On the 18th of May 1927, Grauman’s Chinese Theater hosted the premiere of The King of Kings, a silent spectacle dramatizing the last few days of Jesus Christ’s life. Directed by Cecil B. DeMille—the Hollywood impresario best known for his entertainments based on Biblical stories, such as 1956’s The Ten Commandments—the film captivated religious and secular audiences alike with its grandiose pageantry: huge sets, a cast of thousands, and lavish special effects. Also noteworthy was the limited use of color photography. While predominantly shot in black-and-white per the standard of the time, the film featured two Technicolor sequences: an opening bit featuring an exotic Mary Magdalene and another near the end depicting Jesus’s resurrection. In his book Cecil B. DeMille’s Hollywood, Robert S. Birchard claims the picture’s budget equated to $2.26 million and quotes what was certainly intended to be a pious statement from the director: “I am only the humble and thankful instrument through which the screen… is carrying the greatest of all messages to hundreds of thousands of fellow human beings.”
In 1961—two years after DeMille’s death—a similarly titled movie was released to audiences still clamoring for epics set in the historical past. While not an official remake, Nicholas Ray’s King of Kings also dramatized Christ’s life and teachings, death on the cross, and resurrection. By this time, color film had become common throughout the world, as seen in more contemporary Biblical epics such as William Wyler’s Ben-Hur (1959), which won a whopping eleven Academy Awards. Ray’s picture deviated from DeMille’s in that its content was closer to that of other ‘60s historical epics, featuring a lengthy prologue, politicking, and scenes of battle. But at its core remained the famous story of Jesus and how he endured crucifixion so the rest of the world could have an opportunity at salvation.
DeMille’s The King of Kings and Ray’s King of Kings dramatize Jesus’s life within the popular frameworks of their respective times: the former as silent-era showmanship and the latter as a historical epic. And while they might not be official versions of one another, their tackling of the same story (under similar titles, no less!) warrants a degree of comparison. A comparison in which DeMille’s picture emerges superior as both a piece of storytelling and, more importantly, a cinematic rendering of Christ’s legacy.
DeMille’s The King of Kings and Ray’s King of Kings dramatize Jesus’s life within the popular frameworks of their respective times: the former as silent-era showmanship and the latter as a historical epic.
One of the shortcomings of Nicholas Ray’s King of Kings is how remote and detached it seems for an adaptation of a Biblical story remembered for grace and intimacy. Part of the problem is that Ray and producer Samuel Bronston dedicate too much time to superfluous expository material. King of Kings begins with a lengthy prologue showing how the Romans conquered Judea, complete with violence and power exchanges that are well-staged yet wholly unnecessary. There’s a battle wherein Jewish rebels attack Roman soldiers—many minutes of impersonal mayhem that merely introduce Barabbas (the rebel whom the Jews spared to ensure Jesus’s crucifixion). There’s a needless scene depicting the death of Herod the Great and the ascension of his son, Herod Antipas. Mixed in with all of this detritus are Christ’s beginnings, but they come across as secondary to the surrounding politics and warfare. By the time the grown Jesus (played by Jeffrey Hunter) appears thirty minutes in, King of Kings, hampered by gratuitous exposition, is off to a weak start.
Although DeMille’s The King of Kings also takes its time introducing Jesus, it does so via compact, streamlined storytelling. As mentioned before, the picture opens with a Technicolor sequence featuring a scantily dressed Mary Magdalene (Jacqueline Logan). Surrounded by would-be sexual partners, she inquires about the whereabouts of one lover, Judas Iscariot, and learns he has become a disciple to a local carpenter reportedly performing miracles. And so she ventures into the city to find them both. As the color photography switches to black-and-white, DeMille introduces a crowd of people responding to the work of Jesus, whom we’ve not yet seen. A once-crippled boy named Mark (destined to write one of the Gospels) emerges from the carpenter’s house, proclaiming to have been cured of his limp. Another child—this one blind—begs the healed Mark to take her to see Jesus. From the start, the movie is about Jesus and uses the setup, not for world-building, but to create a sense of wonder anticipating Christ’s reveal.
It’s a reveal that DeMille wisely draws out. Even as the camera accompanies the two children into Christ’s home, the Son of God remains off-screen. And when at last he does appear, it’s through the perspective of the blind child regaining her sight. Mary Magdalene shortly thereafter enters the house, becomes spellbound by the man she intended to confront, and is cleansed of the Seven Deadly Sins that have long defined her life. The twenty minutes spent anticipating Jesus pay off with two life-changing miracles. This sense of wonder—this sense of narrative—begins a set of patterns that distinguish The King of Kings as superior to its 1961 counterpart.
Although both movies exceed two and a half hours, DeMille’s The King of Kings is the only one interested in dramatizing Jesus’s works. Take, for instance, the famous account wherein Christ saves an adulteress from a crowd ready to stone her. In DeMille’s picture, Jesus’s heroics are preceded by a jar of flour being accidentally dropped and shattered before the woman. The Son of God crouches before the spilled contents and with his finger traces the words for various sins (“murderer,” “thief,” “adulterer”). Those in the crowd recognize their hypocrisy—noticing the proverbial log in their own eye—and retreat in shame. It’s a fine moment capitalizing on the visual nature of cinema to tell the story largely through imagery. By contrast, the corresponding scene in Ray’s King of Kings is disappointingly basic: Jesus simply shouts for a sin-free person to cast the first stone and the crowd disperses, the conflict ending in a matter of seconds.
In fact, Ray’s film is largely impersonal in depicting Jesus and his works. Unlike The King of Kings, which used chatter amongst secondary characters to generate a sense of wonder for the Son of God, Ray’s film simply plunks Jesus’s miracles into the narrative without dramatic buildup (and some of his feats—such as walking on water—are merely mentioned). The film also pales thanks to some unfortunate miscasting. H.B. Warner’s performance as Jesus in the DeMille version is immaculate, the actor relying mostly on his soulful eyes and gentle mannerisms to convey a comforting sense of love. (That Jesus seemed like a man we’d approach for help and guidance.) By contrast, Jeffrey Hunter—a handsome actor best known as John Wayne’s sidekick in The Searchers (1956)—is sadly uninspiring and at times awkward in Ray’s film.
For all these reasons—an actor mismatched to the part and direction not permitting ample room to what should be key scenes—the Jesus in 1961’s King of Kings comes across more like a sketch of a person than a believable character, let alone an inspiring spiritual leader. Only once does he get a chance to properly shine, during the famous sermon on Mount Galilee. Here, director Ray permits adequate time for the drama—and Hunter—to develop a sense of wisdom and majesty, especially when Jesus teaches the Lord’s Prayer. Unfortunately, it’s a rare effective moment in a movie begging for more like it.
The King of Kings also surpasses its 1961 successor in terms of supporting characters. The disciple Peter in DeMille’s movie (played by Ernest Torrence) is a fully developed person with his own personality and shortcomings—described in his introductory intertitle as “quick of temper but soft of heart.” Because we come to know him, there’s emotional resonance when he fulfills the prophesied three-time denial of knowing Jesus. The Peter in King of Kings (Royal Dano), by contrast, is—like the man he follows—merely a sketch, his denial amounting to little. But perhaps most glaring are the different depictions of the disciple who ultimately sold out the Son of God and paved the way for his suffering on the cross.
In The King of Kings, Judas Iscariot (Joseph Schildkraut) is given a clear motivation for following—and later betraying—Jesus. He believes Christ is fated to be king, but in the worldly sense. He imagines a Jewish monarch who occupies a palace throne, commands armies, and possesses vast wealth—and he hopes that his discipleship will be rewarded “with honor and high office.” Hence his disappointment when Jesus rejects worldly power. (This leads to a great moment visualizing sin as the Pharisees tempt Judas by dropping the infamous thirty pieces of silver one by one on a table beside him.) In The King of Kings, Judas, like Peter, is a fully drawn person. His counterpart in Ray’s movie (played by Rip Torn of Men in Black fame) is comparatively bland and so rarely seen that the audience never works up any particular emotions toward him. (Furthermore, in what might prove perplexing for secular viewers, King of Kings never explains why Judas kisses Jesus when betraying him. One must be familiar with the Biblical story to realize the kiss was a means of identifying Christ to his captors.)
But the most striking difference between the two films is how their endings are used to convey why Christianity matters to people throughout the world. Both The King of Kings and King of Kings climax with the famous closing events of the Gospels: Jesus dies on the cross, Judas hangs himself, and the Son of God rises from his tomb. But consider what happens next. In King of Kings, the resurrected Jesus lingers off-camera, casting a vertical shadow upon a rolled-up tarp that lies horizontally on the ground—the shadow bridging the tarp to create a symbolic crucifix. A strongly visual ending, but it is DeMille’s that viscerally points up the importance of the story both films are based on.
After exiting his tomb in The King of Kings, the Son of God briefly returns to his disciples, calling upon them to spread his teachings throughout the world. Then, in one of the most profoundly beautiful and spiritual moments in cinema history, the camera slowly tracks in on him while his followers and the background fade from view. The camera continues advancing as Jesus’s surroundings are replaced not with a Biblical setting from two thousand years ago, but with a modern urban skyline. Jesus lovingly gazes upon the city and his latest generation of followers, and a superimposed intertitle transmits his final spoken words in the film: “Lo I am with you always.” In this, we receive an ending that constitutes more than the capper to a story from the ancient past. This denouement cinematically reminds audiences that Christ’s love—and his presence and his teachings—transcends the ages.
Nicholas Ray’s King of Kings is certainly watchable as a historical epic. It contains some impressive imagery and a few powerful moments, but ultimately suffers from a clunky, unfocused narrative. Furthermore, the film lacks the raw emotional power necessary for its subject matter and is about as personal as the history lesson on which it opens. Cecil B. DeMille’s The King of Kings, on the other hand, is a marvel: consistently entertaining, with well-defined characters and a supremely moving performance at its center. And for Christian viewers, it triumphs for saluting why the story represented on-screen has and will continue to matter through the generations. It is at once majestic and comforting—as a film about Jesus should be.
