My Corner

November 2025

Gladiator II runs into view fully armed, gleaming with ambition, and utterly convinced of its own importance. It is a film that longs to be monumental but settles, rather pitifully, for ornamental. Every frame insists on gravity, yet the story beneath it barely rises to the weight of its costuming. If the original was a roar, this is a carefully rehearsed echo—polished, loud, and oddly hollow.

We return to Rome in disarray, where politics are theater and blood spills more for entertainment than justice. Years have passed since the death of Maximus, and Lucius Verus, played by Paul Mescal, emerges as the would-be heir to both a legacy and a narrative arc that refuses to let go of the past. Mescal broods beautifully, yet his performance feels handcuffed by a script that treats him less as a character and more as a reincarnation. His motivations are vague, his memories clearer than they should be, and his transformation entirely assumed.

Denzel Washington, as Macrinus, offers a brief but undeniable masterclass. He speaks as though every word is currency, and he spends wisely. In a film where others stumble through monologues, Washington whispers in sentences that carry the weight of kingdoms. He understands the world he’s in far better than the story does, and each of his scenes suggests a more cunning, layered tale the filmmakers never thought to write.

Pedro Pascal, cast as General Acacius, enters with gravitas but is rarely allowed to sustain it. His character is rich with contradiction—a leader, a husband, a would-be father figure—but the film seems more interested in choreographing carnage than excavating complexity. Connie Nielsen reprises her role as Lucilla with poise, but she, too, is stranded in a film that uses her history as shorthand instead of depth.

Then there are the emperors. Joseph Quinn and Fred Hechinger perform with wide-eyed lunacy, as if auditioning for a Roman remake of Succession performed by jesters. They scream, pout, posture, and generally behave like the algorithmic idea of madness. Whatever threat they are meant to pose evaporates beneath the ridiculousness of their presence. Their palace feels more like a parody than a seat of power.

Visually, the film flirts with grandeur but rarely seduces. Yes, the dust glows, the weapons shine, and the scale is often impressive, but the staging lacks imagination. Colosseum scenes are overloaded with digital animals, airborne debris, and crowd reactions that feel copied from a trailer template. At one point, a gladiator fights amid sharks. At another, baboons leap from the shadows. The absurdity is never acknowledged, just layered on top of itself until awe turns into eye-rolling.

The score, composed by Harry Gregson-Williams, hums dutifully in the background. It is neither intrusive nor memorable. Compared to the mythic ache of Hans Zimmer’s original composition, this one feels like ambient filler in an overpriced historical video game.

What sinks Gladiator II is not incompetence but complacency. The film believes that scale equals importance, that callbacks substitute for substance, and that if the camera moves slowly enough, the audience will confuse inertia for intensity. Its most emotional moment arrives not through character but through footage from the first film, which only reminds us what genuine pathos once felt like.

There are flickers of something better. Washington’s strategic menace, Pascal’s quiet resignation, and even a few moments of chemistry between Mescal and his fellow gladiators. But these are isolated flames in a story that prefers smoke over fire.

In the end, Gladiator II is not a disaster. It is something far more frustrating: a film that plays all the right notes but refuses to compose new music. It wants to be remembered, yet never risks being unforgettable.