A reflection on violence in film

Gladiator II is a serviceable historical epic. If you loved Gladiator, you’ll like Gladiator II. Gladiator II opens as Rome is about to siege the “last free city in Africa.” Our nameless hero loses valiantly with his wife dying in the battle, and he is brought to be a slave in Rome. But if our hero can perform well enough as a gladiator, he can buy his own freedom. And with that, we’re off. The beats of this film will be familiar, with a massive twist only halfway through that changes the stakes for everyone. Our hero is really the son of our hero from the last movie! Which means he has a legitimate claim to the throne of Rome. The movie tries to follow three different stories. Our hero (Paul Mescal) is trying to win his freedom and avenge his wife’s death. Acacius (Pedro Pascal), the general of the armies, wants respite and time with his wife; he also wants to lead a coup against the emperors. Macrinus (Denzel Washington) wants to work his way up in Roman power through political scheming. And then on top of all of that, we are told that our hero must deal with his father’s legacy and discover who he truly is.  It’s a lot, even for an epic, and the screenplay is not nearly tight enough to keep all the storylines coherent and moving. We are led to believe that Macrinus is successful in maneuvering to the top of Roman society because of his exceptional political skill, and Denzel Washington’s delicious performance makes that believable, but all we actually see him do is win a bet and carry out an assassination. Pedro Pascal’s excellent work as the weary general does some of the work in helping reconcile the contradictions in his character, but a look on his face here or there has to carry a lot that a simple conversation could have fleshed out.  Perhaps the reason the script doesn’t have time to breathe is also its biggest contradiction. There is something grotesque about watching audiences cheer on the brutal violence taking place in the film. And yet, the entire film is centered on having us, the audience, watch one set piece of over-the-top violence after another. We don’t get to see Macrinus manipulate the Roman senate because, instead, we need to see our hero fighting with CGI rhinos or CGI sharks. There is a place for violence in a moral movie. It can be helpful to attune our senses to recoil from violence or recognize the rare places it is justified. But the violence on display in Gladiator II is so relentless and gratuitous that it dulls the senses instead.  This is not to diminish the craftsmanship that has been used to bring this world and its many battle scenes to light. Rome feels broad and alive in true epic fashion, and it’s easy to get swept away into its world—with the exception of a few uncharacteristic pieces of clunky CGI work. The opening battle sequence is perhaps the best ever put to screen.  The best part of Gladiator II was its opening. A 1950s style opening credits are shown over a lavish dreamy animated retelling of the first film. Everything about it screams that something epic is about to be shown. But throughout the movie I stayed fixated on what it could have been. What if it had been more focused on the characters I cared about? What if it didn’t try to connect so much plot to the previous film and let this story stand on its own merits? What if they had expanded it to a TV miniseries so that its many plot points had space to breathe? In the end, despite some good acting and a beautiful setting, the movie just left so much to be wanted.  Gladiator II is R-rated. It is not appropriate for children or, in my estimation, most adults. At its core, this film has a moral message: life is hard, but it’s worth fighting for. But the way it’s presented on screen does more to drag down the spirit than to lift it up. Two and a half out of five stars. Gladiator II opens nationwide November 22, 2024.

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Navigating Darkness with Faith: A Review of “All the Light We Cannot See”

Netflix’s “All the Light We Cannot See,” adapted from Anthony Doerr’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, is a limited series that does more than recount the familiar tragedies of World War II. It delves into the poignant journey of a blind French girl, Marie-Laure, and a morally conflicted German soldier, Werner, whose stories intertwine amidst the war’s chaos. Marie-Laure’s blindness is a powerful metaphor for the spiritual and moral darkness that pervades a world at war. Her character embodies resilience and courage, often associated with the faithful in times of trial. As she navigates the literal darkness of her blindness and the figurative darkness of Nazi-occupied France, Marie-Laure’s journey can be seen as a testament to the strength found in vulnerability and the light of the human spirit that persists in the darkest times. Werner’s storyline provides a compelling narrative about the conflict between duty and conscience. His struggle is a representation of a universal moral question: How does one maintain integrity in the face of systemic evil? The show does not shy away from depicting the harrowing choices that individuals must make, often under duress, which resonates with an audience that appreciates the exploration of ethical dilemmas and the redemptive power of repentance and atonement. The show’s mature rating attests to its unflinching portrayal of the era’s brutality and the complex nature of its characters’ choices. However, it’s the underlying themes of hope, sacrifice, and redemption that will resonate most deeply with the faithful Latter-day Saints. The series, while a dramatic portrayal, also prompts introspection about the divine light we seek and the unseen battles we fight within ourselves and our societies. We recognize the value in stories that challenge us to consider our own moral compasses. “All the Light We Cannot See” does just that, encouraging a discourse on the nature of faith, the potency of unseen strength, and the eternal battle between light and darkness. It is a series that not only captivates but enlightens, urging its audience to reflect on the unseen lights that guide us through our own tribulations.

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