Ancient Egypt has long been a source of fascination, its grandeur and mystery capturing imaginations across millennia. It is no surprise, then, that filmmakers have repeatedly turned to its rich history for inspiration. Yet, the civilisation’s very antiquity and cultural distance from modern sensibilities have often forced filmmakers to treat its wonders as little more than exotic backdrops for fantasy, horror, or biblical stories. Rare are the films that attempt to portray ancient Egypt with the gravitas and nuance of a historical epic, treating its society, politics, and people as subjects worthy of scrutiny in their own right. Among these exceptions stands Pharaoh, a 1966 Polish epic directed by Jerzy Kawalerowicz. Based on Bolesław Prus’s seminal 1897 novel, the film navigates the delicate balance between historical fidelity and allegorical storytelling, offering a politically charged meditation on ambition, power, and the fragility of empires.
The film’s source material, Prus’s Pharaoh, emerged from a unique confluence of historical and political motivations. A Polish author writing during the late 19th century, Prus had previously scorned historical fiction, dismissing it as a genre rife with inauthenticity and escapism. Yet, his homeland’s prolonged partition and loss of sovereignty—a condition that persisted into his lifetime—compelled him to seek a vehicle for allegorical commentary. Egypt, in its twilight years of the New Kingdom (circa 11th century BCE), became the perfect metaphor. Though Prus invented characters and events, his meticulous research into Egyptian culture, religion, and governance resulted in a novel celebrated for its authenticity. The book’s acute observations on governance, bureaucracy, and the clash between idealism and pragmatism even drew admiration from unlikely quarters: Joseph Stalin reportedly counted it among his favourite works. The novel’s blend of specificity and universality ensured its enduring relevance, transcending its fictional setting to speak to timeless questions of leadership and societal decay.
At the film’s centre is Ramses (Jerzy Zelnik), the impetuous heir to a crumbling empire. His father, Pharaoh Ramses XII (Andrzej Girtler), is a figurehead, while the true power lies with the priestly class, led by the cautious Herhor (Piotr Pawlowski). Ramses, brimming with youthful arrogance, seeks to revive Egypt’s military prowess and reclaim its former glory through conquest. The priests, however, advocate for peace, even if it means negotiating a humiliating treaty with the Assyrians. Ramses’s defiance is not merely personal ambition; it is a calculated rebellion against a society he views as stagnant and corrupt. His plan to seize the fabled Labyrinth—a repository of the priests’ accumulated wealth—represents both a literal and metaphorical strike against entrenched power. Yet his schemes unravel under the weight of external and internal betrayals: Phoenician merchants, initially his allies, prove fickle, while his tumultuous romance with the enigmatic priestess Kama (Barbara Brylska) introduces a further layer of intrigue, partly due to Kama’s manipulative relationship with Lycaon (also played by Zelnik), a Greek impostor posing as Ramses’s double.
Pharaoh revels in the grandeur expected of a historical epic, yet it distinguishes itself through its approach. Kawalerowicz, working with more than decent budget by Polish cinema standards, crafts a visually stunning tapestry of ancient Egypt. The film’s use of real-world locations—such as the Pyramids of Giza—and the deserts of Soviet Uzbekistan imbues it with an authenticity rarely matched in period films. The director’s commitment to historical accuracy is evident in smaller details: the Nile is simulated using a Polish lake, and Egyptologists advised on costumes, architecture, and rituals. While modern audiences may raise an eyebrow at Polish actors darkened with makeup to resemble Egyptians, the effort to avoid Hollywood’s reliance on stereotypical casting is commendable. Even the film’s battle scenes, filmed from the ground-level perspective of spearmen, prioritise visceral realism over spectacle, transforming combat into a harrowing, chaotic experience rather than a heroic tableau.
Kawalerowicz’s stylistic choices further elevate the film’s gravitas. Rejecting the sweeping orchestral scores typical of Hollywood epics, he instead leans on sparse, haunting renditions of ancient Egyptian hymns by composer Adam Walaciński. This minimalist approach heightens the film’s sombre tone, focusing attention on its political machinations rather than melodrama. The absence of a traditional soundtrack also underscores the film’s thematic preoccupation with silence—the unspoken tensions between rulers and priests, the quiet desperation of a nation in decline. This austerity, while initially jarring to viewers accustomed to bombastic historical films, ultimately deepens the narrative’s emotional resonance.
The 1960s cultural context, however, occasionally surfaces in ways that now feel anachronistic. The film’s treatment of female characters leans heavily on the era’s lax censorship standards. Ramses’s love interests, Kama and his wife Sarah (Ewa Krzyżewska), frequently appear semi-nude. An orgy scene, featuring Kama’s provocative dance, leans into the era’s fascination with “exotic” sensuality—a choice that, while daring in 1966, now risks feeling exploitative. These elements, though perhaps necessary to attract audiences, occasionally distract from the film’s more substantive themes.
Despite its flaws, Pharaoh remains a masterclass in political drama. Its runtime—over two and a half hours—allows space to explore intricate subplots, moral ambiguities, and the slow unraveling of a society. The script’s attention to detail invites viewers to linger on the minutiae of Egyptian life: the rituals of temple worship, the intricacies of bureaucratic governance, and the quiet desperation of commoners burdened by taxation and war. These elements, combined with Zelnik’s magnetic performance as Ramses, create a portrait of a leader whose hubris is as compelling as it is tragic. The film’s bleak conclusion, in which Ramses’s ambitions culminate in ruin, mirrors Prus’s cautionary tale about the dangers of unchecked ambition. The parallels between Phoenician manipulations and modern geopolitical games further ground the narrative in timeless relevance, suggesting that the interplay between power, greed, and naivety remains unchanged across centuries.
Yet the film is not without its missteps. The subplot involving Lycaon, the Greek impostor, feels underdeveloped and clumsily integrated into the narrative. His sudden introduction and the convoluted mechanics of his deception—meant to serve as a metaphor for external exploitation—fail to cohere, leaving audiences confused rather than enlightened. Similarly, the abrupt ending, which resolves key conflicts with little emotional payoff, risks leaving viewers dissatisfied. These flaws, however, are minor in the context of the film’s ambitious scope and thematic depth.
Pharaoh stands as a singular achievement in historical cinema. Its blend of rigorous research, political allegory, and visual grandeur makes it essential viewing for aficionados of ancient history and devotees of the epic genre alike. Kawalerowicz’s direction and Prus’s prescient novel combine to create a film that transcends its period trappings, offering a haunting reflection on the cyclical nature of power and the peril of romanticising the past. While its imperfections are evident, Pharaoh endures as a testament to cinema’s capacity to transform history into a mirror, reflecting both the triumphs and follies of those who seek to shape it.
RATING: 7/10 (+++)
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