Ridley Scott and His Play of Masculinity 

Hello Peliplaters!

I watched Gladiator 2 two weeks ago, and it took me nearly that long to process my feelings about it.

Simply put, I was disappointed. The narrative lacks cohesion, the pacing feels off, and the plot twists seem contrived. I'd rewatched the original film before this—a decision that ultimately spoiled my experience. Leaving the theater, I was stunned by how extensively Ridley Scott had referenced his own work: identical shots, movements, and dialogue, merely performed by different actors. Gladiator 2 amounts to little more than a self-tribute to its predecessor.

Though I'm a great admirer of Scott, I must warn my friends: "Go to the theatre without expectations; it's the only way to avoid regretting paying for your ticket."

As a Scott enthusiast, I can appreciate his creative approach in Gladiator 2, much as I understand Todd Phillips's Joker 2—both directors avoid pandering to audiences or their past successes. Scott and Phillips possess what I'd call a "farmer's spirit": they adapt to conditions, work with what they have, and harvest what they can. This explains why their films often include seemingly tangential moments that feel incongruous with the main plot but nonetheless deeply resonate with audiences. Yet their artistic souls distinguish them from mere pragmatists, they refuse to remain static.

Sometimes, these dual qualities result in an obsessive disaster, but more often, they produce brilliant creativity.

The success of Gladiator 2 provoked me. In the heat of the moment, I revisited Scott’s filmography, including movies I hadn't seen before. While his previous films surpass Gladiator 2 in quality, this retrospective helped me appreciate the sequel in a new light.

Scott excels at portraying masculinity. Though many viewers describe his perspective as "testosterone-filled," I see it differently. His exploration of masculinity transcends simple labels. Rather, he approaches male stereotypes with childlike curiosity—like a young boy arranging his toy soldiers. His characters defy simple categorizations like "good man," "bad man," "gentleman," or "villain," even as other characters try to box them into these roles.

Scott's treatment of masculinity isn't character or actor-specific, it's an abstract inquiry. He begins by assuming certain qualities inherent to masculinity, then tests these qualities through escalating dilemmas until the story's conclusion reveals deeper truths.

In Kingdom of Heaven, Scott defines masculinity through the lens of promise-keeping. At first glance, we might dismiss the story of protagonist Balian de Ibelin as a typical hero's journey—glorifying the masculine sentimentality about answering duty's call as righteousness-fueled violence and returning to civilian life afterward.

This would satisfy most directors. Similarly, audiences would readily pay to watch such conventional narratives.

Yet Scott's artistry emerges in moments untethered from heroism. In his portrayal, Orlando Bloom never claims Balian's identity. He begins as a blacksmith and maintains this humble identity even after becoming Jerusalem's de facto leader, a king without a crown. When Guy de Lusignan seeks revenge, Balian could kill him and claim the crown. Instead, after defeating and disarming Guy, he places the sword on the tyrant's shoulder in a knighting gesture and simply says: "Rise a knight," meaning that if this tyrant was ever a true knight, Jerusalem would have kept its peace.

This single line nullifies all previous violence—suggesting it should never have carried meaning because it should never have occurred.

In Kingdom of Heaven, Bloom portrays neither Balian nor a conventional hero, but simply a man who honors his word. He becomes a knight and assumes the mantle of Balian de Ibelin because he promised to protect Jerusalem's people. When they no longer need his protection, he returns to his true self—a blacksmith.

In Gladiator, Scott defines masculinity through nostalgia. If we focus solely on Maximus, we might see it as a conventional revenge story of a loyal general betrayed by Rome seeking vengeance through blood and steel.

However, viewing Maximus from his enemies' perspective reveals a different narrative entirely. In war-loving Rome, Maximus stands as an outlier who yearns to lay down his weapons and return to farming. His sense of duty and moral principles repeatedly force him into desperate situations. While he appears to save the entire Rome in the end, he's really been trying to preserve his own conscience throughout. His loyalty to the state cost him his family, leaving wounds that can never heal—his loved ones and home are reduced to ashes.

Until Maximus's soul returns home, he remains trapped in his armor. But did he truly return? Did the Maximus who left his homeland to serve his country ever truly make it back? Though the scene of him touching his homeland's wheat seems peripheral to the main plot, in a Rome consumed by bloodthirsty madness, that tactile sensation becomes the only authentic thing Maximus can feel—and the only real thing audiences carry with them after leaving the theater.

In contrast, Gladiator 2 is pure fantasy. Scott's portrayal of male figures no longer challenges stereotypes but reinforces them. He uses these conventions to tell a familiar tale: an exiled prince reclaiming his throne. While some viewers fault Mescal's casting as the lead, I disagree. As noted earlier, he is merely part of Scott's artistic expression of masculinity.

For me, the true shortcoming of Gladiator 2 lies in its lack of observation beyond destiny. Mescal isn't an amateur. He portrays Lucius sincerely, but Lucius's actions and decisions lack conviction. Throughout the 2 hours and 28 minutes runtime, we see him constantly caught in others' schemes, and he's never given private moments to process his internal struggles. The subtle observations that helped Russell Crowe craft Maximus's character—wiping away honor tattoos, touching family dolls, sharing hometown stories with fellow gladiators—are absent in Gladiator 2. Instead, they're replaced by spectacular battle scenes and dazzling special effects.

Defeating a rhinoceros rider or sinking a warship might demonstrate Lucius's royal military prowess, but it fails to reveal him as a living person with free will. His victory proves no noble qualities worth celebrating, but rather merely demonstrates nature's raw law: survival of the fittest.

In Gladiator, Maximus wrestles with fate; in Gladiator 2, Lucius is merely a winner.

Winning offers no meaningful interpretation of masculinity; it only justifies arrogant machismo. A man's true image emerges not from an all-dominating throne, but through deep self-reflection and others' perspectives. We see a good husband in his wife's happiness, a good son in his mother's pride, and a dutiful general in a peaceful homeland.

The victories of Maximus and Balian render violence meaningless, while Lucius's triumph dims the light of peace. After the film ends, Lucius won't walk out of the story with the audience as they did, because his mission concludes entirely within the screen.