Why Kingdom of Heaven Hits Harder in 2025 Than It Did in 2005

Would you be surprised if I told you Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith wasn’t the only 20th anniversary adventure-epic re-release to hit theatres this May? Alongside the undisputed highlight of the prequel trilogy was a brand-new 4K restoration of Ridley Scott’s director’s cut of Kingdom of Heaven, and I’d consider it even more relevant now than when it was released in 2005.

I know, I know — Kingdom of Heaven isn’t exactly the first film people think of when you mention the “epic” boom of the early 2000s — especially when so many of its contemporaries also star Orlando Bloom. It tends to get buried somewhere beneath The Lord of the Rings, Pirates of the Caribbean, Gladiator, and all the Harry Potters floating around in the our collective memory. Its original theatrical cut — infamously botched, with nearly an hour of crucial material left on the cutting room floor — was largely dismissed as yet another shallow and forgettable entry into the swords-and-sandals canon.

But the Director’s Cut? As is the case of most of Ridley’s filmography, it’s a whole other beast. It’s a restoration in every sense of the word. What was once a compromised and soulless studio product is now a sweeping, deeply humanist story about faith, politics, grief, violence, and the moral tightrope of leadership. It’s one of those rare cases where “director’s cut” doesn’t just mean a few deleted scenes stapled back in or a couple seconds tacked on to a shot here and there. No, it completely changes the film’s DNA, reincorporating several key subplots and characters, most notably Baldwin V — the son of Queen Sibylla (Eva Green) — whose entire existence was erased from the theatrical cut. I won’t spend this entire piece comparing the differences, as countless others more nitpicky than myself have dissected that to death already, but I do want to talk about why this movie hit me harder now than it ever did before — and why I think it deserves a serious re-watch in 2025, especially with the world looking the way it does right now.

If you’ve never seen it, Kingdom of Heaven tells a fictionalized account of Balian of Ibelin, played by a brooding Orlando Bloom. He’s a blacksmith grieving the loss of his wife and unborn child, who gets swept into the Crusades when he learns he’s the bastard son of a knight (Liam Neeson doing his usual “wise mentor who dies early” routine). Balian winds up defending the Kingdom of Jerusalem during a brief and fragile peace between Christian and Muslim forces — a peace held together by a threadbare alliance between King Baldwin IV — a leper behind a silver mask played by an uncredited Edward Norton — and Saladin, the Muslim sultan.

What makes this story stick — and what still punches you in the gut 20 years later — is its simple central question: What’s actually worth fighting for? And more pressingly: What’s worth dying for?

These aren’t rhetorical questions. Balian’s entire journey is an extended meditation on them. He doesn’t fight for conquest, for gold, or even for God. His morality isn’t guided by scripture — it’s shaped by a more elusive, almost secular compass of personal ethics. He never chooses the path of violence unless it’s the only way. “It is a kingdom of conscience,” he says, “or nothing.” That line might as well be the mission statement for the whole film. His father’s dying words are similarly etched in stone:

Godfrey: "Be without fear in the face of your enemies. Be brave and upright that God may love thee. Speak the truth always, even if it leads to your death. Safeguard the helpless and do no wrong.”

It’s basically the Crusader’s equivalent of Spider-Man’s “With great power comes great responsibility,” only less merchandisable and with fewer dead uncles — actually, scratch that part about the dead uncles.

And yet, that moral code puts him at odds with the film’s other key players — namely, the zealots. Characters like Guy de Lusignan (Marton Csokas) and Reynald de Chatillon (Brendan Glesson) of the Templars treat faith like a battering ram. They invoke “God’s will” as a free pass for brutality, using divine authority to justify slaughter, oppression, and provocation. It’s one of the film’s most cutting insights — how easily religion can be weaponized by people who care far more about power than piety.

Watching it now, in light of the Israel-Palestine conflict, it’s hard not to feel that resonance vibrating straight through the screen. Jerusalem in the film — much like Jerusalem today — isn’t just a city. It’s a powder keg of historical claims, religious symbolism, and blood-soaked memory. There’s a chilling timelessness to it. The film doesn’t take sides, but it refuses to stay neutral either. It dares to empathize — with both King Baldwin and Saladin, both Christian and Muslim, both defender and occupier. And it’s better for it.

There’s a line Balian gives when he’s defending Jerusalem — not the walls, but the people inside them. Someone asks what the city is truly worth, and he responds, “Nothing. Everything.” Later, he elaborates:

Balian: “Your holy places lie over the Jewish temple the Romans pulled down. The Muslim places of worship lie over yours. Which is more holy? The wall? The mosque? The sepulchre? Who has claim? No one has claim. All have claim. We defend this city, not to protect these stones, but the people living within these walls.”

It’s not a thesis statement so much as an emotional acknowledgment of the futility of drawing borders on sand soaked in generations of grief. And it’s devastating.

The film’s most radical act is its insistence that people matter more than land. Balian ultimately surrenders Jerusalem not because he loses, but because he values lives over monuments. In exchange, Saladin grants the Christian citizens safe passage. That’s the real victory of the film — not the defense of some holy relic, but the preservation of human dignity. It’s an ethical high-bar that feels almost alien in our current black-and-white climate of nationalism and blood-for-blood rhetoric.

And then there’s the Hospitaller (David Thewlis) — a supporting character who feels like the movie’s spiritual ghost — perhaps a messenger of god, or even an embodiment of the lord himself. He shows up at just the right moments to drop philosophical bombs, one of which has stayed with me more than any sermon ever has and ever will:

Hospitaller: “I put no stock in religion. By the word ‘religion’ I’ve seen the lunacy of fanatics of every denomination be called the will of God. Holiness is in right action and courage on behalf of those who cannot defend themselves, and goodness."

That line doesn’t just hit — it haunts. Especially now. Especially today.

There’s a symbolic thread that runs through the film — water. It keeps showing up: in oaths, in sieges, in mercy. When Saladin offers Balian water after battle, it’s more than hospitality — it’s a gesture of shared humanity. It’s what makes Balian’s irrigation of Ibelin such a powerful moment of humanism. Water becomes a stand-in for life, for compassion, for sanity. And honestly, in the face of ideological warfare and propaganda, it feels like the most sacred thing in the film. Not the relics, not the shrines — water.

It’s worth noting that Scott made this film in the wake of 9/11, during the Bush administration, and at the height of the “War on Terror” dogma. That lens is baked into the DNA of Kingdom of Heaven, whether consciously or not. But what surprises me is how much it still holds up today — not just as an anti-imperialist text, but as a plea for nuance. It actively resists easy binaries. There are no perfect heroes here, no cartoon villains. Even Saladin, the so-called “enemy,” is portrayed with dignity and restraint. The film’s real antagonists are absolutism, pride, and the inability to see beyond one’s own claim to righteousness.

That’s the tragedy at the heart of the film — the way history repeats itself. There’s a grim line about the violence in Jerusalem being a reckoning “for what was done one hundred years before.” And here we are, nearly a thousand years later, still grappling with the same fire. Still burying women, children, and the elderly under rubble. Still watching cycles of revenge masquerading as justice. Still watching those with the power to incite change sit back and do nothing.

What Scott offers isn’t a solution, but a mirror. And perhaps that’s more important, because solutions don’t come from scripts — they come from reflection, and reflection requires seeing ourselves clearly. Kingdom of Heaven doesn’t give us a clean resolution. It offers something much harder: the challenge to be decent in a world that makes decency feel futile.

The final moments of the film are quiet. Balian walks away from the war, from power, from the city. He returns to his forge. A man, no longer a knight. And yet — more noble than ever. “What man is a man who does not make the world better?” It’s a question posed at the beginning and echoed at the end. And honestly, it’s the kind of question that lingers — in your gut, in your spine, in the space between helplessness and hope.

Watching Kingdom of Heaven in 2025 doesn’t feel like revisiting history. It feels like looking directly into the present. And maybe, if we’re lucky, toward something better.