Bigger than Ben-Hur: The Book, Its Adaptations, and Their Audiences

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Copyright © 2016 by Syracuse University Press

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First Edition 2016

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ISBN: 978-0-8156-3417-1 (cloth)978-0-8156-3403-4 (paperback)

978-0-8156-5331-8 (e-book)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Ryan, Barbara, 1958– editor. | Shamir, Milette, editor.

Title: Bigger than Ben-Hur : the book, its adaptations, and their audiences / edited by Barbara Ryan and Milette Shamir.

Description: First edition. | Syracuse : Syracuse University Press, 2016. |

Series: Television and popular culture | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015037762| ISBN 9780815634171 (cloth) | ISBN 9780815634034 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780815653318 (e-book)

Subjects: LCSH: Wallace, Lew, 1827–1905. Ben-Hur. | Christianity in literature. | Wallace, Lew, 1827–1905—Film adaptations. | Ben-Hur (Motion picture : 1925) | Ben-Hur (Motion picture : 1959) | Christianity in motion pictures. | Motion pictures and literature. | Historical films—United States—History and criticism.

Classification: LCC PS3134 .B43 2016 | DDC 813/.4—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015037762

Manufactured in the United States of America

Contents

List of Illustrations

List of Tables

Foreword, Neil Sinyard

Introduction

The Ben-Hur Tradition

BARBARA RYAN AND MILETTE SHAMIR

1. Ben-Hur’s and America’s Rome

From Virtuous Republic to Tyrannous Empire

ERAN SHALEV

2. Ben-Hur’s Mother

Narrative Time, Nostalgia, and Progress in the Protestant Historical Romance

MILETTE SHAMIR

3. Retelling and Untelling the Christmas Story

Ben-Hur, Uncle Midas, and the Sunday-School Movement

JEFFERSON J. A. GATRALL

4. Holy Lands, Restoration, and Zionism in Ben-Hur

HILTON OBENZINGER

5. In the Service of Christianity

Ben-Hur and the Redemption of the American Theater, 1899–1920

HOWARD MILLER

6. June Mathis’s Ben-Hur

A Tale of Corporate Change and the Decline of Women’s Influence in Hollywood

THOMAS J. SLATER

7. Getting Judas Right

The 1925 Ben-Hur as Jesus Film and Biblical Epic

RICHARD WALSH

8. Take Up the White Man’s Burden

Race and Resistance to Ben-Hur

BARBARA RYAN

9. The Erotics of the Galley Slave

Male Desire and Christian Sacrifice in the 1959 Film Version of Ben-Hur

INA RAE HARK

10. Challenging a Default Ben-Hur

A Wish List

DAVID MAYER

11. Coda

A Timeline of Ben-Hur Companies, Brands, and Products

JON SOLOMON

Acknowledgments

Notes

Selected Bibliography of Ben-Hur Scholarship

Contributors

Index

Illustrations

1.Lew Wallace, ca. 1885

2.Ben-Hur and Messala in the Klaw & Erlanger theater production

3.Illustration and photograph of the Tower of Antonia

4.A scene from the prelude in the Klaw & Erlanger play

5.Ben-Hur coffee on sale in Los Angeles in the 1930s

6.Anonymous, after Guido Reni, The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian

7.Iras in the Klaw & Erlanger theater production

8.A 1909 furniture store advertisement in the Decatur Review

Tables

1.Jesus Segments in Ben-Hur

2.Chronology of Ben-Hur Items

Foreword

Who loves Ben-Hur? Certainly not, by and large, professional critics and academics. Literature professor Leslie Fiedler thought it the second worst American novel ever written, surpassed only by the one that provided the source material for D. W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915), Thomas Dixon Jr.’s The Clansman (1905). According to D. H. Lawrence biographer Harry T. Moore, the British novelist felt physically ill after watching the 1925 silent film version of Ben-Hur. In 1959, despite winning eleven Oscars—a record at the time—William Wyler’s film version had a devastating effect on his reputation amongst the critical intelligentsia. Later, Wyler would suggest ruefully that some critics, particularly his former champions in the French fraternity, never forgave him for having directed Ben-Hur.

And yet, almost from the moment of its publication in 1880, Ben-Hur has proved to be a phenomenon of popular culture. The statistics are well known but still astonishing: by the end of the nineteenth century, it had sold more copies than any other novel ever written. The stage version, first performed in 1899, had totaled 6,000 performances across North America by 1920, earning the management many millions of dollars. There were two silent film versions, the second of which (directed by Fred Niblo in 1925) was Hollywood’s most spectacular epic of the decade. There have since been an animated version (1988) and a television movie (2010), but, most famously, there was the 1959 film, which rescued the fortunes of MGM studios and whose takings in its first year of release accounted for nearly 10 percent of the U.S. film industry’s entire earnings for that year (of a total of 534 films). Incidental Hollywood details have added to the work’s legendary status. When Humphrey Bogart’s private-eye character Sam Spade poses as a fussy collector in the bookstore scene in The Big Sleep (1946), which was based on a Raymond Chandler novel, the work he feigns to be after is a rare copy of Ben-Hur. Later in the twentieth century, a reluctant 12-year-old named Steven Spielberg was taken to see the Wyler film of Ben-Hur. He was totally enthralled. Now an accomplished filmmaker, Spielberg has said that at the time he had had no idea that a movie could be that good.

So what is it about Ben-Hur that has, in defiance of arbiters’ approval, so appealed to the popular imagination? On the simplest level, Ben-Hur is a great adventure story that enriches its profusion of incident with variety and contrast. It is a great love story, but it is also a great hate story; it is a story of revenge but also a story of redemption; its action scales the highest peaks of imperial power but also scrutinizes the lowest level of a galley ship or a Roman prison. Ben-Hur is the story of an individual but also of a nation. It appeals to a reader’s sense of spectacle, but the mood is predominantly contemplative, and the narrative carries alongside this momentum of action a strong moral, educative, and religious sense. In its account of a noble hero unjustly accused of a crime, punished and presumed dead, who rises again to eminence and seeks vengeance against his oppressors, one hears echoes of the romance novels of Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas. If you add to this array an over-arching religious dimension, you can gauge Ben-Hur’s potential appeal to an international audience, young and old.

Still, having all of the ingredients for popular success is not the same as having the skill to blend them into an irresistible whole. Yet, somewhat to his surprise, this is what Lew Wallace achieved. Wallace was fifty-three years old when the novel was published; he told his wife that he thought, with a bit of luck, Ben-Hur could earn them about fifty dollars per year in royalties. It had taken him five years to write his 500-page tale, during which time he became the governor of New Mexico. As governor, his responsibilities included asking Sheriff Pat Garrett to arrest Garrett’s former friend, Billy the Kid.

Wallace’s first novel, The Fair God (1873), occupied him for twenty years but made little impression on the literary world. With Ben-Hur, Wallace combined a Gospel story with his knowledge of the behavior of men in combat and under stress, which he drew from his involvement in the American Civil War, particularly his firsthand experience of one of its bloodiest encounters: the Battle of Shiloh. Wallace’s war experiences gave an edge of authenticity to the scenes of battle and physical conflict in Ben-Hur. His campaigning against slavery as a young lawyer may also have given extra piquancy to his portrayal of Judah Ben-Hur’s years as a galley slave.

Some critics have defended Wallace’s literary style; in the Oxford World’s Classics edition, for example, David Mayer claims that Wallace writes effective, unornamented prose.¹ I don’t think, though, a persuasive case can be made that the novel’s popularity owes much to the quality of the writing. In aiming for archaic authenticity, Wallace often achieves only a kind of pompous piety that many subsequent plays and films about this period have found hard to avoid. There are too many appeals to the reader, who is constantly being besought. Also over-frequent are attempts to imitate the language of two thousand years ago (God of Abraham forefend!) and phrasing that sounds more quaint than compelling: one of the Wise Men does not simply wear sandals; sandals guarded his feet. Particularly comical is the flowery dialogue, such as when Ben-Hur recalls his sister to the Roman commander, Quintus Arrius, in tones quite at odds with the desperation of his situation: Her breath was as the breath of white lilies. She was the youngest branch of the palm—so fresh, so tender, so graceful, so beautiful! he exclaims, before adding with leaden bathos, she made my day all morning (3:III). Yet such is the power of the narrative that readers can sweep past such infelicities. Why is this?

It seems to me that the novel has two great ideas, one of which was not especially unusual in the fiction of the time, and the other strikingly original. First, Ben-Hur is the story of an ordinary individual who suddenly finds himself at the center of extraordinary historical events. This story brings the period alive not as a remote episode in the past but as something being experienced by a person whose sensibilities are very like our own. Tolstoy did the same thing in War and Peace (1869), for example; Boris Pasternak was to do it again in Doctor Zhivago (1957). Wallace may not meet their literary height, but he deserves to be recognized as part of a tradition that stretches back to Sir Walter Scott.

More remarkably, though, Wallace chose to tell the biblical story from the perspective of a minor fictional character who has his own history. This character fills in gaps and margins of the main story to give it a new dimension. That is, Ben-Hur is a novel that shadows a classic and well-known narrative with a more prosaic one of its own that involves a lesser character on the sidelines of the main drama. Part of the fascination with Ben-Hur comes from the point at which these narratives intersect. Offhand, I cannot think of another major nineteenth-century novel that does this—certainly not so resonantly. This strategy anticipates Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (1966), a play that depicts the fate of two minor characters as they weave in and out of the plot of Shakespeare’s Hamlet (1599), and Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea (1966), a novel that re-tells the story of Charlotte Brönte’s Jane Eyre (1847) from the point of view of Rochester’s mad first wife. A scene in Wyler’s Ben-Hur perfectly portrays this strategy: during the depiction of the Sermon on the Mount, we see a small figure moving from left to right in the far background of the shot. Judah Ben-Hur, on his way to a meeting with Pontius Pilate, is too preoccupied with his own troubles to pay attention to the momentous event he is passing by. Indeed, he is unaware at this point that the man speaking in the distance is he who had saved Ben-Hur’s life in the desert years before by giving him water. This awareness only dawns when Ben-Hur gives water to Christ on the march to Cavalry and makes the connection with the earlier event; it is one of the story’s most superb epiphanies.

Although the popularity of Ben-Hur as novel and play was virtually unprecedented, the cinema was to provide Ben-Hur with its widest audience. I suspect that most people today know this tale essentially through its cinematic interpretations. Niblo’s 1925 version remains highly regarded by both cinéastes and Ben-Hur scholars, perhaps because it sticks most closely to the original text, is genuinely spectacular in its set pieces, and has the advantage of being silent, so actors do not have to struggle with awkward and anachronistic dialogue. The fan magazine Photoplay ran advertisements that billed Ben-Hur as the picture every Christian ought to see! Yet as a writer in this magazine remarked, so should every Jew, Buddhist, and sun worshipper if the film were to have any chance of making its money back. (It did eventually show a profit, but it took a few years.) Film historians have tended to prefer Niblo’s 1925 film to Wyler’s 1959 re-make. I would concede that the earlier film’s sea battle sequence surpasses the re-make in terms of excitement and compelling brutality. However, in all other respects, my allegiance remains with the Wyler film, which, more than any interpretation before or since, stimulated my love of the Ben-Hur story.

For someone like me with an interest in adaptations of literature to the screen, Ben-Hur exerts a particular fascination. Two major problems of adaptation immediately present themselves. How do you explain the motivation behind Messala’s malicious treatment of his former close friend, Ben-Hur, when neither the novel nor the 1925 film version offers much of a clue? Also, how do you dramatize what happens after the chariot race, which rouses an audience to such peaks of excitement that anything that comes after is in danger of seeming anti-climactic? That certainly would not do for a film that concludes with the Crucifixion.

Wyler handles these narrative challenges with consummate skill in his 1959 adaptation. The reunion between Ben-Hur and Messala at the beginning of the film is superbly acted by Charlton Heston and Stephen Boyd. Both bring emotional intensity to the scene that, judging by the embarrassment and laughter that follows their initial embrace, seems to take both characters by surprise. It is well known that Gore Vidal suggested a homoerotic subtext to this relationship that would help explain Messala’s subsequent vindictiveness toward his dear friend and (possible) lover. The rumor is that Wyler went along with this suggestion, provided that it was implicit rather than explicit, and that no one told Charlton Heston. The subtext works when Messala’s remarks on his supposed view of the political situation take on erotic subtones, linking the personal and political undercurrents of his relationship to his one-time Jewish friend.

Politics is to the fore, however, when Messala grows incensed that his friend refuses to help him in quelling treasonous elements in the region. When the representative of imperial Rome asks the subjugated Judean to name others who have expressed hostility to Rome, Ben-Hur refuses. Would I retain your friendship if I became an informer? he asks. But Messala is insistent. Either you help me or oppose me, he says. You’re either for me or against me, you have no other choice. In the context of the 1950s, this demand is instantly recognizable as the language of McCarthyism and the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), the group whose dubious investigations of Communist infiltration had a devastating effect on the Hollywood community and whose activity Wyler loathed with every fiber of his being. By punishing Ben-Hur for a crime of which Messala knows he is innocent, a cynical political opportunist demonstrates that not even a close friend and pillar of the community is safe from persecution when treason is suspected. Political cunning is interwoven here with disparate notions of male friendship, and the force of this relationship is thrillingly brought to its logical conclusion in the chariot race. Wyler revised Wallace’s original scene significantly when he decided that, in the 1959 film, Ben-Hur will not win the race so much as Messala will defeat himself: fearful and furious at the prospect of a humiliating defeat, he loses control of his chariot when he tries to lash his rival out of the race.

Immediately after the chariot race comes another master stroke by Wyler: a scene that is not in the novel or the 1925 film but vibrantly re-invigorates the narrative at a critical point where it might otherwise ebb. Summoning Ben-Hur to his tent, the dying Messala has one final card to play that will diminish Ben-Hur’s triumph and forgiveness. Ben-Hur has been told that his mother and sister have died in prison. But Messala now reveals that they are alive and in horrible conditions. Look for them in the Valley of the Lepers, he says, adding maliciously, if you can recognize them. Messala tugs at Ben-Hur’s clothes as he says his last words: It goes on, Judah, the race is not over. Stephen Boyd is magnificent in this scene; he is vengeful and defiant as death approaches. His malice assures the audience and Ben-Hur that the chariot race has not been the culmination of his enmity with the hero. Further implied by this scene is the distance Ben-Hur still must travel in his spiritual journey. When he leaves Messala’s tent and steps back into the arena, it is deserted. Wyler’s framing demonstrates the hollowness of his victory; Ben-Hur is now a tiny figure in an empty stadium. The lesson is that, in a conflict fueled by hatred and revenge, there can be no winners.

With scenes like these, Wyler’s 1959 film gives the novel’s sprawling narrative a cogent dramatic structure. Pervasive imagery of water, stone, steps, blood, rings, gifts, and variations of light and dark resonate with cumulative force to take full advantage of the story’s potential for contrast, conflict, ambivalence, and irony. Ben-Hur is a character who goes from the extremes of wealth and privilege to the extremes of poverty and suffering and then back again. He goes from Jew to Roman and then back again. His best friend, who saved his life when he was a child, becomes his worst enemy. A Roman commander, Quintus Arrius, who has the potential to become his principal oppressor as commander of the slave ship, will become his champion and father figure. At all points the film accentuates the narrative’s dynamic polarities. As a man who has spoken out against violence, Ben-Hur is transformed through circumstance into a revenge hero; eventually he is in danger of becoming the thing he set out to destroy. Hatred is turning you to stone, Esther tells him. It’s as if you’ve become Messala. Only his (initially inadvertent) involvement in Christ’s destiny shows Ben-Hur, at last, the error of his ways. The film’s conclusion appropriately emphasizes rescue of the innocent rather than punishment of the guilty: Ben-Hur’s mother and sister are miraculously cured of leprosy. This structure parallels his gradual relinquishing of force in favor of forgiveness. On hearing Christ’s last words on the cross, Ben-Hur tells Esther: And I felt the sound of his voice / Take the sword out of my hand. In this act of renunciation, a prayer is answered and his family is restored. Making this point orthographically is the script that frames this speech as blank verse.

Wyler’s Ben-Hur is the final installment in what I see as his unofficial trilogy on the themes of pacifism and revenge. His film Friendly Persuasion (1956) followed the fortunes of a Quaker family during the American Civil War. The story peaks when its pacifist hero (Gary Cooper) is confronted by a rebel soldier who has just killed his best friend and is about to kill him. After a struggle, the pacifist overpowers his assailant, snatches his rifle, and points it at the terrified youth before saying: Go on, go on, get—I’ll not harm thee. The last word is a moving reaffirmation of his Quaker faith and an explanation for his action. In my favorite of all Westerns, Wyler’s The Big Country (1958), another pacifist, this one a greenhorn just arrived from back East (Gregory Peck), finds himself caught up in a feud over water rights between two warring families. He starts posing awkward questions about Westerners’ apparent obsession with outmoded conventions of masculinity, honor, and confrontation. Wyler frames a prolonged yet inconclusive fistfight between the greenhorn and a hostile foreman (Charlton Heston) in an ironic long-shot that cuts the men down to size; the scene ends with the Easterner asking the foreman: Tell me: what have we proved? With similar elegance, intelligence, and even wit, Wyler’s Ben-Hur builds to a comparable resolution that demonstrates the futility of violence. Its major themes—freedom from dictatorship, the evil of slavery, and the renunciation of force as a means to political ends—are as relevant as ever. Although on the surface it is simply a biblical and historical tale, Ben-Hur is better understood as a remarkably fluid text in its capacity to speak to an ever-changing modern audience about contemporary concerns.

NEIL SINYARD

Introduction

The Ben-Hur Tradition

BARBARA RYAN AND MILETTE SHAMIR

As this collection goes to press, polarized reactions are greeting Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer’s announcement of plans to film a new Ben-Hur. For some, this news merits a snort or shrug—another revival of a time-worn warhorse. For others, though, the announcement stirs keen interest: what will the dream factory conjure to outdo the epic that swept the Academy Awards in 1959? Such strong yet incompatible reactions are a reminder that the name Ben-Hur has long meant more than the novel General Lew Wallace published in 1880. Indeed, for more than a century, this name has circulated as an icon, connoting for some a profoundly spiritual or at least powerful experience, but signifying for others false piety, bad taste, and cheap thrills. This debate—the puzzle of what qualifies as art in modern times—will not be resolved in the essays that follow (although it will certainly be discussed). Essays gathered here are centered on more nuanced questions that readers and viewers ask about Ben-Hur as they strive to expand the context within which this favorite can be studied. Of particular interest are adaptations of Wallace’s tale, which have swelled an audience that began with print but moved thereafter to theater and film. Jointly, these essays seek to recover and analyze the rich lineage Howard Miller has identified as the "Ben-Hur tradition."¹

As the first collection devoted to this tradition, Bigger than "Ben-Hur" reminds readers that when Wallace’s tale moved from print to stage, then to cinema and onward, it changed unpredictably. No adaptation was completely separable from religious concerns. Still, a fair few intersected with those concerns at oblique angles. When homemakers klatched, for instance, over Ben-Hur coffee or automobile shoppers considered the Ben-Hur luxury sedan, the Ben-Hur tradition had more to do with commerce than with Christ. Realizing this, scholars have approached Ben-Hur from multiple directions, both religious and secular. Whereas New Testament and third quest specialists examined Ben-Hur’s portrait of Jesus, often through the door opened by film scholars, classics experts pioneered inquiry that moved away from Wallace’s religious message to study instead his depiction of imperial Rome. As literary historians came on board, so too did theater researchers, American studies analysts, and students of adaptation, with each group bringing its own set of questions. In the foreword to this collection, Neil Sinyard suggests a source of this dynamism when he describes Ben-Hur as a remarkably fluid text of signal capacity to speak to an ever-changing modern audience about contemporary concerns.² Bigger than "Ben-Hur" establishes a forum for analysts from a range of academic disciplines to investigate not just one tale in varied formats but also a tradition that, after more than 130 years, appears tireless.

Essays collected here are not for Ben-Hur scholars only. They offer insights to students of popular Christianity and Judaism; to scholars of reading, reception, and fandom; to those who investigate the United States’ sense of the Middle East and of Zionism; to researchers who probe the intersection of education and entertainment on stage and on screen; to chroniclers of ways of imaging Jesus Christ, femme fatales, and masculine performance; and to many more. Holding all of this together is tradition. We conceptualize tradition as movement in and through time that powerfully evokes the past to feed the present and, by so doing, looks to the future. Our idea of the Ben-Hur tradition owes much to a thinker who is new to this corpus: Édouard Glissant. According to Alessandro Corio, Glissant conceptualizes modernity as an uninterrupted movement characterized by continuity and rupture that is perpetually open to the unexpectedness of the event, and alert to the vertigo of the unimagined.³

Ethicists, anthropologists, and students of postcolonialism have found use-value in Glissant’s delineation of lived modernity (modernité vecué). This phrase identifies certain social actors’ inability to engage historical writing with the assurance of subjects of mature (sometimes called evolved) modernity. The distinction is not between subjects who are or are not modern; rather, it lies between denizens of sites in which modernity originated and developed gradually over generations and of sites in which modernity was imposed with an abruptness Glissant deems brutal.⁴ He focuses on the European power/knowledge project that writes Caribbean history from colonizers’ vantage. Widely applicable, however, is Glissant’s observation that lived modernity is de-authorized in seats of power, yet generative of alternative narratives that draw on past events.

This understanding of generativity captures neatly Wallace’s decision to romance God’s Word historically and how negatively some power-holders of his day reacted. Wallace’s formal education was limited. But this is no mark against his romancing because he did not write in competition with trained historians or biblical scholars. In an important discussion of Glissant’s work, John Muthyala points out that lived modernity typically overlaps with the preoccupations of matured ‘modernity.’⁵ In the case of Ben-Hur, this overlap is recognized by scholars who ponder Wallace’s creativity in relation to the labor of the German philologists known as Higher Critics. Oft forgotten, though, is that Higher Critics compiled scholarly histories: the critical nub of mature modernity. Wallace contrastively wrote fiction that, though extremely well informed about facts, pursued unscholarly goals. Like the Higher Critics, he sought truth. However, his use of historical facts was less a disinterested search than a pragmatic marshalling that made sense to many of his contemporaries. Wallace’s pragmatism meant that, in tandem with Ben-Hur’s religious interpretation, his tale shared thoughts on modern issues that were far from the Higher Critics’ minds: the woman question, ties between virtue and wealth, Jews’ place in the present day, and much more.

Sensitive to such modern issues, as well as to Ben-Hur’s religious valences, authors of the essays in this volume recover ways in which certain social actors have explored the living of their varied modernities through Wallace’s tale. Among these actors were democrats who looked to Rome for inspiration, Sunday-school administrators, the Jewish duo who moved Ben-Hur to Broadway, all who noted the 1925 film’s attempt