Back in the 1950s and 60s in the twilight of Hollywood’s golden era, the sword-and-sandals movie stood as tall as the Colossus of Rhodes. It was a time when burly men in togas and gleaming bronze breastplates fought existential battles with fate. When Ben-Hur had its chariot race, Spartacus roused cries of defiance and the odd moment of splendid anachronism, and Cleopatra had Elizabeth Taylor burning through costume changes like a pharaoh with an Amex card.
And then, it all collapsed. By the 1970s, audiences weren’t interested in ancient glories any more; they wanted Vietnam war movies, paranoid political thrillers and antiheroes who didn’t spend half their films glistening in olive oil. By the time Star Wars arrived in the late 70s and early 80s, the genre had been survived only through low-rent Italian productions, where togas were optional but bad dubbing was essential, and the occasional made-for-TV slog where the biggest battles were against budget constraints.
