Caesar Must Die is, in many ways, obvious in its intentions. Focused on a small group of inmates at a high-security prison performing Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar" for an audience, directors Paolo and Vittorio Taviani's choice to use real-life inmates currently serving time for organized crimes, sex trafficking, and murder carries along with it the suspicious scent of gimmickry. This will enable self-serious critics to either A) unreasonably bash the film for cheap, emotional manipulation, or B) laud the film for being so gosh darn authentic. And with Bruto's betrayal of Cesare—a cry against tyranny and oppressive dictatorship—the play's relation to the prisoners couldn't be more clear. Yet, with Caesar's sheer lucidity intact, the final line spoken by an inmate remains unshakable:
"Ever since I became acquainted with art, this cell became a prison."
Considering this is how the film ends, there seems to be a hollowing incompleteness that remains impenetrable, despite how critics have patted themselves on the back for their oh-so-keen ability to just get it. And even Paolo Taviani himself said he wanted viewers to "say to themselves or even those around them...that even a prisoner with a dreadful sentence, even a life sentence, is and remains a human being." But limiting Caesar to a tale of paralleled characterization doesn't do the film justice. There's an effort to attain a more depressing realization that extends beyond the closing credits and truly combines these men's "Julius Caesar" personas with their irreversible life sentences in prison. There is indeed more subtext to Caesar Must Die than meets the eye, and going beyond the clear-cut relation between lawful imprisonment and rising against the system is where we'll find the film's heart and driving message.
The Taviani brothers may have been inspired by Jafar Panahi's This is Not a Film, which is also a staged episode of imprisonment. For Panahi it's happening in real time (and illegally), but in a way it's the same for the inmates of Caesar Must Die. One is loose mockumentary and one is tightly scripted, yet both are very real and completely aware of the political and humanistic implications of their approaches. But, in particular, it's how the films are shot, broken down, and carried out in the final act that ultimately define how debilitating prison life can be. While Panahi chooses to fixate on imagery and historical relevance, the Tavianis rely on cathartic recollections and characterizations—and all three directors are unwavering in their use of juxtaposition and alignment within their constricting environments. All of these factors are pawns in build-up to the film's soul-crushing final moment where art, despite its transcending beauty and healing powers, becomes a cruel awakening with impervious cell bars.
Panahi—dealing with limited space under house arrest—was forced to work with his surroundings during a four-day window for This is Not a FIlm. Key pieces of imagery had to be utilized because of this, and Panahi makes convenient use of his slithering pet: a lagging iguana slowly maneuvers around the apartment, inching its way toward yet another border as it meanders aimlessly, recreating the confined space in which Panahi struggles to find artistic inspiration.
Caesar doesn't have an iguana, but creating this sense of entrapment is done through the presence of rehearsal. In the way the iguana circles the apartment—running into walls, maneuvering through bookshelves, and naggingly clawing on Panahi's shirt—the actors performing "Julius Caesar" circle themselves, searching for inspiration in relation to their paralyzing environment. In particular, our main character playing the main character, Bruto (Salvatore Striano), audibly discusses his inability to capture the emotion behind a certain line:
"If only I could tear out Caesar's spirit without cutting open his chest."
This particular line proves troublesome because a friend once said it to Bruto "differently", yet "identically." In terms of dealing with one's past, this section bothers Bruto because of how strikingly the moment recalls his long lost friend. The friend had been heard calling Bruto a "nobody" in his pre-prison life, which had stuck with Bruto until this very day. The tearing of the spirit is depicted as much more gruesome and detrimental—a resounding parallel to the moment when Bruto finally betrays Cesare (Giovanni Arcuri). Blood is indeed spilled, yet it is Bruto who suffers the greatest, dealing with the pain and regret of betrayal. We witness Bruto dealing with this regret while performing "Julius Caesar" twice—once at the beginning of the film, free from the knowledge of prison life, and one post-rehearsal, with countless self-realizations just existing on the horizon of the mind.
The out-of-character moment during rehearsal works in relation to the play, but with the power of stage and theater on display, it becomes a crippling meta moment in Bruto's prison life. Yet, even more treacherous is the fact that this revelation takes place within the monotonous black-and-white frame of rehearsal—not the bloody red-hued stage that opens wide to an audience. In this sense, Caesar Must Die becomes much more about the preparation than the performance—finding the inspiration in the depressing confines of a monochrome environment, rather than when the true pretending occurs. And along the way, that final line resonates without even being heard: this is where inspiration is found—this is where inspiration is crushed.
For while on stage Bruto's lines hold the same symbolic relation, the rehearsal allows for improvisation, the questioning of one's motifs (both in and out of character), and the allowance of existential clarification. In their black and white cells, the actors don black shirts and jeans accompanied by massive black belts and thick knives. It's Shakespeare with "fucks", varying dialects, and life-timers candidly noting: "It seems to me this Skakespeare lived on the streets." Timeless literature becomes poetic trash in rehearsal, where Cesare can suddenly step outside his role and react vehemently to the Decio's (Juan Dario Bonetti) line: "I'm saying this to you as a friend."
"As a friend?" Cesare responds. "As a liar. As an arse-licker. As a shameless man."
This line is the result of a bubbling rivalry that suddenly comes to fruition, to the point where Cesare the prisoner calls out Decio's trash-talking behind his back—all of which is very reminiscent to the constant intertwined gossiping and power plays that lead to Cesare's death. Suddenly the rehearsal stops and conflicts are surfaced. Not once before then had Cesare the indecent sense to rise against his counterpart, but with the bubbling hate that lurks beneath "Julius Caesar" and its characters, reality is brought forth during a moment of pretend.
In This is Not a Film, Panahi attempts to recreate the final film that was stripped away from him before being detained by the Iranian government. He lays out tape to create a room and takes turns playing the various parts until he becomes defeated, like many of his written characters often do. Suddenly he steps back and makes a blunt realization: “If we could tell a film, why make a film?”
This idea of existing inside and outside the camera/stage is put on display during these out-of-character moments in both This is Not a Film and Caesar Must Die. For Panahi, the candid nature is more of the point, but in Caesar the meta moments are much more contextually congruent. Stepping outside the role of acting is second-nature in such a mockumentary set-up—they're practically winks to the audience, yet essential for the central political message of the film. This is Not a Film is every bit as much about Panahi's storied career in the Iranian New Wave film movement, thus Panahi's out-of-character presence drives the film's message.
But for Bruto, the sudden questioning of his friend's loyalty becomes an out-of-reach plaguer of the mind. For Cesare his long-awaited outburst keeps in line with inability to disguise his true identity outside of a character who bears a striking parallel to his imprisoned life. Characters constantly assess their stage characters' motifs and strategies, asking questions like, "Think about these poor fools that are about to kill their leader. And what do they do? They debate over where the Sun rises." But of course the Sun isn't there, as they're yet again look down a long, dank hallway. Panahi must step outside the film and narrate the events singlehandedly as he speaks to the camera—the characters of Caesar are both part of the message and the storytellers, performing their parts while, well, performing their parts, and lending the play's finer intricacies and seemingly unsubstantial moments a grim sense of symbolism. It's much more layered and complicated than This is Not a Film, yet both are able to depict the soul-crushing realization of one's inability to escape the confines of prison in their final moments.
And the prison in both of these final frames is, of course, a prison of the mind. Outside of the dialogue is where these connections are drawn more fluidly. Where Panahi uses his own body of work and the bustling world existing outside his window, the Tavianis use a balance of narrow and wide-open space, with an emphasis on lines and barriers that separate more than prison and the outside world.
In a moment of sheer brilliance, Panahi projects his own Crimson Gold onto the television—a film conveniently about the claustrophobic pressures of Iranian society. Crimson Gold begins and ends with a suicide as a result, and with the paused grimace of Hussein juxtaposed snugly beside Panahi as he searches for answers, the power of containment couldn't be more pronounced. Hussein and Panahi both find themselves trapped within societal pressures and borders of the camera's relentless fixation—the very tool Panahi had used for so long.
While the actors are on stage, the Tavianis take a very objective audience point of view. They remain alongside the action, never drifting above or around, giving off the presence of spectatorship. And this is all, of course, in full color, as opposed to the black and white walls that unavoidably remain in focus for every grueling frame during rehearsal. As the guards look upon the limp body of Cesare, the Tavianis themselves take a moment to play God, hovering just above the cell walls that loom overhead the action. As Bruto contemplates the after-effects of his cry against tyranny, the idea of imprisonment comes into focus. Suddenly the two ideas combine: both Brutos become painfully aware of their fates, with the memory of his friend's betrayal just on the horizon, Bruto the actor suddenly becomes a prisoner. He is now a criminal both inside and outside the walls of prison, and thus the pleading of his case carries very real implications. He walks into the courtyard to plead his case to his fellow prisoners, with the lines of the square grounds depicting cell bars. This shot particularly gains characterizing power, as the daytime air exists just above the walls. With the Tavianis shooting at a 45-degree angle, Bruto appears close to the camera, yet the walls are able to obliquely spread around him in a surreal sense of entrapment.With reality so close, Bruto and his fellow actors remain irreversibly within the confines of acting and the prison that comes to maturation in the process.
Panahi makes a similar realization, and both his and the Tavianis' pointed direction lends to the power of these scattered juxtapositions with the outside world. Panahi's window remains open throughout the day, bringing in with it the bustling sounds of city life and construction. Chaos seemingly ensues on the streets in relation to his sobering home life, which gains meaning in light of the fact that Panahi almost never filmed indoors. His films exist on the streets, and without them, he seems lost in how to tell a story. Thus, the final moment where Panahi travels down the elevator with camera in hand and stands outside his prison walls just before being denied admission becomes a coalesced moment of crushing realization that recalls that unwavering line:
"Ever since I became acquainted with art, this cell became a prison."
For these men, in both Caesar Must Die and This is Not a Film, art is both the promise of beauty and the broadcast of ugliness; brimming with purpose and revealing of emptiness; the light at the end of the tunnel and the dark corner of the room. But with Panahi on his way out and these prisoners on their way in, art's rearing of its ugly head gains an encompassing impenetrability. For both, prison and art suddenly become combined, and the pursuit for greatness only becomes more and more eviscerating as the prison walls expand themselves around the mind. Yet, at the same time, an ugly realization becomes a path waiting to be tread, and not for one second do these men not realize it. Caesar Must Die ends with a door being closed in full color, suddenly recalling the power of the moment in relation to a story that existed on detached timelines: the pursuit of art will continue, and so must the perseverance of the mind.
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