Pompeii is a shamelessly unoriginal, often ridiculous hybrid of a disaster film and a sword-and-sandal epic. It cribs so relentlessly from Gladiator that one could devise a drinking game based on its unabashed cinematic filching. Historians and volcanologists will likely pick apart the film’s glossy depiction of the 79 A.D. Mount Vesuvius eruption, but the anachronisms and inaccuracies are conspicuous even to the layperson. (It seems doubtful that Pompeii, just 150 miles from Rome, would have been a hotbed of anti-Imperial sentiment.)
Of course, a volcano film demands some digital mayhem, and after a lengthy buildup packed with predictable melodrama, director Paul W. S. Anderson delivers the goods. The actual eruption of Vesuvius is suitably awe-inspiring. The initial column of roaring gas and debris, seen through a shattered arena wall, is but one of Pompeii’s genuinely terrifying images of natural fury. One wishes that the surrounding performances didn’t totter between the blank and the ludicrous. Romantic leads Kit Harington and Emily Browning as a slave and aristocratic maiden radiate blandness, while Kiefer Sutherland’s corrupt senator practically twirls his mustache. The only welcome presence is Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje, who at least evinces charisma and wit as Harrington’s gladiator frenemy.
The one element that nudges Pompeii from forgettable to intriguing trash is the unrelenting bleakness of its vision. While the film exploits every genre trope one can imagine, they all eventually crumble before Vesuvius’ fire. In a sense, the pyroclastic destruction allows the film to have its cake and eat it too. The viewer gets revenge, battles, rescues, escapes, and True Love. And in the end—spoiler alert!—none of it matters. Everyone and everything is buried beneath ash and lava. The sheer audacity of such a conclusion is enough to warm a nihilist’s heart.
