Terrible. Why did so many major directors
become a cropper when faced with fancy dress? Or more specifically, with
swords and sandals and all things pertaining to the Bible. And how
could so many good actors turn into shop-front dummies or develop the
personalities of automatons when cast in this kind of drivel? Chewing
the scenery was never an option since the scenery was always bigger than
they were.
Here, the director becoming a cropper was Robert Rossen, (this was the nadir of an on-again, off-again career), and the actors following suit include Richard Burton, (in a blonde wig and very little else, as Alexander), Fredric March, Claire Bloom and Danielle Darrieux, who still manages to crawl out of this cess-pit of a movie smelling of roses, while a stock-pile of familiar British faces, (Harry Andrews, Peter Cushing, Barry Jones, Stanley Baker et al), play sundry Greeks and Persians. As a history lesson it would send any sixth grader to sleep, (you have to wait an eternity just to get a decent battle). I've always felt the recent Oliver Stone version was mightily under-valued. Compared to this, it's a bloody masterpiece!
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