The Fall of the Roman Empire

Were you to draw up a list of potential epic directors in the early sixties, it’s unlikely that Anthony Mann’s name would figure. A helmer of brisk noirs, Republic quickies and tough psychological Westerns, his only experience of ‘big’ pictures had resulted in two of his weakest efforts: 1954’s The Glenn Miller Story (by no means a poor film, just a lightweight one in comparison to the likes of Men of War or T-Men) and the ill-advised 1960 remake of Cimarron. Yet when he teamed up with Samuel Bronston first in 1961 for El Cid and then in 1964 for The Fall of the Roman Empire it resulted in a pair of works which happily rub shoulders with the earlier endeavours. In fact, it turns out that they’re no so different after all: the arguably superior El Cid has a near mystical dimension as atmospheric in its own way as any of the forties’ noirs, whilst The Fall of the Roman Empire is as taut and muscular as any of the Westerns, whether it 1950’s Winchester ’73 or 1959’s Man of the West.

You could argue that it’s not really an epic at all. Certainly it comes with gargantuan sets, score by Dmitri Tiomkin and three cast members borrowed from Lawrence of Arabia (Alec Guinness, Omar Sharif, Anthony Quayle), yet for all this grandness and visual magnitude it’s the tinier moments which we remember. I’d argue that as with many of Mann’s pictures his key aim is simply to find the reality in the piece. This is the reason why Raw Deal and Desperate remain as tough as they do, why James Stewart gave some of his finest performances in the likes of Winchester ’73 and The Naked Spur, and why The Fall of the Roman Empire works so well. With a title such of this it of course needs to be huge in many ways, yet importantly Mann never loses sight of the characters at its heart.



In doing so the film also becomes easily digestible despite its length. The titular fall is orchestrated through individual plot strands and thus events revolve around simple clashes. It’s a film of brother versus “brother” (echoing Winchester ’73), of peace versus war, of good versus evil. Indeed, The Fall of the Roman Empire isn’t especially interesting with regards to its overall trajectory, but rather through the moments these entanglements provide and the performances these in turn inspire. Christopher Plummer revels in his character’s villainy as though fully aware his next engagement will be with The Sound of Music. Guinness and James Mason provide the dignity as well as some gentle humour. Sharif turns in a performance closer to those he essayed for Yousef Chahine than the ones he did for David Lean. And, rather inexplicably, Quayle is utterly convincing as a hard-ass.

It’s this focus on the actors which prevents Mann from ever getting lost in the broader canvas. As such The Fall of the Roman Empire never descends into mere spectacle or becomes a simple string of set-pieces. Moreover, set alongside its contemporary epic counterparts it reveals itself to be almost completely devoid of the standard Hollywood gloss. Compare the film to Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s ill-fated Cleopatra (released the previous year) and it’s as though they’ve been made in two entirely different filmmaking worlds; what we remember from the Mankiewicz is a certain gaudy, over-stretching sheen, whereas Mann leaves us instead with striking moments of drama – James Mason address to the senate, Plummer’s final confrontation with Stephen Boyd. Indeed, The Fall of the Roman Empire offers up a far more tenable creation, one clearly carved out from the real world. The entire first half is mostly set in a wintry forest, not some immense soundstage, as though determined to proclaim itself as a far harsher kind of picture. It’s further confirmation of just how right Mann was for the job – if you’re going to create a grand tragedy, then it’s a director who can handle the smaller ones who may prove to be your best option.



The Disc

Gaining a re-release as part of the Sophia Loren: Screen Goddess boxed set, The Fall of the Roman Empire is still lumbered with the shoddy Universal disc first issued in 2000. Thus it comes with a trailer for Gladiator as its only extra, a film framed in the incorrect ratio and then transferred non-anamorphically to boot. Indeed, all told this is a disc to avoid. An epic film such as this really should only be viewed in its original aspect ratio (in this case 2.35:1) and hopefully in better condition than what we get here. The clarity is poor, edge enhancement is rife and the print itself displays intermittent damage throughout. As for the soundtrack here we find the original stereo condition is perfectly fine condition. The dialogue is crisp and audible throughout whilst Tiomkin’s score remains suitably bombastic. That said, it’s a minor condition for what it otherwise an extremely poor showing.