Dying Person Recently joined the hall of dramas set in ancient Rome, I, Claudius and HBO’s “Roma” But refreshingly, it tells the story of a lesser-known (and less-celebrated) dynasty than the Julio-Claudians: the Flavians. It tells their story through the public games of Rome: chariot races, gladiators, and the various consortiums and interests that were the engine of their wealth. It’s a good choice, especially for the Flavians, whose deadly dance with public opinion colored their entire tenure. It provides a built-in excuse to splash money all over the screen in the form of a packed Circus Maximus and the heart-pounding, limb-smashing action that takes place inside.
Roland Emmerich, the German director most associated with one of Will Smith’s alien-themed movies from the mid-’90s (ok, another one), has had a mixed career. I mean, he’s produced and directed so many hits in his 40-plus year career that it’s easy to forget that he did have his moments. I’ll always be independence DayI think this is a more convincing attempt at modernization (Americanization) World War Worse than anything by Spielberg or George Pal, its much-maligned ending echoes the original with a sly Y2K-era grin. They all miss the point, but at least ID4 has a cool skull gif and a terrific double act from Smith and Goldblum.
ID4 is a misunderstood masterpiece of disaster movies, yes, shut up, it follows Stargate, the core concept of this movie is Chariots of the Gods? — an abominable, ahistorical treatise for racists and fools — and turned it into the basis for one of the most beloved and enduring science fiction franchises in the popular canon. I’d say that the fact that prolific filmmaker Roland Emmerich has made two good movies in four decades is proof that he’s capable of great cinema, but also unlikely presentation. So imagine my relief when he took my beloved Ancient Rome and made a… beautifully done. Spectacular. Thoroughly researched. Dare I say: meticulously detailed.
Dying Person Well worth your ten hours. If you can bear to tune out the silly exposition at the beginning of the episode (which, thankfully, subsides once the writers are sure you can remember everyone’s name), you’ll be treated to a fascinating story of a number of key players of very different social status as they pursue their goals through the winding streets of a dangerous and seedy metropolis. From the neglected emperor Prince Domitian, to the resourceful Numidian merchant Cara, who ends up in the world’s capital, desperately trying to save all her children from punishing slavery. There are lowly gamblers with huge debts, street thugs who take anyone’s money to do anyone’s dirty work, and those who bear a striking resemblance to them: senators with ambitions for the purple, and after a year of four emperors, the throne is now seen as a legitimate career goal.
This is a colorful Rome, and the most prominent of these are the chariot fleets of the four “factions”: red, white, green, and blue. Their colors represent their associations with different gods: Mars, the god of war, Zephyrus, the god of wind, and so on. It’s telling that the real-life Domitian would set up two other chariot fleets: purple and gold, more or less associated with the twin gods of power and money. The Dying Man takes this history—Domitian’s love of the games, and the commercial interests that flowed from it—and uses it as the basis for much of the series’ narrative. For Domitian, the games were a way to increase his personal wealth and build a loyal power base within the city-state. For his lowly collaborator, Tenax, who ran the stables and betting business at the Circus Maximus, the games were his rope ladder out of the slums and a chance to extend his influence into the world of the ruling class. His own little empire, spread across the city’s underworld.
If you’ve listened to Mary Beard’s wonderful podcast As a Romanyou’ll hear in the latest episode that author Robert Harris argues that writing historical drama is a balancing act: If you make it too exciting, it won’t be real. If you make it too realistic, it’ll bore everybody to death. That’s always the conflict at the heart of these things. The Dying Man plays with timelines and perhaps paints Domitian as an angrier brat than he actually is, but the overall feel is right. At this point in time, Roman society is reeling from a costly civil war that stems from its long-standing inability to resolve the question of imperial succession.
The Flavians represented a welcome oasis of stability, but one must have felt that Rome’s golden age was long gone, having died with the fall of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, and the Flavians were just substitute teachers in the sports department, barely managing a few chapters of The Hobbit and pushing the TVs to play Gregory’s Girl, but a bit over their heads when it came to keeping the provinces in order and keeping food supplied. It was in this chaos of disillusionment, hunger and boredom that all the riots and unrest of the period arose. This was fertile ground for TV writers, and they used it well: there were lots of big things happening all the time. These included Mount Vesuvius erupting and destroying the coastal towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and, according to the show, interrupting a gladiator contest in Rome, about 150 miles north, with such force that buildings were destroyed and people were thrown to the ground. That, then, was artistic freedom.
Rome itself is also brilliantly portrayed: a CG-enhanced metropolis that has never looked better on screens of any size. Not since HBO’s Rome have we seen the place depicted so lavishly, whether through the macro perspective of a gorgeous, expensive eagle-eye lens, or in the gutters of its winding streets or among the rest of the ragtag crowd. It’s hot, it’s filthy, and every apartment is a tiny, expensive death trap. But god, it’s thrilling. Even through the distorted filters of camera lenses, computer graphics, TV writers’ rooms, and twenty centuries of mythology, the atmosphere is infectious.
Still, much of the show takes place at night, and in Ancient Rome After Dark, senators can happily walk the streets. This is completely unhistorical: Ancient Rome was so dangerous at night that no one but the most hardened criminals would walk around with peace of mind. You were just as likely to be rammed into a wall by a van that escaped around the corner as to be stabbed to death, which was indeed very likely. Caesar had decreed nearly a century earlier that wheeled vehicles could not be driven around the city during the day, and there were no electric lights at the time, so the ancient Roman night was a dark maze that was bound to kill and/or maim. In the show, it’s basically just like daytime, but with a slightly bluer tint. That’s fine, of course: this isn’t a documentary, it’s a TV show. Night on TV is meant to be sneaky and sexy. In Ancient Rome After Dark, there’s plenty of both.
Now we often draw comparisons to Game of Thrones because, famously, the show invented sexual intercourse. And it’s worth noting that sexual intercourse was common. In ancient Rome, life was cheap. Flesh was even cheaper. They were often mean, vulgar, and took pleasure in it: everyone knows the filthy graffiti in Pompeii. The same can be said of the show’s cavalier attitude toward violence. Throats were slit, limbs were freed from the tyranny of the torso. Lions devoured people. It’s shocking if we haven’t seen it dozens of times before, but in a way, I think it’s Dying Person It’s very clear. The sex and violence are vividly depicted, but treated almost to mundane inevitability. This is perhaps most apparent in the opening scene, where Domitian watches three of his favorite lads messing around with each other. It’s happening right now, without any ambiguity. Right in the middle of the frame. It’s basically a soft-core edit. And that’s not even the funniest or most striking thing about this sequence: even Domitian himself seems bored by it, and seems genuinely pleased to be called in to handle some plot.
In my opinion, this is not a failing of the show, but part of its commentary on the society it depicts. In terms of the ratio of its gratuitous twists to the actual progression of the narrative, The Dying Man falls somewhere between British and uninteresting. I, Claudius — an excellent TV show where anything that costs money or morality happens off-camera — and the notorious STARZ co-production Spartacus, which averages more violent deaths per episode than script pages and more sex scenes than Syndicated Magic Carpets (also an excellent TV show). It knows you’ve seen this stuff. It knows which clips of Outlander you’ve rewound, you filthy bastard. It knows how susceptible you are to fake moments of violence and sexiness, just as the ancient Romans were to real ones. At least they have the excuse that there’s nothing else to do. You have an Xbox, shame on you.
So it’s silly. Epic. Silly. Spectacular. Almost pornographic, but as sexy as the Flavian monetary policy. It feels right. Ancient Rome in all its hot, miserable administrative glory, with the passionate participation of the people behind the scenes. independence Day and the day after tomorrow: Someone who knows how to direct VFX, someone who isn’t afraid to change the narrative around a cool image, or zoom in on the names written on a payout table if that’s the quickest way to change things. Although interestingly, he didn’t direct the episode where Vesuvius pops up, because he fits the theme so well.
But ultimately, what makes The Dying Man so compelling is its humanity. French actress Sara Martins portrays Carla so deeply, and her resilient motherhood is the link that ties it all together: she’s the only character with a real, tangible stake. Not power, not wealth, but a simple desire for her children, who are being devoured by a Roman system that they can’t possibly escape or survive, even with her help. Through compelling, brilliant performances, the world of ancient Rome is anchored to something so fundamental that it holds it firmly in place. It reminds us that despite the political rivalry between Domitian and his brother, they still loved him. It reminds us that those nameless gladiators who gave everything they had to please the crowd had mothers and sons. These people aren’t callous monsters, they are us, and their flaws reflect only our own. So do their virtues.
And there were a lot of Welsh people among them, so that was good.
