Film: Jesus Christ gory star

The Passion of the Christ is graphic, grim and subtitled

By Anthony Allison

The good Lord will, of course, forgive the heretical view of a lapsed Protestant agnostic. But after suffering through The Passion of the Christ, devout Catholic Mel Gibson's grim, graphic and exceedingly gory crucifixion drama, it's devilishly hard to suppress the sacrilegious urge to warble, "Always look on the bright side of life."

As motion picture entertainment, Life of Brian is far more agreeable than Gibson's intense biblical saga, the first wide-release movie entirely in Aramaic and Latin with subtitles.

In the immortal words of Michael Palin's Cardinal Ximenez, from an earlier chapter of the gospel according to Monty Python, "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition." And nobody expected the Oscar-winning director of Braveheart to follow that crass crowd-pleaser by sacrificing his career on the altar of religious disputation.

Gibson and co-writer Benedict Fitzgerald aim to tell the familiar New Testament story relatively straight. In Jerusalem, Jesus (Jim Caviezel, in fine, blood-splattered form) is betrayed by Judas Iscariot (Luca Lionello), thrice denied by disciple Peter (Francesco De Vito) and summarily tried for blasphemy by Jewish high priests.

Eager to avoid an uprising by the restive populace, Roman procurator Pontius Pilate (played incongruously by Bulgarian actor Hristo Naumov Shopov) orders this dangerous rabble-rouser to be flogged and, ultimately, crucified. As Simon of Cyrene (Jarreth Merz) reluctantly helps Jesus carry his cross uphill to Golgotha, Christ's mother Mary (Maia Morgenstern), faithful follower John (Hristo Jivkov) and ex-prostitute Mary Magdalene (Monica Bellucci) watch in horror.

So far, so straightforward. But Mel attempts to leaven the unremitting violence with brief, happier flashbacks depicting Jesus as carpenter, preacher and gracious host at the Last Supper. He also deploys a sinister Satan figure (Rosalinda Celentano, whose haunting visage peers from beneath a monkish cowl) and Pilate's wife (Claudia Gerini), who unsuccessfully tries to prick Pontius' conscience.

As for the inevitable accusations of anti-Semitism, complaining that Gibson's portrayal of Jewish holy men and the bloodthirsty Jerusalem mob isn't exactly sympathetic, well duh! But neither is his depiction of Roman centurions as sadistic thugs gleefully scourging Jesus and nailing him to the cross. And no one is accusing Gibson of being anti-Italian.

It's already impossible to separate Gibson's self-financed production from the protests it has provoked. For centuries, Passion plays have been seen as inciting anti-Semitic anger. And by wearing his bleeding, sacred heart so prominently on his sleeve, Mel must have known he was asking for trouble--and priceless publicity. So he's being disingenuous in defending his wounded pride against the criticism. (Apparently in response to the outcry, Gibson cut the notorious "blood libel" line, from Matthew 27:25, "His blood be on us, and on our children.")

The controversy does highlight the film's main failing, though. In his zeal to meticulously recreate the crucifixion, Gibson loses sight of the demands of drama. By definition, the "greatest story ever told" is awash with the oldest clichés in the book, and woe betide dramatists who reduce subsidiary characters to caricatures. Here, Pedro Sarubbi is a monstrous Barabbas, Luca de Dominicis an effete Herod and Mattia Sbraglia plays Christ's priestly nemesis Caiaphas with such a villainous glint in his eye, you expect him to start twirling his mustache at any moment.

Gibson's pedestrian style only exacerbates the agony. In only his third film as director, Mel would be forgiven the minor sins of (relative) inexperience, were his theme not so inherently inflammatory. But like many actors who direct, he refuses to credit viewers with any degree of sophistication, rubbing our noses instead in two hours of (very) bloody obviousness.

Of course, subtlety has never been the Papists' strong suit: look at Torquemada. But okay, Mel, we get it. Enough already with the gallons of fake blood, the endless shots of Caviezel falling to the ground in agonizing slow motion. Sure, it's gut-wrenching stuff. But this is not filmmaking apt to inspire. It must merely be endured.