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Kubrick’s Spartacus: A Legacy of Mediocrity
By Taína Monegro
The concept of mystery has played a paradoxical role in the lives of humans: we are reverently fearful of it and enticed by it. This makes the study of classics deeply magical. It remains a mystery that continually eludes historians, offering mere morsels of itself at a time. Moreover, the greater reality remains ever-present: while worshiping at the increasingly stingy altar of this fickle mistress we call classical studies, time clamors on, pulling us further away from the ancient past we seek to decode. This may be why cinematic portrayals of the classical world are so often woefully short. For those of us who cling to these morsels of the past, what makes most classical stories so magical cannot coexist with the magic of cinema; mystery clashes with reality. In the case of Stanley Kubrick’s 1960 blockbuster Spartacus, I argue that it was a conglomeration of the two – the latter filling in the cracks of the former – that led to the film’s attempt at doing the legend of Spartacus justice.
In his review of the movie, Duncan L. Cooper refers to the concept of “The Big Spartacus” and “The Small Spartacus” coined by the film’s screenwriter, Dalton Trumbo. The Big Spartacus, as Cooper describes, is the radical revolutionary who inspired a rebellion that shook one of the most powerful empires in history. This Spartacus is not the one depicted in the film. The film’s Spartacus, Cooper tells us, is the Small Spartacus, a man with few apparent leadership qualities, limited fighting prowess, and an inclination toward being a family man rather than a revolutionary abolitionist.
Strictly speaking, neither of these two versions can be verified as “historically accurate.” However, one aligns far more favorably with the version of Spartacus that has been passed down into legend. Historically, all that the ancient sources confirm about Spartacus is that he was a Thracian, born toward the end of the 2nd century BCE, enslaved by Roman forces and brought to a gladiatorial school – ludus – in Capua. There is no evidence Spartacus ever fought in an actual ring, and all that is known of the initial uprising within his ludus is that a group of gladiators – using kitchen utensils as weapons – overpowered the guards and liberated themselves. This small band of gladiators ultimately accumulated some 70,000 liberated slaves as they traversed the Roman countryside, whilst defeating several Roman units and evading capture. There is debate over the army’s intentions; some sources say they aimed to reach the coast and secure their freedom outside of Italy, while others argue for a more revolutionary Spartacus who had his sights on overtaking the city of Rome itself. Regardless of their intentions, after a series of battles known to history as the Third Servile War, Spartacus’ army was defeated by Roman forces at the Battle of the Silarus River. While there are conflicting accounts from various ancient historians as to how exactly the gladiator met his end, it is widely accepted that Spartacus died in this final battle, sparing him the gruesome fate that befell his fellow rebels, who were crucified along the Appian Way.
To expand on the points made by Cooper, while Spartacus could very well have been a revolutionary film – both in cinematic and sociopolitical terms – it became nothing more than a moderately impressive feat of cinematography. The multi-million dollar shots of Roman triplex acies battle formations are aesthetically impressive, but feel vapid, leaving the viewer wondering why. Why did the filmmakers choose the story of Spartacus and not the Punic Wars? It seems almost cruel to adapt a story with such symbolic and political significance only to reduce it to a mere romance, sprinkled with scenes of men sitting in a senate hall arguing. While we miss out on depictions of crucial moments in the uprising such as the siege of Mount Vesuvius, where a cornered Spartacus ingeniously led his men to safety by repelling them down the “untraversable” side of the mountain using vines, we do get multiple 5-minute montages of Spartacus and Varinia rolling around affectionately in the dirt. A trade-off that can only be rationalized as a concerted effort by the filmmakers to make Spartacus as superficial and unremarkable as possible.
Even promotions for the movie presented it as an epic tale of rebellion, sporting slogans such as “The Thrilling Adventure that Electrified the World!” What a disappointment it must have been to enter the theater with that sentiment ringing in your ears, only to leave utterly underwhelmed – albeit with a greater appreciation for camera work.
Promotional poster for the 1967 re-release of Spartacus; from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spartacus_%28film%29
The film sacrificed much of the magic of the Spartacus legend in exchange for the magic of modern cinema, a trade made possible by the lack of concrete knowledge about Spartacus himself. However, while very little is known about the Thracian gladiator, from the information that is known, an inspiring legend has formed. Spartacus’ story is not simply one of an underdog, but of a man who embodied and elevated the omnipresent struggle against oppression. Whether these themes are drawn from a false perception of Spartacus, we may never know – but it remains that their implications have the potential to send powerful ripples through any society plagued by oppression and inequality. Spartacus ignored all of this, as the gaps in historical fact were utilized not to further emphasize and build upon the inspirational and politically relevant aspects of the legend, but rather to weave in elements that would make the film more enticing from a cinematic standpoint: romance, aesthetic shots, and exploitation of the male physique. An example of this is Spartacus’ portrayal within the ludus in Capua at the beginning of the film: because so little is known regarding the specifics of Spartacus’ time at the gladiator school, the knowledge gap offered up a golden opportunity for filmmakers to develop Spartacus’ character as a strong and determined leader, a tactician or at least, a worthy adversary on the battlefield. Instead, he is a stoic, brick wall character who displays a lackluster inclination toward defiance and only seems to show the slightest bit of emotion when he meets his love interest, Varinia. If audiences were disappointed by Spartacus’ relatively monotonous ludus adventure, at least they were rewarded – in typical Hollywood fashion – with exploitations of his physique. If the producers had devoted half the time spent on Kirk Douglas’ six-pack to developing his character, maybe the film could have had a fighting chance at success.
Kirk Douglas as Spartacus being marked by paint to demonstrate kill-points; from http://thefilmexperience.net/blog/2016/12/8/kirk-douglas-centennial-spartacus-1960.html
Kirk Douglas as Spartacus in a loving embrace with Jean Simmons as Varinia; from https://screenmusings.org/movie/dvd/Spartacus/pages/Spartacus-0580.htm
Spartacus failed to fill in the narrative blanks with elements that would have made it a truly impactful epic, and it failed to capitalize on the pivotal events that we know to be historical facts. The rebellion, though ultimately overpowered militarily by Rome’s superior numbers, was also crushed internally by the fractures that resulted from the clashing of Spartacus and Crixus – his second in command. While the exact details of the rebel forces’ internal dynamics are largely unknown, this infighting could have presented a highly thought-provoking and increasingly relevant commentary on the tumultuous reality of liberation. Moreover, if antiquity has taught us anything, it is that one’s death can be just as influential as one’s life. Spartacus’ death, as documented by Plutarch – a useful source, though certainly not one to be regarded as completely reliable – is the kind of death befitting a hero. Spartacus is said to have died in the final battle, fighting to the bitter end in his pursuit of Crassus; some sources tell of him continuing to fight even after falling to his knees, struck by numerous spears and arrows. If the filmmakers had chosen to give him a warrior’s death as opposed to the death-by-crucifixion we get in the movie, Spartacus could have been immortalized in heroic glory – providing an epic climax to a story deserving of nothing less – while still maintaining the element of martyrdom.
Overall, while the story of Spartacus had the potential to make a true, lasting impact on account of its ever-relevant themes of rebellion and liberation, the film adaptation fell woefully short. Though many people at the time of its release regarded Spartacus as a groundbreaking cinematic feat, as Rotten Tomatoes shows with its 94% rating, the film will forever retain the fatal wounds of a production team that contented itself with impressive mediocrity when faced with the daunting potential of controversial excellence.
Taína Monegro (she/her) is a rising senior double-majoring in Classical and Mediterranean Studies and Architecture and the Built Environment at Vanderbilt University.
Bibliography
Cooper, Duncan L. “Who Killed the Legend of Spartacus? Production, Censorship, and Reconstruction of Stanley Kubrick’s Epic Film.” Spartacus: Film and History, by Martin M. Winkler, Blackwell Pub., Malden, MA, 2007, pp. 14–55.
Spartacus. Directed by Stanley Kubrick, Universal Studios, 1960.