The Sword and the Cross (1956)

Lack of good storyline.

Entertaining from beginning to end, it maintains the spirit of the franchise while establishing it's own seal with a fun cast

Good films always raise compelling questions, whether the format is fiction or documentary fact.

The acting in this movie is really good.

Occasionally, an international moniker is attributed to different films within the same genre which, when it involves some of the same credentials, can prove quite confusing: for instance, I had already watched and reviewed a peplum by this title – alternately named MARY MAGDALENE (1958), and with which it shares leading man Jorge Mistral (for what it is worth, a Luis Bunuel alumnus)! Besides, the nominal star in the film under review i.e. Gianna Maria Canale would also appear in THE MIGHTY CRUSADERS (also 1958)…among whose international titles is THE CROSS AND THE SWORD, and which – coincidentally – had as co-star Bunuel regular Francisco Rabal!While the mythological/fantasy peplums were largely juvenile and often silly, the historical/religious ones were generally solemn and downright dull; this one obviously falls in the latter category, whose plot is yet again a variation on the oft-filmed "Quo Vadis" – as Roman Mistral shuns noblewoman Canale for Carthaginian Christian(!) Marisa Allasio. The former's spite towards the latter is quite drastic, though – since she has her ritualistically whipped by her Mrs. Danvers-like maid and, later still, blinded, Samson-style, by a roving iron placed before her eyes! The rest of the narrative deals, as expected, with dreary political intrigue and hokey sermonizing – which leaves little space for proper sword-and-sandal action…yet Canale's inevitably violent demise is nicely devised, as she falls off a speeding chariot to be trampled by the horses of the riders giving chase! Unfortunately, the ropey quality of the copy I watched – recorded off Italian TV – left much to be desired and occasionally interfered with my viewing pleasure!To complement my recent mini-marathon of Riccardo Freda epics, I may be able to include a few more of the numerous ones made by his partner Canale – for the record, I have access to eight other unwatched flicks in this vein where she is featured! With respect to Mistral, among his other costumed fare is the obscure but intriguing French Arabian Nights tale SHEHERAZADE (1963; in which none other than Jean-Luc Godard himself was roped in to appear, since his then-muse Anna Karina was the leading lady!). As for director Brignone, it should be noted that this was his penultimate work, made at age 69: tellingly, apart from his swan-song SIGN OF THE GLADIATOR (1959), the only other effort of his that I am familiar with dates from the Silent era – namely MACISTE IN HELL (1925)!; even so, looking at his extensive filmography on IMDb, I noticed not only a trio of other movies I managed to record off Italian TV but also a handful related to historical figures often touched upon by the cinema – such as Cleopatra, Socrates, Lorenzino de' Medici, Edmund Kean, Beatrice Cenci, Agi Murad, etc.!

Of all the Italian epics, this rarely-seen example would appear to be the most forgotten and the least acclaimed. On the face of it the film's credentials are highly impressive: the story is a broad re-make of Fabiola whereby a rich Roman lady is led to believe the Christians were responsible for the murder of her father. Italy's top costume villainess Gianna Maria Canale displays her customary icy exterior whilst harbouring a secret inner passion for Spanish hunk Jorge Mistral (although neither probably knows what the other is talking about). Albertini's cinematography is visually stunning in rich colour, which has been faithfully transferred to the Cine Epico DVD in its original 2.35:1 TotalScope. The sets certainly look magnificent, if just a tiny bit suspiciously wooden, and the costumes are top of the range. For the music score the producers have persuaded distinguished composer Enzo Masetti (who also did Fabiola) to return for the re-make. And at the opulent palace in Tarsus we are treated to an energetic display by an African ballerina, then Marisa Allasio sings (or at least mimes) a lovely Carthaginian aria in Italian. So, with all this class around him, there can surely be no way for veteran director Guido Brignone to turn out one of the turkeys of 1956? Somehow, he can and he does. One could easily blame his pedestrian pace or the static camera work, but the real killer blow is Brignone's failure to stamp any authority or care on the proceedings. The resulting lack of attention to detail is noticeable as early as the main title. Masetti opens with his eloquent and sombre music for the Christians labouring on the treadmill, but the main title designer chooses a pretty desert sketch with palm trees, which would be fine if we were watching The Road to Morocco. The heroine Lea is blinded by a white-hot sword in the dungeons and spends the rest of the picture stumbling around. However, apparently thanks to some anachronistic plastic surgery in ancient Tarsus, her face shows no sign of burns or scarring whatsoever. Somebody seems to have decided that Brignone's direction of one of the sword fights was too sluggish, so we see it speeded up like in the old cliffhanger serials. The goofs just go on and on. Gianna Maria Canale meets her end being trampled to death by horses with earth spectacularly churning into the camera lens. But, when the poor lady rolls over dead, her clothes are spotless and her face has just a couple of token dabs of red paint. Towards the end Masetti runs out of time or enthusiasm (or both) and recycles his battle music from Attila the Hun. Ironically, it's only the ending when the film really comes to life. There's a well-staged chariot race to the beach where hero and villain fight it out to the death on the sands. Flavius Metellus, up to then intelligently portrayed by fine actor Rubén Rojo, elects to theatrically fall on his sword. Then, against a grand choral finale, the Christian lovers walk off into God's sunlight, but the whole thing is ruined by the end-title again using the Hope-Crosby backdrop. One is inevitably left with the conclusion that Slave Girls of Carthage, with so much talent to admire, should have been a lot, lot better.