Katherine Howard, Thomas Culpeper and the ‘Master Culpeper’ Letter

The relationship between Katherine Howard and Thomas Culpeper has intrigued historians for many years, but what was its true nature ? The infamour 'Master Culpeper' letter might offer a hint.

The following is an extract from my 2016 biography, Katherine Howard (John Murray)...

The story of their supposed intimacy, as related by Thomas Culpeper in his own words, began when Katherine’s servant, Henry Webb, brought him to the entrance between her privy chamber and the chamber of presence. Here, she ‘gave him by her own hands a fair cap of velvet garnished with a brooch and three dozen pairs of aglets and a chain’. She then said to him, ‘put this under your cloak that nobody see it.’ Culpeper replied, ‘alas, madam, why did not you this when you were a maid?’ Katherine said nothing and the two parted.

A short while later, they met again; this time, Katherine was clearly put out. Piqued at Culpeper’s response to her gift, she asked him, ‘is this all the thanks you give me for the cap, if I had known you would have spoken these words you should never have had it.’ Katherine was angry because Culpeper’s response made it clear that he had wrongly taken it as a love token. At the most, she would have expected him to thank her, not to remind her of their past relationship. That she told him to hide the cap under his cloak shows that she feared that others might misconstrue its purpose, as Culpeper had done, and spread dangerous gossip about his apparent favour with the queen. Katherine herself had been very wary of letting others catch her with items that might be inter-preted as courting gifts, as the business of the French fennel clearly showed. 

However Katherine was incapable of remaining angry with anyone for very long. As with Henry Mannock before him, she soon forgave Culpeper his transgression. Shortly after their second meeting, Culpeper became ill. That Katherine sent him ‘at diverse times flesh or the fish dinner by Morris the page’, suggests that his illness lasted for at least two days. After that, the meetings ceased and Katherine, if not Culpeper, promptly forgot about them. The timeframe of these events can roughly be determined from Culpeper’s statement. They were initiated on Maundy Thursday, 14 April, and continued only while the court remained at Greenwich. Since the court left that palace on 27 May, it is evident that the three recorded incidences of contact between Katherine and Culpeper took place during a period of just over six weeks. By any standards, these encounters were sporadic to say the least and can hardly be taken as indication that Katherine was betraying Henry. 

What had prompted Katherine to arrange the reunion with Culpeper? Although he remembered their meetings vividly and could recount them in some detail, Culpeper never said why the queen had sent for him in the first place. The answer can be found in a letter written by Katherine to Culpeper at the time.

Master Culpeper, I heartily recommend me unto you, praying you to send me word how that you do. It was showed me that you were sick, the which thing troubled me very much till such time that I hear from you, praying you to send me word how that you do. For I never longed so much for [a] thing as I do to see you and to speak with you, the which I trust shall be shortly now, the which does comfort me very much when I think of it, and when I think again that you shall depart from me again it makes my heart to die to think what fortune I have that I cannot be always in your company, yet my trust is always in you that you will be as you have promised me and in that hope I trust upon still, praying then that you will come when my Lady Rochford is here, for then I shall be best at leisure to be at your commandment. Thanking you for that you have promised me to be so good unto that poor fellow my man which is one of the griefs that I do feel to depart from him, for then I do know no-one that I dare trust to send to you and therefore, I pray you take him to be with you that I may sometimes hear from you one thing. I pray you to give me a horse for my man for I had much ado to get one and therefore I pray send me one by him and in so doing I am as I said afore and thus I take my leave of you, trusting to see you shortly again and I would you was with me now that you might see what pain I take in writing to you. 

Yours as long as life endures, Katheryn 

One thing I had forgotten and that is to instruct my man to tarry here with me still, for he says whatsoever you behove14 him he will do it and… 

Intriguingly, Katherine breaks off at this point. It is possible that she added the postscript after she had summoned her messenger; then, he or she having arrived before she had finished, Katherine ended the letter anyway because she had said all that she wanted to say. Differences in handwriting and the colour of the ink show that this letter is written in two hands. The first eight words (in bold) are in the hand of an amanuensis. Katherine then took over and finished the letter herself. 

What, then, was Katherine trying to say to Culpeper? Lady Rochford once remarked that Katherine ‘trusted Culpeper above her own brother’, that is Charles Howard, who, like Culpeper, was a gentleman of the privy chamber. But Lady Jane did not elaborate upon in what regard Katherine trusted Culpeper. The answer lies in his position in the royal household. Culpeper was one of the king’s favourites and was known to have ‘succeeded Master Nourriz, who was in like favour with his master’. Henry Norris had occupied the senior position in the privy chamber until he was implicated in the downfall of Anne Boleyn and executed. Culpeper had intimate access to the king and was well placed to provide Katherine with information about her husband’s health and his ever fluctuating moods. More importantly, Culpeper could warn her of any indication that Henry was angry, perhaps because she was not yet with child; he could also listen out for any gossip about her, and report on speculation that her husband was considering repudiating her in favour of Anne of Cleves. Throughout Katherine’s queenship, this topic would surface time and again, to her consternation and grief. 

Katherine, therefore, cultivated Culpeper’s friendship. He was, in many ways, a good choice. Their previous relationship made him well-disposed towards her, he was related to her, albeit distantly, and was one of her husband’s favourites; more importantly, he was in the king’s confidence. For Culpeper, too, the arrangement had its uses. Considering that his master was ageing and increasingly infirm, it was prudent to look to the future. Although Prince Edward was a Seymour, and his family would play a major part in the regency, Katherine, as dowager queen, would still be in a powerful position. She was someone whose favour was worth cultivating.

‘The Supernatural and the Ethereal in the Character of Milady de Winter’ by Josephine Wilkinson

It was a dark and stormy night

 

Alexandre Dumas uses this now clichéd phrase, which he borrowed from Edward Bulwer-Lytton, to open Chapter 65 of his novel, The Three Musketeers. It comes almost as a shock to the unsuspecting reader because it seems oddly uninspired, jarring as it does with the originality and wit of Dumas’s usually carefully thought-out prose. Yet, by this point in the novel, the reader has been following an unaccustomed path for quite some time. Gradually, perhaps imperceptibly, The Three Musketeers had long taken on an unexpected quality.

   The Three Musketeers is arguably the most famous and cape-and-sword novels ever written. In d’Artagnan, it gave the world one of the greatest and best-loved literary heroes. The novel has been translated into many languages and appeared in countless editions since it was first published in Le Siècle as a roman feuilleton in 1844. It is usually, and quite rightly, described as a historical romance, an adventure; yet, as the novel progresses, it takes on an increasingly Gothic character spiced perhaps with a dash of Romanticism.

   Traditionally, the elements of the Gothic novel include the macabre, the fantastic and the supernatural. The action usually takes place against the setting of ‘haunted castles, graveyards, ruins and wild picturesque landscapes.’[1] While, at first glance, The Three Musketeers does not appear to fulfil these criteria, closer scrutiny reveals that at least some of them are present. For example, the Musketeers and d’Artagnan meet over breakfast at the Bastion Saint-Gervaise, a coastal fortress that had been breached and abandoned by all but the dead. Constance takes refuge with the convent at Bethune. Milady is held captive in Lord de Winter’s gloomy castle outside Portsmouth. Her judgement and execution take place against the backdrop of the afore-mentioned dark and stormy night.

   Yet, it is the supernatural qualities within The Three Musketeers that lend the novel its unexpected Gothic character. While some novels of the genre include ghosts, Dumas gave his readers death and resurrection. This is seen with both d’Artagnan and Athos. In d’Artagnan’s case, upon discovering the murdered Constance, he ‘uttered a cry and fell beside his mistress, ‘as pale and icy as she.’[2] It is as though he fell dead beside Constance, but he did not, of course, he had merely fainted. Athos rushes to him and embraces him tenderly, as d’Artagnan gently weeps. ‘My friend, be a man!’ he urges. ‘Women weep for the dead – men avenge them!’ To this, d’Artagnan, who has undergone a resurrection of sorts, replies: ‘Oh, yes, yes...if it be to avenge her, I am ready to follow you.’

   Dumas makes d’Artagnan and Athos avenging angels, for Athos, too, has tasted death. Seriously wounded during a duel, Athos ‘had rallied all his powers to bear up against his pain…finally defeated by it, [he] fell onto the floor as if he were dead.’[3]

      It is difficult to argue with David Coward’s assessment of The Three Musketeers as an ‘unashamedly masculine book.’[4] It is dominated by men: d’Artagnan, the Musketeers, Tréville, Louis XIII, Cardinal Richelieu, the duke of Buckingham, to name the most important ones. Naturally, there are female characters, but they tend to be depicted as little more than stereotypes. D’Artagnan’s mother is an obvious mother type, weeping for her son as he departs the family home to make his way in the world with her home-made balsam tucked into his saddlebag. Constance is a helpless heroine, who has to be rescued and looked after. She is also angelic, having been ‘an angel upon earth, before she became a saint in heaven.’ Anne of Austria, as a queen, fulfils a classic fairy-tale trope. She is an authority figure, certainly, but she is also a lover, and this makes her vulnerable. Like Constance, she must be watched over by men: the Musketeers; but she must also be protected from men: her husband and Cardinal Richelieu. Then there is Milady de Winter.

   It is with Milady that The Three Musketeers is at its most sinister. There is a darkness to Milady. She is an unsettling enigma, whose character transcends the role that Dumas had originally created for her. Initially, Rochefort was to be villain the piece. He and d’Artagnan became enemies from the moment d’Artagnan arrived at Meung. However, Dumas changed his mind and promoted Milady into the role of chief antagonist.

   Milady’s connections are spiritual. She works for Richelieu, a cardinal. She has associations with convents and churches, for example, the Benedictine convent at Templemars, where she lived as a young woman. She retreats to the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune following her escape from England. Milady also attends church, where she is discovered by d’Artagnan, who sees her at the church of Saint-Leun. Curiously, Milady singles out Aramis as the one who should be allowed to live. This is because he is the secret lover of Mme de Chevreuse, a fact that could perhaps be used to blackmail him: ‘he may be made useful,’ she says. More importantly, for most of the novel, Aramis experiences an inner conflict with his calling to the priesthood.

   Milady personifies several character stereotypes, all of which are negative: she is a harlot, a femme fatale who leads men astray. This is evinced by her beguiling qualities, which attract the then vicomte de La Fére to her. The vicomte, whom the reader will come to know as Athos, will fall deeply in love with Milady, marry her and make her the first lady of his province. Later, she uses her seductive powers to persuade the gullible Felton into killing the duke of Buckingham on her behalf. She is, therefore, an irresistible Eve figure tempting men towards their doom - in the case of Athos, to his descent into drunkenness and melancholy; for Felton, the consequences are more dire still, for he will be executed for his crime.

   An assassin, Milady makes several attempts to kill d’Artagnan: by having him shot during the siege of La Rochelle; by a poisoned bottle of Anjou wine; by asking for his head in exchange for that of Buckingham. Her brother-in-law, Lord de Winter, notes her ‘habit of assassinating people.’[5]

   Several times throughout the novel, Dumas makes various characters speak of the ‘weakness’ of women, but for Milady, weakness is easily overcome, or, more likely, it is feigned. It is clear that Milady is a character unlike any other. Most of the Gothic elements within the novel focus on her. She personifies the fantastic, the supernatural.

   From the beginning, Milady does not appear to be real. She possesses an almost fairy-like quality, which is reflected in her appearance: ‘She was pale and fair, with long curls falling on her shoulders, large blue languishing eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster.’[6] When d’Artagnan catches his first sight of her at Meung, her beauty is all the more striking to him because it is ‘completely different from that of the southern country which he inhabited.’ Already we see Milady and d’Artagnan as opposites, with one appearing as the reverse of the other. Milady’s ‘head appeared through the window of the carriage, like a picture in a frame.’[7] Rather than a flesh and blood woman, Milady appears like a portrait, a beautiful imitation of a woman. She is ethereal, surreal, unreal. Yet, if Milady is not a real woman, what is she?

   D’Artagnan saw in Milady’s soul ‘abysses whose depths were dark and unknown.’ She: 

exercised an inconceivable power over him – he hated and adored her at the same time. Never had he believed that two sentiments so inconsistent could exist together in the same heart, creating, by commingling, a strange and, in some respects, a diabolical love.[8]

    At a point in the story where Athos does not yet realise Milady’s true identity, he urges d’Artagnan to renounce her: ‘a kind of intuition tells me that she is a lost creature, and that there is something fatal in her,’ he warns.[9] D’Artagnan admits that this woman, who is like ‘a dark cloud on the horizon,’ frightens him. Athos expresses the hope that Milady’s presence in d’Artagnan’s life would leave no ‘fatal trace.’

   In The Three Musketeers, Milady is likened to a supernatural being on several occasions. More than a mysterious figure, she has magical powers, she is an associate of Satan; Medusa; a phantom who haunts the dreams of those who see her. Most often, she is simply a demon. Milady does evil simply ‘for the infinite and supreme enjoyment of doing so.’[10] Anything she touches becomes polluted, such as the ring she gives to d’Artagnan.[11]

   Milady’s apparent magical power becomes evident when she is facing execution. She tries to bribe two of the Musketeers’ valets, Grimaud and Mousqueton, and frighten them into helping her: ‘A thousand pistoles for each of you, if you will help me to escape,’ she tells them; ‘but if you give me up to your masters, I have avengers near, who will make you pay dearly for my death.’ Athos overhears this and orders the two valets to withdraw: ‘she has spoken to them, and they are no longer safe,’ he explains.

   As an associate of the devil, Rochefort asks Milady to give his compliments to Satan.[12] Her singing voice has ‘all the charm, all the power, all the seduction, with which Satan had endowed it.’[13] Milady possesses the powers of Medusa: upon discovering the fleur de lys branded onto her shoulder, d’Artagnan is stricken with horror, and ‘he remained silent, motionless and frozen on the bed.’[14] As a phantom who haunts men in the night, Milady ‘having once appeared to anyone, would never more allow him to sleep in tranquillity.’[15]

   More commonly, however, Milady is seen as demonic. D’Artagnan, Porthos and the valet, Bazin, recognise her as such.[16] The Puritan Felton, another victim to Milady’s Medusa-like qualities, also has his doubts:

 ‘Who are you? What are you?’ exclaimed he, clasping his hands, ‘are you an angel or a demon? Are you Eloas or Astarte?’[17]

    However, the one who is most aware of this characteristic of Milady is her husband, Athos. At one point in the narrative, Aramis warns d’Artagnan that ‘woman was created for our ruin, and it is from her that all our miseries come.’[18] Athos, as he listened to Aramis’ Pauline-inspired assessment of women, ‘frowned and bit his lips.’ He remains silent, but he is disturbed by Aramis’ words. He knows something that Aramis does not, but he will open his heart only to one man, d’Artagnan.

   Athos tells d’Artagnan a love story during which the reader finds out that Milady was not always evil.[19] She was ‘as beautiful as Psyche,’ the goddess of the soul, a beautiful woman whom people, including priests, compared to Aphrodite. Despite her youth, she was only sixteen when Athos noticed her, she possessed ‘the soul less of a woman than a poet.’ More than merely pleasing, she ‘intoxicated the heart.’ Athos married her and took her to live in his castle. He made her the ‘first lady of the province.’ In this, she ‘maintained her station admirably.’

   While the young couple were out hunting together, Milady fell from her horse and fainted. It was at this point that Athos saw with horror the fleur-de-lys that had been branded onto her shoulder. ‘The angel was a demon,’ he tells d’Artagnan. ‘The miserable young girl was a thief.’

   Athos now exercised his powers as grand seigneur. Without hesitation, he stripped her of her clothes, tied her hands behind her back and hanged her from a tree. D’Artagnan was shocked: ‘a murder,’ he cried. ‘Yes,’ replied Athos, ‘a murder, nothing more.’ Athos fell silent. He had now become as pale as death.

   Athos had believed Milady to be dead, but he was wrong, Milady was not dead – but had she somehow managed to escape from the noose, or had she returned from the grave? If the latter, she was not the only one.

   Athos’ first face-to-face meeting with Milady since that incident, occurs in a scene following her interview with Richelieu.[20] During the interview, she has secured permission to assassinate d’Artagnan, who has thwarted her plans and ‘cruelly insulted’ her. Appearing before Milady, a figure of hatred and accusation, Athos has taken on a spectral quality. He tells the terrified woman that he has returned from ‘the other world’ specifically for the pleasure of seeing her. Ironically, Milady, upon realising that Athos is aware of what has passed between her and Richelieu, an interview she believed had taken place in secret, tells him: ‘You must indeed be Satan.’ Athos is indifferent to this slur, even accepting of it: ‘Perhaps so,’ he replies nonchalantly.

   ‘You are a demon let loose upon the earth,’ Athos tells Milady. ‘Your power is great, I know; but you know also, that with God’s assistance men have often overcome the most terrible demons. You have already crossed my path. I thought I had crushed you, madame, but I either deceived myself or hell has resurrected you.’ He continues: 

hell has resurrected you…hell has made you rich, hell has given you another name, hell has almost endowed you with another face; but it has not erased either the stain upon your soul or the brand upon your body. 

    Confronted by Athos, Milady, who is described as a ‘creature,’ who has ‘nothing of a woman in her nature,’ is ‘as pale as a corpse.’ As Athos raises his pistol towards her, she utters ‘a hoarse sound which had no resemblance to the human voice but seemed rather the growl of some savage beast.’ Pressed against the wall with its ‘gloomy tapestry, with her hair dishevelled, she looked like the appalling image of Terror.’

   Disarmed of the letter given to her by Richelieu, in which she was given carte blanche to act according to her will, she goes to England to continue her plan to assassinate the duke of Buckingham. As her ship arrives at Portsmouth,

the fog thickened the darkness still more and formed around the beacons and lanterns of the jetties a circle like that which surrounds the moon when the weather threatens rain. The air was melancholy, damp and cold.[21]

Here, Dumas muddles his chronology. The assassination of Buckingham occurred in August. Dumas sets the scene in December. The weather reflects Dumas’s view of rainy England, but he also uses the gloomy conditions as a metaphor for the ethereal Milady now reaching her destination. The wild picturesque landscapes so necessary to Gothic literature allow the elements to provide the perfect backdrop for what is to come. This motif will be seen again as the novel progresses.

   Milady is met at the harbour and driven to Lord de Winter’s castle somewhere outside Portsmouth. At one point, 

surprised at the length of the journey, she looks out of the window to see where they were taking her. She could no longer see houses, but trees emerging from the darkness, like vast black phantoms chasing one another.

 Arrived at last at her destination, Milady is met with ‘an iron gate at the entrance of a narrow road leading to a forbidding castle, massive and isolated.’ As she alights from her carriage, the scene plays out against the sound of waves crashing on the rocky coast. Milady will be imprisoned in the castle. Imprisonment is a theme of Romanticism, while Milady is, for A. Craig Bell, ‘a typical Romanticists creation of villainy, without shades.’[22]

   The theme of isolation is continued when Milady returns to France, with the house in which the headsman of Bethune lives. It is a small house, ‘isolated, lonely and melancholy.[23] That it is painted in a reddish colour adds to the unsettling atmosphere of the place and the sense of foreboding it inspires. Within, the trappings of the headman’s interests are seen. He has a laboratory, on the table of which lies a skeleton. He is in the process of reassembling it, and it is complete apart from the head, which still lies on the table. It is a macabre preview of Milady’s ultimate fate.

   It is fitting, also, that having discovered the dead Constance, murdered by Milady, Athos traces the route his wife had taken to escape the convent by means of spots of blood she has left behind. As night descends, d’Artagnan and the Musketeers, with their valets, make their way to where they know Miladyis hiding. They present a melancholy tableau, ‘bleak as despair, gloomy as revenge.’

   It is now that Dumas makes use of the ‘dark and stormy night’ as the setting for what is to come. With this chapter, the story of Milady moves inevitably towards its conclusion: 

It was a dark and stormy night. Large clouds swept across the sky, veiling the brightness of the stars; the moon would not rise until midnight.

   Sometimes, by the flash of lightning that lit up the horizon, the road could be seen, stretching out white and solitary before them; then, the flash extinguished, all was dark once again.[24]

 Yet again, the elements obligingly provide both a backdrop and a metaphor for the horror to come: the judgement of Milady and her subsequent execution.

   Entering Milady’s house, Athos appears as a ‘spectre of vengeance.’ He has ‘the solemn voice and powerful gesture of a judge sent by the Lord himself.’ It is imperative that Milady is judged and is not assassinated, for that would be a crime and the Musketeers, d’Artagnan, Lord de Winter and the headsman are not murderers. They have all experienced the wickedness of Milady at one time or another, in one form or another, and her death must be just.

   Athos once again refers to Milady’s demonic nature: ‘You are not a woman’ he tells her, ‘you do not belong to the human race; you are a demon escaped from hell, and to hell we shall send you back.’

   The headman binds Milady’s wrists. She ‘sent forth two or three wild screams, which had a startling, melancholy effect, as they were borne on the night and lost themselves in the depths of the woods.’ The night colludes with the ten men presiding over the death of Milady, whose cries vanish into the darkness of the night.

   In a final, desperate attempt to save her life, Milady offers to enter a convent. This is a return to the spiritual life she had led before she had met Athos: ‘I will become a nun,’ she cries, but it is too late. For Milady, no convent can offer sanctuary. ‘You were in a convent,’ the headsman reminds her, ‘and you left it to destroy my brother.’ The headsman of Bethune is the brother of the young priest, Milady’s lover, with whom she ran away from the convent of Templemars before she married Athos.

   Milady is then executed. The method selected is beheading. Claude Schopp points out that her death ‘is that of a vampire.’[25] Following her execution, her remains are thrown into the Lys. The name of the river reflects the fleur de lys that is burned onto Milady’s shoulder, offering a sense of symmetry to her fate and closing the circle of her criminal life.

   The river forms part of the border between France and Belgium, or the Spanish Netherlands as the Musketeers would have known it. While Dumas does not explain why Milady should not be killed on French soil, the material point is the river itself. A river is running, or living, water, over which supernatural beings are unable to cross. This should mark the end of Milady in this world and the next – it should, but it will not, for Milady will return to haunt d’Artagnan and the Three Musketeers in the form of her son, Mordaunt.[26]

   Having discovered Mémoires de M. d’Artagnan by Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras, Dumas was particularly intrigued by the names of the three musketeers, Athos, Porthos and Aramis. He was struck by the episode concerning d’Artagnan’s dalliance with Milady. In Courtilz’s work, he discerned the foundations of an exciting historical romance.

   Inspired, Dumas set down a rough draft of a narrative and sent it to his collaborator, Auguste Maquet, with a copy of Courtilz’s book for his opinion. If Maquet felt equally inspired, he failed to show it. Instead, he merely paraphrased the first few chapters of Courtilz and returned it to Dumas with a view to discussing how the plot and the characters should progress. In this, they disagreed. For Maquet, the novel should be written as a study of seventeenth-century manners, the book peopled by long-forgotten figures of the period. Their stories, he suggested, would be a more developed and dramatic version of Courtilz’s pseudo-memoir.

   For Dumas, on the other hand, Mémoires de M. d’Artagnan provided the starting point for a story that would allow him to do what he did best – to take great figures from the past and set them within whatever narrative framework best suited them. He took the somewhat one-dimensional characters he had found in Courtilz and transformed them so that they were both believable and relatable. The stilted and pedestrian dialogue of Courtilz became charming, amusing, meaningful and flowing. The action now took place against settings that were familiar with readers, painted as they were in the vibrant colours of the Parisian streets, battlegrounds, inns, palaces and musketeers’ lodgings.

   Dumas’s ‘unashamedly masculine’ novel is a masterclass of the swashbuckling escapade, a story of friendship and heroism – the historical romance that its author had envisaged. However, as the story progresses, The Three Musketeers increasingly becomes a battle of apocalyptic proportions. The spirts of good (d’Artagnan and the Musketeers) face the all-powerful spirit of evil (Milady), playing out what Schopp calls a ‘mime of catholic eschatology.’ In this context, the judgement of Milady reflects the general judgement of the last days.

   For Simone Bertière,

Milady’s character takes on an increasingly disturbing profile over the pages, and, once her identity is discovered, she reveals herself to be satanic. The struggle which pits her against our heroes then becomes a battle of Good against Evil.[27] 

   David Coward reminds readers that Dumas’s fiction is primarily ‘based on the principle of conflict.’ From the beginning of The Three Musketeers, he sought to ‘seed’ the novel ‘with evil as a counterweight to d’Artagnan’s nobility of heart.’[28] Coward agrees with Bertière’s interpretation, noting that the narrative is ‘dominated by d’Artagnan’s battle to the death with Milady, which acquired an epic dimension because it is also an allegorical battle between Good and Evil.’ At the same time, Milady’s branding is ‘a deliciously melodramatic touch, adding a frisson of horror.’[29]

   Milady ultimately serves as a force of evil to counterbalance the good of d’Artagnan and the Musketeers. As the novel continues, she becomes increasingly important to the plot - to the point that several chapters in the second half of the novel fail to mention d’Artagnan or the Musketeers at all. The focus instead is entirely upon Milady and the situation in which she then finds herself.

   The Three Musketeers, therefore, can be read on several levels: a historical romance, an adventure, a celebration of male friendship and heroism. It is also undoubtedly, and unexpectedly, an allegory of eschatology, in which good overcomes evil. However the novel is approached, the ghost of Milady de Winter will be seen running through the pages, haunting the reader, as she has haunted d’Artagnan and the Musketeers, long after they have read the closing lines.

 

Notes

 

1, Drabble (ed), p.405.

2, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 63,

3, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 3.

4, Dumas, Coward (ed), p.xviii.

5, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 50.

6, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 1.

7, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 1.

8, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 35.

9, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 35.

10, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 50.

11, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 38.

12, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 62.

13, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 53.

14, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 37.

15, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 48.

16, The Three Musketeers, Chapters 47, 48.

17, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 55.

18, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 9.

19, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 27.

20, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 45.

21, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 49.

22, Bell, p.196.

23, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 64.

24, The Three Musketeers, Chapter 65.

25, Dumas (Schopp), LXXV.

26, Mordaunt appears in Twenty Years After, the immediate sequel to The Three Musketeers.

27, Bertière, p.187.

28, Dumas (Coward), p.xvi.

29, Dumas (Coward), p.xvii.

 

Bibliography

 

·       Bell, A. Craig, Alexandre Dumas: A Biography and Study (London: Cassell & Company Limited, 1950)

·       Bertière, Simone, Dumas et les Mousquetaires: histoire d'un chef-d’œuvre (Paris: Librairie générale française, 2010

·       Coward, David (ed) see Dumas

·       Drabble, Margaret, The Oxford Companion to English Literature, fifth edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985)

·       Dumas, Alexandre, The Three Musketeers edited by David Coward (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991-92)

·       Dumas, Alexandre, Les mousquetaires. I, Les trois mousquetaires. Vingt ans après, Alexandre Dumas; éd. établie par Claude Schopp (Paris: le Grand livre du mois, 1997)

·       Schopp, Claude (ed) see Dumas

John the Baptist in Film

 

Chapter seven

John the Baptist in Film.

 

1.1 Introduction.

Michael York as John the Baptist in Jesus of Nazareth, 1977

The last chapter focussed upon literary works in which John the Baptist appeared as a character. It was discovered that writers are relatively free to interpret John and his role. In some instances, he serves to advance a story, or to enhance the study of another character, who is the main focus of the work. Some authors use John and his experience as a means to convey a point or teaching of their own, or to explore certain facets of the human condition. Sometimes John is in full view, called by his own name, placed within his own environment and set against his natural background. Other times John has to be teased out of the shadows, where he hides in the guise of another character, or inhabits uncharacteristic surroundings.

            In film, a major obstacle is the fact that no film maker has ever filmed a life of John the Baptist. John is always a minor character who owes his existence to his interrelation with the main protagonist. That might be Salome or Jesus. John, therefore, is defined only in terms of his relationship with that other character. However, such circumstances need not obstruct any attempt to study John the Baptist in film.

 

1.2 Aims.

The aim of this chapter is to apply the knowledge gained in previous chapters of traditions and themes of John the Baptist to a study of films in which John is featured. This will be done by, first, providing a survey of films that include John as a character. Second, by selecting those films that that are to be used in this study, giving the reasons for its selection. Next, by identifying the themes of John the Baptist that are to be found in film. Finally, by embarking upon a discussion of these films.

 

2.1 John the Baptist in Film.

John the Baptist made his cinematic debut in 1908 in a film entitled Salome. This film, directed by J. Stuart Blackton, is based upon the play by Oscar Wilde^[1], Salome. John re-appeared in 1918, in J. Gordon Edwards’ Salome. His fate is something of a side story in this film, which nevertheless depicts him as the victim of the eponymous heroine who lusts after him. When he rejects her, Salome asks for his head on a platter. Still another version of Salome was made in 1923 by director and producer, Malcolm Strauss. This time, John is presented as a character called ‘the Wanderer’. His death is the result of a battle of wills between Salome and Herodias, the latter of whom threatens to kill a visiting Egyptian prince with whom both women are in love, if she does not ask for John’s head. The same year, 1923, saw perhaps the most faithful filmed version of Wilde’s play to date. Directed by Charles Bryant, Salome shows John to be the victim of the vindictive girl whose advances he has rejected. In a scene taken directly from Wilde, she kisses the severed head as it lies in its platter. This act so disgusts Herod that he orders her execution. The film’s exotic sets and costumes are based upon Aubrey Beardsley’s drawings that accompany Wilde’s text. William Dieterle’s Salome, which appeared in 1953, reflects the church’s interpretation of John as one of the first Christians. He rejects Salome because he prefers his religion, Christianity, to her. In a twist, Salome converts to Christianity at the end of the film, a testament to the continuing success of John’s preaching and message as suggested in the Gospels (Mk 1.5).

            In a departure from his involvement with Salome, John next appears in The Big Fisherman, directed by Frank Borzage in 1959. This film depicts the life of Simon Peter. Two years later, in 1961, Nicolas Ray’s King of Kings was released. Ray’s life of Christ gave audiences a view of John as a somewhat weary baptiser nearing the end of his ministry. The Gospel According to St Matthew followed in 1964. A life of Christ based upon the Gospel of Matthew, it is directed by the Marxist Pier Paolo Pasolini. One year later, in 1965, George Stevens presented his own lavish version of the life of Jesus. This film, although drawing from many sources, is primarily influenced by the Fourth Gospel.

            1972 saw a brief break in Life of Jesus films, returning John to the erotic world of Wilde’s Salome. Directed by Carmelo Bene, Salome shows John the victim of the spurned lady of the title. In a strange twist, John’s death occurs after the crucifixion. Thus, it reverses the perception of this event as a precursor to Jesus’ death. The viewer is returned to familiar territory with Godspell, directed in 1973 by David Greene. That this film is set in modern-day New York, however, hints at its somewhat unorthodox style. Greene’s approach, relying heavily upon the fashions and images of the hippy era, is echoed in Gospel Road, directed by Robert Elfstrom in 1973. This musical, set in Israel, in turn reflects Norman Jewison’s Jesus Christ Superstar, also released in 1973. Superstar is a filmed version of a Broadway production of an album of songs by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

            Michael Campus’ 1976 The Passover Plot is influenced by the life of Jesus as reconstructed by the German theologian, Reimerus. A year later, in 1977, Franco Zeffirelli’s Jesus of Nazareth appeared on television screens. Peter Sykes and John Kirsh directed the next film, Jesus, in 1979. It is based upon the Gospel of Luke. After a rest of some nine years, John returned to the silver screen in Martin Scorsese’s controversial The Last Temptation of Christ in 1988. Following another long silence came, in 2000, The Miracle Maker, directed by Derek Hayes. In this animated film, the audience witnesses Jesus’ story through the eyes of Jairus’ daughter, here named Tamar, whom Jesus raised from death (Mk 5.22-24, 35-43 and par.). Finally, in 2000, Gail Edwards directed a filmed version of her West End production of Jesus Christ Superstar. The sets and costumes used in this film brought the Jesus story firmly into the modern era.

            Films featuring John the Baptist fall into two distinct categories, Salome films and Life of Jesus films. Salome films, even if they have distorted the plot somewhat, all take Oscar Wilde’s play as their source. It is, however, in the Life of Jesus films that the most diversity in approach, sets, costumes, and John’s interaction with the central character, Jesus, is encountered. For this reason, this study of John the Baptist in film will be confined to his role in Life of Jesus films. Of these films, nine shall be selected for study.  In chronological order, these films and the reasons for their selection are:

 

King of Kings (1961) Nicolas Ray. This film is influenced by the Gospels. However, its introduction draws heavily upon Josephus’ Antiquities. This gives it a historical dimension. John the Baptist encounters a Jesus whose humanity, rather than his divinity, is to the fore.

 

The Gospel According to St Matthew (1964) Pier Paolo Pasolini, is a visual representation of Matthew’s Gospel.

 

The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965) George Stevens. Largely following the Fourth Gospel, Stevens’ film offers a rewarding comparison to that of Pasolini.

 

Godspell (1973) David Greene. John has only a small part in this film, which treats his proclamation of Jesus and his baptism. His death is not featured. However, Greene highlights a fascinating link between John’s death and that of Jesus that demands attention.

 

Jesus of Nazareth (1977) Franco Zeffirelli. This is perhaps the most comprehensive telling of Jesus’ story. As such, it is able to provide a substantial study of John, both as a character in his own right as well as his relationship with Jesus.

 

Jesus (1979) Peter Sykes and John Kirsh. This film, based as it is upon the Gospel of Luke, allows a comparison to be made between its presentation of John with that of its source as well as representations of John drawn from parallel passages of Matthew and the Fourth Evangelist as they appear in Pasolini and Stevens.

 

The Last Temptation of Christ (1988) Martin Scorsese, is based not upon the Gospels but upon the novel The Last Temptation by Nikos Kazantzakis. As such, it takes a different approach from previous and subsequent films that are based upon the Gospels.

 

Jesus of Montreal (1989) Denys Arcand. This film follows the experiences of a young actor as he prepares for his role of Jesus in a miracle play. John the Baptist does not appear. However, he is alluded to in the form of an older actor who points to the young man as a more worthy successor, as well as a professor who helps the actor as he embarks upon the research for his part.

 

The Miracle Maker (2000) Derek Hayes returns to Gospel-based films. The fact that it is animated demands its inclusion in this list.

 

Jesus Christ Superstar (2000) Gail Edwards. This film was chosen over the Norman Jewison version of the same story because it brings the Jesus story, literally, to the present day. Its ultra-modern style provides an interesting platform for Jesus’ message in the twenty-first century.

 

2.2 Themes of John the Baptist in Film.

As with art and literature, films in which John the Baptist features present various themes of John that have been identified from previous chapters. The themes of John in film are: Birth of John, John’s Environment, John the Prophet, John as Elijah, John the Forerunner, John’s Disciples, John the Baptiser, Baptism of Jesus, John and Jesus, John’s Arrest, John’s Imprisonment, the Death of John and the Miracles of John.

 

3.1 Birth of John.

Luke is unique among the evangelists in that he alone presents an account of John’s birth. As such, one would expect to find a similar treatment in a film based upon Luke: Sykes and Kirsh’s Jesus. However, the only reference to this event occurs when Mary visits her kinswoman, Elizabeth, the mother of John. Of the miracles surrounding John’s origins, the only mention is that it was a miraculous pregnancy. It is left to Zeffirelli, whose Jesus of Nazareth includes an account of John’s nativity. Zeffirelli dates John’s conception to the 19th day of Tishri. This, the seventh month of the Jewish year, falls within September to October of the civil year. A child conceived at this time would be born about the time of Midsummer. Zeffirelli, therefore, has timed John’s conception so that it conforms with the date of his birth according to Christian tradition^[2]. This approach was also used by Wile^[3], who exploited it in order to emphasise the future role of John the Baptist. Moreover, Zeffirelli emphasises John’s status as Jesus’ precursor from the outset by opening his film with a synagogue scene in which the expectation of a messiah is expounded. John’s nativity is shown to be part of this whole atmosphere of expectation, which will be fulfilled in Jesus.

 

3.2 John’s Environment.

Artists paint their vision of John’s wilderness in all its vivid glory. Writers describe, often in the most graphic terms, the environment to which John the Baptist went in answer to the call of God, where he communed with him and heard his voice. Film actually takes the viewer into John’s world, recreating it in all the beauty of its colours, sounds and textures. Perhaps the most striking image in Stevens’ Greatest Story Ever Told is of John’s desert. The camera pans across acres of the grand Mesa country of Utah, which here stands in for John’s environment (Telford 1997:127). Its expanse, its wildness, even its beauty, is truly awesome. Unexpectedly, a lonely figure is spotted, two figures, a group. They are almost engulfed by their surroundings as they slowly make their way towards a destination as yet unseen by the viewer. A voice is heard, crying in the wilderness, preaching, exhorting, a sense of urgency is discernable. Still the figures increase, and it becomes apparent that they are answering the call of this voice. Finally the viewer is shown a man standing waist deep in a river. He pours water over the heads of those who come to him as he recites certain words. The man is mature, bearded, dressed in animal skins. His appearance shows him to be as wild as the desert, from which he must be inseparable.

            John the Baptist is found exactly where he would be expected to be, in the wilderness. The evangelists unanimously agree that the desert wastes provide the setting for John’s ministry (Mk 1.4 and par; cf. Lk. 1.80; Jn. 1.23). Moreover, the significance of John’s chosen locale is reflected in his message, which is to prepare for one who is to follow after him. He does this by baptising people in the waters of the Jordan. By depicting John performing this function in the desert, Stevens is following the descriptions of John’s ministry as laid down by the evangelists. However, there is more to the desert than this. There is something about it that is unnerving. There is a sense of danger and menace recalling the imagery of Bosch or Conrad. The association with sin, as it is encountered in Kazantzakis is not apparent. However, the desert is far from civilisation and all that is safe. People avoid it because it is the haunt of bandits, zealots, false prophets, Roman spies. John’s environment associates him with rebel elements, who frequent the wilderness and make it a place of danger. Ray’s King of Kings brings out this aspect of first-century Palestine by showing John’s ministry running parallel with the activities of the desert prophet Barabbas and his band of zealots. Ray’s approach accords with that of Dixon^[4], whose John shares his world with Judas the Galilaean. Thus, the danger run by first-century prophets, the fate of many of whom is recounted by Josephus (Ant. 18.85-7; 20.97-8; 20.167-8, cf. War 2.258-60; Ant. 20.167-72, cf. War 2.261-3; Ant. 20.188) and Luke (Acts 5.35-7), provides a historically authentic sub-plot in a film that seeks to recreate the tone of the period.

 

 

3.3 John the Prophet.

In The Greatest Story Ever Told, the audience encounters a John whose preaching, according to Stevens, makes much use of passages from the Hebrew Bible. As he heralds the one who is to come, John speaks of a ruler of Israel (Micah 5.2). People are urged to open to the ‘king of glory’ (Ps. 24.7). They must declare to the mountains and hills (Micah 6. 1), which is also cleverly indicative of John’s wilderness environment. John calls people to witness (Isa. 48.9), while he himself is the supreme witness to the Coming One (Isa. 40. 10). John quotes from Ps 24.8-9, which is later repeated by members of a crowd as they are dispersed by guards following Jesus’ preaching in the Temple.

            A similar approach is taken by Zeffirelli, whose Jesus of Nazareth shows John rebuking Herod for his illicit marriage. The passage he uses here is Jer. 13.27, which speaks of adultery and licentiousness. Such behaviour renders Israel unclean, since Herod’s sinful lifestyle stains Jewish society. Clearly, John’s concerns are for his people, Israel. While in his cell, John continues to speak out against Herod, this time using Isa. 32.1, 3. John now foretells the coming of a king who will reign in righteousness, ‘and princes will rule in justice’. The foretelling of the coming of a king could be seen as seditious, and might provide a link between John and rebel elements at large in the desert. If so, Zeffirelli is probably highlighting the hazards of being a desert preacher at such a precarious time as the Roman occupation. However, the reference to righteousness and justice is particularly poignant to John’s circumstances at the time and the fact that he will be condemned without trial. John also preaches from Isa. 5.20-21, which contains a reproach directed at those who go against the law of God. This could be a further reference to Herod’s marriage, or it could refer to John’s fate, which will be decided without benefit of the law. In other references taken from Isa. (29.20; 40.21-3), John hints at Herod’s future defeat at the hands of the Nabataean king, Aretas IV, an interesting allusion to an historical event reported by Josephus (Ant. 18.116-19). Another quote seems to be directed at Herodias and Salome: ‘Vanity of vanities, says the preacher, vanity of vanities. All is vanity’ (Eccl. 1.2).

            Stevens and Zeffirelli show John to be still living in the world of the Hebrew Bible. It provides the material for his preaching and the inspiration for his prophecies. Stevens illustrates this by making such a striking portrayal of John’s environment, which best associates him with significant events in Jewish history: the Exodus, the scapegoat ritual of Yom Kippur, as well as the location of Elijah’s ministry and mysterious disappearance. Zeffirelli achieves it by showing John to be fully conversant with the prophets who have preceded him. He also shows John to be concerned for the welfare of his own people. His reproach of Herod is born of this care as well as from his yearning to make Herod change his ways for the good of all. Both Stevens and Zeffirellli show John the Baptist to be operating from a specifically Jewish standpoint. As such, they can, like Luke (16.16), show him to be the last of ‘the law and the prophets’. However, it is in John’s preaching that the directors fully bring out John’s status. As he preaches from the sacred scriptures of the Jews, they show John standing in continuity with the prophets of old.

 

3.4 John as Elijah.

Further to John’s status as a Hebrew Bible prophet is his association with one such prophet in particular, Elijah. From the very beginning, this connection was thrust upon John by the synoptic evangelists who wished to harmonise this Jewish desert prophet and his message with their interpretation of Christ. Elijah gave John an image by which he can always be identified. Many artists use the Markan description of Elijah’s skins and leather in their portrayals of the Baptist. The costume became almost a uniform for John. The association also featured in literature, where the reader encountered matter-of-fact allusions in such works as Gene Edwards’ The Prisoner in the Third Cell, Camus’ La Chute or Kazantzakis’ The Last Temptation. Filmmakers are less enthusiastic about making the correlation between John and the figure of Mal. 3.1, later identified as Elijah (Mal. 4.5). Indeed, it is denied by Ray, who follows the stance taken by the Fourth Evangelist (1.21). Here, John emphatically disclaims any idea that he might be Elijah as he is confronted by the Jerusalem delegation. Nevertheless, Zeffirelli presents a scene in which this association is implied. Even before the audience meets the adult John, his identity and the purpose of his ministry is established. Rabbi Yehuda sits alone in the silence of a darkened scroll room. He is surrounded by scrolls, through which he has been searching for indications of the coming Messiah. Eventually he arrives at Malachi, from which he reads the passage concerning the messenger sent by God (3.1). The picture then fades to reveal John the Baptist standing on a rock, preaching his message of baptism and the coming of another. Zeffirelli’s approach is contrasted by Scorsese, who places John’s association with Elijah into a scene marking the beginning of Jesus’ own ministry. Jesus returns to his disciples upon hearing of the death of John. As he approaches them, their conversation can be heard. They discuss the Baptist’s last words, ‘Jesus of Nazareth, leave the desert; I am finished, return to mankind.’ They then refer to John’s identification as Elijah redivivus by noting their current location, by the Jordan, ‘Here is where Elijah was taken up to heaven’.

 

3.5 John the Forerunner.

The significance of John’s interpretation as Elijah is to emphasise his status as the forerunner of Christ. However, this theme of John the Baptist can be treated without reference to that Hebrew Bible prophet.

            Arcand takes an interesting approach to John as forerunner in Jesus of Montreal. Although the film does not feature John, it does include two characters who play a similar role. As the film opens, the audience witnesses a scene in which a hanging is depicted. As he ‘dies’, the hanged man points to the young man whose story will provide the plot of the film. As the young actor embarks upon research for his part of Jesus in an up-coming mystery play, he consults a professor, who gives him information about who Jesus is and how he has been interpreted. The professor acts as a guide to ‘Jesus’, as does John in King of Kings and The Last Temptation of Christ. However, he is also a forerunner, in that he brings the real Jesus to the attention of the actor, thus introducing and proclaiming him. Moreover, his studies of Jesus and his background, which he passes on to the young man, make him something of a witness to Christ.

            More distinct is the approach taken by Greene, in whose Godspell, John is unmistakably Jesus’ forerunner as he dances down the Brooklyn Bridge singing ‘prepare ye the way of the Lord … ’ Here, John declares himself to be the voice of the one crying in the wilderness. This contrasts with the synoptics, wherein the identification is imposed upon John by the evangelists eager to exploit any means to get their interpretation of John across. In applying this Isaiah (40.3) passage to himself, however, Greene’s John follows his Fourth Gospel counterpart (1.23). His approach reflects that taken by the novelist Gene Edwards, whose The Prisoner in the Third Cell was studied in the previous chapter^[5]. This novel portrays John announcing himself as the voice to the covenanters at Qumran.

            Greene’s depiction of John as Jesus’ forerunner has Gospel backing, but it is unconventional to say the least. John, here dressed in the brightly coloured rags of a vagrant, dances happily through the streets of New York City, blowing his horn as he summons those who would follow him and hear his message. Ray’s method takes the opposite extreme. Using the occasion of John’s confrontation with the Jerusalem delegation, Ray provides John with an opportunity to declare himself to be the voice of one crying in the wilderness. He points out to them that the Messiah is the one who is to come after him. That John’s mission is to proclaim the Messiah rather than acting as the messenger of God is here made clear by the way the historical John’s preaching is adapted to suit Ray’s approach to Jesus, in which his humanity rather than his divinity is emphasised. King of Kings, therefore, does not allow the possibility that John’s message concerned God and not a human messianic figure. This point had, in fact, been hinted at earlier in the same film. Herod explains to Pilate that John’s message is one of preparation for the coming Messiah rather than God.

            In The Greatest Story Ever Told, Stevens, who draws so closely from the Fourth Gospel, must take a different approach. In this Gospel, Christ is pre-existent, and so John’s status of forerunner is diminished in favour of his presentation as a witness. Stevens achieves this in a remarkable way. The opening scene of the film shows Christ as depicted upon the ceiling of a cathedral. In showing a, historically, later interpretation of Jesus of Nazareth at the very beginning of the film, Stevens demonstrates that Christ had existed before anything else, even his coming to earth as a man. All that follows, John’s preaching of the coming Messiah, his baptism in preparation for him, as well as Jesus’ earthly ministry, is really a prologue to that point at which Jesus is Christ and God incarnate. That is to say, it prefigures the Christ depicted in the opening shot. In view of this, Stevens’ John is not even allowed to proclaim Christ to his disciples. In contrast to the scene in Jn 1.35-42, John is prevented from declaring Jesus by Jesus himself. Jesus simply tells John that if the disciples follow him, they will know him.

 

3.6 John’s Disciples.

The Gospels speak several times of John’s disciples. Matthew (14.12) mentions that they buried John’s body following his execution. Mark (2.18) notes that they, like their master, observed the fast. Luke (11.1), tells us that he taught his disciples to pray. The Fourth Evangelist (1.35) shows how John pointed out Jesus to his disciples, who then left him to follow their new master. Each of the Jesus films in discussion, except The Miracle Maker, acknowledges that John had disciples. Ray shows two disciples assisting John as he baptises at the Jordan. One of them, John, who will become ‘the Beloved’, accompanies his master as he visits Mary at her home. Later, as John sits on the ground with his disciples, he notices Jesus. In a scene inspired by the Fourth Gospel (1.35-8), he sends them away to follow him, ‘There is your new Rabbi’, he announces. ‘He is the Lamb of God’.

            In Stevens’ The Greatest Story Ever Told, John’s followers do not play such an obvious part in his mission. Indeed, as with all those films wherein John’s disciples are shown, with the exception of King of Kings, they only appear so that they can transfer their allegiance from John to Jesus. Zeffirelli’s John the Baptist points out Jesus to his disciples, Andrew and Philip, with the words, ‘Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world’ (Jn 1.29). Thus, Jesus of Nazareth adheres to the spirit, if not the actual sequence of John’s preaching according to the Fourth Evangelist. John then sends the disciples to Jesus, saying as he does so, ‘he must increase as I must decrease’ (Jn 3.30). Indeed he must, for at this point, John has served has purpose, and his mission is at an end.

            The subjective standpoint of Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ makes any reference to disciples of John the Baptist irrelevant. It might be ventured that Jesus, by adopting John’s point of view, at least for a time, can be interpreted as becoming a disciple of John. However, this would be an over-interpretation of the evidence. First, Jesus’ embracing of John’s stance is merely a stage of his quest, and is shown to be so when he outgrows it. Second, John and Jesus are shown talking together, and so John might be understood as a teacher. Still, this scene cannot accurately be construed to suggest a master-disciple relationship in the accepted sense. Jesus is never actually seen working with John as a disciple might do.

 

3.7 John the Baptiser.

Like artists and writers, filmmakers acknowledge that baptism was an integral feature of John’s ministry. Also, like them, they own that John baptised people prior to and following his baptism of Jesus. Nevertheless, limited attention is given to John’s baptising ministry in film. In Ray’s King of Kings, it provides an introduction to John the Baptist. It also establishes the director’s interpretation of John as well as hinting at his fate. John’s activities are watched by Herod on his way to his palace, or by rebels who think John might be persuaded to their cause. In other films, however, some effort is made to explore the significance of John’s baptism, and to draw out the explanation of the rite as given in the Gospels.

            The evangelists describe John’s baptism as being one of ‘repentance for the forgiveness of sins’ (Mk 1.4 and par.). Zeffirelli reflects this in the liturgy used by John: ‘the Lord rejoices in repentant hearts; this water cleanses’. Thus, the director acknowledges current thinking that John’s baptism was meant to represent the penitent’s change of heart. To submit to John’s baptism was to indicate that people had reversed the sinful ways of their previous lifestyle. For Sokolov and Hayes, John’s message was that people must start with their heart as they repent of their sins and seek God’s forgiveness. The baptism was of no use unless one undertook it with sincerity and observed the new commitment to God that it signified.

            Nowhere is the true significance of John’s baptism better exemplified than in Stevens’ The Greatest Story Ever Told. Following his baptism of Jesus, John pleads for ‘steadfast love’ and knowledge of God rather than sacrifice and burnt offerings (cf. Hosea 6.6). This is particularly appropriate when it is considered that John wanted the people to repent sincerely. The Temple sacrifice had always been the method by which repentance was expressed, but John believed that this particular rite had become empty and meaningless. His baptism was meant to replace it. Stevens illustrates this by dissolving a scene depicting the Temple sacrifice into one in which John, his stirring speeches and his cleansing baptism is introduced. This technique allows Stevens to provide both a verbal and a visual representation of John’s rite. The water baptism has truly superseded the bloody Temple sacrifice.

 

3.8 Baptism of Jesus.

Just as filmmakers seek the true significance of John’s baptism, so they, like the evangelists, must accommodate the fact that Jesus had submitted to a baptism that was primarily designed for repentant sinners. Ray’s King of Kings reflects unease surrounding Jesus’ baptism by John. He shows Jesus kneeling before John, but the Baptist does not pour water over his head nor does he speak the words he had used for other penitents.  John merely places his hand upon Jesus’ head. A long look is exchanged between the two men, and their expressions suggest a silent questioning on the part of John and confident reassurance on Jesus’ side. Two sources might have influenced Ray as he approached this scene. The first is the account given by Matthew (3.14-15), wherein John refuses to baptise Jesus until Jesus insists that he should. This could be the interpretation of the silent exchange between John and Jesus, with John questioning and Jesus urging. Alternatively, Luke (3.19-21) presents an ambiguous account, in which there is some doubt as to whether or not John actually baptised Jesus prior to his arrest. This uncertainty appears in King of Kings also. Perhaps Ray drew from Matthew, since John’s hesitation arises from his awareness of Jesus’ sinlessness. This supposition is confirmed in a later scene, which has no basis in tradition, wherein John visits Mary at her home. Jesus has already encountered the Baptist and has gone into the desert. John tells Mary that Jesus is without sin, and so he questioned the need to baptise him.

            The Miracle Maker also includes John’s protest of Mt 3.14-15. However, Jesus takes John by the arm and leads him into the Jordan, all the while reminding him of the happy days of their childhood together. This reminds the audience that John and Jesus are related. However, this feature, taken from Luke (1.36), and used in their plots by writers such as Wile and Dixon, is only evident in The Miracle Maker and Jesus of Nazareth. As Jesus submerges himself into the water, it is seen that Sokolov and Hayes’ John does not baptise Jesus at all. This element of Jesus’ baptism has been taken from Luke (3.21), wherein John appears to play no part in Jesus’ baptism. The divine voice and its message, however, is addressed to Jesus in the second person. Therefore, it comes from Mark (1.11), followed by Luke (3.22).

            Directors, therefore, appear to take their inspiration for John’s baptism of Jesus primarily from Mark and Matthew. The reason for this could be that, in these Gospels, the occasion is related as a major event in the story of Jesus. By contrast, Luke leaves the readers uncertain regarding whether or not John actually baptised Jesus. All we are told is that ‘now when all the people had been baptised, and when Jesus also had been baptised … ’ (3.21). However, by this time, Luke has already stated that John had been arrested and shut up in prison (3.20). This ambiguity could be prohibitive to any director using Luke as his or her source. Nevertheless, the problem is successfully overcome by Sykes and Kirsh. In Jesus, they show the penitents immersing themselves in the water. John, although present, does not actually baptise them. When Jesus comes to John, he too immerses himself. As such, Sykes and Kirsh can remain faithful to Luke’s insinuation that John did not baptise Jesus.

            If John’s baptism underwent interpretation, so too did his preaching. John had proclaimed the coming of a figure who would bring judgment. He believed that the judgment was imminent. As such, his baptism was meant to be a single, final commitment to righteousness and right worship, thus allowing the penitent to be judged favourably by the Coming One. However, Christianity interprets the figure referred to by John as Christ. Christians understand redemption to come, not from a water baptism, but through Christ’s death on the cross. As such, the crucifixion supplanted John’s baptism, just as John’s baptism supplanted the Temple sacrifice. This progression is seen in Stevens’ The Greatest Story Ever Told. Here, a Jewish Temple practice is replaced by John’s preaching and baptism, which in turn is superseded by Christ’s redemptive death according to Christian understanding, illustrated in the sequence of scenes in which the baptism is central. Stevens, as has been noted, recognises the purpose of John’s baptism as a replacement for the Temple sacrifice. However, John’s baptism is temporary. Soon, it will be replaced by something else: the redemptive death of Christ. As Jesus approaches John, the Baptist refuses to baptise him. Nevertheless, Jesus insists. This scene is obviously taken from Mt. 14-15, which addresses questions concerning Jesus’ sinlessness. However, Jesus’ sinlessness has a greater significance for Stevens, whose Jesus is the Lamb of God as understood by the Fourth Evangelist. To portray Jesus’ baptism in a sequence that opens with a lamb being led to sacrifice summarises Jesus’ ministry according to this interpretation: Jesus is the Lamb of God whose death is the sacrifice that will take away the sins of the world. The reference to Jesus’ sinlessness lies in the fact that animals selected for sacrifice must be without blemish (Lev. 1.3; 3.1; 4.3, 32). Thus, Stevens makes a subtle correlation between the immaculate sacrificial lamb and the pure Lamb of God, whose ultimate sacrifice shall take away the sins of the world. He shows John’s baptism of Jesus to be the intermediary between these two doctrines.

 

3.9 John and Jesus.

The relationship between John and Jesus in film is one of mentor and pupil. This is particularly prominent in Ray’s King of Kings and Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ. Each director, however, takes a different approach. Ray’s John serves as an example of a man who has made the choice to leave the security and comforts of home and family in order to take the lonely path to which his calling has brought him. Jesus, at the point in the film, is still attached to his mother and home. Scorsese, on the other hand, shows John acting as Jesus’ guide and advisor. He helps Jesus to discover the correct interpretation of his own calling, the stirring of which he has felt, but is unable to fully comprehend.

            This phase of John’s duty towards Jesus, however, is short-lived. It ends following Jesus’ baptism, when he goes into the desert to face Satanic temptation. Ray shows John taking advantage of Jesus’ absence to visit Mary. He admits to her that he cannot bring the word to Jerusalem. This, he feels, is a task that only Jesus can perform. John, therefore, consciously hands over his ministry, here concerned with bringing the ‘word’ to the people, to Jesus.

            Scorsese’s Jesus, as he faces temptation in the desert, has a vision of John. The Baptist hands Jesus his axe. It is tempting to think that this is the axe referred to by John as being laid to the roots of the trees (Q 3.9) Alternatively, it might not be an axe, but a hatchet. If so, then it forms part of the equipment used by the covenanters of Qumran. This implement is mentioned by Wile and Edwards^[6], both of whom show John becoming a member of this community for a short time. Likewise, Scorcese shows Jesus to have visited a similar place prior to his encounter with John. In any case, the gesture symbolises John’s handing over his ministry to Jesus.

            The synoptics (Mk 1.14 and par.), in contrast with the Fourth Evangelist (3.22-3; 4.1-2), state that, after hearing of John’s arrest, Jesus returns to the world to begin his ministry. The implication is that Jesus began his ministry as a result of John’s arrest. However, Ray and Scorsese embroider this stage of Jesus’ story with scenes that have no Gospel support.

 

3.10 John’s Arrest.

Mark states: ‘for Herod had sent and seized John, and bound him in prison for the sake of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife; because he had married her’ (6.17; cf. Mt 14.3; Lk 3.19.). The evangelists, then, are in no doubt about two facts concerning the arrest of John the Baptist: who was responsible and why. However, filmmakers are fond of depicting Herod to be forbearing in his attitude towards John. Ray’s King of Kings shows John antagonising Herod by preaching directly outside his palace. The building is adorned with plaques of the pagan Roman emperor. Appropriately, the subject of his preaching upon this occasion is the tyranny inflicted upon the people by their pagan oppressors. By preaching against the Romans, John is once again associated with the rebel element, at least in the eyes of the authorities. However, there is no biblical support for the content of John preaching at this point, unless it involves ‘all the evil things Herod had done’, mentioned by Luke (3.19). As John is arrested, Ray takes the opportunity to separate John from the rebels with whom he has so far been implicitly associated. John stops those who would protect him with violence and, like the Jesus of Matthew (26.52) and the Fourth Gospel (18.11), goes towards his destiny placidly.

            Stevens’ The Greatest Story Ever Told hints that John is in conflict with the religious authorities of Jerusalem by showing him being confronted by members of the Sanhedrin. As they order him to stop baptising, John retaliates, saying that they ‘insult the decent sinners who have come here to repent’. John might be condemning the Sanhedrin for their compliance with the Romans. On the other hand, the remark is an indictment of the Temple system. Either way, it is clear that the religious authorities pose a threat to John. Later, however, Stevens suggests that John is under threat by the Roman authorities. In a sequence of scenes that cleverly illustrates John’s declaration, ‘he must increase, but I must decrease’ (Jn 3.30), the audience watches as the events of Jesus’ Galilaean ministry and the teaching of his disciples are interlaced with others in which the Romans discuss John the Baptist. In their opinion, he is a trouble maker who could be dangerous. It is decided that he must be arrested, but the authority of Herod is required. Herod, who is more interested in Salome than attending to business, expresses his tolerance of John, adding that he finds him an eccentric. However, when the messenger tells him that John speaks of the Messiah who is to come, Herod remembers his father’s warning of the dangers inherent in encouraging Messianic belief amongst the people. This leads him to authorise John’s arrest. For Stevens, then, John has caused resentment among the religious authorities, who might be blamed for his arrest. However, later events confirm that John’s detention is ultimately due to the Roman authorities and their fear of prophets such as John. His speaking of the Messiah causes the hitherto indulgent Herod to acquiesce to demands that John be removed. John the Baptist has clashed with the political mechanism of his country and paid the price for it.

            In Jesus of Montreal, Arcand shows an air of menace surrounding his John figure that equates with that faced by the Baptist in other films. John might be threatened by the Romans as a result of his association with the rebels in the desert, King of Kings, or the religious authorities, The Greatest Story Ever Told. However, Arcand’s ‘John’ is intimidated by the Bishop, who finances the Theology Faculty in which he works, as well as his colleagues in the faculty itself. As with Stevens, then, Arcand’s ‘John’ faces danger from the religious authorities.

 

3.11 John’s Imprisonment.

No mention is made of John’s imprisonment in the Fourth Gospel. The Fourth Evangelist is primarily concerned with John’s role of witness, and as such, John’s time in prison serves him no purpose. To the synoptic evangelists, John’s imprisonment is more important. They not only state the fact that he was arrested, they also give the reasons why. The main reason is that John preached against Herod’s marriage (Mk 6.17 and par.). Luke (3.19) suggests that John had rebuked Herod for other things as well, although he offers no hint of what these might be. However, Matthew and Luke also use John’s imprisonment as an additional opportunity for John to teach his disciples about Jesus. This is achieved by means of the question addressed to Jesus by John through his disciples as given in Q 7.19. This question, ‘Are you he who is to come, or shall we look for another?’, as important as it might be in terms of John’s assessment and acceptance of Jesus as Christ, is addressed in only one film: King of Kings.

            Ray treats Q 7.19 through a Roman called Lucius. A major character whose presence is evident throughout the film, Lucius progresses from one who is indifferent towards Jesus to one who comes to believe in him. The audience does not see Lucius pose John’s question. However, John’s answer comes in a scene wherein Jesus preaches outside John’s cell. As in Q 21-23, which comes from Isaiah 29.18-19; 35.5-6, 61.1, Jesus makes no mention of proclaiming ‘liberty to the captives’ (cf. Isa. 61.1). Nevertheless, this command of Isaiah is addressed by Ray in a scene in which the imprisoned John receives an unexpected visitor: Jesus himself. Jesus explains to Lucius, who is now John’s gaoler, that he has come to free John. At this stage in his journey, Lucius naturally thinks that Jesus means to break John out of prison. However, Jesus refers to the spiritual freedom of the Kingdom, which comes through righteous conduct, as outlined in Mt 25.34-46. Here, Matthew’s Jesus makes mention of the duties of the righteous, one of which is to visit those in prison (25.36, 39, 43, 44).

 

3.12 Death.

Mark (6.17-29) and Matthew (14.3-12) include an account of the death of John the Baptist. They use this event, recounted as a reminiscence of Herod, in order to further John’s status as Christ’s forerunner. In short, John’s death is the precursor of that of Jesus.

            Those filmmakers who include the scene of John’s execution do so for one of two reasons. First, they include it simply because it is found in the source material. This is the approach taken by Pasolini, whose film retells the Gospel of Matthew. Sykes and Kirsh, who present an abridged version of Luke, offer no depiction of John’s death because the event is recorded by that evangelist without elaboration (9.9). Zeffirelli’s Jesus of Nazareth includes the execution of John, here emphasising a political motive. John’s prediction of a new king to come, who would be a just prince, undermines Herod’s authority.

            Second, the event of John’s death can be used as an opportunity to enhance portrayals of Jesus. This approach, which closely mirrors that of the evangelists, treats John’s death as forerunner to Christ’s. This can be so even if the film itself features John very little, or even not at all. Hayes’ The Miracle Maker does not portray John’s execution. However, he does include a scene in which the Jewish authorities speak of having ‘dealt with John the Baptist’ because they thought he was dangerous. In a film that takes a minimalist approach to John, he appears in it for barely one minute, his death as the precursor to that of Jesus is exploited to the full. A similar approach is taken by Edwards, even though Jesus Christ Superstar does not feature John the Baptist at all. Edwards, nevertheless, manages to provide a link between his death and Jesus’ crucifixion in a scene, reflecting its parallel in The Miracle Maker, in which the Jewish authorities imply that they were responsible for John’s removal. As they watch Jesus, who is being celebrated by adoring crowds, on CCTV screens mounted in a room they note that Jesus is bigger than John was ‘when John did his baptism thing’. As a consequence, ‘so like John before him, this Jesus must die.’ In another film in which John does not feature, Arcand’s Jesus of Montreal, John’s death nevertheless still serves as a forerunner to Jesus’ own. This is achieved in the opening scene in which a hanging is staged. The ‘dead’ man points out the young actor who will go on to play Jesus as being more worthy of the part than he. This reflects John’s passing of his ministry to Jesus, as expressed in the words attributed to John, ‘he must increase, but I must decrease’ (Jn 3.30).

            In Ray’s King of Kings, there is a sense that Ray’s almost dismissive treatment of John’s execution can probably be attributed to the fact that he is more concerned to represent the relationship between John and Jesus at this point. This relationship is, of course, that of proclaimer and proclaimed. Jesus is the teacher to whom John has handed the reins of his own ministry. Ray’s priority is to express Jesus’ assertion that he is indeed the one whom John was looking for (cf. Q 7.19). The key to Ray’s approach is Lucius. The Roman soldier’s acceptance of Jesus as the Son of God might be inspired by Mark’s centurion (15.39), but the character of Lucius also represents the viewer, who is confronted with the question of faith. Nevertheless, Ray acknowledges the evangelistic view of John’s death as the precursor to that of Jesus by using several connecting links. Perhaps the most significant is Lucius’ presence during John’s imprisonment as his gaoler, as well as his participation at Jesus’ trial. A perhaps more subtle association occurs as Jesus preaches outside John’s cell, in the bars of which an image of the crucifixion is clearly visible. Still more subtly, Salome holds a caged bird when Herod questions John as well as at Jesus’ trial. In a clever play upon colour symbolism, Jesus wears red for the first time following John’s execution. Red, as has been noted^[7], symbolises martyrdom. As such, it is appropriate for John. However, here, Jesus is wearing it. Babington and Evans (1993:137) note that red is also the colour of blood and the Passion. As such, John’s bloody end foreshadows the crucifixion. Jesus’ red robes are, therefore, a connecting link between John’s death and Jesus’ own.

            Ray’s symbolism, as he connects the deaths of both John and Jesus, is subtle indeed. The approach taken by Greene is even more so. In Godspell, John the Baptist and Judas are played by the same actor, David Haskell. This has one fascinating effect when it is considered the circumstances of John’s execution and Judas’ betrayal of Jesus. As Bach (1996:111) points out, John’s death occurred at a festival being given for Herod’s birthday. This occasion was seen by Herod as an opportunity to rid himself of the Baptist (Mk 6.21). Similarly, it was at the time of another festival, this time the seder or Last Supper, that Judas decided to look for an opportunity to betray Jesus (Mk 14.11). The word used by Mark on both occasions is eukairia, ‘opportunity’ or ‘favourable occasion’. This provides a very subtle connection between the deaths of John and Jesus, which is exploited by Greene in his use of one actor for the parts of John and Judas. Admittedly, anyone not familiar with the Gospels in their original Greek would miss this point. It is, nevertheless, an extremely clever device.

            In the study of the treatment of John’s death in literature^[8], there was some discrepancy over who should be held responsible, Herodias and Salome, or Herod. The solution, whatever side an author took, was not always clear cut. This reflects the treatment of the same dilemma by the evangelists. Although they show Herodias scheming, and her (unnamed) daughter dancing, they ultimately imply (Mark) or state (Matthew) that Herod is the one who is ultimately accountable for the death of John. A similar phenomenon occurs in the film world. Therefore, in Kings of Kings, Jesus of Nazareth and The Gospel according to St Matthew, although Herodias and Salome are the driving force behind the execution of John, the ultimate responsibility rests with Herod. Stevens shows Herod to be equally weak-willed. However, here he is primarily the victim, not of his scheming wife and step-daughter, but rather of the Romans who surround him and act as his advisors.

 

3.13 Miracles of John.

As discovered in chapter two, there exists a miracle tradition surrounding John the Baptist^[9]. This tradition encompasses the miracles mentioned in connection with him in Luke. For instance, his birth to elderly parents and a barren mother (1.7), and the miracle of his father’s voice (1.20, 22, 64). However, later tradition, especially that connected with the monastic world, holds that John is able to perform miracles, especially healing, through his relics. This belief, as noted in chapter two^[10], contrasts with Jn 10.41, where it is stated: ‘John did no sign, but everything that John said about this man [Jesus] was true’. The Fourth Evangelist, therefore, rejects John’s abilities as a miracle-worker as he further emphasises his role as witness. The basis for miracles associated with John is the suggestion that Herod, upon hearing of Jesus’ healing and miracle-making activities, declares that John, whom he beheaded, was returned from the dead (Mk 6.14-16 and par.).

            In film, John the Baptist is also associated with miracles. As in the Gospels, the context is the association made between John and Jesus by Herod. This is particularly brought out by Ray, whose King of Kings, depicts Herod questioning Jesus. During the course of the interrogation, Herod asks Jesus if he is John come back to life. As though to explain his thinking, he tells Jesus that he had heard that he is a very great miracle worker. The Greatest Story Ever Told takes things a step further by showing Herod actually telling Jesus that he thought that he was John the Baptist come back from the dead. He qualifies this statement by speaking of Jesus’ miracles.

            In the main, however, it is ‘the people’ who make the connection. Stevens shows Jesus performing miracles and healing the sick. He walks upon water. To ‘the people’, this signifies, amongst other things, that John the Baptist has returned. How John can become associated with walking upon water is puzzling. However, a tradition does exist in which John’s head is said to choose which monastery it would like to reside in by floating down the Nile to its chosen destination^[11]. Later, Lazarus is raised from the dead, the cripple walks, the blind man sees; all this is announced to the Roman authorities. News of these incidents soon spreads, and Jesus is proclaimed a miracle worker. This leads him to be once more mistaken for John the Baptist. Again, Stevens has touched upon parallels in tradition, in which John the Baptist is a healer.

            Zeffirelli also briefly touches upon John’s career as a miracle worker. In a scene that appears to combine Mk 6.30 and Mk 8.27-8, Jesus of Nazareth portrays the disciples telling Jesus how they had managed to preach successfully and with inspiration. Jesus asks them who ‘people’ say he is. The answer is John, returned from the dead. Here again, John’s association with Jesus is connection with miraculous events.

 

4 Conclusion.

The aim of this chapter was to apply the knowledge gained in previous chapters of traditions and themes of John the Baptist to a study of films in which John is featured. The first task was to provide a survey of films in which John the Baptist appears as a character. Next, a selection of films was made to be used in the study, and reasons for each selection offered. Then, in a move similar to that taken for previous chapters, which discussed John in art and in literature, the themes of John the Baptist that are to be found in film were identified. Having arranged these themes into chronological order, a discussion of the films in which they were featured was embarked upon.

            Films featuring John the Baptist can be divided into two classes: those in which Salome is the main character of the film, and those that interpret the life of Jesus. This chapter focussed upon the Jesus films because they offer the most diversity in terms of John’s interaction with the main character, Jesus. Moreover, in a study of traditions of John, his relationship with Salome plays only a small part. His relationship with Jesus, however, is far more significant. This is because much of how John is interpreted in other traditions, whether it be Christianity, Islam, Gnosticism, or even paganism, is due to his perceived relationship with Jesus.

            Filmmakers seeking to represent the life of Jesus are, by definition, interpreting one story. It is the story of Jesus as familiar to anyone acquainted with the Gospels. Their approaches, however, vary considerably. Whatever course a director takes has a direct bearing upon his or her approach to John the Baptist. Pasolini, who filmed Matthew’s Gospel, and Sykes and Kirsh, whose film is an abridgement of the Gospel of Luke, took their interpretation of John from the source in which they found him. In each case, there was no attempt to analyse John, nor to include nuances that would lead the viewer to make connections between John’s death and that of Jesus. Stevens closely followed the Fourth Gospel. The Fourth Evangelist emphasises John’s role of witness to Christ. Stevens added a further dimension. Although his John does not act as the forerunner in the accepted sense, he does show John’s inspiration to come from the Hebrew Bible. Thus, as he preaches, John proclaims Christ, not as his forerunner, but merely as the prophet who has deduced his coming from his familiarity with the Hebrew scriptures and is bearing witness to the event as it unfolds. Here, Stevens comes very close to Luke’s view of John, that he is the last of the prophets (16.16). The law and the prophets end with him.

            Ray, Zeffirelli and Hayes each present an orthodox interpretation of Christ’s story, drawing from all four Gospels as well as the Hebrew Bible. Ray in particular adds a historical dimension to his film by means of references to Josephus. This provided an interesting view into the world in which John lived, and which he shared with zealots and rebels. Zeffirelli concentrated more upon John’s role of forerunner. He achieved this by introducing John with passages from Malachi, in which a messenger, later identified as Elijah, would come prior to the one whom Christianity has interpreted as Christ. This Elijah-like figure, dressed in the raiment of the desert prophet, then appears on screen. Zeffirelli, therefore, does not neglect John’s association with this figure. Hayes’ film is the only animated life of Jesus to be made so far. However, the choice of genre does not diminish its authenticity. John appears very briefly, yet Hayes manages to convey his mission of forerunner, proclaimer and baptiser of Christ.

            The films of Greene, Scorsese and Edwards can be singled out for their highly unorthodox approach. Greens sets his in the vibrant New York hippy scene. Although he does not include John’s execution, he does make a clever connection between that event and the death of Jesus. He does so by using the same actor for John the Baptist and Judas. Scorsese does not use the Gospels as his source, but rather Kazantzakis’ novel. Since his source depicts a quest on the part of Jesus to discover the truth of his calling, so too does the film. Scorsese’s John, therefore, appears more as a teacher to Jesus. He speaks to Jesus, helping him to understand his thoughts and feelings, and to guide him as to the best course of action as he sees it. For a time, Jesus appears to become John. However, this is merely part of his quest, a phase he must experience before he can go on. The Baptist has no more significant role in Jesus’ life than this. Edwards brings Jesus firmly into the modern era, including CCTV surveillance, and where an oppressed people write such poignant slogans as liberté, fraternité, égalité and Freiheit on the walls and carry placards declaring, ‘Jesus Rules’. Although John the Baptist makes no appearance here, he is alluded to in a scene that alerts the audience to Jesus’ eventual fate. As such, John’s forerunner status is not ignored, even if the man himself is.

            John the Baptist in film mirrors the John the Baptist in Christianity. Filmmakers, some of whose attempts to return John to his original Jewish world notwithstanding, in the main tend to adhere to the orthodox Christian interpretation of John the Baptist. Thus, he is Jesus’ forerunner or witness. Even in films where these qualities are less apparent or even neglected, he still acts as a mentor or teacher to Jesus. However, his influence is often only temporary. Once Jesus embarks upon his own ministry, John is forgotten only to emerge as Christ’s forerunner in death. In a way, such an approach to John in film is inevitable. If filmmakers concentrate upon Jesus, then John must interact with him. If the sources are the Gospels, or works influenced by the Gospels, John will always be an inferior character. However, this could change. Tatum (1994:66) notes that filmmaker Paul Verhoeven has expressed an interest in making a film that looks at the relationship between John and Jesus. More specifically, Verhoeven is interested in the impact John the Baptist must have made upon Jesus. This film, were it to be produced, might see a righting of the balance in John’s favour. John the Baptist would, for once, be the star of the show, rather than merely a supporting player.

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^[1] This play featured in the previous chapter, page 242 - 243.

^[2] This was discussed in chapter two, pages 47 - 48.

^[3] See previous chapter, pages 219 – 220.

^[4] In The Messiah, see previous chapter, pages 239 - 240.

^[5] See page 226.

^[6] See previous chapter, pages 220, 221.

^[7] This was noted on page 174.

^[8] See page 241.

^[9] See page 67 - 69.

^[10] See page 67 – 68.

^[11] See chapter two, page 69.