AN APPEAL. Are any of you really good at solving Internet problems? Here’s my problem. I have ethernet at home. I do not use wireless. Beginning on the evening of Monday, 10 July 2017, my website became inaccessible from my home computer. All other websites open normally and without problem. If I take my computer elsewhere, I can access my website. When I bring my computer back home, I can’t. No sites are blocked in my “hosts” file. No add-on or firewall or anti-virus or cybersecurity is preventing access. I have reset my router, and even unplugged it for a full night. That makes no difference. I am still able to ping my site, but I am not able to open any of my web pages, which simply time out with the message that the site is unreachable and may be down. When the tech arrived from the ISP, suddenly I had full access to my website. Once he left, my access vanished again. Once in a while, for a few moments, sometimes even for a few hours, I have access again. Then it goes away completely. Surprisingly, I am still able to upload and download via FTP. My suspicion is that someone has remotely hijacked either my computer or, more likely, my router, though no scan has detected any malware. I am quite certain that this person is also listening in on my phone calls and quite possibly monitoring my abode, which would explain the restoration of my service just in time for the repairman to arrive, followed by the disconnection almost immediately after his departure. If you know how to solve this problem, please contact me. Thanks!

THE SAGA OF


Championed by a few, loathed by the many, Caligula is surely among the most mangled, mutilated, misunderstood movies in cinema history. There are several tie-in books already, but they don’t provide any believable background details about how and why the movie came to be made amidst conflict, how and why the movie was so changed afterwards that the writer and director both refused to take responsibility for the result, and how and why it destroyed an Italian production company, making a pauper of its once-respected producer, driving him to an early grave. So that would make for an interesting tale, yes?

My goal back in early 1979 was to learn enough about this movie to write a pamphlet about it, maybe 100 pages, certainly no more than 150 pages. I wanted simply to describe Gore Vidal’s screenplay and follow that with a brief description of the film as Tinto Brass had directed it. That’s all. I just wanted to know why Gore and Tinto had both disowned the final product. Simple as that. Alas, there was no information anywhere — no script was available, and no shooting records could be found. Then in the autumn of 2003 there was an announcement that the Gore Vidal Papers were to be housed at Houghton Library at Harvard University. An inquiry confirmed that many Caligula-related papers were included in the collection. They were treasures, and I spent a total of four weeks there — four weeks that opened me to many new ways of thinking about many things, not merely Caligula. Then in early 2007 I got a brief glimpse of some of the contents of the film vault. That changed the story almost entirely. At the same time I began to acquire the previously unknown storage locker rented by Caligula producer Franco Rossellini. (Yes, Franco Rossellini was the producer of Caligula. You didn’t know that, did you?) Over the course of almost two years, three friends helped me acquire the bulk of the contents of that storage locker. We tried to get every scrap, but that proved impossible. We got the most important items, though. Frustratingly, there were many gaps in those four crates of papers. Why was I surprised in July 2012 to discover that about 800 of Franco’s missing pages were held at Duke University? I paid a freelance researcher to photograph all the relevant materials there. In 2014 I discovered that a goodly number of items from Bob Guccione’s personal Caligula collection were being auctioned. Again, with the help of friends around the globe (“The Gore Vidal’s Caligula United Front,” we called ourselves), I managed to acquire a fair number of those items. Then papers stored in the attic of a house, papers that had been destined for the rubbish heap, were shipped to me instead: two crates of documents from Twickenham Studios relating to the protracted editing of Caligula. Just as the book was two short leaps from the finish line, I got full access to pretty much everything else, which, again, was just days away from being dumped into a landfill. That story is itself worthy of a book. The amount of material is overwhelming. Working 50 hours a week, it would take several years to get through it all. The amount of significant material is minimal. I’m searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

More precisely, I was searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. From the day I was allowed into the archive, I feared that the tide would turn and that I would be locked out again. After about eight months of having the doors swing open wide whenever I had a few hours to spare, there was the inevitable roadblock: Continued admittance would hinge upon my signing a series of non-negotiable contracts, which were quite deviously worded and self-contradictory. Though these contracts did not explicitly so state, the collective effect would be to silence me forever, even in private conversation, preventing me from ever saying a single less-than-flattering word about Penthouse or Caligula or Bob Guccione or Kathy Keeton or Jack Silverman or Gerald Kreditor or Ben Baker or Gianna Massaro or anyone and everyone ever connected in any way with Penthouse or any of its affiliated companies. Of course, my signing such contracts would render my book unpublishable. I could not agree to this, and so I had to relinquish all my notes and surrender my key. That’s the end of that. What I can say about the materials I saw (many tens of thousands of pages) is that nothing in them changes the story I had discovered from other archives. The materials in this new collection added spice, added texture, and threw some horrors into even more horrifying relief, but they did not change the story. Though it is a loss not to be able to reference these materials, it is not a major loss. Should I ever decide to publish my book (doubtful), my narrative can stand as is, with full justification and honesty.

It was not the mere closing of the doors that turned me into an emotional wreck. In addition, there have been adventures of late. They were not always good adventures. Some were pretty darned devastating adventures, draining adventures, and most were tied to this book. So many novel (mostly bad) things happened from October 2016 through July 2017 that those nine+ months seem as long as fifteen years. 28 June 2017 through 10 July 2017 seems like two and a half years. So I decided: This book has caused me too many problems, has taken up too many years, has started too many arguments, has ended friendships, has prevented me from pursuing other activities, has gotten me stuck in offices with too many vampires, and has resulted in too many emotions. On top of that, it has cost me all my savings and then some. Nearly the entire book consists of details about conflicts — major conflicts. I dislike conflicts. I dislike even learning about them. They drain me. Nonetheless, these particular conflicts were important, and most of them were unknown, and remain unknown. The conflicts spilled over from the page and into real life, and so I found conflicts all around me. After ten or so years of people verbally beating up on me, some instantly treating me as Public Enemy Number One, I entirely lost interest in the book. Sorry. I’m tired. I am tired beyond description. Burnout. That’s the word I was looking for. Burnout. Despair, too. That’s another word that describes my feelings right now. Add to that despondency. This is a worthless endeavor. I hereby cut my losses. Upon making this decision, I felt better. Upon surrendering the key to the new archive, I slept better than I had in many months — not well, but better. Maybe, just maybe, after I do some useful things for a change, maybe I’ll rewrite a bunch of chapters and be done with this 200 Degrees of Failure book once and for all and good riddance.

In case you’re wondering, I confess: I am not a fan of Caligula. I think the world of Gore Vidal. I think the world of Tinto Brass. In numerous interviews, Malcolm McDowell expressed his conviction that, buried beneath the mess, there is a great movie struggling to get out, if only it were to be edited properly. Until recently, I agreed. I was wrong. Sorry. Even edited properly, it would still be a piece of junk. Once I saw that, well, I was deflated. I had been eagerly pursuing a whole big bag of nothing for all those years. I felt so stupid. There are wonderful things in the movie, yes, I admit. There are some stunningly beautiful images. The absurdist comedy sometimes works. The thick, unreal, dreamlike atmosphere sometimes works. The Pyramid of Power makes the whole rest of the movie worth enduring. As much as I love everything Gore wrote, I must correct myself: I love everything else Gore wrote. Yes, his final draft of the script was quite strong, and, superficially, it would have made a compelling single-viewing drama, but the history and psychology were rubbish. The shooting script, by the way, had little to do with Gore’s final draft. As much as I admire all of Tinto’s movies up through and including The Key from 1983, I exempt this one (together with Salon Kitty). There were two problems with Caligula. First, there were too many cooks. Only an acute case of too-many-cooks could have resulted in Tiberius’s torture-ward, pool, and terrace scenes. Those were jaw-droppingly stupid, embarrassingly stupid, ghastly stupid, staggeringly stupid, almost as bad as The Deer Hunter. Second, nobody — not Gore, not Tinto, not Danilo, not Franco, certainly not Bob — had a clue about the true story. The real story actually has some potential for insightful drama — a dunderheaded egomaniacal sadist raised by sociopaths, elevated to top position in a government that we would now classify as proto-fascist, finds that the group-think bureaucrats have no choice but to humor his every whim, and sets about running the government into the ground for his own amusement. (Why does that remind me of somebody?) The real story has never been told on stage or screen, and it was certainly not told by Suetonius or Cassius Dio. For the real story, check out Philo’s Φλάκκος and Τῆς πρεσβείας πρὸς Γαίον, together with Seneca’s De ira, De constantia sapientis, and De brevitate vitæ.

Curiously, despite the ludicrous onscreen results, there is something addictive about Caligula. Even some of the worst scenes have a marvelous moodiness, sometimes bordering on dreamlike. What fascinated me, personally, was the puzzle. The writer and director were initially cordial and worked together splendidly. The friendliness evaporated in a single moment, and the two sued each other. When they were through, both disowned the result. Beginning on 4 October 1980, and for the next three and a half decades, I watched the movie probably well over fifty times, analyzing every last detail under the microscope, trying to discern what had been cut out, rearranged, rewritten in the dubbing; I was endlessly trying to imagine what the movie was supposed to have been like. That is why I was addicted. No longer. If the film were ever to be restored to Tinto’s intentions, I’d watch that restoration — only once, and only if I don’t have to pay for it. Enough.

In the meantime, now that this massive tome has been transmogrified into a doorstop, why not look at the attractive advertisement that announced the beginning of the filming? As with nearly every contemporary press item about Caligula, it was a lie:



Originally I had some pages on this site devoted to analyzing the film. They were beyond erroneous. I junked them. So stroll around through the links below. Have fun.

You’ve Been Wondering
for Four Decades:
The Mythical
210-Minute Version


The Multiple Versions

Opinions about the Movie

Audience Reactions

Press Cuttings

The Mysterious Death
of Anneka di Lorenzo


Tie-Ins, Promotional Items,
and Other Such Phenomena


The Other
Franco Rossellini
Movies


The Other
Penthouse
Movies


The Writer
Who Disowned
the Movie


You’ve Been Wondering
for Six Decades:
Gore Vidal’s Ben-Hur


The Director
Who Disowned
the Movie


Stuart Urban Remembers
Working on Caligula


The Posters and
Print Advertisements


You Know More
Than We Do


Alan King’s TV Special
on Caligula


The Cast and Crew

Every Screening and Booking We Have Learned About

Bob Guccione’s Flirtation
with Thermonuclear Fusion


Incredibly Difficult Translations That Gave Us Mountains of Migraines

Oodles and Oodles
of Caligulas


The Real Caligula Gaius

The Real Reason Why
You Could Never Learn
Greek and Latin
(Hint: No, They’re Not Hard, and No, You’re Not Stupid)


Interesting External Links

Contact






As far as I am now concerned, the movie is not the story. The story is the decade and a half of behind-the-scenes intrigues and legal battles. Those are much more worthy of study. You have never heard about most of those behind-the-scenes dramas. They were never published. Not even the people who lived through the legal actions understood what they were doing or what was being done to them or why. No judge could make head nor tail of the arguments and exhibits. In its totality, the Caligula saga is a horrifying example of how the law works, both in the US and in Europe. The story is truly demoralizing. It will weaken your hope for humanity. No. That’s too optimistic. It will probably end your hope for humanity. Writing that story took me from the beginning of January 2009 to the end of December 2014, and I was discovering the story as I was piecing it together. I didn’t study the evidence first and then summarize it later. I wrote it as I was discovering it, which is why I had to go back and revise and correct probably every last paragraph multiple times as I encountered each new piece of evidence. The evidence told me the narrative, and I simply obeyed it. I did not impose my narrative upon the evidence. Composing these chapters was a painful process, because the story is so awful, and because the good guys lost. When I re-read these chapters I cringe. We need to take these lessons to heart. We cannot fix a problem until we understand it. My wish was to reveal this story in all its corruption, suspense, pain, terror, and agony. That story was Part Five of my book, Chapters 28 through 40. I knew, from the time I penned the first sentence of Chapter 28, that this would be the section of the book that readers would skip. You won’t like these chapters, not at all. They’d bore the enamel off of your teeth. So be it. These chapters are dull, tedious, detailed, filled with contractual language and ledger sheets and legal terminology and so forth. They’re my favorite chapters — mine and nobody else’s.

As I wrote (or cowrote) the earlier chapters (1 through 27), I was laboring under the preposterous delusion that the story was about the script, about the direction, about the design, about the actors’ neuroses, about the imposition of foreign concepts onto Gore Vidal’s vision, about the entirely insane editing processes by people who had had nothing to do with the filming and who were thus entirely unable to understand the footage dumped into their laps. You thought that was the story, too, didn’t you? That was not the story. The heart of the book became the story of the Rossellini-versus-Guccione conflicts, a gruesome and harrowing tale. When I finished the six-year process of deciphering the story, I was winded — and wounded. I have not recovered. The story taught me to have zero confidence in any legal system. It helped formulate and articulate my conclusion that the purpose of the law is to protect the rich from the poor, to protect the powerful from the powerless, to protect corporate criminals from whistle-blowers, to protect con artists from their marks, to protect predators from their victims, to protect corporate profiteers from safety regulators, to protect plagiarists from the plagiarized, to protect frauds from the defrauded. The legal system is a money machine, preying upon the desperation of idiots like me who are dumb enough to pay for professional help. If you’re not at the top of the social-economic heap, you would be pretty safe to wager that your attorney works for your adversary and is feeding your adversary all your info. The legal system arranges to incarcerate the defenseless, who are then forced to serve as slaves to corporations in prison sweatshops. Lawyers play dirty, judges play dirty, and the law rewards only those who play dirtiest of all. To anybody who knows the history of the US (not the schoolbook version, but the real history), this will not come as a surprise. What did come as a surprise — to me — is that France, Italy, Germany, Spain, and England are no better. (Years ago, when I was involved in a legal conflict, my lawyer insisted that cases can be won only by perjury, that evidence matters not a whit, and that if I were foolish enough to submit evidence to court or foolish enough to tell the truth, I would lose. I was lucky that there was a quick out-of-court settlement prior to the need for any perjury. What a relief! You see, I would have refused to lie in court, regardless of my legal counsel’s urging. I would have been blackballed everywhere, my lawyer would have petitioned the court to be dismissed from the case, and I would have spent fifteen years in prison for a crime that never happened. More recently, after completing Chapters 28 through 41, I was summoned to serve on a jury — and I saw precisely what I expected. The lawyers for the two parties dismissed anyone who had any expertise, howsoever slight, in the subject matter. The judge then forbade us to pass judgment on the totality of the evidence. The judge permitted us to consider only a single irrelevant detail, a detail of no consequence whatsoever to the case. We had no choice but unanimously to pronounce the wrong verdict. That explains so much about the news stories we read every day. The game is rigged — completely. And pundits have the audacity to pretend to wonder why people start riots.)

A great highlight of my life was when one of Franco Rossellini’s relatives read these chapters and approved them fully, without amendment. Catharsis! I must have done something right! She said I should just go ahead and publish them as is. So, okay, here goes: 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, (35 is down for the nonce, pending corrections), 36, 37, 38, 39, and 40. For good measure, here’s the opening of Part Six: 41. If you can read these without suffering overpowering pains of empathy, you’re made of stronger stuff than I. Well, either that or you’re a psychopath.

That’s it. No more. Until a recent series of devastating events, I wanted this book to be complete and to be published by a university press, as a real book with paper pages sewn between cloth covers, sold by retailers at a reasonable price. I have to be realistic. That will probably never happen. So this is all you get. I’m not trying to be mean. The way I am feeling these days, I would simply rather die than go through the agony of rewriting the coauthored chapters, and I don’t want to put up with fighting off those who would object to the publication. Maybe I’ll change my mind after a several-year vacation from Caligula, maybe. Maybe not. Probably not. Over this past year or so my emotions have been twisted around so many times that I’ll probably wish never to think about Caligula again. I am entirely out of energy and every last drop of my enthusiasm has been drained away. My nerves are shot. I give up. It would be madness to continue. It is time to stop. There really does come a time to walk away. I have waited long past that time. Now I’ll spend more time with my cat. There’s never been anybody in the world I’ve loved half so much as I love my cat. Time with her is my priority. She doesn’t twist my emotions around. I am now also freed to pursue other quests that have been on the back burner for over a decade. Hoorah!