ob Guccione, founder of Penthouse Magazine (and one of the wealthiest men in the United States), set about financing the most expensive independent film to date, beginning in 1976. He vowed to create a new kind of movie that merged sex and art (perhaps fittingly, considering his industry) in its depiction of one of history’s most debauched figures, Caligula, highlighting the adage that absolute power corrupts absolutely. But during production, everything began to fall apart: the budget doubled, the writer sued to have his name removed from the credits, and the director was fired. Additionally, the script was discarded during the editing process, while unsimulated, pornographic footage was inserted into the final release.

As a result, viewers of the era were appalled (or titillated, if they arrived with proper expectations). People picketed, film prints were seized by the authorities, and obscenity trials ensued. Amusingly, however, the film was still one of the top-grossing of 1980, the year it finally debuted in America (it enjoyed an Italian release in 1979); the controversy led to unexpected success. It’s even more shocking just how many world-renowned actors of the British stage got caught up in this production; the star power is tremendous. Over the years, attaining cult status and remaining a curio, the picture has enjoyed several re-releases and re-edits, including an “Ultimate Cut” in 2023 (premiering at Cannes!), reworked and reconstructed by sifting through 90-some hours of available materials, reusing virtually none of the original takes (though the story is essentially the exact same). It’s a striking amount of labor and love to be put into a project with such a limited appeal to wide audiences.

Boasting nudity within the opening seconds, as well as rarely-seen, full-frontal nakedness from more than two genders (followed by elaborate orgies), the plot longwindedly establishes unwell Emperor Tiberius (Peter O’Toole) as he reveals his disapproval for adopted grandson Gaius (Malcolm McDowell), also known as Caligula, which means “little boots” – a vain, incestuous, ambitious youth. Since Tiberius is 77 and will surely soon be dead, his realm will be passed on to power-hungry subordinates, vying to remain in good standings with the impulsive, angry, raving madman of a tyrant. “I’ve watched you grow into a monster.”

It’s A.D. 37 in Rome when Prince Caligula takes the throne to become a Caesar, aided by Commander of the Guard Macro (Guido Mannari), buoyed by sister Drusilla (Teresa Ann Savoy), feared by brother Gemellus (Bruno Brive), casually supported by uncle Claudius (Giancarlo Badessi), and regarded cautiously by the many members of the senate, who wish not to run afoul of the new leader. Caligula immediately revels in his power, free to do whatever he wants, including more openly courting his own sibling. But the duties of settling disputes among noblemen and of commanding his dominion and overseeing his armies will eventually take its toll; as he grows bored of his responsibilities and paranoid of his underlings, lending to the fabrication of crises and conflicts for sport, Caligula will discover that being beholden to no one but himself leaves him with very few allies (as he simultaneously descends into madness through the dullness of having his every wish obeyed and fulfilled). “I can’t bear contradictions!”

There’s a strange graveness wafting throughout the events, paired with violence and cruelty (some of which is so over-the-top that it’s comical), yet it’s difficult to take any of this seriously. The actions are dark and morbid, but the weirdness surrounding all of it – from the makeup and costuming, to the extravagant though phony sets (ornate and unconvincing), to the eerie music (with haunting choral voices), to the hundreds of extras in widescreen vistas, to the droves of unclothed courtiers – makes it appear artistically incoherent and insincere. It’s trying hard to be eldritch or otherworldly, particularly as it handles the frequent X-rated sexual sequences with sobering visuals and confrontations, generating a precise mood of unease, but it’s mostly just inexplicably bizarre. Any intention to be a recognizably genuine period piece is altogether abandoned, pointedly when clothes come off.

“You can’t marry your sister.” Most characters are introduced in various stages of undress, including the cast members generally associated with gravitas, such as John Gielgud and Helen Mirren. Despite the obvious, unwavering focus on boundary-pushing lasciviousness (and lots of scenes of characters dancing, as if to save their lives from the whims of a lunatical executioner), the cast conducts themselves with a certain severity; they’re curiously dedicated to the material, as plainly deviant as it may be. And it’s all quite atmospheric, with effective cinematography that causes the imagery to alternate between Renaissance paintings and horrendous nightmares.

“Take my horse back to his own room.” Even with the odd shot of grandeur or the elements of outrageous eccentricity (or even the unobscured pornography and accidental humor of unconscionable behaviors), “Caligula” is too meandering and uneventful to sustain its excessive runtime (the Ultimate Cut runs just shy of three hours). There just isn’t enough worthwhile content to make this a production that can transcend its design as merely a unique effort to combine real actors with smutty scenery (the loose plot follows a bloodthirsty rise-and-fall arc, in a painfully slow manner, devoid of heroes or even mildly upright personas). It may be scandalously singular, a one-of-a-kind endeavor that will never be duplicated (an exercise in the insanities that a ruler can get away with, testing audiences with the sheer amount of absurdities that they’re willing to sit through), but it’s still of decidedly minimal entertainment value.

– Mike Massie