‘gladiator Ii’ And Rumblings Of A Christian Revolution

As period epics go, Gladiator II is vintage Ridley Scott: strong on spectacle and style but only loosely tethered to historical accuracy. From Napoleon (2023) to Exodus (2014) to Kingdom of Heaven (2005), Scott loves history’s cinematic potential, even as he recognizes that Hollywood movies aren’t meant to be history textbooks. So while most of Gladiator II’s characters are based on real people in Roman history, don’t expect what happens to them, and when, to closely hew to history’s script.

Still, there’s something real in history that Gladiator II gestures toward subtly without mentioning it explicitly more than once. It’s the looming transformation of Rome from pagan decadence and conquering bloodlust to an unlikely accelerant of Christianity.

Set 16 years after the events of the original Gladiator, the sequel takes place during the reign of corrupt emperors Caracalla (Fred Hechinger) and Geta (Joseph Quinn). Only a century later, Constantine would become Rome’s first Christian emperor, providing significant fuel to the already-in-motion growth of Christianity across the ancient world.

In Gladiator II, we see foreshadows of the Christian revolution to come. A decadent, bloodthirsty culture cries out for moral transformation. A brute, conquering regime—where strength is the only value—sows the seeds of its own destruction. People long for something different: honor, equality, dignity, community; hope of meaningful life in a world of ubiquitous death.

And as much as Gladiator II hints at factors that set the stage for the empire’s Christian turn 1,700 years ago, it also gives reasons for hope in our day. Could a new Christian revolution be on the horizon in today’s decadent West?

From ‘Strength Only’ to ‘Strength and Honor’

The Rome of Gladiator II (rated R for violence) is one of moral decadence, corrupt rule, and military excess. Emperors Caracalla and Geta epitomize it in their bloodlust (gladiatorial games, endless military campaigns, “They can eat war!”) and self-serving hedonism (orgiastic sexual libertinism, ostentatious parties complete with rhino-head platters). So does the film’s other main villain, Macrinus (Denzel Washington), whose only orthodoxy is the creed of brute force (“Violence is the universal language”) and a rage-driven vengeance wherein the oppressed become oppressors.

Could a new Christian revolution be on the horizon in today’s decadent West?

While the hyperviolent film’s villains are defined by the excesses and entailments of a “strength only” philosophy, the heroes are defined by strength and honor. These heroes include the offspring of virtuous emperor (and Stoic philosopher) Marcus Aurelius: daughter Lucilla (Connie Nielsen) and grandson Lucius (Paul Mescal). But other nonhistorical characters also embody the “strength and honor” philosophy. Pedro Pascal plays General Acacius, a celebrated military leader who recognizes the immorality of endless warfare and seeks a more peaceful regime (“I will not waste another generation of young men for their vanity”).

Perhaps the most honorable character—and one who may actually be a Christian—is the gladiator-turned-medic Ravi (Alexander Karim). He’s the film’s moral center, and he speaks a few times about forgiveness and salvation, even invoking river imagery in connection with redemption. Ravi’s character arc alone hints at Rome’s coming Christian revolution: He goes from killing-machine gladiator to compassionate healer, defender of the weak, and devoted family man. He no longer takes lives; he saves them.

Notably, many of the “strength and honor” men in Gladiator II are married and have loving relationships with women. The “strength only” men are only really around other men: in many cases romantically. It’s perhaps unsurprising that bloodlust and hedonism prevailed under the joint rule of two men, Caracalla and Geta. Gladiator II hints in the direction of Rome’s Christian future—where sexual libertinism, patriarchal abuse of women and children, and asymmetrical gender power would give way to Christian visions of monogamous marriage and a much-elevated status for women and children.

We’re seeing similar signs in today’s world, which may herald a re-Christianizing of the West. Women are recognizing the post-Christian sexual revolution has failed them, and the excesses of a gender-fluid world victimize them most. Meanwhile, men seem to be recognizing the emptiness of hedonistic pleasure and brute power. Younger men are showing a surprising affinity for church, and Bible sales are booming. If they aren’t yet Christians, increasing numbers of people fall into the categories of “reality respecters” and “meaning makers.” They don’t want a world where shifting power dynamics are the only narrative and individualism runs amok. They want transcendent purpose, natural law limits, and honor beyond mere strength.

Behind this trend, and in an interesting connection to pre-Christian Rome, Stoicism is enjoying a resurgence among men in the modern West. This is fueled both by new self-improvement gurus (Jordan Peterson, Joe Rogan, Ryan Holiday) as well as ancient voices like Aurelius (whose Meditations has sold hundreds of thousands of copies in recent years). It remains to be seen whether this neo-Stoicism and hunger for honor, improvement, and wellness will prime the pump for Christian revival or undermine it in some sort of consumeristic mutation.

‘Dream of Rome’ and Cinema’s Eternity-Glimpsing Power

Both Gladiator films often reference the “dream that was Rome.” It’s an expression of a desired peace—a return to the Pax Romana and a utopian desire for a true republic where all people flourish and stable peace endures. But this “dream” is fragile—it can only be mentioned in whispers. In the world of Gladiator, there’s an eschatological quality to this “dream,” a recognition that it’ll only come to pass by divine intervention. In the hands of fallen men, even honorable men, it’ll always be fragile. Still, this longing for a peaceful kingdom ennobles us in the present. This is a key idea in Gladiator II, which ends with a blatant nod in the “dream” direction.

Major spoiler ahead. In the film’s revisionist-history “Hollywood ending,” villainous Macrinus (who openly mocks the “dream of Rome”) is killed, when in reality he succeeded Caracalla as emperor and held the role for over a year. The film implies Lucius goes on to usher in a “dream of Rome” peace, not through dominating tyrannical power but by turning power back over to the senate. Like his father in Gladiator (Russell Crowe’s Maximus), Lucius wields power for the flourishing of others, not himself. These sorts of heroes represent a deep longing in Western culture for nobility dressed in humility—selfless leaders whose power resides in their willingness to cede rather than consolidate it. In this “humble king” ideal we see again how the Gladiator films gesture toward Christianity. It’s worth noting that the only time Christians are explicitly mentioned in Gladiator II is a passing reference to their lowly status as the sort of people executed by crucifixion. The cross of Christ—who was the ultimate servant king (Phil. 2:5–11)—haunts the film’s drama, silently framing its vision of heroism and hope.

Gladiator II’s ending will doubtless frustrate historians. But I loved it in the same way I loved the ending of Quentin Tarantino’s Once upon a Time . . . in Hollywood and its alternate history of the Manson family murders. Both films demonstrate how “movies are an inherently eschatological medium” that “present viewers with visceral brushes with eternity.” Movies are dreams more than they’re history.

Does the Obsession with Rome Foreshadow Christian Revival?

Gladiator II isn’t an intentional apologetic for Christianity. But its fanciful vision of the dream of Rome coming true nevertheless hints at Christianity’s rise and an eternal kingdom we can, by the Holy Spirit’s power, glimpse here and now. Only the City of God offers an answer to the hopeless fragility of the City of Man, which Augustine says “aims at domination” but is “itself dominated by that very lust of domination.” Only in Christianity is there a foundation on which to build meaningful morality, virtue, peace, and purpose from the rubble of Babel/Babylon/Rome. Only in Christianity do concepts like equality, dignity, goodness, truth, and beauty make any sense. Only in God’s kingdom does the dream of Rome come true.

Only in Christianity is there a foundation on which to build meaningful morality, virtue, peace, and purpose from the rubble of Babel/Babylon/Rome.

Why do we think of the Roman Empire a lot these days (another example is Francis Ford Coppola’s divisive recent film Megalopolis)? Perhaps it’s because the dream of Rome—and the dream’s fragility—speaks to our moment in powerful ways. We feel the decadence of contemporary Western society and the diminishing returns of economic affluence, technological progress, and moral autonomy. We sense that society’s fragility, and ultimate collapse, will parallel that of Rome and other empires. And yet the aspirational dream of Rome—a heavenly city—lives on with enduring appeal, whispering to us as it has through the ages. It’s the whispers of something better than what we have, a city beyond what we can build ourselves, a God-given peace that will outlast all fleeting empires.

Christianity flourished as revolutionary hope and solid truth in the shaky inertia of the Roman empire’s waning days. Will it flourish anew in our own crumbling empire? There are recent rumblings and predictions of it. May it be so.