The other day, I finally watched Black Narcissus (1947), which had been on my watchlist for a long time. The movie—available on many platforms and for free on YouTube—is one of the most transporting films ever shot entirely in a studio, thanks to the brilliant work of two Oscar winners: art director Alfred Junge and cinematographer Jack Cardiff.
Skin, Color, and the Awkward on Screen
Among all its memorable scenes, one thing caught my attention and stayed with me until the moment I saw Nolan’s new release, The Odyssey.
At the start, we meet Mr. Dean, a rugged British agent for a Himalayan general. The only European in the remote village, he acts as a blunt guide and foil to the Anglican nuns trying to establish a convent. Here’s how we first see him.
In 1947, the creators of Black Narcissus weren’t afraid to show ‘ridiculous’ outfits and situations when they served the plot. They focused on storytelling, not on pleasing audiences for its own sake. If you can’t watch the whole film, at least see its fantastic scenes and how these choices didn’t harm its art direction.
One day I went to sleep with this movie on my mind, and the other I woke up with Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey.
Painting the Mare Nostrum Gray
I have already written about Nolan’s choices for The Odyssey, and I have no intention of doing it again. But how is it possible to shoot a movie in muted colors about the Mediterranean? And why does it all look like medieval Britain? A technician as meticulous as Nolan would never make such mistakes. Since the answer is a choice, I feel free to call it what I think it is: a prejudice carried from minds to the screen.
I suspect Anglo-Saxon culture treats vivid colorful palettes and minimal costumes as unfit for epic deeds and philosophical fables. In Hollywood, sunlight and bare skin are reserved for cheap stories, comedies, or children’s films. The moment a tale wants prestige, out come the darkness and the yards of fabric. For contemporary Hollywood, the Sicilian island of Favignana’s original colors would do for a new Mamma Mia movie, but never for The Odyssey, the mother of all Western stories.
Welcome to the Hotdog Epic
Along with the last Gladiator II (2024), I believe this movie inaugurates a category I’ve just named the Hotdog Epic. Back in the ’60s, critics coined the term “Spaghetti Western” for Sergio Leone’s films: a term to depict non-Americans manufacturing American myths.
The Hotdog Epic is about American productions commodify Mediterranean myths, treating them like fast food—mass-produced, processed, and standardized. They reuse familiar elements like revenge plots, tormented heroes, and loud battles, framing them as Greek or Roman epics. While theaters may be packed, but the product will always be disposable.
Without the charisma of Spaghetti Western actors and the magic of Ennio Morricone’s music, I just wish these Hotdog Epics luck in being remembered. Otherwise, they are just as dispensable as they were designed to be.
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