‘you can tame a wild thing but never be sure it’s truly won over until free to return to its own kind’. Following the same logic, Marcus sets Esca free before they go on their quest up north so that Esca might join the quest freely. This is again in contrast to the more recent film version, where Esca is only freed towards the end of their adventure. At the end of the series, Marcus reaffirms their shared status as outsiders by telling Esca: ‘You don’t like being a freed man [rather than Roman citizen] I don’t like being a lame man, makes two of us. The only thing that we can do about it is to learn to bear our scars lightly.’

Crossing borders The unusual quest on which Marcus and Esca embark, a quest in which a physically weak hero ventures into the unknown, only accompanied by his faithful friend, is linked by Burton (2011: 101) to ‘another 1954 contemporary, namely Frodo Baggins’. He further argues that ‘The Lord of the Rings and The Eagle both deal with what we might call “alternative quests”: not to gain treasure but to put it out of reach of the enemy’ (2011: 101). Of course, we could argue that Marcus wants to recover the Eagle and thus the treasure, but as he emphasises to his uncle, more than anything else, he wants to discover the truth. The Eagle is simply a symbol of this and the fact that it is again buried at the end of the series further emphasises this status as a token of truth rather than a treasure in itself. Like the Eagle, the truth will remain hidden from the public, but Marcus has achieved his goal of finding the truth and clearing

98  Costumes and censorship (1970s) his father’s name. Like Frodo, Marcus is scarred by the adventure and eventually settles into a quiet life in Britain. With this focus on male camaraderie, female characters are somewhat sparse in The Eagle of the Ninth. More generally, ‘Sutcliff is at her best in depicting the blood-brother relationship, the friendship of young warriors in a heroic society – a relationship with a strong appeal for younger adolescents who may be threatened by more overt sexual liaisons’, as Detter (1985: 84) suggests. It is interesting that the recent film version pushes this male-centric focus even further by excluding even the one significant female character of the story – Cottia. This is unfortunate, as the character of Cottia in The Eagle of the Ninth offers a number of significant insights, despite her minor role in the overall narrative. For a start, she provides a contrast to the Roman women who appear in other shows. Moreover, Cottia is another ‘border-crossing’ outsider, of mixed Celtic-Roman origin. Her parents try to push her into the role of a traditional Roman woman, while her interests and temperament clearly side with her native country. As she tells Marcus: ‘My uncle and aunt call me Camilla, but my real name is Cottia; they like everything to be very Roman you see . . . I am of the Iceni’. Her Celtic origin is visually emphasised by her red hair, which is often loosely tied up, giving her a slightly wild appearance. In one instance, she even bites one of the servants, when he refuses to admit her to Marcus. She also seems much more inclined towards a simple rural lifestyle and does not care much for the advances of Roman civilisation: ‘I do not like to live in a town full of straight lines, being shut up inside brick walls’. Later, she adds more forcefully: ‘I hate it when they make me pretend to be a Roman maiden, to forget my own tribe, my own father’. Her solution to this is quiet resistance and the attempt at preserving her culture under the veneer of Roman respectability. ‘Under my tunic’, says Cottia, ‘I am of the Iceni and when I take off my tunic in the evening I say, there, that rids me of Rome until the morning .  .  . and then I remember everything I’m not supposed to remember, I speak to myself inside my head in my own tongue’. When Marcus hears these words, we see a flashback to Cradoc’s proud wife being taken prisoner after her village is burned down following the attack on the garrison. This cutting back and forth between images of the rebellious tribes and the more subtly rebellious Cottia emphasises the notion that the boundaries between enemy and friend are not always clear-cut. Incidentally, the fact that Cottia is Iceni (rather than any other Brittonic tribe) is also significant as it links her to the rebellious Boudicca, queen of the Iceni. Her own battle for personal freedom is further evident in her attitude towards animals. When meeting Marcus during the gladiator games, she

TV antiquity  99 voices her concern for the animals in the arena, but these concerns are not merely related to animal welfare. She explains to Marcus (watching a gladiator fighting a bear) that ‘to kill on the hunting trail is one thing, but they took away his freedom, put him in a cage and then killed him’. It does not take much imagination to draw parallels to her own existence in a golden cage as well as the destiny of her tribe. Moreover, it is also made clear here that she shares Marcus’s concerns about personal freedom more generally.

The ethics of empire What is exemplified in Cottia is a concern that runs through the entire series, namely the relationship between the occupied and the occupying forces, which makes the story among other things ‘a reflection on the ethics of war, and a manifesto for a post-imperial order’ (Burton, 2011: 101). In addition, the television series also addresses societal changes in the 1970s, when the idea of multiculturalism became more prominently discussed in public and in politics (see Modood and May, 2001). The aforementioned scene at the gladiatorial games is a useful illustration of a number of related issues. We have already seen that it provides a platform for both Cottia and Marcus to voice ethical concerns with regard to personal freedom and slavery. In addition, the scene provides an interesting contrast to the gladiator games scene in episode 3 of I, Claudius. For a start, we are far away from Rome – and this shows. The arena here is not a gloriously large stone colosseum as the one in the capital (although we see little of it in I, Claudius). It is more akin to a village showground with a small sanded circle surrounded by wooden palisades and wood benches around its ranks. The audience seems to be a mix of local people and Romans, both enjoying the games. Marcus and Aquila, although part of the upper classes of local society, sit in the middle of the crowd. At the beginning, the focus of the camera remains on the main characters rather than the spectacle in the arena similar to I, Claudius. However, we do see not just Marcus, Aquila and Cottia reacting to the spectacle, but also the excited crowds shouting and cheering around them. This is much more akin to STARZ Spartacus, as I will discuss in case study 8, although much less spectacular (and less sexualised). In addition, we also see some of the battle, in particular towards the end of the scene, when we encounter Esca. In contrast to the small talk and intrigue we observe in the imperial box in the earlier series, the conversation between Marcus and Aquila during the games is an ethical discussion with a distinctly modern ring to it. Cottia, who

100  Costumes and censorship (1970s) is visiting the gladiatorial games with her uncle, is visibly distraught at the spectacle and mostly averts her eyes. This is in stark contrast to the bloodlust expressed by Roman women in I, Claudius or STARZ Spartacus. Despite the fact that the Romans are the occupying force, here they are quite literally embedded in the diverse local society and are not shown as outright villains. On the contrary, Marcus is clearly the hero and there is no debauchery or other significant moral corruption usually associated with Rome evident in the series. Although there are some unsympathetic Romans, such as Placidus, these are presented as individual character flaws rather than the hallmarks of the ruling Roman class more generally. As Burton (2011: 98) notes with regard to the novels, ‘Sutcliff’s sympathies in The Eagle are . . . evenly balanced. It is now nearly ninety years since the Roman invasion of Britain, and it is accepted that Roman rule has not always been a disaster for all.’ As a children’s show, The Eagle of the Ninth here addresses some profound issues. One of the key messages is the need to overcome resentment and get along. This is not merely a societal issue, but a deeply personal one. All of ‘the main characters have reasons for feeling bitterness towards others; not merely the general resentment and unease between subjects and conquerors but real personal feuds’, as Burton (2011: 94–5) observes. Esca’s father was killed fighting the Romans, as was the rest of his family. Similarly, Marcus’s father was lost fighting the Northern tribes and he himself was betrayed and then seriously wounded by Cradoc, a man he considered a friend. Yet, as Marcus notes sagely in episode 2: ‘I felt bitterness at first but now I understand that he didn’t break faith, there was simply another, greater faith he had to keep’. Both Marcus’s and Esca’s ability to overcome resentment and thus break the vicious circle of revenge can be considered a morality tale for those struggling to find a place in a post-imperial society. ‘While such moralizing could be a feature of any children’s literature’ as Burton (2011: 95–6) suggests, ‘there may be a sense in which this represents a very specific post-war sensibility’. This is true of British society in the 1950s when Sutcliff wrote her book, but equally still relevant at the time the television series was produced. One could argue that a certain disillusionment was in the mind of Sutcliff with regard to empires, but maybe also in the mind of the television makers in the 1970s. The show was made only a few years after the final withdrawal of the US from Vietnam and in the middle of political violence in Northern Ireland throughout the decade. In the introduction to this part, we noted that writers like Turner saw I, Claudius as an allegory for the troubled times of the mid-1970s as well as the sense of empires in decline that haunted Graves’s original novel. Similar things can be argued with regard to The

TV antiquity  101 Eagle of the Ninth, although the allusions here may be more subtle and complex. The ethical issues arising from questions of imperial power and the conflict between occupying forces and the conquered are muddled further when Marcus, the Roman centurion, dresses up as a Greek doctor in order to travel freely beyond Hadrian’s Wall. In his disguise, he also occasionally talks ill of the Romans, for example in episode 5 when he tells the Seal People, ‘we Greeks have little cause to love the Romans’. This small exchange also hints at the ways in which Roman culture, especially in screen representations, has colonialised Greek culture as outlined in Part I. Interestingly, this disguise is completely omitted in the recent film version, giving no explanation of why Marcus can roam the Caledonian wilderness for quite some time without raising any suspicion until they are finally caught by the Seal People. However, beyond the reflections on conquest, the story of The Eagle of the Ninth also reflects on the ethics of war more broadly. According to Burton (2011: 94), ‘a significant minority of the original readers of [the novel] would have been in Marcus’ situation, having lost a father or other relative in the War, but able only to speculate on how he had died’. In addition, unlike the glorification of the Ninth Legion’s last stand that is portrayed or alluded to in both Centurion and The Eagle (2011), the television production paints a more depressing picture of their decline. This is narrated by a former soldier of the legion, which Marcus and Esca encounter beyond the border. He explains that most soldiers had already deserted prior to the last battle, after a long and continuous moral decline among the troops and consistent mismanagement by incompetent commanders. He further acknowledges that the treatment of Boudicca by the Romans was unjust and may have left a curse upon the legion. Burton (2011: 83) claims that ‘if The Eagle now appears dated, that is partly because it is so much a work of its time: at once a fictional work about second-century Britannia, and a historical document of mid-twentieth-century Britain’. However, the fact that not one but two recent films have revived the story might indicate that the subject matter is still a useful metaphor, although allusions are now directed towards the contemporary political situations in the Middle East, were high-tech Western forces are challenged by terrorism and guerrilla warfare, an issue addressed more explicitly in Centurion (2010). The 2011 remake of The Eagle further demonstrates the continuing appeal of the story, which is ‘not one purely of nostalgia [but] a thoughtful response to the challenge of the post-war and post-imperial era’ (Burton, 2011: 103). It is this ability to explore complex ethical and sociopolitical issues in a show aimed at children, while also presenting a thoughtful account of

102  Costumes and censorship (1970s) Roman antiquity at the margins that for me makes this television series a noteworthy example of TV antiquity. While there is arguably little narrative complexity, the topics of empire and occupation add a different layer to the story and the intimate exploration of friendship and trust as both Marcus and Esca come to terms with their past, nevertheless highlight the advantages of retelling Sutcliff’s story in serial television.

Notes 1 After an initial broadcast on CBS in 1971. 2 A brief search on a well-known online bookshop revealed no less than forty self-help and self-improvement books promoting this concept. 3 Caligula here conflates his delusion of himself as Jupiter/Zeus with the notion of Cronos (Zeus’s father) who ate his own children because of a prophecy that said they would become more powerful than him. 4 See my discussion on this subject in Magerstädt (2014). Also, for an illuminating introduction to the topic, see Sweeney (2014). 5 The term ‘Americanisation’ in this context is mostly used to describe a tendency towards more commercially oriented, mass-market entertainment. 6 It might also explain why HBO is rumoured to have a remake of I, Claudius in development as this book nears completion. 7 The Dam Busters (1955) is a British film set in the Second World War, directed by Michael Anderson.

Cult and kitsch: Graeco-Roman myths on US television (1980s–90s)

Part IV

The 1980s and 1990s saw a number of dramatic developments in the television market and with it a notable shift in emphasis for television series set in antiquity. While the production of sophisticated British dramas such as I, Claudius declined in the early 1980s, a number of high-profile US miniseries set in antiquity conquered the screens. No doubt these shows aimed to draw on the success of shows like I, Claudius in the previous decade, but also tried to retain audiences in an increasingly competitive market. Technological advances such as the introduction of satellite and cable television and the increasing dominance of colour, which had pushed black-and-white television sets into a niche market by the early 1980s, meant that TV antiquity was once again popular with audiences during this period. The 1990s saw with Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995–99) and its spin-off Xena: Warrior Princess (1995–2001) the emergence of popular entertainment programmes set in a fantasy version of the ancient world, aimed at teenage and family audiences. The latter shows were produced in New Zealand with a range of international actors, and were syndicated worldwide. Although loosely based on ancient Greek mythology, both series feature a wide range of Greek, Roman, Eastern, Nordic as well as Christian and medieval mythic elements. For some, these developments may have meant that TV antiquity declined into ‘kitsch’ representations, full of slang and garish costumes, but for others, series like Hercules or Xena achieved cult status. As I will demonstrate throughout this part, advances in technology went hand in hand with changes in the production environment, which in turn also affected the content of the shows produced during this time, all aiming at a new globalised television market. As various scholars have argued, ‘the 1980s and 90s represent US television’s “second golden age”’ (Mittell, 2003: 44), as well as ‘a new era of television, marked by increased commercialisation and competition,

104  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) new social and cultural norms, and by the globalisation of the market’ (Hilmes, 2003: 95). Although new social norms emerged in various ways throughout these decades, as evidenced in the case studies, with regard to culture more broadly, discussions about television’s position between high and low culture became more central. This is reflected for example in debates over ‘quality’, which as Hilmes (2003: 95) further suggests, ‘became a central feature of the 1990s as the enormous expansion of programme offerings on the plethora of channels called old standards and expectations into question’. As we will see, both high-profile shows like The Last Days of Pompeii and more low-key productions like Hercules: The Legendary Journeys have divided audiences and critics alike with regard to their respective merits and quality. First, however, it was the implementation of cable and satellite television throughout the 1980s and the subsequent dramatic increase in channels, which marks the first major development in the television industry affecting the production of Graeco-Roman myths during this period. These new technologies did not emerge independently from each other. As Hilmes (2003: 14) notes, by ‘the mid-1980s satellite broadcasting and cable had become deeply intertwined’, arguing that ‘[cable] as we know it could not exist without the national and international distribution that satellites make possible’. This meant that networks ‘could potentially broadcast hundreds of channels, either directly to people’s homes through their own private satellite dishes, or via the cables’ (Holland, 2017: 15). This expansion brought with it a new focus on niche audiences. The new ‘buzzword[s] were “niche marketing”, “brand identities”, and “developing synergies” [while the pursuit of ] specific demographic groups and lifestyle niches . . . developed into an art form as the 1980s and 1990s progressed’, as Perren (2003: 107) notes. The proliferation of channels also led to a dramatic increase in content to watch – and the need to produce it. This ‘expansion of satellite and cable brought “the age of plenty” and put increasing choice before the viewers’ (Holland, 2017: 18). Yet, the new multitude of channels did not only mean more choice in terms of content, but also the emergence of new business models. It is this difference between cable economics and broadcasting that makes the niche orientation of the former possible, as ‘[unlike] “free-to-air” television, funded by the licence fee or advertising, satellite programmes were [mostly] “pay-TV” funded by a regular subscription’ (Holland, 2017: 16). Another advantage of these new cable channels was that they could increase ‘their viewership by showing what the national broadcast networks did not – or could not’, as Perren (2003: 109) argues. In particular, ‘[premium] cable networks such as Showtime and HBO began airing more original programming,

TV antiquity  105 much of which featured explicit language, sexuality and violence that wouldn’t get past the network’s Standards and Practices divisions’ (Perren, 2003: 109). Thus, issues of censorship, particularly the need to keep advertisers on board, which had troubled producers in previous decades, were gradually eroded by the new channels. Second, the emergence and increasingly widespread availability of recording devices such as VCRs not only changed viewing habits, but also meant that producers were looking for new ways to sell their content. The new devices meant that audiences were not only able to watch programmes when it suited them, but were also able to catch shows that ran parallel to each other on different channels. As Hilmes (2003: 16) suggests, by ‘the early 1990s the viewing of films on television at home, along with home taping of TV programmes, had become so widespread that Hollywood studios and networks alike began to adapt their business practices to accommodate this new market’. As a consequence, television ratings companies such as A. C. Nielsen ‘began to account for videotaped viewing of programmes’ (Hilmes, 2003: 16). This also meant that broadcasters could take into account repeat viewings of programmes and in the long run also develop new business models such as selling the most popular programmes on VHS (and later DVD) directly to audiences. This made investment in quality programmes more appealing as more sophisticated shows were more likely to have an afterlife on VHS and DVD. In addition, changes in regulation in the US market brought down the monopoly of the big three networks1 and meant that ‘broadcasting in the United States went through its first major structural change since the days of the radio’ (Hilmes, 2003: 63). Again, these developments went hand in hand with technological innovations as it ‘was only through the inroads of cable television and upstart networks like Fox that the [classic network] system began to erode in the 1980s, shifting toward an era of “narrowcasting” and corporate conglomeration’ (Mittell, 2003: 44). The development was so rapid that by ‘1985, almost 50 per cent of homes in the United States subscribed to cable’ (Hilmes, 2003: 63–4). It was only towards the end of these two decades, that the internet emerged as a significant factor in the television market. Nevertheless, TV antiquity engaged with the new medium from the start as Xena: Warrior Princess was one of the first programmes for which ‘Universal provided an official home page, the “Netforum”, for . . . fans soon after the show’s premiere, and they developed it into one of the largest fan communities in the world’ (McCracken, 2003: 137). The interactivity that was offered by these new sites allowed audiences for the first time to discuss the shows ‘live’ with each other across different countries and to provide feedback

106  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) and commentary on episodes as they appeared. This ‘instant nature of the web revolutionised television viewing’ as ‘[ fan] communities that had before taken months or years to develop appeared literally overnight and grew exponentially within weeks’ as McCracken (2003: 137) notes. Moreover, as some ‘critics understand the international success of . . . series such as . . . Xena: Warrior Princess . . . in relation to the parallel formation of the World Wide Web’, it is important to emphasise that these fan communities ‘not only serve as marketing tools and spaces of impassioned fandom, but . . . also facilitate the transnational dialogues about the impact of US television abroad’ (Parks, 2003: 117–18). Here, technology no doubt helped to develop the international cult status of the show. These features will grow in importance over the next decade when digital technologies further change the ways television drama engages with their audiences, and I will return to this aspect in Part V. As a consequence of these various technological changes, the two decades under consideration in this part also saw changes in the production of content. This is particularly evident in serial television, where US programmes increasingly came to dominate the international market. ‘As the dominance of public service channels diminished [in Europe] during the 1980s and 1990s and commercial competition set in, American programmes and formats were among the most competitive and popular in the market’ (Bondebjerg et al., 2008: 155). In Europe, these developments brought forward once again old anxieties about cultural imperialism and the ‘Americanisation’ of the European media market. These anxieties had a direct impact on the adoption of new broadcasting technologies in a number of European countries. For example, in ‘France and Britain [the implementation of cable was delayed] since so much of the early television material available via satellite consisted of US-based entertainment [and public] broadcasters . . . saw no need to invest public money to bring American programming to their national audiences’ (Hilmes, 2003: 15). Of course, European broadcasters continued to produce important outputs of both drama and non-fiction programming, but as Bondebjerg et al. (2008: 155) insist, ‘for fiction and entertainment it is very clear that US products dominate quantitatively and are very popular’ during this period. While the BBC had long been the standard-bearer for high-quality cultural programmes, cable channels such as HBO and Showtime increasingly took on this role by ‘mixing the mini-series format with the emphasis on the “producer-auteur” model . . . long employed in British television to spark a golden age of television drama in the USA, eagerly imported . . . by nations around the world’ (Bondebjerg et al., 2008: 164). As we will see, this is also reflected in TV antiquity, as its more significant outputs during this period were all US productions.

TV antiquity  107 Nevertheless, the BBC tried to follow the success of I, Claudius in 1983 with its eight-part series The Cleopatras, which portrays the machinations and intrigue in the Ptolemaic dynasty. The series was written by Philip Mackie, who had also authored The Caesars two decades prior. Although its plot of family intrigue and court politics matched that of I, Claudius, the series was much less successful than either of these predecessors. For instance, reviewer Peter Fiddick (1983: 30) in The Listener states that ‘[l]ong-standing admirer of Philip Mackie’s work though I am . . . I cannot take to The Cleopatras. But then, critics did not quickly take to I, Claudius, and the much noisier promotion of this latest Mackie offering clearly identifies the tales of ancient Egypt as being in the same area of popular taste.’ Like I, Claudius, the series is told in flashbacks as Cleopatra VII (the famous one!) recounts the story of her family. The Daily Telegraph was more derisive, suggesting that the ‘good news about “The Cleopatras” is that it maintains a remarkably consistent style. The bad news is that the style is consistently awful. This time, the BBC have not just scraped the bottom of the barrel. They have pushed it right through’ (Last, 1983: 15). One of the main points of criticism were the low production values. As these are in many ways quite similar to I, Claudius, we can take this as an indication of how much television had moved on by that time. Now, the BBC seemed unable to match the enormous budgets of US shows like ABC’s The Last Days of Pompeii, and it showed. The studio sets that were used so effectively a decade earlier, could no longer compete with the large outdoor sets of US imports. However, critics also complained about nudity and violence throughout the show, indicating that on this point audiences had not necessarily become more tolerant in the intervening years. Lacking the cultural status of I, Claudius, audiences seemed less forgiving about these attempts at further pushing the boundaries. Both these issues are summarised neatly in a Sunday Times review that describes the show as ‘a sort of cut-price, oriental horror-comic, within the first 30 minutes we’d got through one rape, one child-murder, incest, shrieking childbirth, and a massacre (off-stage). Everything, in fact, takes place in the studio. . . In a very small studio, too, judging by the close-ups’ (Moggach, 1983: 10). Not able to compete with the budgets of US drama, television producers in the UK returned to comedy for presenting the ancient world – with Chelmsford 123. The sitcom was produced in 1988 by Hat Trick Productions for Channel 4, the UK’s new commercial (although publicly owned) channel, set up in 1982. Running at a total of thirteen episodes across two seasons, the show aired between 1988 and 1990 and was set in the British town of Chelmsford in 123 ad. It followed the sit-com style established in TV antiquity by Up Pompeii! and later continued with

108  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) Plebs (2013–). However, reviews of the show also indicated changing social currents, as issues of class featured prominently. Celia Brayfield (1988) in The Times criticised the show for appealing ‘to the educational over-achievers of the British middle class’ and wondered if the frequent amusing references included in its script would mean anything ‘to one whose formative years were not dissipated in declining Res Publica and building a model Roman camp’. While in previous decades, ancient world narratives were often seen as a mark of quality and high-culture ambitions, they now appeared stuffy and pretentious, even (or especially) in a comedy environment. Nevertheless, Channel 4 overall seemed more successful than the BBC during this period with regard to TV antiquity. In 1985, it had been involved in the production of the six-part miniseries Quo Vadis?, a collaboration of a number of other European stations (RAI in Italy, France’s Antenne 2, Germany’s Polyphon Film-und Fernsehgesellschaft, Spain’s TVE and the Swiss public broadcaster TSI). The show was directed by Franco Rossi, the director of Odissea/The Odyssey, another return for a veteran of early TV antiquity. Like its cinematic predecessors,2 the miniseries was based on Henryk Sienkiewicz’s novel. True to the demands of television as discussed earlier, it has been described as the only screen version of the book that ‘puts emphasis on specific domestic affairs’ (Scodel and Bettenworth, 2009: 97). As an example of this, Scodel and Bettenworth (2009: 97) note among other things that the programme ‘devotes much time to the investigation of the murder of the praefectus urbis’, which is only briefly mentioned in the novel. The television producers here may also have wanted to draw on the popularity of detective dramas at the time, just like Rome later took inspiration from contemporary gangster dramas like The Sopranos (see case study 7). Moreover, the television version of Quo Vadis? also offers a number of parallels to The Last Days of Pompeii. For example, the slave girl who falls in love with her master, and the kind-hearted prostitute Epicharis, mirror the characters Nydia and Chloe in the following case study. As Scodel and Bettenworth (2009: 82) note, the miniseries Quo Vadis? is also bolder than some of its cinematic predecessors in accommodating contemporary attitudes, for example ‘its multiculturalism and emphasis on equality’, with regard to gender. Again, we will find parallels here to The Last Days of Pompeii, which also deals with the interaction of multiple cultures and features strong female heroines (at least in comparison to earlier cinematic versions). In the US, as previously noted, television stations tried to capture shrinking audiences with new and spectacular productions set in antiquity. Ironically, this is not unlike the situation of the 1950s and 1960s, when

TV antiquity  109 cinema producers in turn tried to retain audiences that were at risk of being lost to television. Now it was television’s turn to use spectacle to retain its audiences. In particular during the 1980s, television producers felt ‘[inspired] by [PBS’s] successful importation . . . of I, Claudius’ and attempted to create ‘other lengthy explorations of antiquity’ (Solomon, 2001: 17). The big networks especially felt under threat by the newly emerging channels and had the budgets to create more mainstream versions of TV antiquity. Apart from The Last Days of Pompeii, which will feature as one of the case studies, several other significant works set in antiquity emerged during this decade, such as ABC’s Masada (1981) and NBC’s a.d. (1985). The latter was considered a sequel to Franco Zeffirelli’s Jesus of Nazareth (1977) the other main success of the 1970s besides I, Claudius as far as TV antiquity is concerned. The six-part miniseries was another international collaboration, this time between Italian, French and US broadcasters and directed by Stuart Cooper. Although it follows Jesus of Nazareth, it is not simply based on biblical narratives, but takes Anthony Burgess’s novel The Kingdom of the Wicked as its primary source. The interesting aspect about a.d., as far as this book is concerned, is that its focus is not solely on the religious aspects. Instead, the stories of St Peter and St Paul (based of the Book of Acts) are strongly intertwined with the political intrigues in the lives of the Julio-Claudian Caesars based on Suetonius’s The Twelve Caesars. Much more strongly than Jesus of Nazareth, a.d. thus blends the biblical narrative with the Roman perspective. This makes the series an interesting ‘alternative history’ to shows like The Caesars and I, Claudius, offering a ‘counter-narrative’ of sorts to their plotlines. Yet, it was ABC that kicked off the decade with its six-hour miniseries Masada. Despite its budget and large-scale production, it has divided critics and scholars alike. Its story focuses on the siege of Masada during the First Jewish–Roman War, when the Roman army under Emperor Vespasian defeated a group of Jewish rebels. Richards (2008: 169), for example, criticised its ‘anachronistic dialogue, scrappily staged action scenes and anonymous direction’, arguing that even its two-hour-long edited-down theatrical version was still too long. Elley, on the other hand, argues that in contrast to this severely edited theatrical version released under the title The Antagonists, the original miniseries ‘has a genuinely spacious, long-breathed tempo, with characters properly developed (even if mostly on the Roman side) and much fascinating minutiae of Roman legionary life never before shown with such fidelity’ (1984: 121). Both agree that the Roman characters were more convincing than their Jewish counterparts, which to my mind somewhat undermines the show’s attempt at framing the historic zealots as contemporary Jewish freedom

110  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) fighters, as Richards (2008) suggests. The series also continues the pattern of casting all British actors as Romans (i.e. the ‘bad guys’), while the Jewish resistance was exclusively played by US actors, perpetuating the implied association between British imperialism on the one hand and US liberalism on the other (see also Part III). The posh accents of the British also contributed to notions of ‘class warfare’, discussed in the previous part. Despite its weaknesses, Masada is interesting insofar as it ‘boasts a rare cinematic appearance by the emperor Vespasian’ which is according to Elley (1984: 121) ‘one of history’s most neglected characters – if only because of his lack of the “traditional” Roman imperial attributes of megalomania and cruelty’. This slightly complicates the portrayal of the Romans as villains, which in screen antiquity often relies on its corrupt and immoral emperors. More generally, it might also account for the absence of almost all references to him or his equally unspectacular successor Titus who ruled in the time featured in The Last Days of Pompeii. The examples of Masada and a.d. together with The Last Days of Pompeii and the aforementioned Quo Vadis? indicate a trend towards a much stronger overlap between stories set in Roman antiquity and religious narratives during this decade, as all four shows are set in the first century ad. The main concern of these shows is to a greater or lesser extent the conflicts between Roman and other religions, but also Rome’s struggle with the legacy of its own emperors. Unlike BBC’s unsuccessful The Cleopatras, these productions tried to show off their large budgets and attempted a return to the sword-and-sandal spectacles familiar to audiences from the large screen. Masada and a.d., for example, were among the costliest miniseries ever made for television (Solomon, 2001). This, however, had its downside as ‘a.d., like Fox’s Cleopatra two decades earlier, was so costly and so unremarkable to both critics and contemporary audiences that it discouraged subsequent productions set in antiquity for nearly a decade’ as Solomon (2001: 17) suggests. The blend of Roman and Christian narratives during this time also prevents an easy classification of these programmes within the context of either biblical or ‘Roman Empire’ narratives. As Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 80) suggest with regard to Roman history on-screen, by ‘placing [many of ] these stories chronologically close to the time of the Resurrection, these narratives link the Roman films with the equally established cinematic genre of biblical films. They start to occupy the place of sequel or “spin-off”.’ The television shows mentioned here also seem to draw on the audience’s familiarity with religiously themed television series during this period. Yet, they are clearly aimed at a much broader audience than some of the more explicitly biblical shows.

TV antiquity  111 Overall, though, the strong presence of Jewish and Christian conflicts in these narratives is clearly reminiscent of the cinematic epics of the 1950s and 1960s and offers a contrast to the almost complete absence of Judeo-Christian motifs in earlier (and later) shows as discussed in other parts of the book. The new focus on spectacle, outdoor sets and on-location shooting as well as large crowds of extras, further indicate an effort to simulate classic cinema epics on the small screen. This contrasts with attempts by earlier shows to offer alternative ways of representing these stories. Nevertheless, as we will see, television’s key strengths of intimacy and complexity facilitated by the serial format, are still evident throughout the examples discussed in the case studies. During the 1990s, another trend of this period gained more influence, inspired by the successful revival of so-called ‘sword-and-sorcery’ films in cinema during the previous decade. In particular, successful fantasy films, such as Clash of the Titans (1981) or Conan the Barbarian (1982), whet the appetite for further works that offered a blend between ancient myth and magic. ‘This brief revival in theatrically released feature films’ set in a mytho-fantastic antiquity was, as Solomon (2001: 19) suggests, ‘followed by a second wave of made-for-television films’ and television series that explored this topic. Conan the Barbarian, for example, was succeeded by the television spin-off, Conan: The Adventurer (1997–98). Produced by Max A. Keller and Micheline Keller, it ran over twentytwo episodes on American Television. The series was also syndicated worldwide and shown in more than 150 countries. In addition, the Canadian/US/Australian co-production BeastMaster (1999–2002), created by Sylvio Tabet with a total of sixty-six episodes, was also loosely based on a 1980s sword-and-sorcery classic.3 Fox network joined the party in 1997 with the ill-fated fantasy series Roar, created by Shaun Cassidy and Ron Koslow, which starred a young Heath Ledger as a Celtic clansman who fights against the Roman invasion in the fourth century ad. It was hoped that the series would be able to profit from the popularity of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, but it was cancelled even before all of its thirteen episodes were broadcast. As is evident from these examples, it took some time for television to catch up with the trends that emerged in the 1980s. One of the reasons for this delay might be, as Perren (2003: 107) argues, that despite the proliferation of ‘new channels, there was very little original programming available throughout the early and mid-1980s [as new] cable channels initially relied on sports, old movies and broadcast television reruns’. This changed in the early 1990s, when ‘a shift in cable programming strategy . . . [meant that] . . . programmers now began experimenting with repurposing and multiplexing’ (Perren, 2003: 109). As we have

112  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) seen, aesthetically these shows also went into new directions. More generally, it has been noted that the historical miniseries of the 1990s departed from the exploration of ‘complex interior spaces’ as some of its predecessors had done, and rather ‘journeyed off into creative spaces of a more fantastic and mystic sort of spectacle, both literally and figuratively’ (De Vito and Tropea, 2010: 7). I will explore these mytho-fantastic spaces in more detail in case study 6. Apart from a revival of myth and fantasy as outlined above, other traditional subjects of cine-antiquity, such as biblical narratives and Homeric epics, still appeared during the 1990s. For example, as Solomon (2001: 19) notes, ‘Turner Broadcasting . . . commissioned and broadcast a series of four-hour films about the lives of the patriarchs and other Old Testament figures’ during this decade. This is consistent with the continuing trend towards more religious-centred narratives as outlined above. Yet, it was also the success of this series that according to Solomon (2001) led to the production of two further miniseries set in other areas of antiquity: The Odyssey (1997) and Cleopatra (1999). I have already briefly discussed NBC’s version of The Odyssey in the second case study, when comparing it to its 1968 televisual predecessor. The two-part miniseries Cleopatra was produced as a collaboration between the US-based Hallmark Entertainment, the German Babelsberg International Film Produktion and RTL 2. The latter was one of the new cable and satellite channels that were set up in Germany earlier in the decade (in 1992). First broadcast in the US on ABC, Cleopatra was subsequently shown in a number of European countries. The details of this production highlight various features of the changing television market during these two decades, such as the emergence of new channels (and the introduction of commercial channels in some European countries) as well as international co-productions catering for global audiences. It is also yet another adaptation of a historical novel, albeit a more contemporary one, Margaret George’s The Memoirs of Cleopatra, published in 1997. Critics’ reactions to Cleopatra were mixed, although it was better received than BBC’s ill-fated attempt at the subject in the previous decade. One critic even claimed boldly that ‘thirty-six years after the Liz Taylor–Richard Burton theatrical fiasco, somebody has finally gotten it right’ (Richmond, 1999). However, the series did not leave as much of an impact as this enthusiastic statement would suggest. This might have been partially due to lead actress Leonor Varela, who according to one reviewer ‘just doesn’t radiate the gravity of a formidable woman on the cusp of legend’ (Bernardin, 1999). The changes in programming strategies and the adaptation of cinema epics to the small screen during these decades have been described by

TV antiquity  113 Sobchack (1990: 42) as a ‘symptom of our own cultural move into a period conceptualized . . . in terms associated with the electronic, the postindustrial, and the postmodern’. In particular, the shows that emerged in the 1990s, like Hercules: The Legendary Journeys and Xena: Warrior Princess, happily mixed the contemporary and the ancient, creating what Sobchack (1990: 42) calls at the beginning of the decade a ‘postmodern representation . . . [that is] . . . characterized by the fragmentation and mixture of temporal modes in a schizophrenic manner, by temporal pastiche, and by nostalgic temporal scavenging’. She further notes that it is especially ‘the miniseries – not only fragmenting its own temporal continuity across a week but also interrupting it with advertising – [that] stands as transparent testimony to this characterization’ (1990: 42). Although neither Hercules nor Xena would be considered a miniseries (at 111 and 134 episodes respectively) their eclectic mix of myth, fantasy and modern slang still reflects the notions of pastiche and nostalgic scavenging outlined by Sobchack. Other writers have criticised this increasing mix between old and new in these shows, objecting especially to the frequent use of anachronistic language in many of the shows in the 1980s and 1990s. Richards (2008: 167) concedes that the ‘archaic form of speech [used by nineteenth-century novelists] to convey a sense of distance from the present [. . .] was simply too strange to preserve’, although as we will see, it will have a revival in STARZ Spartacus. But, he also disapproves of the fact that ‘writers of television adaptations frequently did not bother’ to write in an English that avoided all too contemporary idioms, ‘with the result that, whatever the era and whatever the culture, characters tended to talk like late-twentieth century Californians’ (Richards, 2008: 167). Complaints about modern language, however, were not new to these decades, or specific to the ‘low-brow’ end of TV antiquity. Already with I, Claudius, newspaper critics had bemoaned that its ‘language . . . continues to jar every nerve with its hideous Radio One modernities’ (Purser, 1976). Despite these alleged weaknesses, Solomon (2001: 21) predicted that the ‘crop of new films and television programs set in antiquity’, which emerged in the 1990s, ‘may signal still another renascence in the genre as a result of the high-tech revolution over the past two decades’. He was proved right with the arrival of shows like Rome (2005–8), Empire (2005) and Spartacus (2010–13), which followed in the subsequent decade. The two case studies discussed here aim to capture the range of TV antiquity produced during the 1980s and 1990s and its technological and commercial change. This extends from the epic miniseries The Last Days of Pompeii and its effort to imitate (some of) the splendour of its cinematic predecessors, to the iconoclastic Hercules: The Legendary

114  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) Journeys, which took its inspiration from the sword-and-sorcery films of the preceding decade. As we will see, both shows offer a new way of approaching TV antiquity and explore the emerging opportunities of television more broadly.

Case study 5: The Last Days of Pompeii (1984)

Like many other works of screen antiquity mentioned in this book, The Last Days of Pompeii is based on a historical novel, in this case the work of the same title by British writer and poet Edward Bulwer-Lytton. It could even be argued, as Richards (2008: 7) does, that this ‘phenomenally successful’ novel effectively set the standard for the ancient world genre (both in film and television). Indeed, few historical novels have so frequently been adapted to the screen. One of the strengths of Bulwer-Lytton’s book is the detailed description of the ancient city, combined with a romantic motive, a description that has a strong ‘pictorial element’ as Wyke (1997: 154) notes. Consequently, many artists were inspired to paint scenes from the novel following its publication. As such, it seems to be particularly suitable for adaption to an audiovisual medium like film and television. Here, the complexity of the detailed description and the notion of intimacy created by the romantic element chime well with the requirements of serial drama. Its long reception history means that the historic event of the destruction of Pompeii has in itself achieved mythical status as generations of scholars and artists have sought to interpret the destinies of the inhabitants of the ancient city. Even before the arrival of cinema, the novel was adapted to the stage a number of times. For example, in 1858 Errico Petrella’s opera Jone, ossia L’ultimo giorno di Pompei was accompanied by a libretto based on the novel. The opera premiered at Milan’s famous La Scala, sparking Italy’s interest in the story that, as we will see, continued well into the era of cinema. In the UK, the novel was dramatised and performed onstage several times during the mid-to-late nineteenth century, including an elaborate production in 1877 at the Queen’s Theatre in London. As early as 1900, the first cinematic version of the subject emerged, directed by British film pioneer Walter R. Booth for Robert W. Paul’s new film enterprise. This short film showed an erupting volcano and people fleeing in panic. It was followed in quick succession by several Italian

116  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) productions. The first of these was Gli ultimi giorni di Pompei (1908), produced by Arturo Ambrosio and directed by Luigi Maggi. This film has been regarded by many as a milestone in film history. Solomon (2001: 4), for example, claims that with this film, ‘the virtual birth not only of the ancient world in the cinema but also of the epic cinema as we know it occurred’. This sentiment is also shared by Richards (2008). Moreover, ‘its intriguing plot, classical setting, Egyptian twists, and holocaustic Vesuvial climax, [ensured that] director Luigi Maggi’s film became a smashing success for the fledgling industry’ (Solomon, 2001: 4). Two more film versions followed in 1913, Gli ultimi giorni di Pompei and Jone ovvero gli ultimi giorni di Pompei, before Carmine Gallone and Amleto Pelermi’s 1926 attempt put a temporary stop to the genre. According to Solomon (2001: 10), this production ranks among the ‘costliest and most ambitious Italian films ever made’. He further suggests that it ‘was spectacular [not just in] the long-running, multi-extra, history-sweeping cinematic sense [but also] a spectacular financial disaster [that] can fairly be blamed for the demise of “ancient” film in Italy’ (Solomon, 2001: 10). As such, it foreshadowed other financial disasters that would equally bring screen antiquity to a momentary halt.4 Yet, filmmakers were not put off the subject for too long and in 1935, US production company RKO produced a film under the title The Last Days of Pompeii. This film, however, did not use the actual plot of the novel. Nevertheless, it featured ‘a prologue explaining that they had drawn on Bulwer-Lytton for his descriptions of the city’ (Richards, 2008: 51). Moreover, it ‘also drew on the conventions of three popular 1930’s genres: the disaster film . . . the gangster film . . . and the father-love film [responding] directly to the plight of the poor in the Depression’ (Richards, 2008: 51). In particular, the borrowings from gangster films introduced a theme into screen antiquity that would later be picked up by television shows like The Caesars or Rome. This successful epic was followed by two more Italian attempts in the 1950s, with Marcel L’Herbier’s and Paolo Moffa’s Sins of Pompeii (1950, Italy/France) and Mario Bonnard’s 1959 version, the latter starring peplum icon Steve Reeves. With such a long track record, it was surely only a matter of time before television producers became interested in the story. With the advances in technology and the increasing competition between television channels as outlined in the introduction to this part, the story was well suited to the new era of the epic spectacular in TV antiquity. The television series The Last Days of Pompeii was produced for ABC in 1984 and directed by Peter R. Hunt, who had studied art history in Italy before working his way up in the British film industry. Filming took place at Pinewood Studios

TV antiquity  117 in the UK as well as on location in Italy. The latter is indicative of the new trend in television productions mentioned earlier, away from the limits of studio productions to more elaborate (and expensive) outdoor sets. This is also noted in the promotion of the series at the time. As Michael E. Hill (1984), reviewer for the Washington Post, stresses, the ‘location work in Italy included some footage shot in the remains of Pompeii’s arena [which] was the first time the Italian government had allowed a film crew and hordes of extras into the historic ruins’. This emphasis on authentic locations and outdoor shooting is interesting, in particular when compared to previous TV antiquity shows and their often stagy and restricted studio sets. There is definitely a different feel to the sets of The Last Days of Pompeii in comparison to shows like The Caesars and I, Claudius. Yet, in comparison to more recent series, but also to the earlier Odissea/The Odyssey with its naturalistic outdoor scenes, it still appears a bit stagy and Mount Vesuvius in the background always looks like a painted canvas.5 Still, the studio sets in The Last Days of Pompeii, in particular the Roman villas, often appear more airy and open than in earlier shows; much more akin to later shows like Rome and STARZ Spartacus. As one of the big three networks in the US, ABC had come under increasing pressure from newly emerging networks and other competitors during this decade. In addition, it also underwent a number of mergers and structural changes in an attempt to deliver, like the other big networks, ‘audiences both fragmented and mass to advertisers while delivering to those audiences on-screen worlds of sex and violence, drama and humour, reality and fantasy’ (Levine, 2003: 94). The Last Days of Pompeii ticks most of these boxes although it is clearly aimed at a much more family-oriented segment than I, Claudius and therefore the ‘sex and violence’ element is rather toned down. As actress Olivia Hussey, who plays the soon-to-be priestess Ione in the series, stressed in an interview, this show ‘is family entertainment . . . I can watch it with my 11-year-old son and not worry’ (Hill, 1984). After ABC’s spectacular, and costly, Masada (1981), which I mentioned earlier, this series is another attempt at portraying a story set in the first century ad. As noted in the introduction to this part, spectacular elements such as elaborate sets, large crowds and extensive gladiatorial battle scenes characterised this new breed of television programmes produced by US networks. In his analysis of the television version of The Last Days of Pompeii, Richards (2008: 170) suggests that ‘[greater] prominence, in line with Hollywood epic conventions, was accorded to gladiators and Christians than in Lytton’s novel’, which together with ‘[handsome] sets, good special effects, satisfying spectacle and an all-star cast . . . combined to make this one

118  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) of the more acceptable television Ancient World epics’. The notion of scale and spectacle is emphasised throughout the promotion for the series. Hussey, for example, claims in her above mentioned interview that ‘nothing on this scale has been filmed for TV before .  .  . [there] are up to 10,000 extras’ (Hill, 1984). Other reviewers equally highlight its epic scale, such as John O’Connor who suggests in the New York Times that the show ‘positively cries for the word colossal. Five years in the planning, costing $19 million, featuring an international cast that includes Laurence Olivier, partly filmed in the ruins of Italy’s Pompeii, the production is colossal in many ways.’ Unfortunately, this is also promptly followed by his assessment of the programme as ‘a colossal failure’ (O’Connor, 1984). Scholars of screen antiquity are equally divided in their views on the series. Solomon (2001: 82–3), for example, criticises the show for not making enough of its ‘almost unlimited time’, and suggesting that it demonstrates ‘like most television miniseries of the era . . . why most films are better off telling a story in two hours, before tedium sets in and the director’s attention to detail replaces dramatic tension’. As noted above, Richards (2008) in contrast regards the series as better than most of the TV antiquity shows of this period. He proposes that it ‘returned for the first time since the nineteenth century to BulwerLytton’s narrative’, suggesting that the ‘Victorian multiplot novel was ideal material for extended television adaptation’ (2008: 169–70). This is interesting insofar as some critics in contrast bemoaned that The Last Days of Pompeii is based ‘rather loosely on Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s Victorian novel’ (O’Connor, 1984), or that scriptwriter Carmen ‘Culver invented some characters, changed the fate of others and made no attempt to mimic Bulwer-Lytton’s dialogue, which has a 19th century style’ (Hill, 1984). I have already addressed the issues of archaic language in the introduction to this part. With regard to additional storylines, we could argue here that this is precisely what is expected from television with its capacity (and maybe even need) for narrative complexity as outlined in Part I. Solomon’s criticism seems to underestimate the extent to which the attention to detail, in particular details of ordinary life, are part of the television experience. Moreover, the additional material included in the novel is not always there to drive the plot in a way needed for televisual storytelling. Bulwer-Lytton’s novel, for example, includes chapters such as ‘The Parentage of Glaucus’ or ‘Description of the Houses of Pompeii’. Television has the advantage to be able to show rather than tell the latter and the genealogy of Glaucus (Nicholas Clay) might in any event have mattered more to a class-conscious Victorian reader than to twentieth-century US audiences. Like I, Claudius, The Last

TV antiquity  119 Days of Pompeii also leaves out historical details provided in the novel, in order to put a stronger emphasis on the ‘human interest’ stories and if needed expands (or even alters) these. The additional subplots added by Culver, such as Lydon’s (Duncan Regehr) love for Nydia (Linda Purl) as well as the story of prostitute Chloe (Lesley-Anne Down), her lover and her baby, add more layers to the television show than the sole focus on the Glaucus–Ione romance would have been able to. Here, the intimacy of loving relationships, the struggle with faith and complex emotions of longing and revenge can be explored in more intimate detail and from a number of different points of view. Some of these additional storylines are also taken from earlier adaptations, such as ‘Marcus, the arena manager .  .  . borrowed from the 1935 film version’ (Richards, 2008: 170). If anything, it may be the attempt by the series to be more like epic cinema that distracts attention from these televisual qualities, sacrificing some intimacy in order to provide more of the spectacular.

Happy endings in a doomed city The extension of historical narratives with other fictional storylines is of course by no means new or particular to television. As Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 80) argue, ‘Roman historical narratives rarely escape the introduction of large-scale fictional elements into their plots’. Each of the previous cinematic versions had adapted the storyline to suit their particular environment,6 and the television show is no exception. The question is, then, what these additions or alterations contribute to the story, so that the small-screen version is able to offer a unique experience, which goes beyond simply adding another audiovisual dimension to the novel. As already mentioned briefly, as far as the television version is concerned, the introduction of Chloe and Lydon as major characters gives the producers additional scope in telling the story. The new happy ending for Nydia in contrast to her tragic suicide at the end of the novel is no doubt a concession to the family focus of the television show. In order to explore the significance of these changes, I will briefly outline the general storyline as developed in Bulwer-Lytton’s novel as well as indicate major changes made to the plot. The basic story of Bulwer-Lytton’s work centres on the Greek aristocrat Glaucus, who falls in love with the Patrician Ione. The fact that Glaucus is Greek is significant for a number of reasons. For Bulwer-Lytton, the Greek aristocrat is an indicator of the more desirable part of antiquity. The seemingly liberal and peaceful Greeks, inventors of democracy, are contrasted with the more narrow-minded Romans and their empire

120  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) based on oppression and conquest. As a consequence, in the novel as well as in the television show, Glaucus is generally shown as more sophisticated, educated and liberal than his fellow Romans. He has, for example, no interest in the blood sports of the arena. At one point in the series, he teaches Lydon Greek wrestling, which he prefers to armed gladiatorial combat. He is also the most tolerant of his friends towards the Christians. In the book, his love interest Ione is also supposed to be of Greek origin, further emphasising the high-culture status of the couple. However, this is not evident in the television show, where she is nevertheless framed as originating from a noble family. Much to the disappointment of Glaucus, Ione is due to become a priestess of the Egyptian goddess Isis, whose temple seems to dominate the religious life in Pompeii. Ione is pushed towards taking her vows as a priestess by the corrupt High Priest Arbaces (Franco Nero), who needs her in order to both demonstrate the support of high-born families and to claim her wealth for the temple. Her brother Apaecides (renamed Antonius in the television series, played by Benedict Taylor) is already a priest in the temple, although he becomes increasingly disillusioned with the corruption and debauchery he witnesses behind the scenes. In the novel, he becomes a Christian convert early on, although the television series leaves this aspect much more ambiguous. Arbaces later murders Apaecides/Antonius, who threatens to expose the corruption in the temple, and then frames Glaucus for the deed. The innocent Glaucus is condemned to face the lions in the arena, and the series manages to show its audience actual lions, highlighting the notion that no expense was spared. Another priest has witnessed the murder and although he initially keeps quiet in order to gain Arbaces’s favour, he decides to reveal the truth after the latter betrays him. Just when various characters rush into the arena in order to save Glaucus, the volcano breaks out and collapses the stadium. This kills various characters in the process, including Arbaces, or so it is in the novel. In the series, however, Arbaces is stabbed by Chloe, in order to avenge Glaucus and herself. This change in agency indicates a more general move towards more powerful and proactive women in the show, a significant shift from the Victorian novel. Chloe herself is a character that is only briefly mentioned in the novel, but takes on a much bigger role in the series. In televisual terms, she is an interesting character insofar as she offers an intermediate between two female archetypes of classic cine-antiquity, the corrupt seductresses of imperial Rome and the virtuous Christian women. She appears as a temptress when she dances for the rich merchant Diomed (Ned Beatty) and his guests, where she attempts to seduce Lydon. She is even more sultry when she, together with another prostitute, ‘initiates’

TV antiquity  121 Antonius at the temple in one of the more risqué scenes of the show. Yet, her inclusion as a major character not only adds sex appeal to the show, it allows the series to add the perspective of ordinary, lower-class citizens to the story. As such, the television version of the novel offers something distinctly new not only in comparison to previous adaptations of the same story, but also in relation to earlier television shows set in antiquity and their focus on royal families. Besides Chloe, this series offers a much broader focus on minor characters of various classes such as prostitutes, slaves, freemen, merchants, craftsmen, Roman patricians and foreign nobles. This variety of perspectives will be crucial for more recent shows like Rome. In addition, Chloe’s character also foreshadows the later portrayal of strong, but not morally perfect, female characters that manage to develop a more complex picture of female agency beyond the vamp–virgin binary of classic epic cinema. Among the slaves, the most significant character is the blind Nydia, who is young, naive, innocent and most of all in love with Glaucus. On the surface, she perfectly fits the ‘Christian virgin’ stereotype. Yet this is quickly offset by the fact that, first, she is not Christian, and, second, she is happy to lie in order to destroy the blossoming relationship between Glaucus and Ione for her own selfish desires. Nevertheless, she eventually redeems herself by saving Glaucus and Ione, leading them safely through the smoke and darkness of the collapsing city. As already mentioned, her personal sacrifice is, however, omitted in the television show, which opted to give her a happier ending. Whereas in the novel, she finally drowns herself, realising she can never be with Glaucus, the television show revises this romantic motif of tragic love and prompts her to finally realise her love for Lydon (or more likely accepting what she can and cannot have). This more pragmatic approach might on the one hand offer a more ‘family-friendly’ ending. Yet on the other hand it may also offer a more contemporary romantic ideal where everyone finds their match in the end, which would be familiar to contemporaneous audiences from soap opera and romantic comedy.

Televisual spectacle In his aforementioned review, Hill (1984) claims that ‘The Last Days of Pompeii looks like what would have happened if Cecil B. DeMille had tried his hand at soap operas’. Indeed, the notion of soap opera links this show to I, Claudius, while Cecil B. DeMille evokes the spectacle of large-screen epic cinema. We could argue that the connections to the earlier show are already implicated in the title credits of the series, which

122  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) feature a mosaic (as well as wall drawings and graffiti), mimicking the opening image of I, Claudius (and arguably prefiguring the title sequence of Rome). However, unlike the earlier programme, which as critics noted ‘[recklessly accepted the] limitations of a studio set . . . [where] crowds have remained patently economy-sized’ (Purser, 1976), The Last Days of Pompeii did not confine itself to interior sets and limited cast. As Hill (1984) rightly notes, this series ‘resembles a large-screen epic out of the ‘50s – a cast of thousands dressed in togas, leather and chains, Christians having it out with lions, gladiators having it out with each other’. The said inclusion of on-location shooting further adds a level of ‘historicity’ that was not evident in earlier programmes. Already in the novel, the ‘action . . . takes place amid precisely described locations, uncovered by archaeologists .  .  . [as Bulwer-]Lytton sought to give a faithful picture of the customs, costume and superstitions of the age’ (Richards, 2008: 8). The television programme has the opportunity to visualise these by filming partly at the actual excavation site and linking the fictional story to a Pompeii that audiences may have seen in non-fiction programmes about the ancient site. Apart from the streets and the interiors of some houses, there are also more subtle historical references included in the series. In episode 3, for example, Lydon, Nydia and Chloe seek refuge with their friend Philos (George Claydon), who is a painter. Those who care to look and are familiar with the image, can spot in the background of the artist’s studio the half-finished Portrait of Paquius Proculo,7 a famous fresco from the ruins of Pompeii, now exhibited at the Naples National Archaeological Museum. It is not clear how the artist is assumed to have finished the painting considering the volcano eruption shortly afterwards, but such speculation is not likely to be of interest to the average television viewer. However, this detail also illustrates the advantages of recording devices, which enable audiences to pause and explore the image. There are other – more obvious – archaeological references, such as a dog chained outside a house during the eruption, which we see gradually dying in the ashes of the volcano. This dog has not previously featured anywhere in the series and is not part of the narrative, apart from providing a visual cue to the mummified remains of a dog excavated in Pompeii and the famous ‘Cave Canem’ mosaic found in the city. The death scenes of some of the couples featured in the show, such as Clodius (Gerry Sundquist) and Julia (Catriona MacColl) and Diomed and his wife Lucretia (Joyce Blair), are further nods to the positions of some of the bodies found at the archaeological site. Yet, it is not just the historical details and impressive sets that make this television series successful. Bulwer-Lytton had already acknowledged

TV antiquity  123 that what is needed for a successful story is not only the ‘accurate topography of [the] setting but also “a just representation of the human passions and the human heart, whose elements in all ages are the same”’ (Bulwer-Lytton, as cited in Richards, 2008: 8). As already outlined, the series achieves this not just by focusing on the heroics of classic epic cinema, but also through particular televisual elements, as noted by various reviewers. Hill (1984), for example, writes that in the show ‘there are the soap-opera touches that increasingly characterize prime time – political and religious conflict, intrigue and struggles for love and power’. It is interesting that the critic here cites political and religious conflict as the first characteristics of ‘soap opera’, before the intrigue, love and power struggles. This contradicts some of the readings of I, Claudius, which argued that the soap-opera style of the BBC series shifted the emphasis away from the political conflicts towards the family intrigues and personal struggles. Other writers similarly note the attempt to draw parallels to the sociopolitical discourses of the time. O’Connor (1984), for example, remarks critically, that scriptwriter Culver underlines supposed parallels between Pompeii in a.d. 79 and the world at large in 1984. The rich were getting richer and inflation was a problem. Religious cults were in vogue, gladiators were the well-paid sports heroes, hounded by groupies, and the rumbling volcano Vesuvius hinted ominously of annihilation much as our own nuclear arsenals do.

As we have already seen, TV antiquity has always been an area for articulating specific contemporary concerns, even if they are wrapped up in elaborate sets and costumes and soap-opera antics. As Cull (2001: 182) notes, the ‘idea of a parallel between Britain and Pompeii was not new [, it had already] fascinated the Victorians who . . . turned Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s novel . . . into the century’s bestseller’. Now, US audiences were given the opportunity to link the show to their own specific concerns. In particular, there is one inclusions in this television remake that adds a new, and a perhaps distinctly US twist to the series. This is the motif of the gladiator as ‘sports hero’ as suggested by O’Connor, a theme that will return more strongly in STARZ Spartacus.

The gladiator as all-American hero The fact that gladiator fights feature prominently throughout the show already marks a departure from earlier series such as I, Claudius, where the gladiator battles were merely implied, as discussed in the previous part. Overall, this series is undoubtedly more action driven than

124  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) previous TV antiquity. In many ways, the superstar Gladiator Lydon, who features prominently in The Last Days of Pompeii, is akin to the gladiator Gannicus (Dustin Clare) in STARZ Spartacus. Having gained his freedom in the arena, he nevertheless continues to fight for money and glory. He has no particular ideology or revenge motive, at least not initially, and largely enjoys the cheering crowds in the arena. Yet he is also similar to the new type of Hercules portrayed by Kevin Sorbo, which I will discuss in more detail in the subsequent case study. Lydon, like Sorbo’s Hercules, is a family man at heart. We later learn that his ultimate goal is to buy freedom for his father, who is still a slave. When not in the arena, he carries a more romantic look, his shoulder-length hair worn loosely (rather than tied up as in the arena) and his robes are made of soft fabrics rather than the leathers worn by his fellow gladiators. He is well-toned, but not as overtly muscular as the stars of earlier peplum films. Apart from Lydon, the world of the gladiators in The Last Days of Pompeii offers a number of other parallels to STARZ Spartacus, to the extent that one might assume that it served as some inspiration for the more recent series. For example, The Last Days of Pompeii contains a number of scenes not just in the arena, but also in the training school. There, we encounter a naive German gladiator not unlike STARZ’s Agron, who seeks to befriend Lydon and gets into conflict with others as he is being mocked in the training yard. Lydon is also engaged in a perpetual rivalry with his fellow gladiator Sporus (Stephen Greif), similar to the later rivalry between Spartacus (Andy Whitfield) and Crixus (Manu Bennett) in Spartacus: Blood and Sand. Contemporaneous audiences might have drawn parallels between these scenes and other instances of professional rivalry and changing-room banter in sports films popular at the time such as All the Right Moves (1983) and others. Apart from the gladiators, the ambitious merchant Diomed offers a prototype for the aspirational lanista Batiatus (John Hannah) in STARZ Spartacus. Their wives even share the name Lucretia. Diomed, like Batiatus after him (although with less bloody methods), wishes to move up in local society, but ultimately both remain outsiders in the hierarchical society of the Roman Empire. This aspiration is also shared by Lydon, who is continuously reminded that his fame in the arena does not outweigh his humble origins.

Cultic religion There are two other important groups of outsiders to consider, namely the religious cults competing for attention in Pompeii – the temple of

TV antiquity  125 Isis and the small Christian community. The latter is led by TV antiquity veteran Brian Blessed as Olinthus, this time playing an upright Christian craftsman rather than a Roman emperor. As Fitzgerald (2001: 25) notes, the theme of Christians versus Romans in cine-antiquity was ‘inherited from Victorian fiction’, so it is not surprising that it features strongly in this series. The theme was also generally more popular during this decade as noted in the introduction to this part. Nevertheless, I would argue that the Christian motif is still downplayed or at least diluted into a broader appeal for religious tolerance and freedom. Overall, Olinthus’s main interest seems to be justice for his community, not primarily converting the locals to Christianity. His standing in the wider community is undisputed, as indicated by the continuous hesitation of the local magistrate to persecute him for his faith even though it is against the law. At one point in the first episode, Olinthus discusses the political situation with a friend and complains about the lack of serious rulers since Nero. This provides the audience with a direct link to I, Claudius, which ends with the young Nero taking over. Yet, Olinthus here bemoans the lack of leadership, not the oppression by the Roman Empire per se. In addition, as I have mentioned, Ione’s brother Antonius does not obviously convert to Christianity, as he does in the novel. The show also omits Bulwer-Lytton’s epilogue in which Glaucus and Ione, ten years later and now happily married, inform their friend that they have now both converted to the new faith. Although the Christian motif in the series, at first sight, signals a return to the ‘virtuous Christians–vicious Romans’ theme of large-screen epics, the multiplicity of characters as outlined above complicates this picture. Moreover, the novel as well as the series chooses a foreign cult rather than Roman pagan religion as its antagonist. As such, this series, with its ‘funky temple of Isis . . . combines the Christian theme of the 1935 version with the novel’s emphasis on the evil of Arbaces’ (Solomon, 2001: 82). There is only one mention of Roman religion in the series, namely when the slave and alleged Christian Petrus (Chloe’s partner) is challenged to worship the newly deified emperor Vespasian. The problems with an orientalist framing of the Egyptian cult as ‘the Other’ is discussed in detail by Wyke (1997) with regard to the early silent films made in Italy. While the issue of the foreign villain remains in this series, it is significantly downplayed both in relation to the novel and previous film versions. For example, Bulwer-Lytton refers to Arbaces mostly as ‘The Egyptian’ throughout his book, rather than by his name, thus emphasising his foreign origins and Otherness. This does not happen in the series, which also omits the elaborate Egyptian headdresses of earlier cinematic versions. The series casts well-known Italian actor Franco Nero as Arbaces, which creates the odd situation of being at once the foreigner in a cast of

126  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) mostly US and British actors and the ‘original Roman’. In addition, the cult of Isis as displayed in the show is not entirely alien to us and seems to incorporate Christian and pagan elements. Its vows of chastity and poverty – and the corruption of the same – indicates a criticism of Christian monasticism. In the novel, Bulwer-Lytton is quite explicit about this parallel, for example when suggesting that in the Roman empire, the ‘less national and less honoured deities were usually served by plebeian ministers; and many embraced the profession, as now the Catholic Christians enter the monastic fraternity, less from the impulse of devotion than the suggestions of a calculating poverty’. Bulwer-Lytton here seems to advocate a radical Protestant perspective that links the exotic, corrupting elements of Eastern pagan religion with a perception of Catholic monasticism as equally debauched. However, contemporaneous audiences might have been more likely to draw parallels to numerous new religious cults that emerged in the US and elsewhere during the preceding decades. In summary, while the television version of The Last Days of Pompeii tries in many ways to recapture some of the splendour and spectacle of classic Hollywood cinema, it also draws on previous developments in television to offer a contemporary take on the ancient story related in a Victorian novel. Its attempt at historical authenticity through filming on location at Pompeii helps to move TV antiquity out of the studio and rekindles the audience’s interest in ancient world history. Including multiple additional character arcs in the story added a new level of narrative complexity, and although the scale of the series was more monumental than the predecessors discussed in this book, the personal stories of the lower-class citizens still offered an intimate view into life in the Roman Empire. Our next case study takes a different approach, focusing on (Greek) myth and fantasy rather than history.

Case study 6: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995–99)

As noted earlier, the television series Hercules: The Legendary Journeys popularised action serials set in a mytho-fantastic world during the 1990s and led to a number of spin-offs. It stands out in our exploration of TV antiquity as one of the few examples that draw on Greek rather than Roman antiquity. We could argue that Kevin Sorbo’s Hercules revives the subject of the classic Italian peplum in a way no other television show had done up to that point. However, as this part will demonstrate, the series also represents a significant departure from these earlier musclemen films. As such, the show evokes a range of more contemporary character types and is inspired just as much by comic books and typical Hollywood heroes as by Greek mythology. This case study will explore the show’s move from classical heroism to more modern family values, the appropriation of increasingly global mythological systems and a more ironic take on myth, history and religion as befitting its release towards the end of the last millennium. As we have seen in the introduction to this part, during ‘the early 1990s, the universe of cable television expanded considerably, creating the opportunity for a wide spectrum of new kinds of television offerings’ (Solomon, 2001: 19). This also opened up space for more experimental, entertainment-driven shows. In particular, international syndication provided new markets that helped to spread US television culture across the globe. Universal Television, a production company that is part of the NBC network, first tested the material for Hercules: The Legendary Journeys with five made-for-television feature films, starring Anthony Quinn as Zeus. The success of these films gave the producers the confidence to continue the story in serial form. This subsequent series was produced by Sam Raimi, who had up to that point primarily experience with quirky horror movies and dark fantasies. He was joined by Rob Tapert, who also produced Raimi’s first horror film. The show was such an instant success that its spin-off Xena: Warrior Princess (1995–2001) followed

128  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) immediately after the first season. The latter was also developed by Tapert and produced by his company Renaissance Pictures for NBC. Another spin-off followed in 1998 with Young Hercules (1998–99), which aired on Fox, but the show, starring a young Ryan Gosling, was unable to repeat the ratings of its predecessors. In addition to its success with international syndication, most of these shows also profited from another new development in the television market – reruns or off-network syndication. This meant that numerous cable channels were happy to buy content from the main networks in order to show them as reruns. In 1996, Universal sold reruns of Xena: Warrior Princess and Hercules: The Legendary Journeys to USA Network for $300,000 per episode (Flint, 1997). The attempts at serialising the Hercules story for television, however, were not new. As early as 1965, the 47-minute episode Hercules and the Princess of Troy (dir. by Albert Band) was meant to be a pilot for a television series entitled Hercules. After scathing reviews, the intended series was never produced. Interestingly, in its condemnatory review of the initial episode, as Baker (2006) outlines, ‘Variety . . . sets up a direct comparison with the muscle-man “sword-and-sandal” films in circulation, and Hercules films in particular’. Moreover, the Variety review discussed by Baker ‘highlights television’s lack of budget and scale in its treatment of mythological subjects, linking the program with the lower-budget end of the cinema epic resurgence but placing television’s effort at the very bottom of the hierarchy’ (Baker, 2006). This is consistent with my earlier suggestion that issues relating to budgets had a significant impact on early television productions, when the comparison with cinema was even more prevalent as cine-antiquity still loomed large on the big screen. As noted earlier, 1960s television also featured the animated series The Mighty Hercules. As such, it parallels Disney’s attempt to revive the hero in the 1990s in an animated feature film (Hercules, 1997) that was later followed by a television series Hercules: The Animated Series (1998–99), no doubt profiting from the success of Raimi’s series. Here, as in Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, the link between pilot film and subsequent television series is important. Both series clearly assumed that audiences have some knowledge of the preceding films, although it does not necessarily affect the viewing pleasure if you have not. For example, in the very first episode of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Hercules’s wife and children are killed within the first four minutes of the show without even having been shown or introduced beforehand. This comes rather abruptly as there has not been any time for the audience to become emotionally invested in his family. Only later in

TV antiquity  129 the episode is Hercules’s grief accompanied by a montage sequence in which he remembers his happy family, evidently using clips from the previous films. The elimination of Hercules’s family when continuing the story from the films to the series is interesting here. Whereas in the classical myth, Hercules/Heracles kills his family in a mad rage induced by Hera, in the television show Hera acts more directly by simply exterminating his family with fireballs while Hercules is away.8 This removes Hercules’s responsibility for the murder of his family, but also brings him closer to the unattached hero of the peplum or the lonely protagonists of traditional Hollywood westerns. However, as I will explore below, the absent family also complicates the portrayal of family values discussed in the subsequent section and shifts the focus towards his divine father and brotherly friendship with Iolaus (Michael Hurst).

Modern peplum? Despite its iconoclastic take on the Hercules myth as well as previous cinematic portrayals, the show nevertheless owes a depth to the classic peplum films of the 1950s and 1960s. Many of the features of these earlier works can also be found in the show. For instance, Elley (1984: 21) argues with regard to Italian peplum that they express ‘a move away from the spectacle of Hollywood towards a smaller-scale sensuality’ and a ‘sheer energy in direction which walked a tightrope between tattiness and vitality’. Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011) instead note the austere and sparse settings and the lack of armour worn by the heroes as noted in case study 2. Hercules: The Legendary Journeys is as successful as his peplum predecessors in creating a vision of the ancient world that is in stark contrast to the vision of imperial Rome presented in previous television shows. At the start of the first episode, the series presents us with a simple settlement somewhere in the remote countryside. Nevertheless, the scenery here is also distinctly non-Greek, with snowy mountaintops, lush green forests and babbling brooks all emphasising the New Zealand landscape in which it was filmed. In an interview included in the DVD release of the series, Hercules actor Kevin Sorbo argues that the creators of the show were trying to present the New Zealand set as a mythical realm, before the rise of ancient Greece and Rome. As such, the show attempts to provide an alternative universe to both the rural Greece of 1960s peplum cinema and the splendour of Roman imperial cities and palaces. In the process, it also foreshadows the framing of New Zealand as a mythical, ‘prehistoric’ place in Peter

130  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy and its function as backdrop for the often surreal Italian landscape in STARZ Spartacus. As suggested earlier, Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 66) argue that in the Italian peplum films ‘costumes [as well as sets] signify that we are in a different place’ from the Roman epics of Hollywood cinema. With regard to the peplum classic Hercules (1958), the authors suggest that ‘[no] rules of Roman morality are being observed here. The woman wears a tunic, totally unsuitable for a Roman matron. She shows a lot of thigh, but there is a classical purity about her’ (Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011: 66). Similarly, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys also often aims to strike a balance between minimalist clothing (primarily for women) and conforming to the demands of wholesome family entertainment. In particular, sexy and revealing outfits are often a feature of the villainesses, of which the series offers numerous examples. As Elley (1984: 53) had already suggested, the ‘Greek pepla of myths and heroes carry a very physical charge’ although they are more likely to present ‘the sexual stereotypes of the fifties cinema than those of Ancient Greece’. Hercules: The Legendary Journeys both continues this trend and at the same time undermines it. Its Hercules is more covered than in earlier versions, and he presents a type of hero maybe more akin to the tastes of the 1990s than the hyper-muscled bodies of more traditional peplum movies. ‘In terms of appearance, this Hercules is markedly different from the Steve Reeves-inspired peplum incarnations’ as Daniel O’Brien (2014: 96) notes. He argues that although Sorbo’s Hercules is ‘tanned and tall, muscular and athletic, he is not super-built in the bodybuilder tradition [and instead] of the standard dark hair and beard, he is cleanshaven with long brown hair [while the] skirt-like garments favoured by peplum heroes are replaced with a sleeveless yellow top and brown leather trousers’ (2014: 95). This anachronistic look is consistent with the use of modern language and other contemporary references that I will discuss in more detail later in this case study. The new Hercules is, as Kevin Sorbo suggests in the aforementioned interview, an ‘approachable . . . regular guy’, in direct contrast to classical myth and tradition, which expects its heroes to be extraordinary. Yet, treating Hercules like ‘one of us’ also means that we expect him to share our moral framework. When analysing the sword-and-sorcery films of the 1980s, Flanagan (2011: 89) suggests that ‘beyond their generic tendency toward exceptional heroism and battles of good against evil, these films implicitly endorse a set of values that translates to a “good” version of citizenship for the postwar liberalist state’. As I outlined in the introduction to this part, these films set the trend for shows like Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, and it is therefore not surprising that the series offers a similar contemporary form

TV antiquity  131 of heroism that emphasises the morally good hero. As Sorbo suggests in the featurette ‘The Men behind the Myth’ that also accompanies the DVD edition, the important aspect for him was the moral component of the show, ‘that good does defeat evil’ and he adds that in ‘all the shows taken together, I don’t think that I killed that many people’. This point is not merely related to minimising violence in a family show, but also hints at a ‘reconfiguration of Hercules in terms of the rugged yet righteous American action hero’ (O’Brien, 2014: 96). This is a hero that shows compassion just as often as he may show courage and power. As O’Brien (2014: 96) further claims, Hercules’s show of extraordinary physical strength is always also ‘coupled with a sense of mercy beyond normal human measure’. In addition, if opponents do get killed during the show, this often happens incidentally or through the recklessness of the opponent. For example, in series one (episode 9, ‘The Warrior Princess’), the then evil Xena sends an assassin to kill Hercules, but the wannabe assassin accidentally kills himself when he falls on a rake while fighting Hercules. The latter had been merely defending himself, using his bare hands rather than a weapon like his opponent. This changed perception of heroism is also evident in other characters. In a subsequent episode (season 1, episode 12, ‘The Gauntlet’), for instance, Xena is gradually transformed from the brutal warrior to the positive heroine of the spin-off show. This starts when she saves a baby, after her crew has killed the parents and burned down the village. While happily waging war against innocent peasants, she discovers her soft spot when picking up the infant. In another episode (season 1, episode 2, ‘Eye of the Beholder’), Hercules attempts to defeat a Cyclops who is apparently tyrannising villagers. Yet, as it turns out, the villagers bullied the cyclops when he was a child and all he really wants is for them to accept him. Rather than defeating him with might, Hercules has a good talk with him and manages to arbitrate between the cyclops and the villagers. It is these contemporary values that sit uncomfortably with the mythology on which the show draws, but they are arguably also what made the series relevant and popular at the time. As Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 64) note with regard to earlier cine-antiquity, in ‘the first century bc, Cicero remarked that he envied the simplicity of Hercules’s life where choices were easy and right and wrong so simply defined. For the post-war audiences battling with the problems of industrialised, Cold War existence, it was easy to see Cicero’s point.’ Towards the turn of the millennium, however, things seem to have yet again become more complex and the show emphasises throughout that a hero’s choice is not always an easy one to make. Nevertheless, in the end the series

132  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) does offer a moral worldview, in which good always conquers evil and were friendship and family are ultimately more important than power and glory.

Family values As already noted, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys followed the trend set by The Last Days of Pompeii and other shows in shifting its focus from more sophisticated evening entertainment aimed at more mature audiences towards a younger, more family-oriented demographic. As a consequence, family values are addressed in the series in two ways. First, by toning down ‘traditional features’ of screen antiquity like sex and violence. Second, by making family issues, in particular Hercules’s relationship to his father Zeus, an essential theme throughout the narrative. With regard to the first point, rewatching this show after having first enjoyed it in my teens, I was actually surprised about the amount of sexual innuendo and barely concealed nudity throughout the show. However, this is often presented in a humorous and playful manner and sexual adventures are more likely to involve Hercules’s sidekick Iolaus rather than the hero himself. Moreover, ‘[shots] of Hercules bare-chested . . . are motivated and legitimised by industrious yet non-spectacular activities such as rock-shifting, roof-mending, rowing . . . and wall-building, as O’Brien (2014: 95) suggests. Therefore, the series manages to appeal to different age groups on different levels. On the surface, this can be compared to what Elley (1984: 55) has argued about post-war epics, in which ‘the ancients’ quarrelsome, fornicating and wholly unreliable gods and heroes become the chaste and upright figures of the fifties’. Yet, in Hercules: The Legendary Journeys this is true only with regard to the heroes, not the gods. The latter are, if anything, framed even more negatively than in classical myth as I will discuss shortly. Yet, even the gods have their family issues. For example, Hercules’s attempt to rescue Persephone from the underworld after being blackmailed by Demeter (season 2, episode 8, ‘The Other Side’), ends up with him having to resolve a family drama. It turns out that Demeter is primarily an overbearing mother not happy with her daughter’s choice of husband (Hades). When hearing about the natural disasters caused by Demeter out of anger, Persephone bemoans in true soap-opera fashion: ‘She’s so sensitive, anything goes wrong and she has these giant mood swings’. Once again Hercules solves a conflict through conversation and compassion rather than physical strength (although he does get into a fist fight with Hades).

TV antiquity  133 In the end, he encourages the parties involved to talk with each other and compromise. An exception of sorts to the generally negative portrayal of the gods in the series is Hercules’s father Zeus, one of the most promiscuous characters of the Greek pantheon. Although he is presented as an absent father whose infidelities have caused trouble, he is ultimately shown as a sympathetic character. In the films that precede the series, this element is much stronger, as star actor Anthony Quinn gives Zeus a more significant presence than in the series (where Zeus only features in five out of 111 episodes).9 In the films in particular, Zeus is shown as a loving father and grandfather, who rather spends more time with his human family than with his wife Hera on Olympus. He says things like: ‘I admit I haven’t been a very good father, but you have been a wonderful son’. This is carried over into the series, although as noted his appearances are much more infrequent here. Even his obvious infidelity is downplayed or rather justified in the circumstances. After Hercules’s mother Alcmene dies and Hercules joins Zeus on Olympus at the end of the fourth season (episode 22, ‘Reunions’), Zeus confesses that Alcmene has a special place in his heart. As a result, Hera successfully blackmails Zeus into giving up his power in order to save ‘the only woman he ever loved’ from eternal suffering in the afterlife. None of Zeus’s other ‘affairs’ are referred to. Evidently, in order to frame Zeus as a valid father figure for Hercules, the show needed to recast the notorious, womanising god as the sorrowful father who could not be with the boy Hercules because of his duty as the head of the gods. Stuck in a loveless marriage with the goddess Hera, he really only ever loved Hercules’s mother. The importance of a father figure, even if absent for most of the show, is further emphasised by Iolaus telling Hercules later in the episode: ‘We know there is an empty place in your heart where your father should be’. Yet, in the end, Hercules decides to leave Olympus and return to Iolaus, because he is, as Hercules states, ‘his real family’, bringing a few tears to the latter’s eyes. This scene illustrates another significant feature of the series. While family values are important, the core relationship of the show is ultimately a ‘bromance’. This is further emphasised in Hercules’s reaction to losing his best friend shortly afterwards at the start of season 5. When his wife and kids are murdered earlier in the show, Hercules is distraught and angry, but ultimately moves on and even remarries. Yet when Iolaus is killed, he marches straight into the underworld in a desperate attempt to bring him back. As Michael Hurst summarises the show in his interview for ‘The Men behind the Myth’: ‘It was all about friendship’. Michael G. Cornelius (2011: 168) argues

134  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) that this shift in emphasis from romantic love to friendship is a direct result of ‘[ juvenilising] the peplum [which] means reducing both the levels of violence and sexuality inherent to the genre’. As a consequence for such a testosterone-fueled narrative, then, eliminating the female sexualized presence creates a condition wherein the eroticized masculine form and traditional levels of sexual energy must be channelled elsewhere. The end result is often a homosocial and at-times homoerotic male grouping, wherein play and practice for battle replace more aggressive actual combat, thievery, and sexuality that abound in sword-and-sandal epics. (Cornelius, 2011: 168)

In addition to play and battle practice, which is frequent throughout the show, mythic monsters and fantastic villains provide opponents that are not always defeated with physical prowess, but require most of all teamwork, which is often in stark contrast to its peplum predecessors. This is also quite similar to The Eagle of the Ninth, which focused on brotherly friendship rather than romantic love to appeal to its teenage audience.

Mash-up mythologies Earlier in this case study, I outlined the aesthetic criteria used to distinguish ancient Greece from Rome. Yet, the differences do not merely relate to setting and costumes. In narrative terms, as noted earlier, references to mythological examples were one way of distinguishing Greece from Rome in screen antiquity. Even a more serious-minded show like Odissea/The Odyssey as discussed earlier could not avoid references to the mythological and the fantastical elements inherent in its source material. Following the renewed popularity of sword-and-sorcery films as mentioned earlier, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys fully embraced this aspect, which offered endless opportunities for action and adventure. Yet, the way in which mythology and especially the gods are used in the show, is also distinct from earlier examples, such as the original Clash of the Titans (1981). From the very start, the opening titles of the series remind us every week that ‘this is the story of a time long ago, a time of myth and legend, when the ancient gods were petty and cruel and they plagued mankind with suffering’. There seems to be no scope for any helpful, supportive gods. Tellingly, Athena, who in the myth often aids Hercules and even accompanies him to Hades, does not appear once in this series. As indicated, Hera in particular stands out as the ultimate villainess of the show, at least in the earlier seasons. However, she is

TV antiquity  135

Figure 6  Hera as the ‘Evil Stepmother’ in Hercules: The Legendary Journeys

framed more in terms of fairy-tale conventions than Greek mythology. Throughout, she is frequently referred to as ‘the wicked stepmother’ or ‘witch of a stepmother’. In later episodes she appears in elaborate black robes, at times flying through the air like a vampire or evil witch (see Figure 6). Often, she is only seen as a reflection in a mirror or similar, recalling, for instance, the evil queen in Snow White. As we have seen with regard to Zeus, not all gods are portrayed badly. Moreover, the darker elements of most ancient myths are also omitted, in line with the family credentials of the series. Sorbo himself suggests that if we had shot this series anything like the mythology that you read .  .  . we would have been a cable show. We would have to be like The Sopranos or something, because the whole thing deals with incest, and murder, and I mean there is all kinds of stuff going on that wouldn’t have made it the family show that it was today’. (From the featurette ‘The Men behind the Myth’)

Whereas the first two seasons still stick to Greek mythology in the vaguest sense, things get more eclectic from season 3 onwards. Beyond the Greek mythological figures, we now encounter pirates, mummies, biblical figures and even the French Revolution. By season 5, the series seems to have given up on Greece almost entirely, with the majority of episodes set first in Sumeria, then in Ireland and ‘Norseland’. While

136  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) this mix of myth, fantasy, history and fairy tale has often led to criticism, the fact that the show appropriates myth is not in itself objectionable. As Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 212) highlight, it would be ‘foolish . . . to criticise a film for not following a particular mythic tradition . . . because the idea that there is such a thing as an authoritative mythic tradition is a myth itself . . . [and] because it ignores the fact that writers in the Greco-Roman world regularly adapted myths to suit their own story-telling purposes’. Admittedly, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys goes somewhat beyond these classical adaptations by playing fast and loose with both chronology and geography, yet its aim is clearly to create its own mythical universe rather than to present any particular one. As an overarching theme, the show is ultimately about human resilience in the face of unfavourable odds. And despite its entertainment value and colloquial dialogue, it also poses some important questions on the role of religion in society. In general, the emphasis of the show is on human independence and free will. For instance, when young Hercules challenges Apollo in season 4 (episode 21, ‘Top God’), he wants to fight the god as his mortal human self rather than accepting divinity offered by his father. His reaction here is quite similar to the sentiment later voiced by Perseus in the remake of Clash of the Titans (2010): ‘If I do this, I do it as a man’, which is in stark contrast to the obedient Perseus in the earlier film version.10 However, this attitude is also challenged in later seasons. When we are introduced to the Sumerian gods in season 5, Iolaus initially chuckles when someone claims to represent god Ra. He is then told by Hercules that the Sumerian delegation does not talk about Greek gods, to which he replies with amazement: ‘You mean there are other gods?’ When they eventually decide to help Gilgamesh, Hercules suggests that ‘it’s about time we broadened our horizons’, apparently informing not just Iolaus, but also the audience that the show is becoming more ‘multicultural’. Iolaus’s reaction to this is: ‘Okay, that’s it, we go down in history as the guys that ticked off all the gods!’ This comment also indicates that this new Hercules is not just a Graeco-Roman hero battling against his own mythic monsters, but the protector of humankind regardless of where they are based, appealing to markets across the globe. The previous assumptions of the gods as ‘the source of all evil’ are also put into question when Hercules confronts the Sumerian god Dumuzi, who contests that ‘it’s easier for you to blame [the gods] for human suffering than take responsibility yourself!’. When Hercules later moves on to Norseland and the gods of Asgaard, the show further challenges its own established conventions of the gods as ‘petty and cruel’. When encountering the god Baldur, who saves a man’s life, Hercules is surprised to find that gods can be kind and compassionate towards humans. Hercules’s general view

TV antiquity  137 that human beings are better off without the gods, is also questioned. When helping the Vikings to prepare for Ragnarök, the impending twilight of the gods, he tries to console the worried Viking girl Hilda with ‘You don’t need gods to live’. Yet Hilda replies: ‘Perhaps you don’t, but we do. You know what it’s like when the sun doesn’t come up for months? . . . Every day is a fight to stay alive. Maybe we need something to believe in that’s bigger than we are. Like the gods. Otherwise, what have we got but the cold and the night?’ Her statement indicates a more sophisticated reflection on the purpose of religion than Hercules has thus acknowledged and it leaves him (briefly) speechless. In addition, the Norse gods are also portrayed in a more favourable light than the Greek gods in earlier seasons, despite their rugged and brutish behaviour. The ruling couple Odin and Frigga are shown as an elderly couple still very much in love with each other – in stark contrast to the relationship between Zeus and Hera earlier in the show. Thor, like his brother Baldur, genuinely cares for his people. Loki seems the only adversary. Nevertheless, Hercules’s mantra – ‘we make our own destiny’ – still stands as he rewrites Norse mythology and prevents Ragnarök. Despite all its mash-up of mythology, the series is actually surprisingly savvy in its use of myth, providing entertainment to those not familiar with the ancient stories and subtle hints for those that are. For example, in season 4 (episode 22, ‘Reunions’) Hercules challenges Ares, who attempts to kill the now powerless Zeus. Hercules asks him: ‘You would kill your own father?’ To which Ares replies with a wink: ‘What can I say, like father, like son. Zeus stuck it to old Kronos, Kronos to his old man . . . it’s a family trait’, outlining in a colloquial, but largely accurate way the succession of the divine rulers of ancient Greek myth. In the preceding episode (‘Top God’), Hercules has a conversation with Ariadne about his half-brother Apollo, in which Hercules complains that the latter is too much of a braggart. Ariadne remarks shrewdly: ‘You expect humility from a god they call the shining one?’, thus demonstrating her knowledge of the god’s main epithet ‘Phoebus’ in antiquity, often translated as ‘the bright one’ or the ‘luminous one’. Incidentally, actor Michael Hurt, who plays Iolaus, felt so inspired by the series that he went on to study classical mythology. In the fifth season, the show even manages to link its mytho-fantastic universe with the portrayal of Rome in TV antiquity. In episode 5 (‘Render Unto Caesar’) of the penultimate season – and in complete defiance of the space–time continuum – the Greek mythological hero Hercules (albeit with the Roman spelling of his name) thwarts Julius Caesar’s conquest of Ireland. He instantly recognises the SPQR logo on the approaching ships, which he (and the audience trained in ancient world

138  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) screen iconography) deduces signals the approach of the Roman army. At one point during the confrontation, Caesar remarks wryly about Hercules: ‘It’s a pity, he would have made an outstanding Roman.’ In case anyone should wonder about the historical accuracy of an attempted conquest of Ireland by Caesar, the episode ends with a remarkably clever reflection on the veracity of historical writing. The scribe, who was tasked with recording the entire campaign, argues that the world deserves to know the truth about the unsuccessful invasion. Caesar counters that the Roman people need to think they are undefeatable, for fear that there be unrest. With these words he kills the scribe and thus erases the episode from history. Insights like these and the ironic wink towards history as well as mythology more generally, are a big part of what makes this show such a fruitful and entertaining field of study.

‘It’s ironic’ In his review of I, Claudius, Philip Purser (1976) argued that films like ‘A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum have made any depiction of [the ancient world] a minefield [where you] tread a narrow safety tape between disaster and triumph, with no possibility of a compromise’. The BBC show, he suggests, took its material seriously, despite its nods to soap-opera conventions. Hercules: The Legendary Journeys is not interested in the same high-culture seriousness. Yet, it also is not farcical in the way that British shows like Up Pompeii! or Chelmsford 123 have been. The series may make fun of myths and history, but it wants its essential values – friendship, honesty, compassion, etc. – to be taken seriously. Yet, how can it manage to strike a balance between the two and achieve what Purser considered an impossible compromise? Analysing a number of other historical miniseries of this decade, De Vito and Tropea (2010: 7) argue that they ‘[provide] us with examples . . . that found deeply self-reflective, ironic, post-modernistic approaches to respond to and even escape from the dwindling creative opportunities of the 1990s’. While Hercules: The Legendary Journeys does not pursue the same high-culture credentials as the series discussed by De Vito and Tropea,11 it nevertheless offers some of the self-reflection and irony identified by those authors. Part of this ironic approach is the anachronistic language, often highlighted by critics, such as Richards (2008: 167) who, as indicated earlier, bemoans that it ‘has the effect of convincing audiences that historical or mythological characters are merely contemporary Americans in fancy dress’. Yet, as Sorbo suggests: ‘we brought this show that was thousands of years in the past into the

TV antiquity  139 present . . . We talked in very modern day terms, which I think made the show fun for people. It wasn’t a show to be taken that seriously, just a show to have fun with and have a good time’ (featurette ‘The Men behind the Myth’). The show makes a deliberate choice here and as a consequence creates an ironic distance that is nevertheless entertaining. The series even mocks its own use of language in season 4 (episode 15, ‘Yes, Virginia, There Is a Hercules’). In this episode, a great example of the self-reflection and irony mentioned above, actor Kevin Sorbo has gone missing and the producers and studio bosses are desperately trying to cover this up while coming up with alternative stories. In one scene we observe the set, where they are about to film an episode in which a group of villains attacks a village. When the camera rolls, the gang leader shouts ‘Hercules will never [pauses, thinks] screw with us again’, which is followed by an angry ‘Cut’ from the director. The latter then chides the actor: ‘I know it ain’t Shakespeare, Patrick, but “Screw with us”?!’ Overall, the series includes two such ‘meta’-episodes that quite explicitly mock its own production history. In the first one I just mentioned, producers, writers and studio bosses get together to discuss various increasingly absurd options for spin-offs – Ares, Callisto, Hercules: The Musical, Hercules’s evil twin – before realising that some of it was already done. The production assistant also suggests a show about the teenage Hercules, which as noted earlier was indeed made the following year, as well as an animated series, free from the demands of real-life actors. The aforementioned Disney production was launched around the same time as this episode. As a twist at the end, it turns out that Kevin Sorbo actually is the real Hercules, who pretends to be an actor playing Hercules to hide his true identity as a demi-god. When Ares arrives to kill Hercules/Kevin Sorbo, he claims that ‘soon my brother’s Legendary Journeys will be cancelled and I can watch Millennium in piece’.12 This explicit self-reflection developed further throughout the series as the show acquired a loyal fan base home and abroad. In fact, its ‘tongue-in-cheek’ approach can be regarded as a significant part of what made the show popular as the following fan review from IMDB illustrates: I have to admit, when I first saw this show I thought it was one of the worst shows I had ever seen. It was always on right before the show I would want to see and I would catch glimpses of the cheesy graphics, strange camera angles, insane dialogue, etc. and would laugh at how bad it was. However, the moment I discovered that Sam Raimi produced the show, it was an instant ‘OOOOH, so the show is SUPPOSED to be that way!’ and I gave it a chance. (‘Ultimate Tongue-in-Cheek’, soupin from New Zealand, 2012)

140  Cult and kitsch (1980s–90s) Yet, it was not just self-reflective and deliberately kitsch, it also at times offered ironic commentary on the sociopolitical environment of its time. For example, early on in season 1 (episode 12), the merchant Salmoneus is captured by (the then evil) Xena and in order to save himself offers to manage her public relations. With regard to her violent raids he suggests: ‘Don’t talk about destruction, talk about collateral damage’, a phrase frequently used during the 1991 Gulf War in order to describe the death of civilians. Episode 21 (season 2) starts with a joke about the poor quality of fast food. In addition, Hercules’s own status as a hero is constantly called into question, such as when people ask him ‘your parents named you after Hercules?!’, when he is offered a celebrity biography or when he complains that he is sick and tired of people asking him if he is the real Hercules. Overall, it can be said that this series not only made a significant contribution to the television culture of the 1990s and highlighted the opportunities of the new, global market place. It also offered a playful and creative engagement with ancient mythology that illustrated the particular suitability of the serial format for telling myths in an openended, loosely structured fashion. At times it even offered an insightful criticism of popular culture and our perceptions of the ancient world for those that dared to look beneath the odd dialogues, fantastic costumes and sometimes outrageous anachronisms.

Notes 1 The big three television networks commonly refers to ABC, CBS and NBC, which dominated the US television market from 1948 until Fox entered the market in 1986, later followed in the mid-1990s by several other smaller networks. 2 There are a number of film versions of the novel Quo Vadis?, such as two silent films produced in Italy in 1913 and 1924, the MGM production from 1951, which is the most well-known adaptation, as well as a more recent film version by Polish director Jerzy Kawalerowicz from 2001. 3 The Beastmaster (1982). 4 Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra (1963) famously almost bankrupted its studio, while the financial loss created by Antony Mann’s The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964) meant that large epics in this genre would not be produced for several decades. 5 Looking at photographs of the excavation site at Pompeii, however, the background of Vesuvius appears quite similar to that in the television series, so the look may be more authentic than it appears. 6 For an insightful discussion of how the film versions from the silent era to the 1950s have adapted the subject, see Wyke (1997). 7 More recent research revealed Terentius Neo as the likely character in the image so that the object is now catalogued in the museum under the title Terentius Neo e la moglie.

TV antiquity  141 8 The arguably less family-friendly original version of the myth, in which Hercules/ Heracles kills his wife in rage is later referred to in season 3, episode 52, when Hercules is blamed for murdering his new bride Selena, although it eventually turns out to be a plot by Ares. 9 He is played by Roy Dotrice in the episodes cited here, who appears in a total of three episodes. In addition, Peter Vere-Jones plays Zeus once in season 3, episode 15 (‘Judgement Day’); and Charles Keating in the final episode of the series (season 6, episode 8, ‘Full Circle’). Keating also plays Zeus in a subsequent episode of Xena: Warrior Princess. 10 For details on the shift in the portrayal of the gods from the 1981 to the 2010 version of Clash of the Titans, see my discussion of the topic in Magerstädt (2014). 11 The quote cited here relates in particular to drama miniseries Tales of the City (1994, PBS) and the horror miniseries The Stand (ABC, 1994), although the authors discuss a wide range of other shows in their book 12 Millennium was a popular crime/horror series, first aired on Fox between 1996 and 1999.

Expanse and spectacle: the postmillennial revival of a genre

Part V

In this final part, I will explore the widespread revival and remarkable success of serial television dramas set in antiquity. Described by some scholars as the fourth wave of the peplum (see Cornelius, 2011) the revival of the genre in cinema in the early 2000s, following the success of Gladiator (2000), was replicated by notable television productions that followed in its wake. Moreover, as this section will demonstrate, the emancipation of TV antiquity from its cinematic counterpart continued in the first two decades of the new millennium. Apart from the unique way of telling stories in a serial format, technology now made it possible to claim even more of the spectacular elements of screen antiquity for television. In her book, Spectacular Television (2016), Helen Wheatley explores how recent changes both in technology and business models created new room for a discussion of spectacle in television. More specifically, ‘greater choice and competition in broadcasting, changes in image quality and clarity and changes in the screens on which television is watched’ have all had an impact on how – and what kind of – television is produced and consumed (Wheatley, 2016: 5). While choice and competition have already had a significant effect on the television market in previous decades (as discussed in earlier parts), image quality and changes in screen size are particularly relevant to the shows produced in this decade. This seems to have encouraged television producers to invest more substantial budgets in these shows, even in comparison to the preceding two decades. Yet in contrast to shows like The Last Days of Pompeii, programmes now combined the recent tendency towards gritty realism in television with the visual splendour and spectacle of cinema. The use of choreographed ‘ultra-violence’ as a chosen aesthetic became more prominent in TV antiquity and indicated another shift from the more family-oriented shows of the 1980s and 1990s towards shows aimed at more mature audiences. This trend, popularised in cinema through films like 300

144  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) and particularly dominant in shows like STARZ Spartacus, indicates a new route for television that will be explored in case study 8. With regard to narrative development, the more successful of these new shows not only updated the ancient stories for a contemporary audience, but added far greater character complexity and plot novelty than earlier series. Hits such as the HBO–BBC co-production Rome (2005–7) and STARZ Spartacus (2010–13) proved that TV antiquity can be just as visually impactful as big-screen epics while also offering unique and more expansive ways to tell their stories. Finally, changes in television business models indicated in the previous part, such as greater focus on niche audiences via subscription-based channels, increased global outlook, the internet and box sets, had a significant impact on the shows that emerged in the new millennium. Apart from the shows that will feature in the case studies of this part, a number of other attempts at TV antiquity emerged during this decade, although none could match the success of Rome. For example, in the US NBC started the new decade with a television remake of Jason and the Argonauts (2000, dir. Nick Willing). The show was produced by Hallmark Entertainment, which had previous experience in the genre with the production of Cleopatra (1999) only a year prior. The two-part miniseries followed trends set in the previous decades and ‘added contemporary references for its multi-cultural, post-feminist audience with a black Orpheus [and] Atalanta as a female Argonaut’ (Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011: 132). It starred, among other notable actors, Derek Jacobi (the Claudius in I, Claudius) as Phineas and Ciarán Hinds (Rome’s Julius Caesar) as King Aeson. Yet despite the high-profile cast (Dennis Hopper also featured in the role of Pelias) and its attempt at modernising the narrative, for some it simply ‘retold the story of the 1963 film at twice the length and with less than half the charm’ (Richards, 2008: 170). Here, the show evidently did not take advantage of the opportunities provided by the serial format and merely extended the action rather than aiming for narrative complexity. In 2002, TNT got in on the act with its Julius Caesar (dir. Uli Edel), another two-part miniseries. The show received two Emmy nominations, for make-up and sound editing. It focused on Caesar’s early years and his rise to power and eventual death, placing the show chronologically somewhere between the young Caesar we encounter in STARZ Spartacus and the mature leader in Rome. Having invested $30m in Cleopatra, ABC made another attempt at the genre in 2003 with the two-part show Helen of Troy (dir. John Kent Harrison) and again in 2005 with the six-part miniseries Empire (2005, dir. John Gray and Kim Manners). Like Cleopatra a few years earlier, both of these shows received a rather lukewarm

TV antiquity  145 reception from reviewers. Empire, in particular, which explores the fall of Caesar and rise of Octavian (during a similar period to that covered by Rome, season 2), proved much less successful than the HBO–BBC drama that followed in its footsteps. Its main problem seemed to be the lack of character complexity and the overreliance on genre clichés. As Alison Futrell summarises, by lifting ‘motifs, shots, and dialogue themes from the (much better) films Gladiator (2000) and Spartacus (1960), the miniseries tried to capture public taste for idealistic Roman gladiators, but was generally acknowledged by critics as insipid, flaccid, not even campy enough to be amusing’ (2008: 106). We could argue that its attempt at imitating cinematic narratives at the expense of a more televisual way of storytelling as outlined above, meant that it could not offer distinct value to its television audiences. In contrast, Rome proved an instant success with the audience, with its complex and multilayered storylines, ambivalent yet strong characters and clever interweaving of the mundane and the spectacular. In particular, the range of different and less than ideal key characters, as I will explore in more depth in the following case study, allowed for a look at history from various perspectives. Consequently, this provided more scope for ambiguous interpretations, making it perhaps more fitting for contemporary concerns than Empire’s simplistic ‘good guys versus bad guys’ narrative. Apart from these shows, television antiquity appeared once again in an episode of Dr Who (season 4, episode 2, ‘The Fires of Pompeii’, 2008). The episode is interesting insofar as it reuses the original sets of Rome with a fresh layer of paint, as Fiona Hobden (2009) suggests. Yet, according to her, it is not only the recycled sets that are reminiscent of the HBO–BBC show. The Rome portrayed in this episode is that of a ‘post-peplum cinematic tradition: the gritty city that replaced marble colonnades in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (1965), and the bustling, colourful cityscape of Gladiator (2000) [but] more precisely, visually and aurally, this is the city of Rome (2005–7)’ (Hobden, 2009: 150). Hobden here highlights the intertextual references between a number of works of screen antiquity and we could add our fifth case study The Last Days of Pompeii, which provides the plot for the Dr Who episode, creating further connections across the televisual universe. The notion of the ‘gritty city’ is also significant and I will return to this aspect shortly. As noted in Part I, cinema made a significant attempt at bringing Greek history and myth to the fore in this decade, with epics such as Alexander, Troy, 300, Immortals and Hercules (2014). However, television largely continued its general focus on the Roman world. Part of this broader scope of Hollywood epics might be related to the way in which

146  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) the global market for cinema has changed the story forms. This meant more universally heroic stories as featured in Greek myth, rather than the more politically inspired conflicts between republican and imperial (or Christian versus Pagan) values, seemed more appealing. In a globalised market, problems of how to translate specific issues into other cultures abound, as do issues of censorship. Thus, complex political dramas appeared to be more suited to television than the large screen, as it had generally a more local focus than Hollywood cinema. Nevertheless, as serial television drama also increasingly aimed at global markets, political allegories became open to a much wider range of possible interpretations. In this context it is also interesting to note that although the majority of television shows during this period maintained the focus on Rome, unlike their predecessors the emphasis was no longer on imperial Rome, but on the murky politics of the late Republic. With it we see a shift from the brutal and decadent emperors portrayed in shows like The Caesars and I, Claudius to a much wider number of key players from various levels in the social hierarchy. For example in Rome, the audience might side at various stages with Caesar (Ciarán Hinds), Pompey (Kenneth Cranham), Brutus (Tobias Menzies) or Mark Antony (James Purefoy) in their quest for power. Part of the reason for this new preference for the Roman Republic seemed to be that it was particularly suited to a critical allegory of complex contemporary concerns. As Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 79) note with regard to the politics of the late Republic, policy here ‘all too regularly gives way to pragmatism and even heroes (or more correctly, especially heroes) end up with blood on their hands’. Both case studies in this part to a certain extent address these power plays, although Spartacus offers more clearly defined boundaries between good and bad than Rome, a point that I will explore in more detail in the case studies. In addition, Rome also follows HBO’s apparent preference for problematic main characters1 by letting Octavian (Max Pirkis/Simon Woods), the possibly least sympathetic character of the series, succeed in the end. Although his success is historically accurate, the way the show portrays Octavian (who is to become Augustus) is rather different from the benign Augustus of later years that we encountered in I, Claudius. In addition to the resurgent popularity of storylines set in antiquity at the turn of the millennium, several scholars highlight the particular advantages of television over film for exploring these themes. Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 79) argue that ‘the extended format allowed the various intricate political machinations of Caesar, Mark Antony, and Octavian to develop over time so that viewers did not drown in a sea of intrigue’. Moreover, Futrell (2008: 103) suggests that the ‘fact that those narratives enter our homes, our living rooms, our bedrooms,

TV antiquity  147 shifts our connection to the medium toward a more personal level’. I have already discussed this notion of intimacy in connection with I, Claudius and the more recent series develops this aspect further. More specifically, ‘although the techniques of storytelling have been largely taken over from film conventions, the pacing is quite different’, so that for example ‘Caesar’s assassination [in Rome] is enriched with a long, slow, personalized buildup’ (Futrell, 2008: 103). With the increased budgets of premium channels such as HBO and STARZ (and more recently Netflix and Amazon Prime), as well as additional sales through DVD releases, television producers were now able to move these explorations of personal relations beyond the chamber plays of earlier decades and add an extra dose of spectacle. It was now possible for television to draw its audience more strongly into these ancient worlds by making them look ‘real’, and even feel contemporary, at times. Although contemporary shows played more freely with the possibilities of multi-plot narratives and genre hybridisation than their predecessors, taking cues from crime drama, action films, political thrillers and even computer games, the influence of soap opera is still significant. As Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 81) highlighted, one of the main problems with portraying antiquity on-screen, is that ‘few stories contain the necessary romantic elements that make them ideal for popular adaptation. Except perhaps in the case of Cleopatra, romance always needs to be added’. This is particularly true of television with its even stronger focus on personal relationships and the shows produced in this decade offer a range of interesting illustrations of this point. TNT’s Julius Caesar, for example, makes the most of Caesar’s marriages, first Cornelia, then Calpurnia, taking Cornelia’s death as his motivation to make Rome a better place. The show ends with Calpurnia rushing to find Caesar dying on the senate floor. Romantic relations thus overshadow political motivations. In Rome, Caesar is primarily brought down by Servilia’s (Lindsay Duncan) scheming, not just because she wants power for her son Brutus (Tobias Menzies), but mostly because she wants revenge after being abandoned by her former lover. Here, contemporary series like Rome, Julius Caesar or ‘ABC’s Empire, [ follow] a trend to depoliticise the assassination [of Caesar], using both story arc and cinematic techniques to reveal the metaphoric weight of the death of Caesar’ (Futrell, 2008: 100). While Atia’s (Polly Walker) character in Rome originally appears as the ultimate political player who uses sex to advance her family’s interests, she later turns out to be much more driven by personal interests, such as revenge on Servilia and love for Mark Antony, particularly in the second season of Rome. In STARZ Spartacus, a whole range of new intimate relationships is added (Spartacus/Sura, Crixus/Naevia, Agron/

148  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) Nasir, Gannicus/Sybil, etc.) to a narrative largely devoid of romantic motivations, which I will explore further in case study 8. However, while several writers emphasise this trend in contemporary television series to prioritise personal issues over the wider political or social concerns, Creeber (2004: 116) argues, in contrast, that this happens ‘in such a way that the political nature of the personal (particularly around issues of identity . . . sexuality/gender . . . and community/nationhood . . .) is explored and examined more powerful and thoroughly than ever before’. Ultimately, television cannot escape the sociopolitical aspects that drive the historical narratives. The complexity of minor characters and their political engagement (as evident in Rome) gives contemporary audience the opportunity to explore these political issues at a personal, rather than a ‘merely historical’ level. New approaches in television aesthetics have also had an impact on the shows discussed in this part. As already noted, Hobden (2009: n. 150) argues that the ‘grittiness of Rome’s Rome was designed to replace earlier “pastiche” approaches .  .  . with an authentic depiction of the city’. She further links this to more general trends in television drama, suggesting that this ‘assumed association between dirt and realism is shared by .  .  . HBO drama Deadwood (2004–6), which fashions the Wild West townscape of the eponymous outlaw camp to similar ends’ (2009: n. 150). Although STARZ Spartacus’s highly stylised aesthetic somewhat undermines the notion of realism here, it still maintains the notion of the ‘gritty city’. Even the villas of the nobles presented in this show are often messy and provincial. The colours are faded and the rooms are sparsely lit, adding to the general atmosphere of doom and grime (see Maurice, 2017). Only in the final season Spartacus: War of the Damned do we get to see more of the marble colonnades of Rome (see case study 8). The setting of the show in the provincial city of Capua, and later the port city of Sinuessa, miles away from the splendour of Rome, further emphasises the downtrodden, sober and coarse appearance of the cities in STARZ Spartacus. In contrast, the Rome of the final season ‘is depicted in a manner far more traditional for the ancient world on screen’ (Maurice, 2017: 123). Yet, this only helps to intensify the appearance of grittiness of the other towns and makes the largely computer-generated ‘pastel fantasia of Ancient Rome’ (Peacock, 2012) appear all the more artificial. One of the aspects of this new aesthetic as mentioned earlier is the use of choreographed ultra-violence, in particular in STARZ Spartacus. Rome offers a less stylised take on violence, yet its often graphic scenes are nevertheless carefully choreographed, particularly in battle scenes. As noted, new modes of television distribution have made it possible for

TV antiquity  149 these shows to appear outside the mainstream broadcasting channels, appealing to a more specific and mature target audience. This has opened up the opportunities for more violence (and sex) on television more generally, across both fictional and non-fictional television genres and to some extent redefines what we perceive as aesthetically pleasing. In a survey on which recent television programmes audiences perceive as ‘beautiful’, Wheatley (2016: 116) found that ‘eight out of ten [of these programmes] have a murder (or multiple murders) at the heart of their narrative; six out of ten feature sexual violence. Several of these series feature extended shots or sequences of the tortured or mutilated body posed as if works of art.’ While none of the shows set in antiquity are explicitly mentioned in her research, these features can also be found here, especially in the two case studies. The use of excessive violence is, of course, not entirely new to the genre, as my discussion of I, Claudius indicated. But, the extent to which it has become a defining feature of TV antiquity is significant. Moreover, the extent to which violence has become carefully choreographed and stylised meant that it has become a key feature in the spectacular aspects of this genre and the visual pleasure of contemporary television. Increasingly, as Wheatley (2016: 153) notes, contemporary television ‘dramas often inspire a bodily or kinaesthetic reaction in their viewers . . . [and make] the body itself . . . an object of the gaze’. Earlier television dramas have rarely made the body a central focus, and if they did this was limited to short moments meant to titillate and shock. Moreover, the objectification of the body was largely reduced to the female body, in contrast to cine-antiquity, particularly in the peplum tradition, which always had the male body at its centre. Contemporary TV antiquity, in contrast, puts both male and female bodies at the centre of the spectacle. This is not just the case in terms of violence. While sex and decadence have to varying degrees always been a feature of the screen antiquity, the notable shift in these recent television dramas towards an exploitation of the male body as spectacle, is a new development. As Stacie Raucci (2008: 208) notes, ‘up until now [the male body in sword-and-sandal epics] had been displayed either at war or crucified on a cross’. As I have argued in the previous part, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys made an effort to frame any portrayal of the (semi-)naked male body in a ‘wholesome way’ in order to make it acceptable to its juvenile audiences. However, in shows like Rome, the display of the body ‘appears to have another function: the virtue and strength of men are contingent upon sexual prowess, and their arena is the bedroom, not just the battlefield’ (Raucci, 2008: 208). She further argues that ‘Rome, like a big screen toga epic, insists on the male body showing off its power and virtue; but, like a televised

150  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) series, it stages this body in the personal and sexual sphere’ (Raucci, 2008: 208). The use of sex as a female power tool, as displayed in shows like I, Claudius and, to a lesser extent, The Last Days of Pompeii, is now used in (nearly) the same way by men. A stark illustration of this shift can be found in Spartacus: War of the Damned (episode 8, ‘Separate Paths’) when Crassus’s son Tiberius rapes the young Julius Caesar as punishment for insubordination rather than issuing some other form of violent punishment. Yet, sex is not always linked to power and violence, and the ‘increased attention to erotic spectacle in . . . UK and US long-form serial drama’ has been noted by Wheatley (2016: 191) and others. She cites Marc Leverette, who notes HBO’s ability to turn ‘its everyday content into the spectacular and aestheticizing the taboo’ (Leverette, 2008: 141, as cited in Wheatley, 2016: 196). The developments in technology, such as significantly increased screen size and even curved screens, high definition, surround sounds and more helped to enhance these spectacular televisual narratives. Their visual impact is no longer a low-key alternative to the grand scope of cinematic epics. Yet, despite these technological developments, which bring the audiovisual qualities of television ever more closely to those of cinema, we must not forget that the environment of its reception (dark cinema versus living room) is still an important distinguishing factor. In addition, the structure and length of storytelling and the interconnectedness with other programmes still create a distinct situation for contemporary TV antiquity. Finally, media convergence further helped the success of these shows by extending the engagement of the viewers beyond the weekly television consumption into the online world. As Holland (2017: 37) notes, the ‘online screenscape is an important part of the television landscape in the twenty-first century, both from the point of view of the audience and the programme-makers. We have moved beyond multichannel to multiplatform.’ Week after week, audiences have the opportunity to reflect on and exchange their thoughts on the latest instalment of a particular series, check background information and clarify connections, thus expanding the viewing experience. One such trend is the expansion of the serial narratives through fanfiction writing. The two case studies presented in this part have offered rich pickings for this evolving genre as Potter (2015: 229) writes: Following Rome, and attracting a similar fan base, the STARZ series Spartacus . . . offers fanfiction writers an even larger range of onscreen relationships . . . This new Spartacus could be read as a slashed version of Rome, one that was precipitated by the fan writers’ interest in the sexual

TV antiquity  151 relationships between characters, and this series has in turn generated a collection of fanfiction.

In addition, new modes of consumption, such as binge watching and online-streaming enabled audiences to view and review their favourite parts of the show, picking up details and nuances previously missed. We can compare this tendency to the emergence of VCR technologies in previous decades, which not only facilitated viewing but also had a substantial impact on the creative outputs of film and television producers. Suddenly, writers and directors could rewatch old movies for inspiration and the postmodernist references evident in directors like Quentin Tarantino were a result of this. It is thus not surprising that contemporary TV antiquity both draws on its cinematic and televisual predecessors and reinterprets them in new and at times iconoclastic ways. The examples discussed in the following case studies will further illustrate how these developments have influenced contemporary interpretations of the ancient world.

Case study 7: Rome (2005–8)

As noted, television dramas set in antiquity largely focused on Rome rather than Greece and the HBO–BBC television drama Rome (2005–7) is, as the title indicates, no exception here. However, as outlined earlier in this part, the new millennium saw a notable shift from stories set in the Roman Empire to those based in the late Republic and Rome is to date the most successful example of this trend. Described by Solomon (2008: 12) as ‘prohibitively expensive and limited in duration’, with its twenty-two episodes it was nevertheless much longer than most of the previous TV antiquity miniseries. Linking it to its cinematic counterparts, Richards (2008: 187) called it a ‘triumphal highpoint in the televisual Ancient World revival that followed the success of Gladiator’. At a cost of over $100m, it clearly matched the budgets of some of the big-screen epics.2 Nevertheless, Richards (2008: 187) also observes that many reviewers were initially anything but impressed. Simon Jenkins in The Guardian (2005), for example, criticises the show for its ‘rambling plot . . . devoid of suspense, interrupted – as if by commercial breaks – by inserts of copulation and throat-slitting’, and even calls it the ‘worst-ever toga saga’ made by the BBC. Similarly, Robert Harris (2005), author of the bestselling historical novel Pompeii, claimed that Rome is ‘historically, morally and artistically worthless’. In contrast, classicist Robin Lane Fox (2005) is more optimistic, suggesting that it is ‘excellently cast, the sets and clothing are outstanding and the lighting and look are stunning’. Yet, she also criticises that among ‘so much that is good, the problem remains the dilution of one of the world’s most inspiring and controversial stories’ (2005). The historical adviser on Rome, Jonathan Stamp, defended the show, pointing out that as it is a drama, naturally some dramatic licence had been taken with regard to the story. But he also emphasised that an effort had been made to present the environments, gestures and costumes of the time as accurately as possible. From the graffiti of the

TV antiquity  153 title credits that meander through the backstreets of Rome, the audience is pulled into the world of the show. The slightly faded and grimy look of the lower-class characters in particular adds to the authentic feel. Even Harris admits that it ‘would be churlish to deny Rome’s entertainment value, or its glossiness and slickness: the dollars drip from the screen as gratuitously as the fake blood’. Ironically, he hails I, Claudius as the ‘standard for dramas of the ancient world . . . [as] it showed that it was possible to be both accurate and entertaining, and to convey (justifiably, in its case) extremes of sexual perversity without degenerating into a Penthouse-style bonkathon’ (Harris, 2005). However, as indicated in case study 3, contemporaneous critics of I, Claudius did accuse the show similarly of historical inaccuracies and of degrading history by mixing it with soap-opera antics. As Richards (2008: 187) rightly points out, ‘I, Claudius . . . was no more accurate than Rome, and in fact Rome effectively adopted and refurbished the I, Claudius formula of blending high politics and soap opera’. The statement also indicates, however, that issues of accuracy, highlighted in Part I of the book, still loom large when judging TV antiquity. The disagreements seem to arise when two levels of perceived accuracy diverge, those of the story and those of the visual components. While some admire the attention to detail and the accuracy of costumes and props, others bemoaned the inconsistencies in the narrative when compared with historical accounts. For example, scholars praised the show’s ‘exceptionally high-quality . . . with a visual spectacle of sets, props, and costumes both opulent and highly authentic’ (Cyrino, 2008: 3) and its ‘cunning combination of fantasy and truth’ (Tatum, 2008: 29). Against critics such as Harris, scholarly writers also defended the dramatic licence taken in the series, pointing towards the often sketchy and at times mythical nature of so-called historical accounts. For example, W. Jeffrey Tatum (2008: 30) notes that readers ‘of Herodotus will recollect how many amazing tales he includes, how many aetiologies, how many geographical excursus, and how many fabulous stories he borrows from mythology . . . stories often redolent of private intrigue and sexual adventurism’. Similarly, Futrell (2008: 109) argues that ‘Rome offers a vibrant, messy visualization of a key period, with a treatment of Roman politics the producers intended as a dramatized version of primary source material’. The series is original insofar as it shifts the perspective back and forth between the numerous key players involved in the decline of the Roman Republic. This complexity is often overlooked in cinematic epics that focus on the destinies of individual heroes, such as Caesar or Mark Antony. In Rome, the destinies of various political figures are carefully interwoven with those of numerous lower-class fictional characters that

154  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) end up ‘accidentally’ influencing history. This happens, for example, in the aptly named second episode of season 1, ‘How Titus Pullo Brought Down the Republic’, as Pompey’s carefully conceived diplomatic scheme is jeopardised when the soldier Pullo (Ray Stevenson) is attacked by a crook he cheated, which is mistaken as an attack on Mark Antony. Moreover, by giving (more or less) equal weight to several main political players, the series also demonstrates how the history of the Roman Republic could have so easily turned into many different directions, influenced just as much by chance as through clever political calculation. Moreover, the indication that the decidedly unpowerful nevertheless wield the power to change history (if not always intentional) appeals to contemporary sensibilities, suggesting that it is not just the great men or women of history who play a part. Rome had high ambitions and planned to cover a whole range of topics portrayed in screen antiquity over five seasons, including biblical themes, with a planned final season set in Palestine (see Cyrino, 2015: 2). The unexpected cancellation of the series despite its popularity meant that while the first season had the time to explore characters and relationships in relatively great depth, the second season appeared somewhat rushed, particularly towards the end. As Cyrino (2015: 3) notes, the first season ‘moved ahead no more than a few months in time from episode to episode, allowing for a successful balance between the stories of the elite and plebeian characters, their personal lives, and the broader political context’. However, the second season had to cover a much wider time span, which led to an ‘obvious acceleration in the pace of the storytelling, alongside a marked shift in the narrative style and some unexpected twists to various plots and characters’ (Cyrino, 2015: 4). This increase in pace and the need to condense the narrative came to some extent at the expense of what we could call ‘the ordinary’, the lives of the minor characters that significantly enriched the narrative in the first season. While still an important part of the second season, the need to conclude the main political conflict between Mark Antony and Octavian meant that several story arcs, such as the revenge of Vorenus’s daughter Vorena (Coral Amiga), the story of Timon’s Jewish family and even the famous affair between Mark Antony and Cleopatra remain somewhat underdeveloped.

The epic versus the ordinary The shift in focus away from the classic epic plot of the two doomed lovers Cleopatra and Mark Antony has, however, some unexpected advantages.

TV antiquity  155 It means that the narrative is not overshadowed by the great romance but remains focused on the destinies of a range of other characters, in particular the fate of the soldiers Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus (Kevin McKidd). The centrality of these two characters highlights one of the most distinctive features of Rome, namely how ‘un-epical’ the series is, despite its grandiose sets and eye-watering budget. There are a number of aspects that emphasise this tendency, but, the most noticeable in comparison to large-screen epics is perhaps the almost complete absence of large-scale battles. So far, this absence had been indicative of TV antiquity largely due to budgetary constraints and the lack of visual impact these scenes might have had due to screen size. However, in an era of CGI and ‘cinema-style’ budgets for television productions, this can no longer be the main reason for its omission. More significantly, the lack of battle action also distinguishes Rome from STARZ Spartacus, which presented some spectacular (and epic) battles in its later seasons despite its much smaller overall budget. Surprisingly, Rome actually starts with a battle scene. Consequently, viewers might initially have assumed ‘that the series will continue in line with the epic image of ancient Rome .  .  . where the crux of the movies lies in spectacular battles’, as Raucci notes (2008: 207). Yet, this is not the case. This is even more significant when we remember how frequent and crucial major battles were during the historic period covered in the series. Caesar’s conquests, his battles against Pompey and Cato, followed by the battles of Mark Antony and Octavian first against the ‘Liberatores’ and then against each other, are all part of the story. Yet, very little of it is actually shown. Even after the initial battle scene, ‘the action quickly turns to the personal world, showing the great soldier Pompey weeping over the body of his dying wife . . . Rome moves now clearly along the path of . . . I, Claudius (1976), as it conflates the private world with the public into a familial soap opera’, as Raucci (2008: 207) notes. In addition, episode 7 of the first season – ‘Pharsalus’ – suggests that it features the titular battle between Caesar and Pompey at the Greek city of Pharsalus. Yet, instead of the decisive battle, we see a detailed scene in which Caesar puts on his armour and prepares for battle, which ends with him walking out of the tent. This is followed by a brief – almost dreamlike – sequence of images of blurry close-ups of Roman soldiers fighting, the extent of which is not clear, before we see Caesar returning to his tent. At first, the viewer might be forgiven for thinking that Caesar has just briefly returned in order to collect something, but it turns out that the battle is now finished and he has been victorious. In a subsequent episode (season 1, episode 9, ‘Utica’), we only encounter the aftermath of the Battle of

156  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000)

Figure 7  A dying elephant after the Battle of Thapsus, Rome

Thapsus, in which Scipio (Karl Johnson) and Cato (Paul Jesson) were decisively defeated by Caesar. Even in the aftermath, we do not see the devastation of a large-scale battlefield. All we see is a wounded elephant dying on the ground as the sole indicator of an epic battle, while the beaten Cato and Scipio discuss where to go from here (see Figure 7). It is initially not clear if anybody else is still around. Only when Cato rises to march towards Utica, do we see the scattered few remains of his army following him. Other significant battles are simply reported rather than shown. While this omission of battle scenes breaks with epic tradition, Lee L. Brice (2008: 63) suggests that by bracketing these battles with ‘military preparations and recovery’, the show is actually ‘more true to the realities of military duty’ than epic cinema in general. The only ‘properly’ epic battle scene occurs in season 2, episode 6 (‘Philippi’), when the troops of Mark Antony and Octavian finally confront the army of Brutus and Cassius (Guy Henry). For the first time since the first episode of the series, we see a long sweeping pan shot over the two armies facing each other in a wide plain surrounded by mountains, giving us an epic sense of scale and relevance. This is followed by close-ups of soldiers clashing into each other, then again by another pan shot over the now fighting armies. On the one hand, this scene closely resembles similar scenes from cinematic epics, such as Troy (2004) or Alexander (2004). On the other hand, though, the seriousness and pathos of the battle is instantly undermined by a cut to Mark Antony, astride his horse quite a distance away from the battle, munching on some bread and looking utterly bored. When the more serious Octavian turns to him and asks what is happening on the battlefield, Mark Antony casually replies: ‘I

TV antiquity  157 have no idea’. Although he subsequently throws the bread aside and rides into battle, the action seems to be more inspired by boredom than by a passion for their cause or a real concern about the battle. This is in stark contrast to Brutus’s noble death, who, realising that the battle is lost and his friend and ally Cassius has been killed, refuses to run away and instead strips off his armour and walks to his certain death in the middle of Mark Antony’s army. While this scene could have the tone of epic tragedy, similar to the gravitas of the final scenes in Spartacus: War of the Damned, his final words lack the significance of those uttered by Spartacus (see case study 8). When Brutus conveys his final words to one of his soldiers, he starts out with a potentially moving speech, saying ‘Give my best to my mother, tell her .  .  .’ only to finish with ‘something suitable’. The staging of Brutus’s death, being stabbed multiple times by surrounding soldiers, mirrors that of Caesar’s assassination among the senators. Yet, in line with its focus on the ordinary, almost more emphasis is given to the thief who later finds the body on the battlefield and chops off Brutus’s finger in order to retrieve a valuable ring. For Brice (2008: 75), the lack of battle scenes ‘demonstrates that it is possible to communicate a level of historical veracity without focusing excessively on combat or extreme violence’. Yet, this is only partially true as extreme violence appears frequently throughout the show, albeit in a more ‘ordinary’ environment of personal combat, criminality and torture. I will come back to this point shortly. The shift from the epic to the ordinary enables the series to show another side of the soldier’s experience, one that presents ‘soldiers’ lives more realistically than older films’ (Brice, 2008: 63) As already indicated, television here is at an advantage over cinematic epics, as it can afford the time to introduce a more varied cast of characters and include more mundane aspects of life. Consequently, Brice (2008: 62) argues that it is television drama that is ‘the ultimate venue for a plausible presentation of soldiers’ lives’, suggesting that because the ‘sets for these productions are on screen for far longer than a typical feature film set [they can] stand up to extended scrutiny’. The aforementioned influences of social media as a tool to explore, critique and discuss the show further extends the level of scrutiny. Therefore, we arguably get a more well-rounded view of military life than is the case in classic epic cinema. Cinematographic considerations also play a role here. Not only are pan shots and other large-scale shots mostly avoided, techniques such as the use of ‘handheld cameras, close-ups with limited depth of field, key low angle shots, and judicious editing further emphasizes the limited scope of the combatants’ vision’ and thus allow the scenes to communicate ‘a personal scale appropriate to soldier’s battle experience’ (Brice, 2008:

158  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) 65–6). This is particularly evident in the brief glimpses of battle in the ‘Pharsalus’ episode noted above. In addition to this emphasis on the individual’s experience of battle, are other mundane elements of warfare, such as ‘stacked weapons, drying laundry, wash basins, animals, and other small details of material culture reflect an unexpected attention to detail that creates an air of authenticity’ (Brice, 2008: 68). All these various aspects also shift the focus away from the leading figures of the battle, such as Caesar, Mark Antony or Octavian towards the ordinary soldiers and the effects that the power plays of the high-ranking officers have on them. Exploring the experience of war from the perspective of the soldiers Pullo and Vorenus also has the effect that it invites ‘the audience into the grand historical account that might otherwise have been difficult for some viewers to access’ (Cyrino, 2008: 4). This ‘outside’ perspective is maybe not entirely new, as we could argue that the character of Claudius, particularly in The Caesars and to a lesser extend in I, Claudius, takes up this outside view for large parts of the narrative. Nevertheless, Claudius is still part of the Roman elite, giving him a unique and privileged view of the events. The significance of the television series Rome is that we get the parallel experience between the elite and the lower-class citizens of Rome. Shows like The Last Days of Pompeii had left out high politics and the wider conflicts of empire altogether, focusing on the personal stories in a small, local Christian (and Roman) community. The Eagle of the Ninth had made the outsider central to its narrative and was innovative insofar as these outsiders included both Romans and slaves. Rome presents us with a broader range of in- and outsiders, including lower- and middle-class Romans. It thus offers a more complex picture of society, rather than simply creating a contrast between ‘Roman elite’ and ‘suppressed outsiders’. Using the soldiers Pullo and Vorenus as leading characters throughout the show also has the advantage that the ‘audience vicariously learns about republican politics’ while Pullo and Vorenus ‘are drawn into affairs of state and matters are explained to them’ (Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011: 79). This duality of experiences in Rome is not limited to the battlefield and the soldier’s perspective. One of the elements of the series most frequently commented upon is the way in which the show presents the life of low-ranking citizens parallel to those of the Roman elite. Cyrino (2008: 6), for example, writes that ‘Rome utilizes this technique of cutting between the “high” and “low” worlds to extraordinary effect: this rubbing together of the two worlds .  .  . between the historical personages and the invented ones, creates a unique dramatic friction that is unlike any other representation of the ancient world on screen’.

TV antiquity  159 This ‘cutting between worlds’ is exemplified in the finale of the first season. In Cyrino’s (2008: 5) words: as Caesar gasps his last breath on the floor of the Senate and the city disintegrates into chaos, the camera cuts to a parallel shot of Vorenus cradling the dead body of his wife in the courtyard of his home, where his own world has collapsed around him. As the narrative of the first season charts a rising and falling arc of tragedy for Vorenus, his cascading fortunes serve as a metaphor for the grave crisis and loss of security in Rome.

While this scene might emphasise the personal drama alongside the larger political one, which is still consistent with Hollywood epic tradition, in other parts of the television series the notion of the mundane, un-epical treatment of political tragedy is more prevalent. The killing of Cicero is maybe the most striking example, as this significant and violent assassination is combined with a family outing for Vorenus, Pullo and their families. While Pullo goes off to kill the senator, Vorenus and the children are having a picnic. When Pullo arrives at Cicero’s villa, he asks Cicero if he can pick some peaches while waiting for Cicero to prepare for his execution. This ‘juxtaposition of the jolly family picnic in the countryside with Pullo’s elimination of Cicero’ has been compared by Arthur J. Pomeroy to the final scenes of The Godfather (1972), arguing that the scene in Rome is ‘almost a parody of Coppola’s style, recalling the intercutting of family ritual and assassination’ at the end of the film’ (2015: 43). While the juxtaposition of religious family rituals (wedding, funeral, baptism) and violence in The Godfather elevates Coppola’s story from a simple crime drama to the status of an epic saga, Rome does the opposite. After the deed, Pullo returns to the picnic with the peaches, noting casually what a friendly chap Cicero had been, only for us to realise a few scenes later that he probably carried in the same bag Cicero’s severed hands, to be nailed to the Senate door (as instructed by Mark Antony). This again shows that while violence is not always foregrounded, the often gruesome nature of Roman power politics is by no means absent from the series. In fact, its sudden appearance in scenes like this provides a stark reminder of the bloody background of the drama, a tendency that is clearly increased in the second season. In his commentary, the series director Jeremy Podeswa stresses that ‘so much of the show is really in the background [so] that you believe the texture of what you see around you .  .  . what this series really does is create a sense that you are in ancient Rome, that it feels real, contemporary, not bound to the dustbin of history’ (Haynes, 2008: 56). Moreover, although battle violence is conspicuously absent from the series, other forms of violence, such as

160  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) individual combat, assassinations and torture are, as noted, frequent and graphic throughout the series. Again, this indicates links to crime drama and the show here has more in common with other HBO series, e.g. The Sopranos (1999–2007), than with classic epic cinema. Violence moves away from the heroic towards the personal and it becomes messier as a consequence. The casual treatment of death indicated by the robbing of valuables from Brutus’s body or Cicero’s execution is also evidenced towards the end of the first season. Following Caesar’s epic triumph after returning to Rome (season 1, episode 10 ‘Triumph’), we see a detailed sequence of the aftermath of the parade with street sweepers clearing the road from strewn flower petals and rubbish. The latter includes the body of the Gallic king Vercingetorix, who was ceremoniously executed as part of the triumph. Now, his corpse is thrown rather unceremoniously onto a rubbish heap, only to be secretly taken away for burial by Gauls. The inclusion of the ordinary and the ‘behind the scenes’ of Roman life, however, is not entirely without precedent in screen antiquity. Several writers discussing Fellini Satyricon (1969), for example, have noted that it appears to be the first film to give ‘us any idea about Roman slang and the tiny details of life amongst lower levels of Roman society’ (Elley, 1984: 116). Moreover, as Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 164) argue, in ‘choosing to show life in the Suburra quarter, Fellini avoided more typical locations such as the Forum or the palaces of Palestine or the temples of the Capitoline’. While Rome does feature the palaces and temples, its frequent and detailed portrayal of the Suburra and the streets of Rome in general enables the show to portray a much greater diversity of environments than a focus on the elite would allow. As observed with regard to Fellini’s film, the ‘Suburra is not only large, it is also rich in diversity. Every age, body-type, and ethnicity is found here’ (Blanshard and Shahabudin, 2011: 165). The same is true of Rome. As Margaret M. Toscano (2008: 154) states, ‘dwarves, prostitutes, children, Jews, barbarians, animals, and especially slaves play pivotal roles in the general movement of history as seen in this series’ narrative and visual structure’. More than Fellini Satyricon, it also takes contemporary attitudes into account, particularly with regard to its portrayal of women. Although Rome follows I, Claudius in portraying elite women as scheming and corrupt, unlike the 1970s show it also offers a contrast to this image by presenting ‘positive images of lower-class women, including a working mother and a slave’ (Ragalie, 2006: 13). We have already seen this trend emerging in The Last Days of Pompeii, which featured among others the good-natured prostitute and mother Chloe and the dwarf Philos. Additionally, as Ragalie (2006: 15) suggests, Rome ‘presents [Vorenus’s wife] Niobe as a somewhat realistic working class wife of a

TV antiquity  161 soldier [who] runs the household while her husband is away [and] rises quickly through the social ranks with her husband as he is promoted’. As such, Niobe offers a counterpoint not just to the elite women, but also to the idealised Christian wife in earlier cinematic epics. While the focus on the Suburra links Fellini Satyricon and Rome, their respective styles could not be more different. Where Fellini aimed at hyperbole and estrangement, distancing the audience from the characters and their grotesque universe through a surreal aesthetic, the television show opts for realism, drawing the viewers into its world. It is a particular type of realism, however, one that includes spectacle and excess. It is also in stark contrast to the aesthetic artificiality presented in STARZ Spartacus, even though the latter show equally emphasised its attempt at authenticity with regards to props and costume (see case study 8). Yet, as Haynes (2008: 49–50) notes, the realism of Rome ‘is of course itself a show, a construct that serves the larger purpose of marketing the series’. He further argues that ‘the secret of Rome’s success is that it generates through the visual pleasure of the spectacle the viewer’s desire for the opposite: the real or everyday’ (2008: 50). Part of this everyday background is another interesting character that appears at several points throughout the series, namely the Newsreader (Ian McNeice), who informs the citizens about the ongoing events in the forum. As Haynes (2008: 53) writes, this character ‘embodies the dynamic of desire that the spectacle must evoke in viewers in order to guarantee that they will buy what the purveyor of the spectacle is selling, which in the case of both the triumphing general and the series is a combination of entertainment and political ideology’. Yet, what I find most interesting about this character is that his announcements of grand political events are often followed by an advertisement or sponsorship announcements. For example, when announcing the festivities to celebrate Caesar’s return (season 1, episode 9, ‘Utica’), the speaker continues by stating that ‘public festivals should be at the fifth hour in the circus, wine to be provided by the Capitoline fraternity, and cakes by the Guild of Millers. The Guild of Millers uses only the finest grains. True Roman bread for true Romans.’ He shows visible displeasure at having to read out the slogan, which is repeated again in a later episode. In season 2, the news about Mark Antony’s departure from Rome (episode 8, ‘A Necessary Fiction’) is followed by an advert for a slave auction. On a more metatextual level, the news reader also offers a homage to television history itself. Early shows were sponsored by specific companies, before shorter advertising spots became more common. In recent years, overcrowding of advertising space and the technological tools to skip ads have reintroduced sponsorship of particular shows as a feature of television programming. In addition,

162  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) event sponsorship is now a common feature, adding a contemporary (if also to some extent historically accurate) spin to the show.

Cultural connections The notion of the real or the ‘everyday’ is also reflected in the show’s treatment of cultural icons, for example Shakespeare’s Roman tragedies. An interesting example of how the show deconstructs literary treatments of Caesar and Mark Antony in particular, appears at the start of season 2 (episode 1, ‘Passover’) in relation to Caesar’s funeral. It is arguable how many members of the audience will have a detailed knowledge of the funeral eulogies by Brutus and Mark Antony in Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar. Yet, it is probably still one of the more well-known literary classics, as it is still required reading for many pupils on both sides of the Atlantic. In an insightful analysis, Angeline C. Chiu discusses the treatment of these iconic speeches. She notes that when the doors open for Caesar’s funeral to begin – one that we know will include the speeches of Brutus and Antony – we are primed for a public rhetorical showdown between the two rivals. This, however, does not happen .  .  . the next thing that appears on screen is Caesar’s massive funeral pyre burning in the Forum. (2015: 19)

This is consistent with the overall tone of the series I have outlined so far, with its focus on the personal and a defiance of expectations. Rather than emphasising the epic pathos of the rousing eulogies, the producers of Rome show us only the aftermath. Moreover, we get this aftermath in two versions, one elite and one plebeian, in line with the two narrative strands of the series. As Chiu (2015: 20–1) argues, the producers have ‘taken the drama of expected public rhetoric and transmuted it into .  .  . the private quarrel of bitterly impassioned individuals’. The first reaction following the speeches comes from Mark Antony, who casually apologises to a distraught Brutus that he ‘got carried away a bit’, while also mocking his rival’s speech as having been ‘a touch too cerebral’. Here, Mark Antony at the same time challenges Brutus’s aristocratic pretensions and the high-culture aspirations of previous TV antiquity. At the same time, though, the show relies on the audience’s knowledge of the events at and following Caesar’s funeral as no explanation is given at this point. The second, more detailed recounting of the speeches and the ensuing mob violence incited by Mark Antony, appears shortly afterwards, when ‘the barfly Troilus recounts what he had seen earlier in the Forum’ (Chiu, 2015: 21). This further highlights key aspects of

TV antiquity  163 the series, namely the reflection on larger political events by lower-class citizens and the importance of the milieu, in particular the dirty taverns and haunts of the Suburra. In addition, as Chiu (2015: 21) suggests, this ‘narrative track is notable for first taking the common crowd’s perspective and then presenting recollection and retelling as interpretations’. Even so, the series here relies on the audience’s knowledge of the events following the assassination as immortalised by Shakespeare, while at the same time subverting the story by retelling it from a different perspective. Shakespeare is not the only cultural reference that is appropriated in the show. As noted above, the 1970s BBC series I, Claudius has been a regular point of reference both for the producers and the reviewers of the show. For example, it was apparently a conversation about their shared love for I, Claudius that encouraged Jane Tranter, BBC Controller of Drama Commissioning, and HBO executive producer Anne Thomopoulos to work on a joint project set in ancient Rome (see BBC, 2005). Scholars have also noted the similarities, with Raucci (2008: 207), for example, describing the series as sitting somewhere between ‘Gladiator and I, Claudius .  .  . at the nexus of television and cinema’. Frequently it is argued that the focus on realism and the portrayal of the everyday life of the city positively distinguishes Rome from the staged interior sets of I, Claudius and its focus on the imperial family. One of the ways in which Rome reflects the nexus described by Raucci is by combining the visual spectacle and large sets common to cinematic epics with the personal intrigue of the soap opera that had already been a feature of I, Claudius. The references to the earlier series are manifold throughout Rome. As noted earlier, postmodernist trends for pastiche and intertextuality owe a great deal to the technological advances that make older television programmes freely available and enable programme makers to watch and rewatch classic shows like I, Claudius in a way that was not possible in previous decades.3 For example, Alena Allen (2008: 185) notes that the producers of I, Claudius ‘created an interior set of Augustus’ Palatine villa characterized by white and blueish-gray marble columns and white-stuccoed walls’, a colour scheme continued in ‘Servilia’s domus in Rome’. Other writers have noted the similarities between characters portrayed in both series. Ragalie (2006: 11), for instance, suggests that ‘Octavia’s character in Rome .  .  . was greatly influenced by women in .  .  . I, Claudius .  .  . especially the character of Julia, who falls for anything wearing pants’. The link between Julia and Octavia is further emphasised by the (ahistorical) affair between Octavia and the young Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, who later marries Julia (as portrayed in I, Claudius). Moreover, despite having been produced approximately thirty years after I, Claudius, Rome can in some sense be regarded as a ‘prequel’

164  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) of the earlier series. In particular, towards the end of the second season, it shows us the beginning of the relationship between Octavian/Augustus and Livia (Alice Henley), which is so central to the plot of I, Claudius. Consequently, Barbara Weiden Boyd (2008: 89) describes Rome with regard to Octavian as ‘a Bildungsroman of sorts for the future princeps’. Other commentators have focused on the young Livia. The connection between the two representations of Livia is not coincidental, as producer John Melfi noted in his DVD commentary to season 2, episode 8 (‘A Necessary Fiction’). Here, he describes Livia’s introduction as ‘a pre-I, Claudius moment [where] we get to see the early stages of the monster that Livia becomes’. Similarly to the Shakespeare-influenced funeral speeches discussed above, the interpretation of Livia’s character is also dependent on the audience’s background knowledge. Discussing one of the final scenes of the series (season 2, episode 10, ‘De Patre Vostro’), Juliette Harrison (2015: 165) suggests that it ‘reads drastically differently depending whether the viewer .  .  . considers the action a prequel of sorts to I, Claudius, or whether they are familiar with Rome alone’. She argues that when Atia pushes Livia aside to be the first woman to follow Octavian, ‘viewers of Rome’ unfamiliar with I, Claudius assume that ‘Atia has reasserted her power and authority over this upstart; but for viewers of I, Claudius, Atia’s victory is temporary [as] Livia will murder Octavia’s son and Atia’s great-grandsons for the sake of her own child and even, eventually, Octavian himself’ (2015: 165). Beyond I, Claudius and Shakespeare, there are numerous other intertextual reference evoked in the series. I already noted the connections to crime drama and Tranter herself described the series as ‘Ben Hur meets The Sopranos with a touch of Mean Streets thrown in’ (BBC, 2005). Scholars have made similar links. Pomeroy (2015: 44), for example, compares the developments in the Aventine, which feature prominently in the second season of Rome, with Martin Scorsese’s Gangs of New York (2002), arguing that especially ‘the confrontation between Pullo and his men and Memmio’s gang . . . echoes the battle scene of Scorsese’s film’. He further observes that in Rome, as ‘with many depictions of Gangster life, the state delegates its power to the organized criminal fraternity . . . and no legionaries appear on the Aventine’ (2015: 44). Surprisingly, although comparing Rome to a number of well-known big-screen gangster dramas, Pomeroy makes no reference to The Sopranos. Despite high-culture references like Shakespeare’s Roman plays and I, Claudius, as well as HBO’s ‘quality-TV’ aspirations, not all reviewers were positive about the links between US commercial channel HBO and public broadcaster BBC. As discussed in earlier parts, a public broadcasting ethos was considered by many to be the framework which

TV antiquity  165 made it possible to uphold quality and intelligent programming against the threat of ‘Americanisation’ in television. The HBO–BBC co-production of Rome reignited some of these old ‘culture wars’. Jenkins (2005), for example, criticises the BBC for ‘frantically trying to ape Hollywood’, describing Tessa Jowell (then UK Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport) as ‘the Atia of culture’ and the BBC as throwing ‘legions steeped in blood and porn into battle against Pompey and Sky, Americans and Gauls’. Similarly, Harris (2005) in the Sunday Telegraph suggests that Rome ‘raises serious questions about what the BBC’s drama department is doing with public money’ and ‘typifies the swamping of our culture since the 1970s by the “steroids and Viagra” of the American entertainment industry’. Moreover, he claims that the series indicates the decline of British television culture, suggesting that the ‘final irony of Rome is that it demonstrates that it is we, rather than the Romans, who are the ones really declining and falling’ (Harris, 2005). Ironically, it must be emphasised that it was the British show I, Claudius that pushed television boundaries with its daring portrayal of sex and violence, which had to be censored for a more restricted US market. Now, it is especially the overt portrayal of sex and violence that critics such as Jenkins and Harris blame on the destructive influence of US entertainment culture. As such, the show merely reflects the latest instance in a long tradition of cultural anxieties and (mis)conceptions, particularly between the UK and the US.

Roman virtues (and vices): reinvented As with most productions set in ancient Rome, both televisual and cinematic, there is always a strong emphasis on decadence and excess, in particular with regard to sex and violence. The shift from imperial Rome to the Republic, however, creates certain problems with the portrayal of Roman vices on-screen. One of Harris’s main criticisms with Rome, for example is that although the sexual decadence ‘might have been justifiable if the series had been set 100 years later, under the emperors’ it was misplaced ‘at the time of the republic’. He quotes Tom Holland, author of the acclaimed historical novel Rubicon, who argues that during the Republic ‘Romans exhibited “a censoriousness quite as rigid and oppressive as anything to be found today in the Bible Belt”’ (Harris, 2005). However, as already indicated with regard to violence, Rome offers a new and original variation on other vices as well. On the one hand, the introduction of gangsterism as noted above enables the show to establish a different type of violence

166  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) that goes beyond the murderous intrigues of the elite or brutal military conquest. On the other hand, allusions to the soap-opera genre also introduce a particular notion of sex, one that ‘celebrate[s] the sexuality of the middle-aged woman’ (Budge, 1988: 104). While earlier shows such as I, Claudius feature strong mature female characters, they are not generally sexually active. Apart from a kiss shared between Caligula and his great-grandmother Livia and a very brief scene between him and his older wife Caesonia, the truly promiscuous characters are generally the younger wives, such as Julia, Livilla and Messalina. However, in Rome, the most sexually active character is clearly the middle-aged Atia as well as (in the earlier episodes) Brutus’s mother Servilia. At one point, Atia even wonders how Caesar could still find the ageing Servilia sexually attractive (season 1, episode 4, ‘Stealing from Saturn’). In comparison to her mother Atia, Octavia’s frivolous sexual encounters seem almost naive as she is much less predatory than the two older women. Even when Octavia seduces her brother, this is the result of first having been seduced herself by Servilia and then encouraged to commit the incestuous act by the older woman in order to gain information. Surprisingly, this ‘incest plotline is not intended to tar Octavian or Octavia as depraved villains like Caligula’, as Strong (2008: 229) argues. It is Servilia’s intrigue rather than the sexual depravity that fascinates and shocks the viewers. More generally speaking, while decadence is displayed, Strong suggests, it is not condemned in the same way as it has been in earlier cinematic (as well as televisual) versions. She sees the main reason for this more ‘relaxed’ attitude in the lack of ‘virtuous Christians or faithful philosophers of earlier cinematic versions .  .  . who might offer a more chaste and moral alternative’ (2008: 229). The absence of a morally upright elite character like Antonia (or to some extent Claudius) in I, Claudius is also absent, although the stoic Octavian comes closest to Antonia.4 In fact, one of the main issues Harris raises with regard to Rome is that Atia, who ‘was singled out by Tacitus . . . as being morally exemplary, one of the three most admired matrons in the history of the Republic’, has now become the exemplar for moral corruption. The historical Atia was possibly more similar to I, Claudius’s Antonia, yet being portrayed as her polar opposite has made her a more popular character in Rome. As Ragalie (2006: 9) emphasises, ‘Atia’s character in Rome is influenced more by the past depictions of the voracious Roman woman than what is historically known about her . . . she is cruel, heartless and willing to use her sexuality to get whatever she deems is best for herself and her children’. As already noted, while the lower-class characters in the series present a counterpoint to the intrigues of the elite, they also fail to offer a virtuous

TV antiquity  167 alternative. While Niobe is an independent, smart and resourceful wife, she also has an illegitimate son with her sister’s husband. Vorenus might be an upright believer in republican values, but he is also unforgiving, short-tempered and violent. Pullo’s lack of self-control constantly gets him into trouble. However, there is still a significant difference in the portrayal of vices between the upper and lower classes. Rome follows the traditional characterisation of Roman matrons insofar as ‘the characters of Atia, Servilia and Octavia remain bound within a tradition of representing elite women as corrupt and manipulative, while [the lower-class wives of Vorenus and Pullo] Niobe and Eirene forge a new path’ (Ragalie, 2006: 2). This new path is not always a particularly virtuous one, but it is usually driven more by instinct and passion rather than calculation and scheming. Yet, towards the end of the second season of Rome, the cold and calculating schemes of Atia are also somewhat thrown into turmoil by her evident love for Mark Antony and her heartbreak at ultimately losing him. As her son gains power, the passionate Atia is replaced by the taciturn Livia. Linking both violence and sex, Raucci (2015: 105) also notes that Rome offers a twist on the familiar theme of vengeance, which ‘has long been a mainstay of the sword-and-sandal genre, often providing the driving motivation for the male hero’. However, she argues that ‘the sword and sandal genre typically has not depicted female revenge as the main focus of these schemes’, while Rome makes it a central element (2015: 105). More specifically, the initial rivalry and ensuing respective acts of revenge between Atia and Servilia are one of the main driving forces of the narrative. As Raucci (2015: 106) argues, even ‘in I, Claudius, women are more motivated by a quest for power than a desire for revenge’. As I have noted in case study 3, Livia frequently emphasises that her murderous actions are attempts to remove instability through contested successions, not any personal dislike or revenge, unlike Tiberius or Caligula after her. While vengeance itself is a strong element of films set in antiquity, the behaviour of women in Rome, ‘belongs more to prime-time drama and reality television than the sword and sandal genre’ (Raucci, 2015: 106). Unlike male revenge that, as Raucci (2015: 106) claims, includes an appeal to a higher ideal such as justice or honour, transforming ‘revenge from a pure confrontation of egos to a moral obligation’, female revenge as portrayed in Rome lacks this ‘third aspect’. Here, she contrasts Rome with Spartacus: Blood and Sand, which states at the end of the season that the killing of Batiatus (the lanista) is necessary ‘because it is just’. She does not, however, discuss forms of female revenge in this show, such as Naevia’s execution of her rapist at the end of the aptly entitled season Spartacus: Vengeance,

168  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) which clearly appeals to a higher ideal of justice. It is notable more generally that although both shows offer a gratuitous amount of female sex and violence, their depiction of women is quite different. Despite its innovative portrayal of strong female characters, Rome still ‘offers a [more traditional] depiction of women seeking revenge that rests on a stereotype of femininity .  .  . [and] .  .  . is not motivated by a higher purpose’, as Raucci (2015: 109) notes. I will explore the portrayal of women in STARZ Spartacus in more detail in the following case study. Similar notions of personal revenge can also be found among the lower-class women in Rome. Although women like Eirene (Chiara Mastalli) and Niobe (Indira Varma) are promoted by writers like Ragalie as offering alternatives to the corrupt elite women of traditional screen antiquity, the motif of revenge is not entirely absent from this sphere either. The notion of female revenge becomes particularly pronounced in the second season. First, Vorenus’s daughter Vorena the Elder betrays her father in revenge for the death of her mother and her own enslavement. Second, Pullo’s slave Gaia (Zuleikha Robinson) murders Eirene and her unborn child, both for her apparent mistreatment and in order to win Pullo for herself. As such, the show is unusual as it no longer contrasts the vicious elite with the virtuous lower classes, but portrays both as being equally ambiguous in their moral framework. There are two other aspects in which contemporary attitudes to morality inform the portrayal of virtues and vices in Rome, namely drugs and religion. With regard to the first, Alex McAuley has argued that because ‘the ancients have not only become more sexual, but more perverse in their pleasures’ throughout the history of screen antiquity, there was a need to up the ante ‘once more by depicting ancient deviance fuelled by drug use’ (McAuley, 2015: 207, 217). While this is largely ahistoric, as McAuley states, it is another element that has entered TV antiquity from other genres. The scene in season 2, episode 3 (‘These Being the Words of Marcus Tullius Cicero’), in which Octavia and her new friend smoke marijuana, is rightly characterised by McAuley (2015: 211) as ‘a fairly comical interlude . . . that would be equally at home in a contemporary sitcom’. For contemporary viewers, then, this element does not appear out of place, but provides another familiar link to contemporary drama. It seems that, as the shock value of sex and violence is diminished in the contemporary television landscape, other aspects need to be introduced in order to emphasise the decadence of ancient Rome. The second aspect, religion, also reflects a number of contemporary concerns. The much-discussed ‘Taurobolium’ scene in the first season (episode 1, ‘The Stolen Eagle’) combines various forms of excess into a bloody religious ritual. The fact that Atia undergoes the ritual in order

TV antiquity  169 to protect her son on his way to Gaul already sets the tone for further appeals to the gods. Although none of them is as bloody as Atia’s initial sacrifice, they are almost always done in order to gain favour of some kind. For example, later in the series we see Servilia writing curse tablets in an act of revenge against Atia. Vorenus prays to Janus when starting his business and Pullo is shown on various occasions to ask the gods for favours. The only exception is when he is condemned to death and in his (assumed) final moments asks the gods to protect Eirene and Vorenus, showing a more selfless side. Moreover, the differences between the portrayal of public and private worship are significant, as it is the latter aspect that best reflects contemporary issues. When discussing personal religion in Rome, J. Mira Seo notes that as ‘a very low-ranking soldier, Pullo has little capacity to exercise the political aspect of male religious practice as seen in aristocratic figures like Caesar. As a result, his religious expression tends toward the more personal, and thereby female end of the spectrum’ (2008: 175). According to Seo, religious practices as displayed in the show become not only linked to power politics, but are also highly gendered. Moreover, beyond its function as part of the historical narrative, religion also becomes a tool for expressing various other aspects, such as ‘the alienness of ancient Rome through the mingling of the political and the religious’ or the ways in which the gendered distinctions between private and public religious practices ‘can underscore the female characters’ emotional crises, or achieve powerful moments of characterization that might not otherwise be plausible for male figures such as Vorenus and Pullo’ (Seo, 2008: 175). Here, religion is a way in which the show is able to provide an outlet for personal reflection and emotion for the male characters, which is familiar to audiences from other television dramas, such as the psychoanalytical sessions taken by Tony Soprano. On both the personal and political levels, though, religion is highly instrumentalised in the series. This becomes particularly explicit when Julius Caesar bribes the Chief Augur to publicly support his course, stating shrewdly that ‘The gods know my intentions for the city are peaceful; the people must know it also’ (season 1, episode 9, ‘Utica’). Although Tiberius in both The Caesars and I, Claudius used his astrologer to define his course of action, he did not use him in the same way for public propaganda. The exception to this instrumental use of religion seems to be Octavia, when she seeks refuge at the shrine of Magna Marta after her continuous abuse and manipulation by both Atia and Servilia. However, this protective environment is soon shattered when Octavian bribes the priests in order to release her and drag her back into public

170  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) life. Like Arbaces in The Last Days of Pompeii, every religious official in the series seems to be happy to accept money for various favours. The second season introduces Timon’s Jewish relatives into the narrative. Although Timon’s brother does condemn the thug violence meted out by Timon on behalf of Atia, his religious motives are by no means entirely peaceful. While he is ideologically rather than materialistically driven, his actions are nevertheless problematic, thus offering little moral alternative to the portrayal of Roman paganism. Overall it can be said that religion is more prominent in Rome than in other shows set in antiquity, but it still lacks the positive aspect that Judaism and Christianity have played in many big-screen epics. As we have seen, the show is able to portray a society so different from ours yet inhabited by characters we can easily relate to, which is one of the key selling points of this show. The introduction and prominence of numerous lower-class characters throughout the series established a new level of complexity in TV antiquity. Not all critics saw this development as positive though. Fox (2005) argues that when I, Claudius showed how ‘the unforgettable carrying-on in the imperial family . . . were directly inter-linked with public affairs and the bigger imperial plot [it had] no need for ordinary men and a Pullo of a substory’. For her, history ‘is far less dull than a mundane image of the “everyday” [and by] throwing it out, the makers [of Rome] have ended up with an exotic falsehood’ (2005). Nevertheless, the series managed to offer something new to audiences. As Haynes (2008: 58) notes, the success of ‘Rome is its same-but-different quality: the illusion that we’re seeing the “real thing”, except in a much more interesting setting than the ones we actually inhabit’. Consequently, Rome achieved something that is a special challenge for producers of TV antiquity – a realistic representation in an entirely exotic setting, a ‘particularly compelling “realism” [that] accommodates both history and fiction’ (Haynes, 2008: 58). As the everyday life of Roman citizens and the larger history are interwoven, there is no thread so slight that it does not matter to the larger tapestry. Whether it is a little bug in Titus Pullo’s prison cell used to beseech divine favor, or a nameless boy with whom we watch Caesar’s army crossing the Rubicon, or the younger daughter of Lucius Vorenus dodging soldiers as she runs through the streets of Rome with a ritual offering, all these small moments relate on some level to the big picture. (Toscano, 2008: 154)

All this adds to the sense of intimacy created by serial drama, as discussed throughout this book. But this focus on ordinary Roman soldiers and citizens still makes it possible for Rome to follow the traditions of screen

TV antiquity  171 antiquity by challenging Roman power. But, it is also very contemporary in emphasising that this power ‘is dispersed throughout the complex social system of the ancient city, neither equally nor predictably’, depicting ‘its many facets, its subtleties, and its constant ironic elusiveness’ (Toscano, 2008: 166). The collaboration between the BBC with its reputation for sophisticated historical shows and HBO with its preference for dark, contemporary dramas, proved to be ideal for reviving TV antiquity for mainstream audiences. There is no doubt that STARZ Spartacus was influenced by this. Yet, as we will see in the next case study, it will take a different approach, both in terms of its narrative and aesthetics.

Case study 8: STARZ Spartacus (2010–13)

The television series Spartacus was produced by US premium cable and satellite television channel STARZ. It ran over four seasons between 2010 and 2013. The first season, Spartacus: Blood and Sand, consisted of thirteen episodes and was followed by the six-episode prequel Spartacus: Gods of the Arena (2011). This was meant to enable the producers to continue the show after main actor Andy Whitfield had fallen ill. After Whitfield unfortunately passed away in 2011, the series continued its main narrative with Spartacus: Vengeance (2012), running over ten episodes with Liam McIntyre now in the titular role. The show concluded with Spartacus: War of the Damned (2013), which also consisted of ten episodes. The series strongly divided critics, as it once again pushed the boundaries with regard to sex and violence, even in comparison to Rome. The aesthetic of the show is also very different to Rome, taking its inspiration from the graphic novel style of films like 300 as well as more traditional screen antiquity. Yet, as mentioned earlier, even then the notion of historical authenticity played an important role for the producers (see Maurice, 2017). The initial reviews of the show were largely negative and it lacked the ‘quality-TV’ credentials given to Rome by the HBO–BBC collaboration. Variety described it as ‘the gladiator’s life as filtered through the gauzy lens of a Calvin Klein ad’ (Lowry, 2010), while the New York Times called it ‘trashy fun’ (Stasi, 2010) and the San Francisco Chronicle dismissed it as ‘a candidate for worst series of the decade’ (Goodman, 2010). Nevertheless, as we have seen, this initial reaction is not unlike that of some reviewers towards Rome. As the show grew stronger both in terms of narrative and character development, reviewers started to feel more positive towards it. Especially, as Strong (2013: 167) notes, ‘reviewers who revisited it at the end of the [first] season had a much higher opinion’. This is further highlighted by a range of glowing reviews at the end of the final season. For instance, Phelim O’Neill (2013) argued in The Guardian that while the show

TV antiquity  173 ‘wouldn’t have been made were it not for the success of Gladiator and 300, Spartacus ended up outclassing those high-grossing movies in almost every department, save popularity’. On a similar note, Ross Jones (2013) in The Telegraph claimed that the season finale of ‘Spartacus is . . . more action-packed – and more entertaining .  .  . than the hugely popular fantasy series Game of Thrones’. Some of these differences in opinion are no doubt due to the significant developments and change in tone that the series undergoes particularly during the three main seasons that deal with the rise and ultimate fall of Spartacus. I will therefore focus on these three seasons (rather than the aforementioned prequel) in my subsequent analysis of the series. The events of the Third Servile War (also referred to as the Slave Revolt or the Spartacus Revolt) have long been a theme for popular art and literature. One of the earliest popular literary examples is Robert Montgomery Bird’s play The Gladiator (1831), which features Spartacus as its main hero. It largely served as a star vehicle for the then famous US actor Edwin Forrest, and was enormously popular in its time. In turn, the play significantly enhanced the popularity of Forrest. Jeffrey H. Richards (1997: 166) even argues that it is primarily due to his performance in Bird’s The Gladiator that Forrest became ‘the most famous American actor of his day’. This is not unlike Russel Crowe’s connection to the 2000 film Gladiator. Although the film is not based on the story of Spartacus, it seems nevertheless evident that it was inspired by it. Crowe also had a significant influence on the production, in a similar way that Forrest was connected to Bird’s play. In addition, Gladiator became so linked to Russel Crowe’s star persona that critics started to compare many of his subsequent works to this performance.5 What is particularly significant about Bird’s play with regard to our discussion is that it already features some of the elements that will become significant both in Stanley Kubrick’s famous film version and in the STARZ television series. For example, reviewers of the play highlighted the climax in Act Two, which featured a battle between the two Thracians Spartacus and Pharsarius and their refusal to kill each other.6 While this battle is not mentioned in any of the classical sources (which I will discuss shortly) it is a key moment in both Kubrick’s film (when Spartacus fights Draba) and in Spartacus: Blood and Sand (episode 10, ‘Party Favours’), when Spartacus is forced to kill his best friend Varro (Jai Courtney). The fact that the opponent in Bird’s play is another Thracian, which prompts Spartacus’s refusal to kill him, also recalls another scene in Spartacus: Blood and Sand (episode 7, ‘Great and Unfortunate Things’) when Spartacus is forced to kill prisoners dressed as Thracians. Spartacus’s yearning for his wife (and child) is also central to Bird’s play. The scene in the play

174  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) in which he promises his master to do his best in the arena in order to save them is surprisingly similar to the deal that Spartacus strikes with Batiatus (John Hannah) in the recent series. However, contrary to the most recent version, in Bird’s play his wife is indeed returned to him, alive and well. Although it is difficult to establish any direct influences between this early work and later incarnations, it no doubt helped to establish the Spartacus myth in the cultural conscience. Several novels on the subject followed in the next century, such as Lewis Grassic Gibbon’s Spartacus (1933) and The Gladiators by Arthur Koestler (1939), but the most well-known is probably Howard Fast’s (1951) novel, on which Stanley Kubrick’s film Spartacus (1960) is based. Before Kubrick, the story had already appeared on the big screen in Sins of Rome (1953, original title: Spartaco). In 2004, Robert Dornhelm transferred the story to the television screen, drawing on both Fast’s novel and Kubrick’s film in his two-part TV feature for USA Network. Although it aims to mimic Kubrick’s aesthetic, it offers a more faithful adaptation of the novel than the film. Many reviewers have compared STARZ’s most recent version unfavourably to its cinematic predecessors, particularly Kubrick’s film. However, it must be noted that STARZ Spartacus is often closer to the classical sources (primarily Plutarch and Appian) than the arguably more high-cultural interpretations of the subject, such as Fast’s novel or Kubrick’s film. This particular representation can be closely linked to the specifics of the television medium as it allows more space for some of the non-linear developments and the ‘less exciting’ episodes of the historical accounts to be included. Generally, when looking at the classical sources, historians agree that we actually know very little about the historic Spartacus. This provides ample opportunities for television. In fact, the entire first season Spartacus: Blood and Sand aims to give us his possible back story and is fairly free in developing its content without the restraints of historical facts. Augoustakis (2013: 157), for example, describes this first season as ‘preparatory .  .  . [as] we are invited to watch the creation of Spartacus and look deeply into the process of hero-making’. Nevertheless, Spartacus: Blood and Sand follows the historical sources insofar as it initially portrays Spartacus as a free man working for the Roman auxiliary. This is noted in Appian, who describes him ‘as a Thracian by birth, who had once served as a soldier with the Romans’ (The Civil Wars, 1.14.116). Plutarch is a bit more vague, describing Spartacus as ‘possessed not only of great courage and strength, but also in sagacity and culture superior to his fortune, and more Hellenic than Thracian’ (Crassus, 8.2). This is in contrast to the famous film, which portrays Spartacus as a slave from the start. This,

TV antiquity  175 however, meant that it had a need to show Spartacus developing his strength and skill, which he does in Kubrick’s version by working in the mines. In Spartacus: Blood and Sand we follow Appian in presenting Spartacus as a trained warrior, which gives a more useful explanation for his knowledge of military strategy, which he demonstrates especially later in the final season Spartacus: War of the Dammed. The second season, Spartacus: Vengeance expands a brief line in Appian over ten episodes, outlining the growth of Spartacus’s followers from the small group of gladiators to the army we encounter in the final season.7 Their final escape from the mountain in episode 10 (‘Wrath of the Gods’), in which Spartacus’s followers weave ladders out of vine growing along the sparse mountaintop, is exactly as described in Plutarch (Crassus, 9.2–3). In particular the final two seasons illustrate that television is more readily able to embrace the episodic and sometimes nonlinear narration of classical historical–mythic narratives. The length of the three seasons running over three years also more closely matches that of the actual war, in contrast to the nine-month war portrayed in Kubrick’s film, which could only offer a condensed snapshot of the actual conflict.8 This allows for the inclusion of episodes that do not necessarily drive the story, such as the gladiatorial games held to honour Crixus in the penultimate episode of the show (‘The Dead and the Dying’). This might seem at first like a gimmick on behalf of the show’s producers in order to include a final gladiatorial spectacle, yet we also find in Appian a reference to ‘the manes of Crixus’ in which Roman soldiers were sacrificed (The Civil Wars, 1.14.117). The final season, Spartacus: War of the Damned is the most epic insofar as the personal revenge motif of the previous seasons is expanded into a war of freedom against Rome. Both the scale of the conflict and the wider moral framework (opposing slavery) contribute to the epic outlook. Although Spartacus is still the key character, other leaders emerge more strongly, in particular Crixus. Again, the show here follows the classic sources, who describe Crixus as one of the leaders (Appian, The Civil Wars, 1.14.116). Consistent with this increase in scale, Spartacus’s men are now confronted with a new and more formidable adversary, Marcus Crassus (Simon Merrells), the Roman senator that eventually put down the slave revolt. While many of the events in Spartacus: War of the Damned closely follow historical sources, the instances where the show departs from these are noteworthy. The most significant of these are the introduction of two additional characters in the final season. The first is Crassus’s son Tiberius (Christian Antidormi). Historically, Crassus never had a son of that name nor did any of his sons fight with him against Spartacus. The name, however,

176  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) should be familiar to television audiences from The Caesars and I, Claudius as discussed in earlier case studies. Cinema audiences will also know him as the brutal tyrant in Ben-Hur (1959) and The Robe (1953). Although Tiberius in STARZ Spartacus is very young and has no connection to his latter name sake, he does portray a similar character. His ruthless ambition and cruelty is consistent with what audiences would associate with the name Tiberius. His conflicts with his brutal father Crassus are not dissimilar to Livia’s treatment of her son Tiberius in I, Claudius and his actions are largely motivated by the need for approval and later revenge. The second additional character is a young and rebellious Julius Caesar (Todd Lasance). While it is historically accurate that Crassus was a patron of Caesar, the latter was not involved with Crassus during the Third Servile War. However, his inclusion here might provide the audience with a connection to Rome, set some decades after the events of Spartacus. More generally, Caesar adds a more familiar character to the story as Crassus is arguably not well enough known with contemporary audiences. It is notable though that the young Caesar in STARZ Spartacus has much more in common with Rome’s Mark Antony than with his older self. In addition, at the end of the final episode, Crassus’s victory is spoiled by the arrival of Pompey, who takes the credit, thus linking the show neatly to Pompey’s military pursuits at the start of Rome. Apart from these intertextual references to popular characters from other screen versions, there are a number of other features in STARZ Spartacus that connect the show to its predecessors. For example, in the opening sequence of Spartacus: Vengeance the camera pans over Rome’s cityscape and we see Spartacus’s adversary Claudius Glaber (Craig Parker) for the first time in his official toga rather than uniform. He is discussing Pompey’s conquests abroad, now familiar to audiences from Rome. The ancestral death masks that can be seen in the background of the room also resemble those displayed in Servilia’s villa. In addition, the first episode of Spartacus: War of the Damned (‘Enemies of Rome’), features a shot of Spartacus’s campaign tent not unlike the tents used by Caesar, Pompey or Mark Antony in Rome. But STARZ Spartacus offers a twist. Rather than seeing one iconic Eagle standard prominently displayed as an indicator of Roman power, the tent is crammed full of such standards, randomly lying about and often blood-smeared, indicating the frequent defeats of Roman legions by Spartacus’s army. Moreover, the complicated friendship and later hostility between Glaber’s wife Ilithyia (Viva Bianca) and Batiatus’s wife Lucretia (Lucy Lawless), which dominates the first and (to a lesser extent) the second season, also mirrors the conflict between Atia and Servilia in Rome. Spartacus: Vengeance concludes with Lucretia’s suicide, which also destroys Ilithyia. The style of this is very

TV antiquity  177 different from Servilia’s suicide in Rome, yet the motif of ‘suicide as vengeance’ is evident in both cases. As noted above, the dramatic focus in the final season shifts from personal intrigue and revenge to wider political developments towards the end of the series. Unlike the conspicuous absence of battle action in Rome as discussed in the previous part, battles are here shown in great detail. This makes it the most ‘epic’ season of the series and also sets the show apart from Rome. A key element of this epic mode of representation is the centrality of the heroic warrior and Spartacus both follows and challenges our traditional understanding of heroism.

The making of a (post)modern hero Our very first image of Spartacus in the first episode of the series (‘The Red Serpent’), is as a frightened prisoner, awaiting his death in the arena. It is not even clear at first that the character we see is Spartacus. We then see a series of flashbacks showing a bold, young Thracian warrior working for the Roman army as an auxiliary. The contrast between the Thracian camp and the Roman one in this scene is already telling. The Thracian camp consists of a loosely assembled group of tents, randomly placed around a camp fire, where a small group of local warriors are gathered. A pan shot over the edge of the hill reveals the Roman camp, perfectly geometrical and vast (see Figure 8). Although Spartacus seems to be the leader of the Thracians, he seems to have little authority with his men as they argue among each other. Moreover, although he is a

Figure 8  The Thracians survey the Roman camp, Spartacus: Blood and Sand

178  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) decent fighter, he is by no means as skilled and ruthless as in his later incarnation. What follows in this season is ‘that we are able to watch the enslaved Thracian become a hero during the show’, as Augoustakis (2013: 157) notes. Here, we can already see one of the advantages of television, namely that it is able to dedicate an entire season to this build-up, before venturing into the greater conflict and spectacle of the actual Spartacus revolt. It is not only a lack of skills in these initial episodes that distinguishes the early Spartacus from the noble hero of other representations. For instance, when first encountering his fellow gladiators, ‘it becomes clear that Spartacus is by no means an amiable, inspirational hero, and the producers of the show make few attempts to disguise his outright misanthropy’ as Elliott (2011: 70) rightly observes. Moreover, ‘he is no leader, he is apolitical, and – aside from his unchecked aggression when provoked – he is not much of a warrior either’ (Elliott, 2011: 70). This makes him initially totally unqualified to be the heroic leader of the oppressed, which he is assumed to become. This opening set-up very much parallels Kubrick’s movie, in which Spartacus is also uncooperative with both his masters and fellow gladiators. Yet, because the length of the film requires the story to move on much quicker, there is not much scope for really exploring in detail this early stage in the character development. As such, a key feature of contemporary cinema and television, namely the more ambiguous hero, is amplified by the serial format. This most recent Spartacus is a much more complicated character than the Spartacus ‘as a Moses-figure’ (Elley, 1984: 104) of Kubrick’s film. Although Spartacus (1960) had already offered a change in tone from the ‘positive, reconstructivist tone of the fifties epics; [to] the [more depressing] atmosphere of the sixties’ (Elley, 1984: 108), STARZ Spartacus goes much further in this. It complicates the traditional hero motif as it has the time to take much smaller steps in transforming Spartacus from the antisocial Thracian warrior to the champion of the oppressed. According to Elliott (2011: 70) ‘one of the critical moments for the series occurs at the end of episode 2 [‘Sacramentum Gladiatorum’], in which Spartacus realizes that there is only one way to guarantee his survival: by banding together with the other gladiators of the school’. Yet, when he starts to form friendships, this is strictly limited, and it seems that the friend he chooses is the other outsider of the school. As a free man who deliberately signed up as a gladiator, Varro is distinct from the other slave gladiators, although that does not translate into a different treatment. Over the subsequent episodes, Spartacus continues to struggle to accept his gladiator identity in the same way his fellow fighters Crixus or Barca

TV antiquity  179 (Antonio Te Maioha) have done. Even after some spectacular successes in the arena, he is still unsure and nervous about being celebrated and only longs to be reunited with his wife. Only after her death at the end of episode 6 (‘Delicate Things’), arranged by Batiatus, does Spartacus fully embrace his gladiator existence, unaware of his master’s involvement. At the end of the following episode (‘Great and Unfortunate Things’), Spartacus is asked to take on the guise of a Roman senator in the arena, re-enacting victory over the Thracians. Before Spartacus beheads the final victim, who is dressed as a Thracian, he briefly sees himself reflected in his image, followed by a quick succession of images running through his former life. He then goes ahead and kills him (and thus his former ego) off. The fact that the people defeated by the senator were Thracians is, of course, significant, and provides a link to the scene in Bird’s The Gladiator mentioned earlier. However, in Bird’s play, Spartacus is to fight a real Thracian and refuses to do so as a consequence. In the television show, the apparent Thracians consists of convicts (murderers and thieves as Spartacus is reassured) dressed up as Thracians for show only, their real identity is not revealed. Therefore, Spartacus’s killing of the Thracians remains a purely symbolic act. At the beginning of the next episode, we see him reminiscing recent victories in the arena and smiling to himself, indicating that he has now fully embraced his life as a star gladiator. In the following scene we see new recruits arrive at the ludos, in a repeat of a similar scene in episode 2. Unlike in the earlier scene, it is now Spartacus who explains that they stand on sacred ground, just as Crixus did in the earlier episode. Even so, although Spartacus is now a celebrated gladiator, he is still far off from the hero he needs to be to lead the rebellion against Rome. This again is a reversal of the cinematic predecessor of the series, and at this stage Spartacus’s ‘total disregard for the political ideal of freedom is underscored by his nonchalance and refusal to form bonds with his fellow warriors’ (Elliott, 2011: 70). Spartacus’s newfound celebrity status also points at issues in the representations of the gladiator itself in cinema and television. As Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 90) note cinema has struggled to capture the nature of the Roman gladiator and so has found it useful to employ various contemporary metaphors to help translate this Roman institution into more modern vernacular. One of the more common strategies that has been employed is the drawing of parallels between the gladiator and the modern sports star.

In television, we have already encountered this motif in The Last Days of Pompeii in its treatment of Lydon as I have discussed in case study 5. It is even stronger in Spartacus: Blood and Sand. The series features

180  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) numerous instances of crowds shouting the gladiators’ names, just like they might at modern sports events. Statues of famous gladiators adorn Batiatus’s house and the Roman elite women are keen to meet the heroes of the arena. All this indicates the gladiator’s celebrity status. However, as Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 91) also emphasise, ‘such a metaphor can never convey either the religious dimension of gladiatorial combat nor the legal and social disabilities under which the gladiator operated’. Although The Last Days of Pompeii also notes the social inequalities between gladiator and Roman citizens when Lydon is treated disrespectfully during a dinner, he is nevertheless portrayed as a free man. Spartacus: Blood and Sand more strongly emphasises the social disabilities indicated by Blanshard and Shahabudin. The show makes clear that although Spartacus is now the star of the arena, he is neither free nor has he any more rights than other slaves. Lucretia, in particular, keeps emphasising this aspect. For example, in episode 9 (‘Whore’) she tells Spartacus: ‘In the arena you are a champion of Capua, but tonight you are a common slave, to do as commanded’, before prostituting him to one of her elite friends. In the following episode (‘Party Favours’), Batiatus invites Spartacus to a game of chess (or something of that kind) and some wine. Yet, when Lucretia discovers them, she scolds Batiatus for drinking with a slave, insisting ‘it’s beneath you!’. Apart from using the metaphor of the sports star, Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 91) note that alternatively gladiators are portrayed as a ‘trained beast’. This idea also appears frequently throughout the first season of STARZ Spartacus. The elite women, in particular, frequently refer to the gladiators as beasts, judging their bodies (and body parts) as one might do with bred animals. One of the star gladiators, Barca, is literally named the ‘Beast of Carthage’. His love for the young slave boy Pietrus and his generally gentle nature, however, cleverly undermine his status as ‘beast’. There are two events that trigger another change of character for Spartacus, from celebrity gladiator to freedom fighter and thus to the Spartacus of legend. The first occurs at the end of episode 10 (‘Party Favour’), when Spartacus is forced to kill his close friend Varro for the entertainment of the Romans. The second is the revelation in episode 11 (‘Old Wounds’) that Batiatus ordered the murder of Spartacus’s wife. To some extent, he becomes ‘himself again’ in this episode, a man seeking freedom and revenge, but with a much stronger motivation than before. His aim is no longer just to get revenge for his wife and his friend, but the desire to destroy the cruel Romans that show so little regard for human life more generally. This is the start of him becoming the

TV antiquity  181 heroic (if doomed) leader he is to become throughout the subsequent seasons. The antagonists of the show also go through a process of transition, although this is indicated through an actual change in the characters. The main villain of the first two seasons is Legatus Glaber, who does to some extent fit the notion that sword-and-sandal villains ‘often display characteristics not marked as signifiers of masculinity’, as Ina Rea Hark (2012: 152) suggests. Although he is physically fit and masculine (in contrast to the earlier Roman villains discussed by Hark), he is neither a particularly good soldier nor a useful husband/lover. His failures in this regard are continuously pointed out by his wife Ilithyia and her father and the fact that her only child is in fact fathered by Spartacus is another point in case. This portrayal of the Roman villain, however, changes in the final season, when Marcus Crassus takes over from Glaber (who is executed by Spartacus). The Marcus Crassus of Spartacus: War of the Damned is nothing like the reserved, largely non-physical villain of Kubrick’s film.9 In fact, when we first encounter him, Crassus is training with his own gladiator in order to hone his fighting technique to perfection. Thus Spartacus and the Romans are more evenly matched in their prowess and skill for war. The blurred boundary between hero and villain is further underlined when Crassus questions Laeta (Anna Hutchison) about Spartacus in episode 6 of the final season (‘Spoils of War’). She tells him that Spartacus ‘will not stop. I do not believe he could even if he so wished it’, to which Crassus replies ‘then he and I stand the same. Each believes himself the hero, the other villain, it is for history to decide who is mistaken. Till such day we shall play our part upon fortune’s stage. As each of us must.’ Here, the show offers a very postmodern reflection on heroism more generally, where history is written by the victors. There is a motif that runs throughout the three main seasons of STARZ Spartacus, which reflects this development as well as the intertextuality of the series, namely the iconic line ‘I am Spartacus’ from Kubrick’s film. Its creative application throughout the series highlights the creation of an icon over time. When meeting the other gladiators in the second episode of the series, our hero first learns that his new name is Spartacus. It was given to him by Batiatus, as it reminded him of the name of a Thracian king. Spartacus protests and wants to say his real name, but is interrupted before he can utter it, a trope that is repeated several times throughout the season. Later in the same episode, he is again addressed as Spartacus and fights back saying ‘This is not my name’. To that Oenemaus/Doctore (Peter Mensah) replies ‘Your name, your life,

182  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) is what we decide’, indicating his new status as slave. In episode 6, he again points out that his name is not Spartacus by saying that he looks forward to hearing his wife speak his name again, ‘my name, not the name the Romans branded me with’. At the beginning of episode 7 we see a flashback to the first encounter with his wife. When Spartacus wants to tell her his name, he is again cut short by Sura’s reply: ‘Every woman knows who you are’. Later, he remarks again to Batiatus, ‘Spartacus, that’s not what she called me. That’s not my name.’ Only at the end of the episode, after the symbolic killing of the Thracians, does he fully embrace his new identity, shouting out to the frenzied crowd in the arena ‘I am Spartacus!’ After discovering the truth about Sura’s death, however, a turning point is once again indicated by a reference to his name, when he suddenly mentions again in episode 12 that his wife did not call him Spartacus. While this personal trope is then mostly abandoned throughout the next two seasons in favour of the larger historical conflicts, it returns in the final episode of Spartacus: War or the Damned. At the start of episode 10 (‘Victory’) we see in succession several of Spartacus’s followers shouting, ‘I am Spartacus’, first Gannicus raiding a Roman villa, then Lugo (Barry Duffield) declares the same in a different location, followed by Nasir (Pana Hema Taylor). Rather than subverting Kubrick’s motif as in Spartacus: Blood and Sand, the final episode fully embraces it by having his followers utter the famous line. Yet, now it is not done to protect their leader, but as a conscious battle tactic aimed at deceiving the Romans. At its most epic, in the build-up to the final battle with Rome, the references to the cinematic predecessor add grandeur and pathos. The individual name issue becomes a symbol of their fight for freedom. Yet, at the end of the episode, with his dying breath, Spartacus again reminds the audience of the personal dimension of the show when he tells his remaining followers, ‘Spartacus – that is not my name. I shall finally hear it again, given voice by loving wife.’ The more epic lines are left to Agron (Dan Feuerriegel), the only surviving gladiator, who proclaims after Spartacus’s death: ‘One day, Rome shall fade and crumble, yet you shall always be remembered, in the hearts of all who yearn for freedom’. Nevertheless, Agron’s last words also imply a certain irony, as it is the name that Spartacus never wanted, which will be eternally remembered. The fact that the last words of the show fall to Agron also indicates another tendency in the development of heroes in contemporary shows. As Elliott (2011: 72) observes, the ‘New Epic has offered us a new type of hero motif, one who is no longer superhuman but is, Leviathan-like, merely the sum of the best in each of us’. It is Crixus who first leads an army against the Romans. It is Gannicus, not

TV antiquity  183 Spartacus, who dies on the cross. And, it is Nasir and Agron, who lead the remaining survivors, including a mother and child, to their freedom at the end of the show.

Love conquers all The fact that Spartacus’s last words indicate his romantic longing to be reunited with his wife indicate another observation that can be made with regard to TV antiquity. Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 78) rightly note that ‘popular cinema occurs in a post-Romantic age where love justifies all’. The same is true of television where the influence of soap operas has further emphasised this aspect. Nevertheless, the romantic motif is much stronger in STARZ Spartacus than it was in Rome or I, Claudius, where love and sex were most often used as a tool for political power rather than to indicate romantic relationships. Spartacus here is much closer to Hercules: The Legendary Journeys or The Last Days of Pompeii that have emphasised the notion of romantic love.10 In STARZ Spartacus almost all significant characters are motivated primarily by love. There is of course Spartacus, who is initially driven by his longing to save his wife, then revenge for her death, then a wider love for freedom that is still inspired by love for his wife. The importance of this motif is underlined by noting that Sura’s destiny is one of the few significant changes from the historical accounts. Plutarch for example, notes that Spartacus’s wife was alive and with Spartacus after his escape (Crassus, 8.3). Yet, the motif of ‘loss of loved ones’ as a motivator for action rather than a more general political longing for freedom, is familiar to audiences from epics like Gladiator (2000). In STARZ Spartacus, ‘Liberty and love are confounded, and it is through the separation of the two that Spartacus’s heroism will emerge. Loss of love will become inspiration for revenge, through which Spartacus will conceive another love, love for justice and freedom for all his fellow slaves/gladiators’, as Augoustakis (2013: 160) notes. The extent to which the political and the personal motivations are intertwined throughout the series is indicated when Spartacus tells Gannicus towards the end of the final season: ‘I could not save my wife, yet I can fight to see a day when no innocent life is so easily disregarded. A day when the Romans and their cruelty are but a distant memory.’ As aforementioned, contemporary television shows draw their strength from a multitude of characters. While the story arcs might develop differently, the motif of love as the ultimate motivator remains. For example, Crixus has no interest in joining Spartacus or to fight for freedom until he falls in love with Naevia (Lesley-Ann Brandt/

184  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) Cynthia Addai-Robinson). Initially, he transforms from proud gladiator to loving partner to freedom fighter. Gannicus appears to be more of a mercenary, but he joins the fight in order to atone for having fallen in love with Oenemaus’s wife and caused her death.11 Towards the end of Spartacus: War of the Damned, Gannicus becomes a more serious believer in Spartacus’s cause after falling in love with the innocent Sybil (Gwendoline Taylor). The dialogue between Spartacus and Gannicus before the final, decisive battle in episode 10 demonstrates the extent to which the personal and the political are intertwined as the concerns for warfare are linked to the concerns for their loved ones:12 gannicus: It’s heavy burden, to gaze at the war’s end and weight the bitter cost of it. spartacus: You do not believe that we can defeat Crassus? gannicus: [laughs] You are forever conjuring the impossible and I would not wager against you in final gambit, yet, the odds are not in our favour. spartacus: No, they are not. gannicus: I would offer drink to lift the spirit but I have turned from it of late. spartacus: A thing not escaping notice, I too turned from marred pursuits, when possessed by a purest heart. gannicus: You speak of your wife. spartacus: When we first lay together she told me how the gods delivered oracle to her dream, they foretold that I would never love another woman. gannicus: Did prophecy hold true? spartacus: [smiles] I found comfort in others. But there is an emptiness, a void left, where a heart once beat, when Sura was taken from me. You once questioned how victory can be defined. I thought answer held in Roman death. gannicus: A position no longer taken? spartacus: Life is what defines it. Death of Romans nor ours, nor those who follow us into battle, but the life of Sybil, of Laeta, for the mother and her child, so many others, they are all Sura, and I would see them live. gannicus: A cause even I can embrace.

In this dialogue, Spartacus clearly indicates that the life of those individuals are worth more than fighting Rome for a greater political ideal. With this emphasis on personal relationships, sex also takes on a new status, creating a new level of televisual intimacy. Several writers have compared the portrayal of love and sex in STARZ Spartacus favourably with that of Rome. For example, Strong (2013: 169) argues that in Rome ‘the multiple sex scenes featuring [Atia] have more in common with Samantha Jones’s brief, casual flings on HBO’s Sex and the City (1998–2004)’, in contrast

TV antiquity  185 to ‘the intimate romantic moments of the couples in Spartacus’. Taking a feminist approach, she further suggests that most of the sex scenes in Spartacus ‘contrast sharply with the cinematography and dialogue from other sexually explicit historical dramas like HBO’s Rome [. . .] which typically fragment women’s bodies, focus on them to the exclusion of male bodies, and often eroticize violent sex’ (2013: 176). She sees one of the reasons for this more progressive portrayal in the greater involvement of female writers on the show as well as husband-and-wife writer teams. Nevertheless, many reviewers have criticised the excessive display of sex and nudity – as well as violence – in the series. Yet, as Strong (2013: 176) points out, particularly with regard to the first season, in most cases ‘sex scenes are also love scenes, intended to emphasize the intimacy and equality inherent in these varied relationships’. In a subsequent article, she also emphasises that unlike many other contemporary television shows, violent sex/rape in STARZ Spartacus is only used sparingly, is not sexualised and always used in a way that makes it an important plot point (Strong, 2017). As the show’s creator Steven S. DeKnight commented, ‘I don’t want to have sex just for sex’s sake or violence for violence’s sake [. . .] The sexual act is part of a bigger story. Something vital to the story is going on here’ (2011, cited in Strong, 2013: 168). If it is correct that sex (and to some extent violence) always fulfil an important function in the development of the narrative, it is worth having a closer look at how the series deploys both in its graphic spectacle of excess.

Sex, excess and the spectacular In general, it can be said that the excessive, camp aesthetic of STARZ Spartacus has often overshadowed the interesting and original developments in the story. This is the case for both the display of sex and violence. The excessive use of violence in Spartacus is also one of its key distinctions to earlier iterations of Spartacus (such as Kubrick’s film) or the peplum cinema of the 1950s and 1960s more generally. As mentioned earlier, the moderate use of violence in the latter made them perfect afternoon entertainment, something that clearly cannot be said about STARZ Spartacus. Yet, with regard to television, its aesthetic of excess follows a long trajectory of pushing the boundaries of censorship, from the primarily verbal account of atrocities in The Caesars, via the then ground-breaking levels of sex and violence displayed in I, Claudius, and finally the graphic display of both in Rome. Yet, as Rome omits many of the actual battle scenes, the violence in this series is often that of

186  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) isolated instances that are of a personal and/or persecutory nature, as I have discussed in the previous case study. With regard to violence, it is the spectacular display of it that makes it stand out in STARZ Spartacus. Especially in the gladiatorial scenes, the show fully embraces the spectacular elements of TV antiquity.13 Simmons (2011: 146), for example, suggests that ‘if there is one aspect of Spartacus: Blood and Sand that immediately differentiates it from other contemporary television shows, it is its excessive nature’, contrasting it with Rome, which ‘was critically lauded . . . for its authentic depiction of life in the ancient city’, including violence and sex. In her aforementioned analysis of the spectacular in television, Wheatley (2016: 145) highlights as some of its key aspects a fascination with and explicit portrayal of the body, an emphasis on visual pleasure, beautiful landscapes and an ‘imagined elsewhere’. All of these categories can be applied to STARZ Spartacus. Its images are highly stylised, it is set in a remote mytho-historic environment and the landscape shots are often coloured like paintings. Yet, it is arguably the focus on the body as spectacle that dominates this television series. The centrality of the (male) body is also an important link to earlier peplum films. On the one hand, STARZ Spartacus, as Elliott (2011: 66) argues, shifts the emphasis to ‘the mastery of the weapon rather than to [the] physical, muscular force’ that was the dominant feature in earlier peplum films. Overtly strong and muscular characters that appear in the series are generally defeated by more skilled if physically weaker characters, for example when Spartacus and Crixus defeat the giant Theokoles in episode 5 of the first season (‘Shadow Games’). This focus on skill rather than mere physical strength was already evident in the new type of Hercules presented in The Legendary Journeys and continued in the revival of screen antiquity led by Gladiator. However, STARZ Spartacus is also different to these examples. In Gladiator, ‘Maximus emerges as a new kind of epic hero . . . which . . . must embody a wide range of contradictory values: he must be hard but forgiving, built but agile, exposed but impermeably armoured, sensitive but hard-hearted, violent but not aggressive’ (Elliott, 2011: 67). While this applies to STARZ Spartacus in some instances, it is not always the case. For example, the gladiators in the series are rarely armoured. Spartacus is the only main character to wear armour, although only briefly when Batiatus presents him with ceremonial armour after his victory over Theokoles. However, he wears armour more prominently in the final season Spartacus: War of the Damned, when it makes him visually more akin to the Roman generals. This is also consistent with my previous argument that the final season is the most epic, as it most closely follows the standards of big-screen epics. Moreover, although the gladiators are often heroic, they

TV antiquity  187 also frequently revel in violence and rarely show forgiveness or mercy. Spartacus and his fellow gladiators are both violent and aggressive in their actions, sometimes even towards each other. Yet, it is not simply the frequency or graphic nature of violence that is significant in STARZ Spartacus, it is also its stylised aesthetic that offers something new to contemporary television. Here, it follows the style established in cinema by films such as Zack Snyder’s 300 or its sequel 300: Rise of an Empire (2014). Monica Cyrino (2007: 4), for example, describes the violence displayed in 300, as a ‘post-Matrix cinematic stylization’, which uses techniques such as slow-to-fast motion and ‘computer-generated blood gushing from impaled torsos and severed heads’. This choreographing of violence as aesthetic spectacle also becomes an important feature of the series, which at the same time captivates the audience’s attention and distances it emotionally from the violence. With regard to Zack Snyder’s Sin City, Pierre Floquet (2011: 3) claims that its ‘excess and iconographic stylization creates the sufficient distance which shrouds violence into an aesthetic halo’. While this raises a number of ethical issues, this aesthetic glorification of violence goes back to many of the classical texts. Elia, for example argues that the violence of ancient heroes was often glorified in a reverent way, backed by the gods who guide their actions. This violence is ‘reverent not simply because it is justified, but because it is skilful or excellent as well’ (Elia, 2011: 81). Mastery of weapon and battle technique matter. The same can be applied to Spartacus and his fellow gladiators, whose skills in the arena make them stars, not simply the killing of opponents. However, Elia (2011: 82) criticises that in contrast to the ancient examples found in Homer, contemporary filmmakers tend to overemphasise the hero’s ‘agency, as if even the most skilful warriors never behave badly’. STARZ Spartacus, however, does portray frequent instances of heroes that fall prey to their own vices. This happens, for example, in season 1 when Spartacus insists on fighting Crixus in the arena and is embarrassingly defeated. In the final season, the rebels massacre the remaining Roman civilians in the occupied city in an act of rage and later Crixus abandons Spartacus to attack Rome, which leads to his execution and the death of his followers. Here, I think, Elia is wrong when he argues that the ‘anti-realism of these new, gory visuals is . . . deeply irreverent, for it does not capture anything like the sense of awe, respect, and shame that one can track in Homer’s heroes . .  . nor does it invite its heroes to suffer because the slaughter inevitably gets out of hand’ (2011: 83). On the contrary, I would argue that there are a number of instances, where Spartacus and his men are confronted with the consequences of their own violent actions. For example, at the beginning of War of the Damned (‘Enemies

188  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) of Rome’), Gannicus challenges Spartacus about how much further he wants to take the carnage, questioning that his apparent longing for freedom is merely a way of quietening his own troubled heart. Later in the season, when Crixus wants to move against Rome (episode 8, ‘Separate Paths’), it is Spartacus who cautions him and admits that he is now afraid of the consequences their actions have on those who follow him. As such, STARZ Spartacus does not ‘decontextualize and glorify violence without recognizing its costs’ as Elia (2011: 83) claims traditional sword-and-sandal films do. In fact, the violence becomes an important driver of the narrative as the violent actions from the Roman elite prompt the rebellion, while in turn the violent actions of Spartacus’s rebels prompt ever-increasing levels of violence on behalf of the Romans. In addition, as Simmons (2011: 144) points out, STARZ Spartacus’s ‘emphatic use of visual excess is intentional, allowing the series to operate as a vehicle for the pleasurable extremes that certain pop cultural texts often offer’. Earlier TV antiquity, from I, Claudius to Rome, tried to outdo one other by becoming more excessive and outrageous with regard to sex as Strong (2008) has argued. STARZ Spartacus biggest shock value undoubtedly lies with the violence, even if the show also portrays sex frequently and often explicitly. One of the issues why so many critics have struggled with the series might be due to an inability to engage with those shows that, according to Simmons (2011: 144), ‘operate in a predominantly camp mode, those that place an emphasis on a type of excess that often revels in its own lack of seriousness’. Unlike Rome, he argues, which may have managed to negotiate its often violent depiction of ancient civilization through claims to historical authenticity . . . Spartacus: Blood and Sand takes a different route, portraying the acts of the violence between the show’s often hyper-masculine central characters in such an exaggerated fashion that a television viewing audience is encouraged to read them as overtly fantastical. (2011: 146)

I would like to suggest that this gradually changes over the course of the show. While violence remains excessive, it becomes more embedded in the overall narrative, when the show moves away from the artificial showground of the arena towards ‘real-life’ warfare. This is particularly the case in the epic final season, when the show draws more closely on historical accounts. However, the ‘fantastical’ is still present even when following the historic reports, for example when Spartacus’s troops bridge the ditch that was meant to entrap them with frozen corpses. While Crassus’s ditch and Spartacus’s escape over it are described in Plutarch (Crassus, 10), the use of bodies to fill it is a new invention. It is, however,

TV antiquity  189 akin to other contemporary television shows that have used dead bodies as aesthetic feature (see Wheatley, 2016: 116–17). It is also comparable to the final images of 300, when an overhead camera zooms out from the battlefield, showing the dead Spartans arranged in a circular pattern. Another ‘fantastical’ moment occurs when Gannicus envisions himself as star of the arena after his crucifixion. This notion of the fantastical can further be found in the use of colour and lighting throughout the show, bringing ‘attention to its own artificiality by imbuing . . . locales with highly noticeable artistic flourishes – such as the proliferation of autumnal leaves in the orchard outside of the Thracian village’ (Simmons, 2011: 150) or the ‘pastel-coloured Rome’ mentioned earlier. Another aspect that emphasises the sense of spectacle throughout the show is the use of crowds watching the gladiator shows. The series spends a significant amount of screen time showing in detail the frenzied crowds reacting to and enjoying the spectacle of the arena. While this series does not feature lower-class Roman citizens as much as Rome did, instead focusing on the conflict between elite and slaves, it nevertheless emphasises the role of the ordinary citizens as keen observers of the bloody spectacle in the arena. The roaring crowds, often consisting of drunk men and women indecently exposed, shouting for blood, hint at the complicity of ordinary people in the cruelty of their elite counterparts and maybe by extension also the television audience. When Russel Crowe’s Gladiator shouts to the crowds ‘Are you not entertained?’, he offers a critique not just of ancient Romans, but also of contemporary cinema audiences. STARZ Spartacus complicates the issue as both the gladiators and the audiences often revel in the spectacle of the battle. Yet, television’s ability to introduce a broader range of key characters also enables it to show a range of attitudes towards gladiatorial combat, from Spartacus’s initial reluctance to Crixus’s star status and Varro’s deliberate choice to join the gladiators. As already noted, the serial format generally allows for a much greater exploration of the supporting characters, representing what Elliott (2011: 68) calls ‘a heroic unit, assembled ad-hoc to depose tyrannous regimes’. He identifies this trope in a film like Gladiator, where ‘supporting character typologies assume many of the characteristics traditionally expected of the forzuto’, the strongman of Italian peplum cinema (2011: 68). However, in the film these were only relatively minor characters with little character development of their own. In contrast, STARZ Spartacus has more time to develop these supporting characters and offer a much broader range and thus adds further narrative complexity. For example, throughout the seasons, the show features a number of characters that match the traditional strongman type, such as Barca in

190  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) the first season and the bulky Germanic warriors Sedullus and Lugo in the later parts of the series. In addition, the hero of the show no longer has to conform to all aspects of the heroic ideal, which is now spread over a range of additional characters. As Elliott (2011: 70) observes with regard to the Spartacus: Blood and Sand: ‘Crixus [is] the perfect warrior; the Doctore . . . imparts the requisite sense of leadership and authority . . . and Varro . . . serves an ideological function as a free man voluntarily entering the arena . . . leaving the entire political domain to Batiatus’. These power relations shift over the course of the series, as Spartacus gradually grows into his role as political as well as military leader and new characters, such as Agron and Nasir, as well as powerful female allies (e.g. Mira and Naevia) become part of the heroic unit. A film like Gladiator had to rely on a very limited number of allies to form this ‘heroic unity’. In contrast, a television show like STARZ Spartacus is able not just to introduce a range of different ‘heroic typologies’, highlighting different aspects of physiology, strength and even gender, but can also develop each of these characters and their individual stories alongside the hero’s own trajectory. This is most explicitly the case in the prequel Gods of the Arena, which gives the producers the opportunity to deepen the backstories of some of the key characters without any reference to Spartacus. In the main series, Crixus’s initial hatred of and subsequent friendship with Spartacus is a key driver in the narrative, yet it is also Crixus’s relationship with Naevia and the challenges this poses that motivate him independently. Gannicus has his own backstory with Oenemaus, developed quite separate from Spartacus. He is also often seen fighting on his own, e.g. when he abducts Ilithyia in season 2 or when he stays behind in Sinuessa after the rebels are driven out. As such, the television show follows classical sources that have always acknowledged that the Third Servile War had several leaders and that at times these split up and went their own ways. This, however, would be difficult to portray in a two or three hour film as it would take time and attention away from the main character. The love story between Agron and Nasir is another of these personal narrative arcs that evolves throughout the show and has led to much discussion and commentary (see Potter, 2017). Maybe the most surprising aspect of this contemporary version of Spartacus is its surprisingly feminist edge, as noted by a number of scholars and reviewers (see for example Strong, 2013 and 2017; Ryan, 2015). Strong (2013: 167), for example, argues, as indicated previously, that the show ‘offers a remarkably female-positive portrayal of sexual relations’ which is in ‘sharp contrast with the sexualized objectification of women present in many earlier television series and films about the

TV antiquity  191 ancient world’. This element becomes even more pronounced in the later seasons of the show, which expand the storylines of a number of interesting female characters. These include Lucretia’s former slave Naevia, who although deeply traumatised by multiple rapes, evolves from delicate house slave to fierce warrior. Here, a more positive notion of female revenge appears most clearly, indicated previously. At the end of Spartacus: Vengeance, Naevia has the chance to confront Ashur (Nick E. Tarabay), one of the men who raped her and who arranged for her to be sold off as a sex slave. Rather than letting her partner, the trained gladiator Crixus, avenge her, she insists on fighting herself against her persecutors. Crixus supports her in this and although Ashur continues to torment her, she ultimately succeeds. Her revenge is both skilful, fair and appeals to a higher ideal of justice. In addition, we have other strong female characters, such as Mira (Katrina Law), who in Spartacus: Vengeance becomes the skilled manager of Spartacus’s camp and an ace with the bow; Laeta, a kind-hearted Roman elite woman; and Saxa (Ellen Hollman), the fierce and sexually voracious German warrior. Moreover, as Strong (2013: 181) argues, the ‘series also reclaims the explicit representation of sex as a feminist and socialist tool for provoking thought and even activism’. She admits that such ‘radical agenda may be sugarcoated for viewers in the attractive trappings of orgies and gladiatorial fights . . . [yet] . . . the socially liberal and feminist messages are consistent and clear’ (2013: 181). The length and breadth of the television series makes it possible to explore the various female character types, and their interactions with each other apart from their male counterparts, in much greater detail. Consequently, the show can offer a much greater variety of female characters and feminist ideas that are sometimes at odds with each other. As such, the show challenges assumptions on what might be considered as normative female behaviour. More generally, the multiplicity of a wide range of significant and engaging characters also enables the show to draw in a wider range of audiences that are keen to follow not just the process of the hero, but also that of his allies. In her aforementioned study, Wheatley (2016: 209) carried out a survey in which respondents ‘discussed the importance of ongoing seriality in the development of their desire for a character . . . or for their continuing enjoyment of a series’, which she then compares to personal relationships. It is this aspect of STARZ Spartacus that makes its themes so pertinent, as it draws the viewer gradually into the series. While the aestheticised violence might emotionally distance viewers, it is balanced with the build-up of ‘long-term relationships’ with the characters that involves the audience on a very personal level. When reviewing the final episode of Spartacus: War of

192  Expanse and spectacle (post 2000) the Damned in The Guardian, O’Neill (2013) states that the ‘virtue of the long-form storytelling (39 episodes in all) is that even when a minor character dies it has the impact of losing, if not an old friend, then at least a long-term acquaintance’. In one sense, the show’s ‘reliance on the camp excess of the video game aesthetic’ makes it ‘unusual in the contemporary television landscape [insofar as it acknowledges] its own artificiality’ (Simmons, 2011: 152). Yet ‘underneath all of those colorful elements’ as Ryan (2015) notes, ‘is a meticulously constructed drama with a fantastically committed and ferocious heart’. In giving the audience the time to connect with its audience and subtly raising issues such as ‘exploitation, oppression, altruism, greed and exclusion’ (Ryan, 2015) as its heroes and heroines confront them, STARZ Spartacus demonstrates that long-form television drama can successfully combine the emotional appeal of a soap opera and the complexity of larger political issues that we find portrayed in Graeco-Roman antiquity.

Notes 1 See for example, Tony Soprano (James Gandolfini) in The Sopranos or Don Draper (Jon Hamm) in Mad Men. 2 Gladiator (2000) had a budget of $103 million, Troy (2004) cost $175 million and the production cost for 300 (2006) were a ‘mere’ $65 million, although the television show had of course much more screen time to fill with the money. 3 The DVD edition of I, Claudius was released in 2002, no doubt inspired by the renewed interest in screen antiquity following the success of Gladiator (2000). ITV’s The Caesars was also released on DVD in 2006 after having been absent from television screens for several decades and even Odissea/The Odyssey was rereleased in 2006 in Germany and Italy. In 2012, Sony released a DVD version of The Last Days of Pompeii (1984). 4 See discussion of Antonia in case study 3 for more details. 5 In a review of Noah (2014, dir. Darren Aronofsky) Mark Kermode (2014) describes the film as ‘Gladiator in the rain’, while Peter Bradshaw notes the resemblance to Gladiator in his review of Robin Hood (2010, dir. Ridley Scott) 6 According to Richard Moody (1955: 194), the ‘scene was staged in a spectacular way, the likes of which had not yet been seen that century’. 7 In Appian (The Civil Wars, 1.14.116) we read: ‘[the escaped gladiators] armed themselves with clubs and daggers that they took from people on the roads and took refuge on Mount Vesuvius. There many fugitive slaves and even some freemen from the fields joined Spartacus, and he plundered the neighboring country, having for subordinate officers two gladiators named Oenomaus and Crixus. As he divided the plunder impartially he soon had plenty of men. Varinius Glaber was first sent against him and afterward Publius Valerius, not with regular armies, but with forces picked up in haste and at random, for the Romans did not consider this a war as yet.’ This essentially summarises the plot of Spartacus: Vengeance. 8 Interestingly, Howard Fast’s novel features the Spartacus revolt over four years. 9 For a more detailed discussion of the character of Crassus in STARZ Spartacus, see Daugherty (2017).

TV antiquity  193 10 Like Spartacus, Hercules has lost his wife, but his love for her continues to be an inspiration and a motivator for his actions. 11 This backstory is told in the prequel Spartacus: Gods of the Arena. 12 The dialogue in the series is characterised by the frequent absence of definitive articles and pronouns. This is one of the key aesthetic features of the show, ostensibly used to mimic archaic language. The dialogue transcribed here is presented verbatim, all flaws in language are intentional. 13 For a more in-depth discussion on the historical aspects of gladiatorial spectacle and its portrayal in STARZ Spartacus, see McAuley (2015).

Conclusion: what is the future of TV antiquity?

As noted in the beginning, Vivian Sobchack stated in the early 1990s that the ‘epic’s formal construction of historical consciousness in the 1950s and early 1960s has been coopted and, by now, radically transformed by television and the miniseries’ (1990: 41). With regard to TV antiquity, the examples in this book have demonstrated how portrayals of the ancient world have been transformed when they were adapted to the small screen. What is more, television not merely coopted a cinematic genre, it also developed its own unique trajectory in representing the ancient world. The case studies followed Elley’s (1984: 1) dictum that the ‘chief feature of the historical film is not imitation but reinterpretation’, as each show offered a distinct take on the ancient world, coloured by their own contemporaneous concerns and attitudes. To conclude this journey through sixty years of television history, I would like to pick up some of the main threads that run through the case studies and examine some of the possible directions for TV antiquity. As we have seen, the early decades of TV antiquity were defined by ‘limits of budget and of the television screen’, which turned ‘the Hollywood signifiers of imperial Rome (armies on the march, gladiatorial games, fantastical debauches) into what [was] largely a series of gestures’ (Joshel, 2001: 120). The lack of opportunities for grandeur and spectacle, however, meant that the shows instead focused more strongly on the intimate personal relations between characters and the ways in which they were affected by the larger political turmoil. As Joshel (2001: 120) notes in her discussion of I, Claudius, many of these early television shows ‘translate[d] the spectacular into familial scenes or contain[ed] it within domestic spaces’. As such, they did what many claimed television did best: creating an intimate atmosphere of relations with characters right in our family homes. Yet some, like The Caesars or Rome, also explored the complexity of late republican or early imperial politics in

Conclusion  195 innovative ways. The more recent serial dramas took advantage of new developments in technology (larger screens, high definition colour etc.) and transformed television from its ‘normal backdrop of . . . mundane pleasures [as] . . . a casual experience’ into a more ‘intensive viewing experience [that creates] enlightenment and excitement’ (Wheatley, 2016: 3). While some opted for realism, other shows, with ‘their heightening levels of fantasy .  .  . [constructed] a narrative universe in which social reality itself is continually set against subjective, individual and multiple perspectives’ (Creeber, 2004: 14). Yet, in all these cases, a focus on interpersonal relations played an important role, supporting what Creeber (2004: 113) described with regard to contemporary audiences more broadly as a ‘tendency . . . to watch close-knit social groups leading and struggling with lives similar to their own’. However, family relations often were the source of the problem, as is evident in the feuding elite families portrayed from The Caesars to Rome. Even in a fantasy show like Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, Hercules main problem was often with his divine relatives. Creeber (2004: 113) speculates that it is perhaps the case that ‘as family and community life became more fragmented and unsettled in the contemporary world, viewers longed to explore the dynamics by which social networks were formed, maintained and occasionally destroyed’. It is notable though that many of the shows discussed, from The Eagle of the Ninth via Hercules: The Legendary Journeys to Rome and STARZ Spartacus have presented (male) friendship as one of their central features. Consequently, some writers have suggested that the focus on family and personal relationships that shows like I, Claudius introduced into TV antiquity diminishes the political component that was so dominant in a show like The Caesars. Yet, as we have seen, wider sociopolitical references could be found in all the shows and dramas like STARZ Spartacus were surprisingly radical in addressing wider social and political issues, even if they were not explicitly foregrounded. Moreover, TV antiquity demonstrated a strong overlap with other genres. The shows under consideration took inspiration from such diverse sources as political drama, soap opera, gangster film, disaster movies and fantasy. Shows like HBO’s hugely popular Game of Thrones indicated that fantasy is not only a genre for fun family entertainment, but can also be successfully applied to a more serious blend of myth and history. This is likely to have an effect on TV antiquity as well, and recent shows such as Britannia (2018), more of which below, have provided a glimpse of this.1 Yet, it is maybe its opportunity for serialisation and long-form storytelling that most clearly distinguishes it from large-screen representations of the ancient world.

196  Conclusion Serialisation, syndication and synergies In recent years, contemporary miniseries have been described increasingly in cinematic terms and even been labelled ‘megamovies’ (Canby, 1999). Yet, this comparison to cinema is flawed insofar as it implies simply a change in length. It ignores the intrinsically different ways in which serial television develops its stories. More specifically, ‘its tendency towards narrative complexity, particularly its ability to produce a “flexinarrative” structure that mixes a number of narrative levels together’ might be, as Creeber (2004: 7) suggests, ‘better able to reflect and respond to the increasing uncertainties and social ambiguities of the contemporary world’. As we have seen, STARZ Spartacus, for example, had the ability to introduce a wider range of narratives strands beyond the heroic main character. This enabled the series to offer innovative perspectives on current topics such as gender and homosexuality. Similarly, Rome’s focus on lower-class citizens and in particular soldiers, offered new perspectives on the ways in which large political events affect ordinary citizens. Yet, as we have seen, even older shows offered various levels of complexity, be it the wide range of characters in The Last Days of Pompeii, intimate psychological studies in The Caesars or more subtle allusions to the ethics of empire in The Eagle of the Ninth. Financial considerations have also had an influence on the content of TV antiquity. As Paterson (1998: 57–8) suggests, in recent years ‘the cost of drama has been one factor in the developing globalization of TV production’ and ‘even US programming, which once could amortize its entire cost in its domestic market, now needs revenue from the global market to cover costs of production’. We have seen this tendency emerging with Hercules: The Legendary Journeys and its associated spin-offs, who owed a significant part of their success to syndication. Apart from selling shows to global markets, international collaborations, between broadcasters or between television and cinema productions further expanded the scope of contemporary shows. Recent dramas ‘have worked increasingly with the film industry because of economic factors’, Paterson (1998: 60) points out, although show like The Last Days of Pompeii also emphasised the cinematic qualities (large crowds of extras, on-location shooting) of their productions. This was, for instance, evident in Rome, which used the legendary Cinecittà Studios in Italy for its sets, drawing on nearly a century of talent and experience in recreating antiquity for the large screen. Later, episodes of Doctor Who reused the sets of Rome as discussed in case study 7. STARZ Spartacus followed the trend set

Conclusion  197 by Hercules: The Legendary Journey in using New Zealand as the locale for its ancient universe. Financial concerns are also reflected in the length and structure of serial television. For example, as DeFino (2014: 122) has proposed, ‘[limiting] the number of episodes per season . . . gives HBO the luxury of slowing down production’. These limitations had the advantage that the producers could focus on quality and production values. In addition, ‘the shorter span of story time . . . allows writers to focus more on long-form storytelling [and] one could reasonably expect viewers to remember something that happened in the beginning of the season and carry it through to the end’ (DeFino, 2014: 122–3). This shorter running time and storylines that are usually concluded at the end of a season, also makes serial television more appealing for high-profile actors and directors, who are tempted by the creative possibilities of the medium, but would not want to commit to endless contracts (Helmore, 2014). Most recent instalments of TV antiquity, such as Britannia and Troy: Fall of a City, were even more cautious than the shows discussed in Part V, with nine and eight episodes respectively. Revised viewing habits, which emerged as a consequence of new technologies such as recording devices and the internet further supported this trend. Developments such as the availability of box sets, ‘binge watching’ and online companion sites have all contributed to expanding the viewing experience. Shows can now focus on complexity and narrative depth without risking that their audiences get lost in the various storylines. These new technologies also opened up new business opportunities for the producers of television shows. For example, ‘HBO recouped the entire budget for Season One of [Game of] Thrones in the first week of DVD sales’, as DeFino (2014: 202) notes. Even older series like The Caesars and I, Claudius got a second life through DVD sales, making them available to an entirely new generation of viewers. More generally, the emergence of the internet had a dramatic effect on television culture, both in terms of distribution and audience engagement. Holland categorises its influence in three ways, ‘as a distribution facility, enabling programmes . . . to be viewed through streaming on a variety of platforms .  .  . as a supplement to popular programmes, expanding on them and providing extra material . . . [and through] television-like material made for the internet’ (2017: 37). In particular the aspects of distribution and supplementation also had a significant impact on TV antiquity. As noted, Xena: Warrior Princess was one of the first shows that offered companion sites and developed active fan communities across the globe. Both Rome and STARZ Spartacus have active online communities

198  Conclusion that write fanfiction, which expands the storylines developed in the main series (see Potter, 2015, 2017). Overall, these changes in image quality, production and distribution have dramatically altered the look of and our engagement with TV antiquity. Moreover, although there are themes and tropes that run through all the shows, key elements have also been adapted in line with sociocultural developments.

A new hero emerges These changes in social and cultural attitudes are particularly evident when looking at the heroes (and villains) of these shows. Blanshard and Shahabudin (2011: 220) argue that unlike the cinematic epics of the 1950s or 1960s, contemporary ‘films do not always offer clear-cut heroes and villains, illustrating the complexity of the issues rather than offering us easy answers’. Television, however, has early on taken a more critical route. As we have seen in the first case study, The Caesars presents the controversial Roman Emperor Tiberius as a shrewd, yet troubled, politician, not quite a hero, but not an outright villain (as in cinema) either. Its Claudius remains largely in the background and he happily embraces imperial power at the end of the show. I, Claudius made him its central hero, but he is also at times too naive and trusting, easily manipulated by friends or his frivolous wife Messalina. Odissea/ The Odyssey portrayed its heroes true to the Greek originals, with their flaws and weaknesses. The 1980s series The Last Days of Pompeii with its Christian overtones came maybe closest to cinematic versions of Rome. Yet, on closer inspection, some of its heroes and heroines, such as a Greek aristocrat, a blind slave girl and a prostitute, were also significantly flawed. Here, the move in television drama towards a larger range of characters and more complex storylines gave space for a variety of heroic types. On the surface, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys seemed to return to a more classical ideal of a hero in the 1990s. But, as we have seen, this was immediately undermined by a much more contemporary characterisation of the Greek hero both visually and in his attitude. The new Hercules did not seek fame but wanted to help people and his focus was on virtues such as compassion and humility rather than courage and pride. The 2000s offered an even greater variety of the notion of heroism, often by directly challenging or subverting more traditional concepts. Apart from the case studies featured here, this shift is illustrated in an example discussed by Richards. He notes that the three-hour television epic, Attila the Hun (2001) ‘differed in several respects from the two 1950s versions . . . Attila . . . and Sign of the Pagan’

Conclusion  199 (2008: 170). While Attila, as he suggests, was clearly the anti-hero of the earlier films, ‘in 2000 he was undoubtedly the hero and, as played by Gerard Butler, emerged as a courageous, visionary, virile and just figure’ (2008: 170). In addition, Richards (2008: 170) argues, the ‘film displays a cynicism about the power politics of the so-called civilized states [and there] is felt to be something more healthy, honest and straightforward about the Huns, a kind of ‘barbarian chic’. STARZ Spartacus follows a similar pattern as it glorifies the heroism of the ‘barbarians’. But, then again, Spartacus has always been a hero in cinematic history. Yet, the way in which the show challenges power relations more generally, rather than simply pointing the finger at corrupt Roman emperors, is more current. However, shows like The Eagle of the Ninth and Warrior Queen had already demonstrated in the 1970s that ‘the Other’ is not always the more barbarian. What is new about the more recent television series is its greater variety of heroic characters, in part facilitated by the much bigger budgets of these shows. At times, their differing conceptions of what would be the best course of action and the resulting conflicts are played out on-screen, enabling the audience to reflect on the very nature of heroism. Similar to Kevin Sorbo’s Hercules, Spartacus is distinguished by his sense of compassion and justice, yet unlike the former he does not shy away from bloody revenge. Similarly, Rome presents the soldiers Pullo and Vorenus as its heroes. Yet, their flaws are not just moral weaknesses; they also at times harm those closest to them. One of the most recent examples of TV antiquity, the Canadian–British co-production Olympus (2015), created by Nick Willing, picks up the theme of heroism quite literally by naming its main character ‘Hero’ (Tom York). The series first aired on the SkyFi channel in the US and was shown in the UK and Ireland on Spike UK, a digital television channel. It is now available on Netflix, which also illustrates the evolution of television from satellite broadcasting to online-streaming. The series is interesting insofar as it focuses on Greek myth rather than Roman history, a rare exception in TV antiquity as we have seen. However, the show was cancelled after the first season, which might be partly due to its protagonist. Hero is young, naive and not particularly charismatic. In addition, the show lacked both the light-hearted humour of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys and the serious drama of a show like Rome. With its blend of Medea as evil sorceress, Minoan Greek settings, epic warfare and the conflict between human and gods, the series attempts to mix maybe too many of the fantasy and historical elements of previous shows. Its aesthetic is closer to STARZ Spartacus, with gruesome and bloody scenes from the outset and the use of slow-motion techniques

200  Conclusion in battle scenes. Yet, its fantasy content and the divine framework sets it apart from much of earlier TV antiquity. Similarly, Troy: Fall of a City featured the gods prominently and their interferences were largely true to Homer’s vision. It also challenged the heroic ideal by portraying Achilles as a brooding, serious and often reluctant soldier. It remains to be seen whether the lacklustre reception of this series will influence future productions of TV antiquity.

Religion at the margins As indicated, religion had a somewhat sketchy appearance throughout TV antiquity. Of course, my exploration excluded the substantial output of explicitly biblical television dramas that emerged alongside the programmes discussed in this book. Yet, it was nevertheless surprising that although religion is not always absent from other shows, it is generally treated with a certain critical distance or even suspicion. As outlined, neither The Caesars nor I, Claudius feature the persecutions of Christians and Jews under Tiberius and I, Claudius only relates the Christian story in an ironic reinterpretation. In most cases, religion is used as a means of manipulation and power. The Eagle of the Ninth was an exception here as it offered more nuanced references to Roman (and Celtic) pagan religion. But, it was also critical of the power wielded by the Druids and at times Christianised pagan cults. The Last Days of Pompeii draws most directly on religious themes, especially the conflict between early Christians and the Roman Empire, but shifts the focus to a much more personal conflict between a corrupt priest of a foreign cult and the romantic relationships between various characters. The Christian element offers a backstory to the various conflicts, but is not as central as it has been in the original novel. Hercules: The Legendary Journeys plays with a wide range of mythic and religious themes, from East to West, but overall it offers a primarily humanist message. This is in contrast to its spin-off Xena: Warrior Princess and its more explicit Christian allusions particularly in later seasons – including her crucifixion and resurrection. Although Rome features a surprising range of references to pagan forms of religion, the cancellation of an originally planned fifth season set in Palestine meant that the Judeo-Christian element that emerges in the second season is quickly bypassed. STARZ Spartacus largely manages to avoid allusions to Christian martyrdom despite regular crucifixion scenes. This is in contrast to Kubrick’s famous cinematic version, which explicitly linked Spartacus to Christ in the opening titles of the film.

Conclusion  201 Other recent works of TV antiquity follow a similar trend. The aforementioned Attila the Hun, also seemed ‘embarrassed by the Christian element of the story, [so that] film-makers omitted the famous meeting with Pope Leo the Great [which] had formed the dramatic climax of the two previous films’ as Richards (2008: 170) notes. Instead, the film replaces the Christian element with pagan superstition, where ‘Attila’s decision to turn back is prompted by his talisman, the sword of the war god, breaking in battle’ (Richards, 2008: 170). This renewed interest in pagan religion, at the expense of Judeo-Christian themes of earlier screen antiquity, seems also present in the aforementioned Britannia. The show is set in Roman Britain in the first century ad and follows Celtic tribes that resist the occupying forces. Due to its cross-over with fantasy, a strong emphasis is put on the mythical elements and the (both magical and political) power of the Druids. Incidentally, the co-production between satellite broadcaster Sky and online-streaming service Amazon Prime Video also marks another milestone in the convergence of media production and distribution. In addition, Britannia, like Olympus, happily follows shows like Rome and STARZ Spartacus in its display of gratuitous and graphic violence. While I, Claudius raised a few eyebrows in the 1970s with its portrayal of nudity, incest and murder, the boundaries of what is permissive in television have long been pushed dramatically further. The former scandalous show from the 1970s now appears rather tame in comparison. But, if pushing these boundaries is a feature of TV antiquity, how much further is there to go? It is often argued that decadence and violence are a key feature of screen antiquity and in many of the examples shown, this is undoubtedly true. Elia (2011: 75), for example, suggests that because of its focus on the hero’s journey, ‘sword and sandal films . . . [make] violent contest central to the audience’s experience’. Yet, shows like Odissea/The Odyssey and The Eagle of the Ninth have demonstrated that meaningful portrayals of antiquity on-screen are possible without having to resort to violence or comedy instead.

More stories to be told? The question that remains is: what will be next for TV antiquity? As already noted, there seems to be a renewed interest in reviving more mythical narratives, no doubt inspired by the enormous success of the mythical fantasy show Game of Thrones. The latter has demonstrated that the mix of mythic–fantastical elements and quasi-history can be successful. This indicates that there is still potential for the more

202  Conclusion fantastical elements of antiquity. There is still a large treasure trove of mythical stories untapped with regard to the ancient world. Likewise, Greek history has often been ignored at the expense of either Roman history or Greek myth. Many have argued, as I noted in the first part, that this might be due to the more complex power relations in ancient Greece and its lack of an imperial age. Yet, recent shows like Olympus and Troy: Fall of a City have indicated that there is scope for recovering Greek history and myth, even if those shows have not been the most successful in doing so. Comedy is another continuous avenue for TV antiquity. As mentioned throughout the book, British television in particular has a long tradition of farcical interpretations of the ancient world. This was demonstrated most recently with the ITV series Plebs (2013–16). Interestingly, several of its actors also previously appeared in Rome. David Bamber who starred as Cicero in in the HBO–BBC drama, now features as Strabo the Weatherist in series 3, episode 8; and Karl Johnson (Rome’s Cato) plays a judge in episode 7 of series 2 in the comedy show. This creates at least some intertextual references to the more serious BBC drama. As we have seen, earlier TV antiquity comedies like Up Pompeii! and Chelmsford 123 have always aspired to appeal to a more sophisticated audience than their lowbrow content might suggest at first. Another significant area for future TV antiquity is the increasing blend between fictional drama and non-fiction programmes. For instance, the recent six-part Netflix production Roman Empire: Reign of Blood (2016) is billed as a docudrama and features all the elements of a documentary in addition to some re-enacted scenes. However, not only are the fictionalised re-enactments of unusually high quality, the trailer for the programme also seems to suggest to the audience that this is a fictional drama offering a television version of Gladiator (see Figure 9). It features gladiator fights, a Roman emperor, Roman matrons, dramatic battles and similar. Not once does it mention the documentary aspect of it. Moreover, watching the first six minutes of the first episodes, we might still mistake the show for a fictionalised account of historic events. Actor Sean Bean delivers the off-screen narration that introduces the topic of the show, linking the programme to his appearances as Odysseus in Troy (2004) or Ned Stark in Game of Thrones. Only then do we suddenly switch from the re-enacted account to a historian explaining Marcus Aurelius’s situation at the time. This almost inverts the opening sequence of Odissea/The Odyssey (1968), which begins its mythic story with a documentary-style visit to the ruins of Troy as discussed in the second case study. Roman Empire seems to attempt to capture the audience by linking its documentary

Conclusion  203

Figure 9  Emperor Commodus posing victorious in the arena at the end of the trailer for Roman Empire: Reign of Blood

about Emperor Commodus to the fictional accounts familiar to viewers through works like Gladiator (2000). In a similar vein, Channel 5’s recent documentary Eight Days that Made Rome, also makes the most of re-enactment and drama to explore ancient history. As TV dramas like Rome have aimed at greater realism, documentaries seem to rely increasingly on dramatisations. Consequently, the boundaries between fiction and non-fiction television programmes may become increasingly blurred. This might be particularly relevant for TV antiquity as the ancient world is still a period that leaves much room for speculation. As such, both fictional and non-fictional representations can offer a wide range of possible interpretations. TV presenter and historian Tristram Hunt (2004: 90) notes that historians are ‘often willing to celebrate the lost customs of oral history and traditions of storytelling [but] are unwilling to accept a modern variant . . . Our society is telling stories about ourselves to ourselves – a concept which is perhaps more easily understandable to sociologists and anthropologists than historians’. The continuous arguments about authenticity and truthfulness that dominated many reviews of the television series discussed in this book show that these concerns are still present. Shows like Bettany Hughes’s The Spartans (2002), Mary Beard’s Meet the Romans (2012) or Pompeii: New Secrets Revealed (2016) contribute new ideas to a lively portrayal of TV antiquity and may whet the appetite for more fictionalised accounts of these periods.

204  Conclusion Nietzsche (1874: 94) claimed that ‘the past speaks .  .  . always .  .  . as an oracle: only if you are an architect of the future and know the present will you understand it’. Although more than two millennia have passed since its heyday, the ancient world not only still holds a strong fascination for us, but can also teach us many valuable lessons for the future. And over the last six decades, serial television drama has offered us a colourful, entertaining and at times thought-provoking reinterpretation of it.

Note 1 Many reviews of the show drew comparisons with Game of Thrones; for example, see Mangan (2018).

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214  Bibliography Stahl, Hans-Peter (1998) Vergil’s Aeneid: Augustan Epic and Political Context, Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Stasi, Linda (2010) ‘Stud finder’, New York Times, 19 January [online]. Available at http://nypost.com/2010/01/19/stud-finder (accessed 1 March 2017). Stocker, David (1998) ‘A hitherto unidentified image of the Mithraic God Arimanius at Lincoln?’, Britannia, vol. 29, pp. 359–63. Strong, Anise K. (2008) ‘Vice Is Nice: Rome and Deviant Sexuality’, in Cyrino, M. S. (ed.) Rome, Season One: History Makes Television, Malden (MA), Oxford and Carlton (Vic.): Blackwell, pp. 219–31. Strong, Anise K. (2013) ‘Objects of Desire: Female Gazes and Male Bodies in Spartacus: Blood and Sand’, in Cyrino, M. S. (ed.) Screening Love and Sex in the Ancient World, Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave, pp. 167–82. Strong, Anise K. (2017) ‘The Rape of Lucretia’, in Augoustakis, A. and Cyrino, M. S. (eds.) STARZ Spartacus: Reimagining an Icon on Screen. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, pp. 133–47. Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars. Revised edition. Translated by Robert Graves (1957), introduction and revisions James Rivers (2007), London: Penguin Classics. Sweeney, Jon M. (2014) Inventing Hell, New York: Jericho Books. Tatum, W. Jeffrey (2008) ‘Making History in Rome: Ancient vs. Modern Perspectives’, in Cyrino, M. S. (ed.) Rome, Season One: History Makes Television, Malden (MA), Oxford and Carlton (Vic.): Blackwell, pp. 29–41. Thumin, Janet (2001) Small Screens, Big Ideas. Television in the 1950s, London and New York: I.B. Tauris. Times, The (1963) ‘Continuity problem of new B.B.C. Shakespeare series’, 4 May, p. 5 [online]. Available at Times Digital Archive, tinyurl.galegroup.com/ tinyurl/52eyQ8 (accessed 13 July 2017). Toscano, Margaret M. (2008) ‘Gowns and Gossip: Gender and Class Struggle in Rome’, in Cyrino, M. S. (ed.) Rome, Season One: History Makes Television, Malden (MA), Oxford and Carlton (Vic.): Blackwell, pp. 153–67. Turner, Alwyn W. (2008) Crisis? What Crisis?: Britain in the 1970s [ebook reader], London: Aurum. Vahimagi, Tise (2003–14) TV in the 1970s [online], BFI Screenonline. Available at www.screenonline.org.uk/tv/id/1179501/index.html (accessed 9 November 2017). Vermaseren, Maarten J. and Van Essen, Carel C. (1965) The Excavations in the Mithraeum of the Church of Santa Pricsa in Rome, Leiden: E. J. Brill. Weiden Boyd, Barbara (2008) ‘Becoming Augustus: The Education of Octavian’ in Cyrino, M. S. (ed.) Rome, Season One: History Makes Television, Malden (MA), Oxford and Carlton (Vic.): Blackwell, pp. 87–99. Werba, Hank (1968) ‘Italo TV “Odyssey” hits a Homer’, in Prouty, H. H. (ed.) Variety Television Reviews, vol. 9, 1966–69, 22 May, New York: Garland. Wheatley, Helen (2003) ‘ITV 1955–89: Populism and Experimentation’, in Hilmes, M. (ed.) The Television History Book, London: BFI, pp. 76–81.

Bibliography  215 Wheatley, Helen (2016) Spectacular Television. Exploring Televisual Pleasure, London, New York: I.B. Tauris. Wrigley, Amanda (2011) ‘Greek plays: The Serpent Son (BBC, 1979)’, Screen Plays. Theatre Plays on British Television [blog]. Available at https:// screenplaystv.wordpress.com/2011/11/05/serpent-son-bbc-1979 (accessed 2 November 2017). Wyke, Maria (1997) Projecting the Past: Ancient Rome, Cinema and History, New York and London: Routledge. Wyver, John (2012) ‘The Spread of the Eagle: Julius Caesar (BBC, 1963)’, Screen Plays. Theatre Plays on British Television [blog]. Available at https:// screenplaystv.wordpress.com/2012/07/22/spread-of-the-eagle-julius-caesarbbc-1963 (accessed 22 May 2017).

Filmography

Television programmes 8 Days that made Rome (2017), produced by Jim Greayer. Channel 5. a.d. (1985), directed by Stuart Cooper. NBC. Attila the Hun (2001), directed by Dick Lowry. Alphaville Films. BeastMaster (1999–2002), created by Silvio Tabet. Alliance Atlantis Communications and others. Ben Hur (2010), directed by Steve Shill. CBC and ABC. Bewitched (1964–72), created by Sol Saks. ABC. Boudica [aka Warrior Queen] (2003), directed by Bill Anderson. ITV. Britannia (2018– ), created by Jez Butterworth, Tom Butterworth and James Richardson. Amazon Studios and Sky. Caesars, The (1968), directed by Derek Bennett, written and produced by Philip Mackie. ITV. Chelmsford 123 (1988), created by Rory McGrath and Jimmy Mulville. Hat Trick Productions. Cleopatra (1999), directed by Franc Roddam. Hallmark Entertainment. Cleopatras, The (1983), directed by John Frankau. BBC. Conan The Adventurer (1997–98), created by Max A. Keller. Keller Entertainment Group. Doctor Who, Series Four (new series) (2007–8), produced by Russel T. Davis. BBC. Doctor Who, Series Ten (new series) (2017), produced by Steven Moffat. BBC. Eagle of the Ninth, The (1977), produced by Pharic Maclaren. BBC. Epic That Never Was, The (1965), produced by Bill Duncalf. BBC. Game of Thrones (2011– ), created by David Benioff and D. B. Weiss, HBO. Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995–99), created by Christian Williams. MCA Television. I, Claudius (1976), written by Jack Pulman (based on the novel by Robert Graves), produced by Martin Lisemore. BBC. I, Claudius: A Television Epic (2002), directed by Paul Vanezis. BBC. Jesus of Nazareth (1977), directed by Franco Zeffirelli. RAI, ITV, NBC.

Filmography  217 Last Days of Pompeii, The (1984), produced by William Hill and Richard Irving. ABC. Masada (1981), produced by George Eckstein. ABC. Meet the Romans with Mary Beard (2012), directed by Hugo Macgregor and Jack MacInnis. BBC. Mighty Hercules, The (1963–66), produced by Joe Oriolo. Trans Lux. Moses, the Lawgiver (1974–75), directed by Gianfranco De Bosio. ATV, ITC and RAI. Mr. I. Magination (1949–52), directed by various, CBS. Odyssey, The [Odissea (original title)] (1968), produced by Dino de Laurentiis, directed by Franco Rossi, RAI. Odyssey, The (1997), directed by Andrey Konchalovskiy. NBC. Of Mycenae and Men (1979), directed by Hugh David. BBC. Olympus (2015), created by Nick Willing. Syfy. Omnibus (1952–61), produced by Robert Saudek. CBS, later ABC and NBC. Plebs (2013–), produced by Tom Basden, Caroline Leddy, Sam Leifer and Teddy Leifer. ITV2. Pompeii: New Secrets Revealed (2016), directed by Ian A. Hunt. Lion Television. Quo Vadis? (1985), directed by Franco Rossi. RAI, Leone Film, France 2, Polyphon, Channel 4. Roar (1997), created by Saun Cassidy and Ron Koslow. Fox. Roman Empire: Reign of Blood (2016), directed by Richard Lopez. Netflix. Rome, season 1 (2005), created by Bruno Heller, William J. MacDonald and John Milius. HBO–BBC. Rome, season 2 (2008), created by Bruno Heller, William J. MacDonald and John Milius. HBO–BBC. Serpent Son, The [aka Oresteia] (1979), directed by Bill Hays. BBC. Sopranos, The (1999–2007), created by David Chase. HBO. Spartacus (2004), created by Robert Dornhelm. USA Network. Spartacus: Blood and Sand (2010), created by Steven S. DeKnight. STARZ. Spartacus: Gods of the Arena (2011), created by Steven S. DeKnight. STARZ. Spartacus: Vengeance (2012), created by Steven S. DeKnight. STARZ. Spartacus: War of the Damned (2013), created by Steven S. DeKnight. STARZ. Spartans, The (2002), produced by Tim Kirby. Channel 4. Spread of the Eagle, The (1963), produced by Peter Dews. BBC. Star Trek (1966–69), created by Gene Roddenberry. NBC. Story of David, The (1976), directed by David Lowell Rich and Alex Segal. ABC. Story of Jacob and Joseph, The (1974), directed by Michael Cacoyannis. ABC. Time Tunnel, The (1966–67), created by Irwin Allen. ABC. Troy: Fall of a City (2018), directed by Owen Harris, Mark Brozel and John Strickland. BBC. Up Pompeii! (1969–70), directed by Bob Kellett. BBC. Warrior Queen (1978), produced by Ruth Boswell. ITV. Xena: Warrior Princess (1995–2001), created by Rob Tapert. Studios USA, Universal Television. You Are There (1953–71), produced by Charles Russell and James Fonda. CBS.

218  Filmography Feature films 300 (2006), directed by Zack Snyder. Warner Bros. 300: Rise of an Empire (2014), directed by Noam Murro. Warner Bros. Alexander (2004), directed by Oliver Stone, Warner Bros. Attila (1954), directed by Pietro Francisci. Compagnie Cinématographique de France and others. Beastmaster, The (1982), directed by Don Coscarelli. Leisure Investment Company. Ben-Hur (1959), directed by William Wyler. MGM. Cabiria (1914), directed by Giovanni Pastrone. Italia Film. Caligula (1979), directed by Tinto Brass. Penthouse Films International. Carry on Cleo (1964), directed by Gerald Thomas. Peter Rogers Productions. Centurion (2010), directed by Neil Marshall. Pathé Pictures International. Clash of the Titans (1981), directed by Desmond Davis. MGM. Clash of the Titans (2010), directed by Louis Leterrier. Warner Bros. Cleopatra (1963), directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz. Twentieth Century-Fox. Conan, the Barbarian (1982), directed by John Milius. Universal Pictures. Eagle, The (2011), directed by Kevin Macdonald. Focus Features and Film4. Fall of the Roman Empire, The (1964), directed by Anthony Mann. Samuel Bronston Productions. Fellini Satyricon (1969), directed by Federico Fellini. Produzioni Europee Associate. Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, A (1966), directed by Richard Lester. Melvin Frank Production. Gangs of New York (2002), directed by Martin Scorsese. Miramax. Gladiator (2000), directed by Ridley Scott. DreamWorks. Gli ultimi giorni di Pompei (1908), directed by Luigi Maggi. Società Anonima Ambrosio. Gli ultimi giorni di Pompei (1913), directed by Mario Caserini. Società Anonima Ambrosio. Gli ultimi giorni di Pompei (1926), directed by Carmine Gallone and Amleto Pelermi. Società Italiana Grandi Films. Godfather, The (1972), directed by Francis Ford Coppola. Paramount Pictures. Hercules (1958), directed by Pietro Francisci. Galatea Film. Hercules (1983), directed by Luigi Cozzi (as Lewis Coates). Cannon Italia. Hercules (2014), directed by Brett Ratner. Paramount Pictures. Hercules Unchained [Ercole e la regina di Lidia (original title)] (1959), directed by Pietro Francisci. Galatea Film. Hercules in the Haunted World [Ercole al centro della Terra (original title)] (1961), directed by Mario Bava and Franco Prosperi. SpA Cinematografica. Immortals (2011), directed by Tarsem Singh. Relativity Media. Jason and the Argonauts (1963), directed by Don Chaffey. The Great Company. Jone ovvero gli ultimi giorni di Pompei (1913), directed by Giovanni Enrico Vidali and Ubaldo Maria Del Colle. Pasquali e C.

Filmography  219 Last Days of Pompeii, The (1935), directed by Ernest B. Schoedsack. RKO Radio Pictures. Last Days of Pompeii, The [Gli ultimi giorni di Pompei (original title)] (1959), directed by Mario Bonnard. Cine-Produzioni Associate, Procusa and Transocean-Film. Life of Brian (1979), directed by Terry Jones. HandMade Films. Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, The (2001), directed by Peter Jackson. New Line Cinema. Medea (1969), directed by Pier Paolo Pasolini. San Marco and others. Percy Jackson & The Lightning Thief [Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief (original title)] (2010), directed by Chris Columbus. Fox 2000 Pictures. Quo Vadis? (1913), directed by Enrico Guazzoni. Società Italiana Cines. Quo Vadis? (1924), directed by Gabriellino D’Annunzio and Georg Jacoby. Unione Cinematografica Italiana. Quo Vadis? (1951), directed by Mervyn LeRoy and Anthony Mann. MGM. Quo Vadis? (2001), directed by Jerzy Kawalerowicz. Chronos-Film. Robe, The (1953), directed by Henry Koster. Twentieth Century-Fox. Sign of the Pagan (1954), directed by Douglas Sirk. Universal International Pictures. Sins of Pompeii [Gli ultimi giorni di Pompei/Les Derniers Jours de Pompéi (original title)] (1950), directed by L’Herbier and Paolo Moffa. Universalia Film. Sins of Rome (1953), directed by Riccardo Freda (as Robert Hampton). Associati Produttori Indipendenti Film. Spartacus (1960), directed by Stanley Kubrick. Bryna Productions, Inc. Ten Commandments, The (1956), directed by Cecil B. DeMille, Motion Picture Associates. Theodora, Slave Empress [Teodora, imperatrice di Bisanzio (original title)] (1954), directed by Riccardo Freda. Lux Film. Trojan Women, The (1971), directed by Michael Cacoyannis. Josef Shaftel Productions Inc. Troy (2004), directed by Wolfgang Petersen. Warner Bros. Ulysses (1954), directed by Mario Camerini. Lux Film, Paramount Pictures.

Index

Note: Page references in bold indicate key references for the entry. 300 (2006 film) 15, 143, 145, 172–3, 187, 189 A.D. (1985 TV series) 109, 110 adaptation 7–9, 24, 26, 43, 46, 51, 59, 64, 68, 76, 80, 88–91, 113, 118–19, 121, 147 Aeschylus 64 Oresteia 64 Alexander (2004 film) 15, 145, 156 Amazon Prime (media services provider) 147, 201 Americanisation 86, 106, 165 Angelini, Marco 31–3, 41 antiquarian history 11, 59, 64, 85, 90 Appian 8, 174–5 arc-show 13 Arthurs, Jane 62 Attila (1954 film) 44 Attila the Hun (2001 TV film) 198, 201 authenticity 5, 16, 63, 81, 126, 158, 161, 172, 188, 203 see also historical accuracy Baker, Dioymi 23–4, 34, 42–4, 128 Barber, Sian 61 Beard, Mary 8, 72, 74–5, 81–2, 203 BeastMaster (1999–2002 TV series) 111 Ben-Hur (1959 film) 34, 176

Bennett, Derek (director) 30, 32 Bewitched (1964–72 TV series) 22 big three networks 105, 105n1, 117 Bignell, Jonathan 18, 22 binge watching 10, 151, 197 Bird, Robert Montgomery (writer) Gladiator, The (play) 173–4, 179 Blanshard, Alastair J. L. and Shahabudin, Kim 2–3, 5, 7, 26, 48–51, 90, 110, 119, 129–31, 136, 144–7, 158, 160, 179–80, 183, 198 Brice, Lee L. 156–8 Britannia (2018– TV series) 195, 197, 201 Bulwer-Lytton, Edward (writer) 7, 9, 115–26 passim Last Days of Pompeii, The (novel) 7, 90 Burton, Philip 89–90, 92, 96–7, 99–101 Cabiria (1914 film) 3 cable channels see cable television cable television 103–6, 111–12, 127–8 Caesars, The (1968 TV series) 9–10, 13, 17, 24–5, 28–9, 30–41, 45–8, 53–4, 67–83 passim, 107, 109, 116–17, 146, 158, 194–8, 200 Carry on Cleo (1964 film) 4 Cassius Dio 31–2

Index  221 censorship 57–8, 61–2, 82, 105, 146, 185 Centurion (2010 film) 88, 101 Chelmsford 123 (1988 TV series) 107, 138, 202 Chiu, Angeline C. 162–3 cine-antiquity 4–5, 14, 57, 112, 120, 125, 128, 131, 149 Clash of the Titans (1981 film) 111, 134, 136 Clash of the Titans (2010 film) 136 class 36–7, 86, 108, 110, 118, 158 lower 86, 121, 126, 153–70 passim, 189, 196 middle-class 37, 108, 158 classical literature 5, 7, 34 Cleopatra (1963 film) 27, 57, 110 Cleopatra (1999 TV series) 112 Cleopatras, The (1983 TV series) 107, 110 collaboration 6, 86, 108–9, 112, 171–2 colour television 28–9, 57–8 comedy 4, 60, 64, 69, 107–8, 202 commercial television 25, 43 companion sites 197 see also interactivity complexity 2, 6, 9–12, 29, 33, 44, 55, 59, 63, 67–8, 102, 111, 115, 118, 126, 144–5, 148, 153, 170, 189, 192–8 Conan: The Adventurer (1997–98 TV series) 111 Conan, the Barbarian (1982 film) 3, 111 conglomeration 105 continuity 6, 9, 44, 89, 113 Cooke, Alistair (presenter) 24, 71 Cornelius, Michael G. 3, 133–4, 143 Creeber, Glen 8–10, 12–13, 58–9, 68–9, 148, 195–6 crime drama 10, 32, 68, 108, 147, 159–60, 164 critical history 11–12 Cull, Nicolas 60, 123

cynicism 9, 33, 35, 199 Cyrino, Monica 2, 153–4, 158, 187 DeFino, Dean J. 6–11, 59 Deleuze, Gilles 11 DeMille, Cecil B. 11, 121 detective dramas see crime drama Dews, Peter (producer, director) 26–8 Dickens, Charles (writer) 8–9 Doctor Who (1963– TV series) 23, 88, 96 documentary 52, 54, 61, 67–8, 202–3 Eagle of the Ninth, The (1977 TV series) 13, 57, 59, 62–3, 88–102, 134, 158, 195–6, 199–201 education 5, 23, 60 educational 3, 25–6, 43–4, 108 Elia, John 187–8, 201 Elley, Derek 2, 7–8, 14–16, 24, 26, 39, 44, 51–2, 72, 77, 109–10, 129–32, 160, 178 Elliott, Andrew B. R. 4, 8, 178–9, 182, 186, 189–90 Empire (2005 TV series) 113, 144–5, 147 epic battles 11, 28, 155 biblical 14, 17, 21 form 5, 7, 16, 26–7, 44 Homeric 24 un-epical 7, 155, 159 Epic That Never Was, The (1965 documentary) 68 episodic 8, 12–13, 54, 175 excessive violence see ultra–violence fanfiction 150–1, 198 fantasy 4, 15–16, 22, 52, 76, 103, 111–13, 117, 126, 136, 153, 173, 195, 199–201

222  Index Fellini Satyricon (1969 film) 4, 160–1 feminism 74, 80 feminist 185, 190–1 post-feminist 144 film noir 32, 41 Flanagan, Kevin M. 4, 8, 16 flexi-narrative 13, 196 friendship 91, 98, 102, 129, 132–4, 138, 176, 178, 190, 195 Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, A (1966 film) 4, 138, 145 Futrell, Alison 145–7, 153 gangster drama / film 4, 108, 116, 164–5, 195 Giddings, Robert and Selby, Keith 57 Gladiator (2000 film) 3, 5, 15, 143, 145, 152, 163, 173, 183, 186, 189–90, 203 globalisation / globalization 104, 196 global audiences 112 global market 103, 140, 146, 196 global mythological system 127 global outlook 144 golden age 3 of television 22, 103, 106 graphic violence 40, 81, 201 see also ultra-violence Granada Television (production company) 30–1 Graves, Robert 9, 37, 66– 87 passim, 100 Claudius the God (novel) 67 I, Claudius (novel) 67, 90 Harrison, Juliette 164 Hartley, John 8, 85 Haynes, Holly 159, 161, 170 HBO (broadcaster) 146–7, 150, 160, 163–4, 171, 184, 195, 197 Hercules (1958 film) 43, 48, 130 Hercules (1983 film) 3

Hercules (2014 film) 15, 145 Hercules Unchained (1959 film) 24, 43 Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995–99 TV series) 1–17 passim, 52, 54, 90, 103–4, 111, 113, 127–41, 149, 183, 195–6, 198–200 Herodotus 8, 153 heroism 4, 15–16, 55, 60, 127, 130–1, 177, 181, 183, 198–9 high-culture 7, 44, 55, 108, 120, 138, 162, 164 Hilmes, Michele 58, 104–6 historical accuracy 16, 31, 49, 62–3, 70–1, 138 historical novels 6–7, 9, 18, 59, 67–8, 90, 115 Homer 7, 9, 12, 15, 23, 29, 42–7, 50–5, 64, 91, 187, 200 Iliad, The 8, 16, 23–4, 44, 51–2 Odyssey 7, 8, 29, 43–5, 52, 54 see also epic, Homeric Hunt, Peter R. (director) 116 Hunt, Tristram (TV presenter, historian) 203 I, Claudius (1976 TV series) 1–17 passim, 24, 28, 30–41, 57, 62, 65, 66–87, 89–92, 95–6, 99–100, 107, 109, 113, 117–25 passim, 138, 144–70 passim, 176, 194, 198, 200–1 imperialism British 86, 110 colonialism 15 cultural 15, 86, 106 post-imperial 99–101 interactivity 105 intimacy 2, 10, 12, 27–8, 44, 55, 59, 67, 69, 73, 111, 115, 119, 147, 170, 184–5 irony 33, 138–9, 165, 182 ITV (broadcaster) 24–5, 28–9, 30–3, 58, 62–3

Index  223 Jason and the Argonauts (1963 film) 15, 52 Jason and the Argonauts (2000 TV film) 144 Jesus of Nazareth (1977 TV series) 58–60, 85, 109 Johnson, Catherine and Turnock, Rob 22, 25, 31 Joshel, Sandra R. 2, 11, 66–7, 69, 71–6, 80–1, 86, 194 Julius Caesar (2002 TV film) 144, 147 Last Days of Pompeii, The (1984 TV series) 5, 8–9, 13, 28, 104, 107–10, 113, 115–26, 132, 143, 145, 150, 158, 160, 170, 179–80, 183, 196, 198, 200 Levine, Elana 61, 117 literary serials 8 long-form 13, 59, 150, 192, 195, 197 McAuley, Alex 168, 186n13 McCullough, Anna 78, 80, 87 Mackie, Philip (writer, producer) 30, 32–5, 107 made-for-television films 9, 111, 127 Masada (1981 TV film) 109–10, 117 Masterpiece Theatre (TV show) 71, 73, 86 Medea (1969 film) 3, 50 Mee, Laura and Walker, Johnny 28–9 melodrama 4, 28, 31–2, 69, 73, 76 miniseries 8, 12–13, 57–60, 68, 112–13, 118, 138, 194, 196 Mittell, Jason 103, 105 monumental history 11, 64, 85 moral framework 53–4, 130, 168, 175 multiculturalism 99, 108 multicultural 136, 144 mythology 15–16, 51, 53, 131, 134–8, 140, 153 Greek 51, 53–4, 103, 127, 135 mythological 4, 16, 51–3, 127–8, 134–8

mytho-fantasy 16, 111–12, 127, 137 mytho-history 16, 52, 54, 186 Norse 137 Roman 15 Sumerian 136 Netflix (media services provider) 51, 147, 199, 202 niche audiences 6, 104, 144 niche market 103 niche marketing 104 Niebuhr, Barthold Georg 77 Nietzsche, Friedrich 11–12, 59, 86, 90, 204 non-fiction 106, 122, 149, 202–3 see also documentary O’Brien, Daniel 130–2 Odissea/The Odyssey (1968 TV series) 12, 29, 42–56, 64, 91, 108, 117, 134, 198, 201–2 Odyssey, The (1997 TV series) 44, 54, 112 Olympus (2015 TV series) 199, 201–2 online-streaming 6, 10, 151, 197, 199, 201 on-location shooting 48, 63, 111, 122, 196 ordinary, the 90, 154–62, 189 ORTF (French broadcaster) 29, 42 O’Sullivan, Tim 24–5 outdoor sets 107, 117 see also on-location shooting Paramount decision 22 Parks, Lisa 106 pastiche 113, 148, 163 Paterson, Richard 13, 196 PBS (Public Broadcasting Service) 59, 71, 73, 85–6, 109 peplum 3–5, 15, 24, 29, 43–4, 47–8, 50–1, 116, 124, 127, 129–34, 143, 149, 185–6, 189 post-peplum 145

224  Index

quality TV 6, 164, 172 Quo Vadis? (1985 TV series) 43, 108, 110

Roar (1997 TV series) 111 Robe, The (1953 film) 34, 176 Roisman, Hannah 51, 54 Roman Britain 83, 89, 201 Roman Empire: Reign of Blood (2016 TV documentary) 202–3 Rome (2005–8 TV series) 1–17 passim, 28, 37, 60, 65, 73, 77, 79, 86–7, 108, 113, 116–17, 121–2, 144–50, 152–71, 172–89 passim, 194–7, 199–202 Rossi, Franco (director) 43, 108

RAI (Italian broadcaster) 42, 58, 108 Ragalie, Maureen 40, 80, 160, 163, 166–7 Raucci, Stacie 149–50, 155, 163, 167–8 realism 9, 11–12, 50, 52, 62, 76, 143, 148, 161, 163, 170, 195, 203 anti-realism 187 religion 41, 67, 110, 124–6, 127, 136–7, 168–70, 200–1 biblical films see epic Christian 14, 83–5, 94, 103, 110–11, 120–2, 125–6, 146, 158, 198, 200 Judeo-Christian 14, 83, 94, 111, 200–1 Mithraism 92–4 pagan 92–5 prophecy 53, 83 Roman 93, 110 superstition 41, 83, 122, 201 reruns 111, 128 revenge 53, 77, 96, 100, 119, 124, 147, 154, 167–9, 175–7, 180, 183, 191, 199 Richards, Jeffrey 2, 5, 7, 14, 16, 21, 31–6, 57, 59, 67–8, 73–4, 109–10, 113, 115–19, 138, 144, 152–3, 198–9, 201

Salome (1953 film) 34 satellite television 103–6, 112, 199 science fiction 23, 49–50, 64 Scodel, Ruth and Bettenworth, Anja 108 screen size 2, 28, 58, 143, 150, 155 self-regulation 61 see also self-censorship Seo, J. Mira 169 seriality 2, 7, 9–10, 12, 44, 55, 69, 191 serial format 16, 21, 29, 33, 54, 111, 140, 143–4, 178, 189 Serpent Son, The (1979 TV series) 64–5 Shakespeare, William 9, 26–7, 86, 163–4 Antony and Cleopatra (play) 26–7 Coriolanus (play) 26–8 Julius Caesar (play) 26–7, 162 Showtime (network) 104, 106 Simmons, David 186, 188–9, 192 single play 10, 33, 58 soap opera 4, 10, 31, 67–9, 72–7, 86, 121, 123, 132, 138, 147, 153, 155, 163, 166, 192, 195 Sobchack, Vivian 8, 16, 70, 113, 194 Solomon, Jon 2, 22, 43, 47, 52, 57, 59, 109–13, 116, 118, 125, 127, 152

Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief (2010 film) 4, 90 Plutarch 8, 9, 174–5, 183, 188 Pomeroy, Arthur J. 159, 164 Potter, Amanda 150, 190, 198 Programmes Complaints Commission 61 public broadcasting 5, 6, 22–3, 25–6, 43, 55, 164

Index  225 Sopranos, The (1999–2007 TV series) 6, 108, 135, 160, 164 Spartacus (1960 film) 3, 174, 178 Spartacus: Blood and Sand (2010 TV series) 3, 11, 124, 167, 172–91 Spartacus: Vengeance (2012 TV series) 167, 172–91 Spartacus: War of the Damned (2013 TV series) 148, 150, 157, 172–91 spectacle 2, 10–12, 24, 32, 62, 73, 90–1, 109, 111–12, 117–18, 121–3, 126, 129, 143, 147, 149–50, 153, 161, 163, 175, 178, 185–9, 194 Spread of the Eagle, The (1963 TV series) 25–9, 32–3, 46 STARZ Spartacus (2010–13 TV series) 2, 12–13, 60, 77, 99–100, 113, 117, 123–4, 130, 144, 147–8, 150, 155, 161, 168, 172–93, 195–7, 199–201 Strong, Anisa K. 77, 81, 86, 166, 172, 184–5, 188, 190–1 subscription-based channels 6, 144 Suetonius 8, 29, 31, 35, 38, 67, 78 Sutcliff, Rosemary 90–3, 95, 98, 100 Eagle of the Ninth, The (novel) 88–101 passim sword-and-sandal (genre) 3–4, 22, 27, 44, 110, 128, 134, 149, 167, 181, 188 sword-and-sorcery (genre) 8, 111, 114, 130, 134 syndication 127–8, 196 Tacitus 34, 38, 67, 78, 87, 166 Tatum, Jeffrey 153

Thames Television (broadcaster, production company) 62 Theodora, Slave Empress (1954 film) 44 Thumin, Janet 21, 28 Toscano, Margaret M. 160, 170–1 Trojan Women, The (1971 film) 4, 44, 50 Troy (2004 film) 15, 52, 145, 156 Troy: Fall of a City (2018 TV series) 51, 197, 200, 202 Turner, Alwyn W. 66, 81, 100 ultra-violence 143, 148 Ulysses (1954 film) 43–4, 47, 53–4 Up Pompeii! (1969–70 TV series) 32, 60, 107, 138, 202 Vahimagi, Tise 61–2, 95 Vergil Aeneid 8 VHS (video home system) 105 Warrior Queen (1978 TV series) 62–3, 88–9, 91–2, 199 Wheatley, Helen 12, 30, 58, 61, 143, 149–50, 186, 189, 191, 195 Wyke, Maria 2, 115, 125 Wyver, John 28 Xena: Warrior Princess (1995–2001 TV series) 1, 103–6, 113, 127–8, 197, 200 You Are There (1953–71 TV series) 23 Young Hercules (1998–99 TV series) 128