Which side of the fence are you on? When making a film about a civil war, it’s a good question to ask.
So, when a director attempts to craft a harrowing and immersive experience set in a dystopian near-future America, deploying evocative cinematography, art-house editing and eclectic use of music, against a screenplay so bereft of logic and meaning, the result is some of the dumbest shit committed to film. This is quite an achievement considering how bad cinema has devolved since 2016.
It’s not that formidable a task, and yet here we are.
Quentin Tarantino is undeniably one of the most distinctive and influential filmmakers of our time. With his unique blend of genre-bending storytelling, razor-sharp dialogue, and unapologetic style, Tarantino has carved out a niche for himself in the world of cinema that is entirely his own. However, perhaps equally as intriguing as his films themselves is his decision to limit his directorial career to just ten movies.
Tarantino has been vocal about his intention to retire from filmmaking after completing his tenth feature film. This decision has sparked curiosity and speculation among fans and critics alike. Why would a filmmaker at the peak of his career choose to impose such a strict limit on his output?
Fred Saberhagen boasts not only an exceptionally cool authorial moniker but also stands as a luminary in science fiction, chiefly owing to his creation of one of the genre’s most mysterious, notorious, and impactful adversaries—The Berserkers.
A prolific American science fiction and fantasy writer, Fred Saberhagen (1930-2007) left an indelible mark on the genre. His notable contributions include the renowned “Berserker” series, featuring self-replicating robotic warships with a singular mission to annihilate all life in the cosmos. Additionally, Saberhagen reimagined the classic vampire archetype in a contemporary context with his “Dracula” series, introducing the iconic character of Dracula. Renowned for his imaginative storytelling and inventive approaches to traditional science fiction and fantasy themes, Saberhagen’s legacy endures.
In the ancient kingdom of Tiryns, the mighty King Eurystheus, felt a little less mighty having his cousin and potential rival return wearing the Nemean Lion’s coat as a trophy. The hero had proved his reputation for unparalleled strength and valour, a situation Euystheus couldn’t allow to stand. So, Heracles was summoned to face another terrible and cunning foe – the Lernaean Hydra. Eurystheus, driven by both fear and envy of Heracles’ power, had devised this perilous quest as the second of his twelve labours.
The Lernaean Hydra was a creature of nightmarish proportions and origins. It was a serpent-like beast with multiple heads, each more venomous than the last. Heracles had heard tales of its dreadful appearance, with eyes that glowed like malevolent stars and breath that reeked of death itself. But this was no ordinary monster, for Hera, the queen of the gods and Heracles’ relentless adversary, had nurtured the Hydra solely to be the instrument of his demise. The offspring of Typhon and Echidna, it had poisonous breath and blood so virulent that even its scent was deadly.
Undeterred by the daunting task ahead, Heracles journeyed to the forbidding swamp near Lake Lerna, the wretched abode of the Hydra, reputedly to be an entrance to the Underworld and where the Danaïdes buried the heads of their bridegrooms. As he approached, the air grew thick with the noxious fumes emitted by the beast’s lair. To protect himself from the deadly gases, Heracles covered his mouth and nose with a cloth, his determination unwavering.
With an unwavering spirit and a heart fueled by divine vengeance, Heracles shot flaming arrows into the Hydra’s dark cave, located near the spring of Amymone. The fiery projectiles pierced the darkness and roused the chthonic creature from its slumber. The Hydra emerged, its serpentine heads hissing and snapping at the flames.
In his hand, Heracles gripped a harvesting sickle borrowed from his nephew, Iolaus, a trusted companion who had accompanied him on many adventures. With resolute determination, Heracles advanced upon the Hydra, determined to put an end to the menace it posed to the land.
The battle that ensued was nothing short of epic. Heracles swung the sickle with unparalleled skill, slicing through the Hydra’s necks one by one. But as each head fell, the Hydra’s malevolent nature was revealed. For with every decapitation, two new heads sprouted in its place, defying the hero’s efforts and expressing the hopelessness of the struggle.
Faced with this relentless regeneration, Heracles called upon his nephew Iolaus for aid. Inspired by Athena’s wisdom, Iolaus devised a cunning plan. He fetched a burning firebrand and, after each decapitation, seared the neck stumps to prevent further growth. The Hydra roared in agony as its heads were severed and cauterized, its poison-filled blood sizzling in the swamp.
Hera, seeing that Heracles was gaining the upper hand, could not bear the thought of her creation’s demise. She sent a colossal crab to distract the hero. However, Heracles, undeterred, crushed the crab under his mighty foot with a single, powerful stomp.
Finally, after a relentless and gruelling battle, Heracles managed to cut off the last head of the Hydra. With triumph coursing through his veins, he placed the still-living and writhing head under a massive rock, positioned carefully on the sacred path that connected Lerna and Elaius.
To ensure the Hydra’s venomous legacy lived on, Heracles dipped his arrows into its poisonous blood. Little did he know that this venom would come to play a significant role in his future endeavours. With the Hydra vanquished and his labour complete, Heracles returned to King Eurystheus, ready to face the next insurmountable challenge that fate and the gods would thrust upon him.
Cinema, as a medium, has undergone a remarkable evolution since its inception, with various genres adapting and transforming over time to capture the ever-changing tastes and sensibilities of audiences. One of the most dynamic and enduring is the action genre, having matured into a multifaceted cinematic realm that explores complex themes, character development, and innovative storytelling techniques. As visual entertainment, the action genre has continuously evolved, reflecting the shifting cultural, and societal dynamics involving thrills and violence on the screen. Within this evolution, certain individuals have left an indelible mark on specific genres, forever altering the trajectory of filmmaking. One such luminary is the iconic Jean-Paul Belmondo, whose charismatic presence and groundbreaking performances have left an enduring influence on the action genre, including stunt work, car chases, and martial arts in cinema.
In the scorching desert heat, a spirited delivery man ventures into the vast emptiness, unaware of the horrifying fate that awaits him. With his present cargo tightly secured, he has no inkling that within its confines lay a mystery too gruesome to comprehend. And then, as the cargo is unveiled, a ghastly truth is revealed – a man-eating beast, more sinister than any nightmare, lurks behind those timber slates. The desert becomes an arena of terror, where life and death hang in the balance.
Left trapped in a bone-chilling dilemma, his every move determines his own survival. The stakes had never been higher, and the desert bears witness to a harrowing battle for survival, as the hunter becomes the hunted, and fear carves its path amidst the arid wasteland.
This horror sci-fi story is part one of the series, The Sell Outs, based on the short story.
It could sound like a clique stating my first ever science fiction read was Isaac Asimov back in the late ’70s, but this may have been unavoidable. This guy was an iconic American writer and professor who dominated the genre for half a century. He even boasted he was the “Best Science Writer” backed up by none other than Arthur C. Clarke. They had agreed with each other, negotiated as they shared a cab in New York, the so-called “Clarke–Asimov Treaty of Park Avenue”.
The treaty stipulated that Asimov would always proclaim Clarke as the greatest science fiction writer in the world, with himself as runner-up, and Clarke would similarly proclaim Asimov as the best science writer, with himself as runner-up.
Historiography (or Historiology) is a term that refers to the study of historical writing and its methods of interpretation. In science fiction, historiography plays a significant role in exploring the complexities of the past, present and future of a story.
Why is Russell Crowe not in the upcoming Ridley Scott Gladiator movie? As Paramount and Scott Free prepare for the new venture into the world of ancient Rome once again, with a late 2024 release, it seems that they’ve settled on making this a sequel.
Maximus Decimus Meridius meets his end at the end of the original 2000 epic historical drama film after the general is betrayed by the new Emperor Commodus, has his family killed, and is forced into slavery. After serving in the gladiatorial arena, and getting his revenge on Commodus, Maximus succumbs to his wounds and dies a hero.
Obviously, Crowe can’t reprise his role in a sequel. It’s been twenty-three years and his age pretty much works against him as a leading protagonist. His career now is relegated to playing mentors, which he does quite well in ‘The Man of Steel’, villains, again not bad in ‘Unhinged’, and third-rate superheroes.
But for a movie like Gladiator, there does exist a unique chance for Crowe to shine, where his age can be an advantage and work for him to tell a new story with fresh themes and keep true to the same sword and sandal colosseum action of the original.
The story is there. It already exists. A prequel is a perfect vehicle for a return of Russell Crowe to the franchise.
Whatever the writers of the sequel come up with, having Lucius become a slave, or get involved with Roman Imperial intrigue and scandal, and politics, not too dissimilar to early drafts of the Gladiator screenplays, nothing would come close to the potential of answering that overriding question when watching the first film. Why is Maximus so good as soon as he hits the sand of the arena? Sure, he’s a seasoned warrior under the command of Marcus Aurelius, but how does he also know how to ‘work’ the crowd, collaborate with the other gladiators, and use the game to his political and strategic advantage?
He’s obviously done this before. Plus, the emperor Aurelius has a soft spot for him for a reason. When the Colosseum crowd fell silent and gasped when he revealed he was Maximus Decimus Meridius, they knew who he was, and not only as a renowned general who fought the Gauls but as someone who they’d seen or heard of fighting in the arena before.
The Spaniard
It begins off the coast of Mauretania Tingitana, where Fabius Decimus Hispanius is assisting in a sea raid against a rebel legion. After the battle in the port, Fabius uncovers a plot by Avidius Cassius to usurp the imperial throne but is blackmailed into turning a blind eye due to the gambling debts he’s accumulated.
Fabius returns home to Tarraco, Iberia where he is met by his oldest son and taken to his estate. He discovers his other two sons bullying the youngest of the boys, Maximus. Fabius scolds them and teases the “Runt’ before drinking himself into a stupor.
At Cassuis’s request, using forged documentation and false witnesses, the local praetor sends a force of Vigiles to repossess the estate. A scuffle with the boys turns violent and the three older boys are slaughtered and Fabius is beaten and arrested.
During his trial, Maximus attempts to enter the courthouse but is mocked and beaten away by the Vigiles. A known gambler, drunkard, and womanizer, Fabius is tried and convicted, with a lashing and exile from Tarraco as punishment. As for the estate, he needs to pay the debt if it is to be returned. When eventually released, he has no money to his name, only the mule and cart salvaged by Maximus. They travel from town to town begging and scamming for food and shelter.
On the outskirts of Narbo, the travelers are ambushed by bandits. Maximus rescues his father from the ex-soldiers turned robbers, proving his ability to fight. Fabius tells his son about his past as a warrior and impresses on Maximus that he too is a natural fighter.
At Massillia, the father forces Maximus to compete in the local gladiatorial games. He gambles on the outcome, successfully. When Maximus discovers this, Fabius promises him the money will be used to buy back their land.
From there they go on the professional circuit, Maximus disguised as a slave, and Fabius as his lanista. At one point, Fabius convinces Maximus to fight a bull, since they have a family history of breeding bulls. But instead of saving the winnings, Fabius gambles it away and when he loses, spends the rest on booze and prostitutes. Again, Maximus uncovers this which causes a rift between them.
At Pietas Julia, Maximus meets a girl from a rich family and opts to enter into fights at a private function. Fabius encounters Cassius, who is planning on assassinating him. After seeing his sorry and degenerate state, Cassius no longer fears Fabius as a threat, so he offers to buy out Maximus’ contract as a gladiator.
Once in Rome, Maximus meets Alexander, a fellow Gladiator indentured to Cassius’ Ianista, and a Christian. He helps Maximus prepare for the games. Fabius, having squandered his money, travels to Rome to watch his son fight, and to bet on it. Cassius, who thought that Fabius would have drunk himself to death by now, discovers him roaming the gambling quarter. Worried that the Emporer would learn of his plotting from Fabius, he again confronts him. Fabius wants his property back, but this is not possible anymore, it had been already sold off. As a counteroffer, he is offered to bet against his son since the game will be rigged against his son. Alexander was bribed to ensure Maximus loses in the arena.
In the final battle in front of the Emperor, Maximus is set up to go down badly. At first, Fabius refuses to watch the fight, but his emotions take the better of him. He approaches the Praetorian guard and informs them about the plot by Cassius.
When he sees his son get wounded and about to be slain, Fabius steps into the arena and fights on to the death, winning the favour of the crowd and of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, who spares Maximus after being informed about the treachery and Fabius’ service.
The Prequel
That’s it.
As mentioned earlier, it has already been written, inferred directly from the original film. He’s called the Spaniard, he knows the fighting arena inside and out, doesn’t trust Christians so is still a pagan, and he’s close to Marcus Aurelius.
It is a story that follows similar beats to the first movie, but it also explores relationships between father and son, weakness and betrayal, and why Aurelius loves and trusts Maximus more than his son. It gives a seasoned and older actor like Crowe something to sink his teeth into, instead of trying to fake an Italian accent and fight evil demons in schlock horror jumps scare movies, maybe win him another award.
But he’ll need to get fit for this finale. It’s just one fight scene but it should be one hell of a gladiatorial duel.
Three days. That’s all it took to go from amazement and wonder to sheer terror and paranoia. Waking up each day to find that there are two of you does that to a person, I guess.
I wasn’t surprised when ‘it’ happened.
My brain struggled to cope with the reality presented in front of me. One moment, I’m thoughtlessly walking into the bathroom, next I’m confronting a naked stranger gazing into the vanity mirror, holding scissors and a blowdryer, perplexed as I was. Recognition came slowly, due to the fact I knew my face from a reflective surface’s point of view, or from a camera’s perspective. This life-sized version of me seemed off; wrong even.
The other self, understood what I was, having the advantage of studying me while I was asleep. Whatever interdimensional travel this was, there was no evidence of any portal. Did they find themselves in a world that was almost identical to their own? Or was it me? Either way, the only difference in our immediate existence was that there were now two of us, standing before each other’s alternate selves, staring back at each other with equal parts curiosity and disbelief.
That first day was spent revelling in awe as we looked at ourselves from what we both agreed was another dimension.
“I have been,” I began explaining, “hearing voices ever since I was a toddler. I believed then it was my invisible twin brother until I realized much later the voice was you, another me, from some other place.”
They replied, “When I woke up next to you it was like a dream had somehow turned into reality. I know you have been dreaming about this too. We are the one person. What I dream, you dream.”
I had always wondered what his life would be like if he had made different choices or taken different paths. Now, standing face to face with his alternate self, he finally had the chance to find out.
“You first,” I said.
“What difference does it make?” answered the other me. “This room is exactly the same. My clothes are here. Everything is exactly the same as I left them before went to sleep. Nothing is different from the time I went dosing off. Our timelines are the same. Unless you see anything that’s changed.”
“You’re assuming I’m in your timeline.”
“Am I in yours?”
“I see no point of divergence.”
“Neither do I.”
Our two selves spent hours talking about our lives and experiences, comparing notes on everything from our careers to our relationships. We discovered that we were more alike than we had ever imagined, despite living in different dimensions. Our memories were exactly the same.
As the second night wore on, the other me realized, “I think it is time for you to return home. I’m never going to forget this experience and that it has changed me forever, but this can’t go on. How can this work?”
“Can you go back?” I ask.
“No. I can’t see how.”
“Then how am I supposed to go? Which one of us is in the wrong dimension?”
“Maybe, this is not an inter-dimensional thing. Maybe it’s a mental illness?”
“I’ve thought about that. Been thinking of it the whole time.”
“Me too,” I confess.
“No, shit.”
Madness would be a relief. It would make sense. The voices in my head. The premonitions. The lucid dreams. “Let’s test this.”
“How?”
By morning, I directed my other self out to the kitchen. I put water to boil and opened the refrigerator. “Go get milk.”
“That would prove what?”
“From the neighbour.”
The other me seemed to understand and headed out. By the time I set a pair of cups and saucers, mix the instant coffee with hot water, and let it cool, my doppelganger returned with a bottle of milk.
After we pour in the milk, we both sit and take a sip.
“Return the milk,” said my other self. “She offered pancakes.”
I understood I needed to reciprocate the motion, so I took another sip, picked up the bottle and headed out of my apartment to the retired nurse who lived directly underneath me.
She opened her door and smiled, holding the plate of freshly fried pancakes. “I insist,” she said.
I swapped the milk for the plate and thanked her. When I headed back and confronted my other self with the goods, they were not impressed.
“What? Not proof enough?”
“I don’t know. Should we both go downstairs and ask if she has any syrup?”
The idea horrified me. “Do you realise what kind of attention this would draw? My life, our lives would be turned upside down. Can you imagine the hysteria this would cause?”
“We can say we’re twins.”
“Who’s going to buy that? My family? Yours? We’ll be a freak show. We are two. The same one person, but two bodies. Identical. Mirrored. Cloned.”
“We can say we are clones.”
“There’s no such technology.”
“Hear me out,” I had an idea. “We could use this situation to raise money for developing the technology. We can show investors proof of concept.”
“Who would be the clone?”
“When that thought entered my mind, it killed the mood, but if we…”
“Pretty soon you too will be thinking about how such an enterprise will end badly for both of us. The prospect of revealing our little miracle frightens you as much as me.”
Which one of us was the clone? I thought and felt a sense of dread for having met myself from another dimension if indeed it was that.
“Here’s an idea. We could take turns interacting with our family and the rest of the world. One of us would rest or pursue other interests, the other would go down and live the day.”
“How will it work?”
You quickly came up with the idea. “The ‘plan’ is that one of us should focus on the menial tasks and the other on life choice endeavours. We agree on a rotation system. One week you, one week me.”
“We could hide our secret, but for how long?”
I wondered how long this was going to last. Was this a temporary phenomenon, or something permanent?
On day three there were signs of trouble.
No divergence manifested so far. We both spoke the same. We both behaved the same until I noticed my other self growing less agreeable.
“I don’t think we should share the same lover.”
“We are not currently seeing anybody.” It wasn’t that I didn’t agree with the sentiment, nor was it evidence of a dramatic divergence, but this was not a topic I would ever bring to mind.
“Still, we should pursue different partners. Less awkward that way.”
“That sounds like a brilliant idea, but how are you going to fund any of this?”
“We.”
“How are we going to fund this lifestyle, with one job? Managing the household is one thing, between the two of us, we can manage, but social expenses, luxury purchases, who is going to own what?”
“We can both go to work. That’s two incomes.”
“Not at the same job.”
It dawned on me. “I’m not looking for another job.”
“Why should I go find something else?”
I was going to suggest we coin toss for it but held my idea back. I’m sure my other self thought it, so I didn’t bother. There was always going to be a complication, some convolution, to make life more complicated and more convoluted. I didn’t know how I would feel if my replica got a better job than I had or got into a relationship before I did, or a better-looking partner. It was a strange jealousy, its main subject being basically me.
By midday, we had ceased talking. Taking refuge in separate parts of the apartment. Distrust set in, because if I were suffering from an outbreak of envy, guaranteed my other self was going through the same thing.
I sat on the couch and watched content on the television taking my mind off the conundrum for an hour or so until a new idea struck me. I hurried to the bedroom where I had been hearing my double rummaging around.
“What if we both move out? No coin toss. We both can sacrifice equally. Two lives, same person.”
As I enter, I feel a presence behind me and a stabbing pain in my lower back. I twist around but my feet trip over the shower curtain that had been placed over the carpet. Falling sideways, I hit the floor, the puncture paralysing my legs.
“Why?” I cried toward the counterpart holding the scissors. I tried to pull myself up, but my hands slipped on the blood-soaked plastic.
I look down at myself bleeding to death, reluctant to elaborate. I knew we both understood what was going on. We both have been looking for it the entire time. Fission of the timeline had indeed occurred, and with that, there had to exist since this divergence, an inevitable differentiation between the two of us.
