Television Review: Empire (2005)

Few moments in antiquity resonate with such seismic consequence as the assassination of Gaius Julius Caesar on the Ides of March, 44 BC. This single act of political violence, intended to preserve the Roman Republic, instead ignited a chain reaction of civil wars that ultimately extinguished the Republic and birthed the autocratic Empire which would dominate the Western world for centuries. For over two millennia, this pivotal drama – replete with ambition, betrayal, and unintended catastrophe – has captivated artists and chroniclers, spawning countless reinterpretations across literature, theatre, and film. Among these, the 2005 six-part television miniseries Empire, produced for the American Broadcasting Company (ABC), ambitiously sought to dramatise this era. Yet, despite its lofty subject matter and respectable production values, the miniseries ultimately stumbles into the historical dustbin, failing to illuminate the profound complexities of the period it attempts to portray, instead offering a simplified, historically dubious, and ultimately forgettable spectacle.

The narrative commences in the tense atmosphere of Rome, 44 BC, mere months after Caesar (Colm Feore) has consolidated his power through civil war victory. Freed from immediate military threat, he prepares to enact sweeping social and political reforms aimed at stabilising the fractured state. Into this precarious calm steps Camane (Emily Blunt, in one of her earliest significant roles), a Vestal Virgin tormented by prophetic visions of imminent bloodshed. Her desperate, albeit futile, attempts to warn Caesar – who dismisses her omens with characteristic hubris – set the stage for the Senate assassination. The miniseries introduces a critical fictional element: Caesar’s loyal bodyguard, Tyrannus (Jonathan Cake), a former gladiator whose absence during the attack proves fatal. Distracted by the kidnapping of his young son, Tyrannus arrives too late to prevent the daggers from falling. In his dying moments, Caesar, recognising Octavius (Santiago Cabrera) as his designated heir, implores Tyrannus to safeguard the young man. This contrivance – the invented, personally loyal gladiator bodyguard – immediately signals the production’s willingness to prioritise melodrama over historical fidelity, as Caesar’s actual protection relied on the Praetorian Guard, a formal military unit whose loyalty was institutional, not personal in this manner.

Tyrannus locates the vulnerable Octavius, and the pair flee Rome, seeking allies to champion the young heir’s claim against the conspirators. They initially place faith in Mark Antony (Vincent Regan), Caesar’s trusted lieutenant. However, Empire swiftly recasts Antony not as the complex, politically astute figure of history, but as a one-dimensional power-hungry antagonist. Viewing Octavius as an obstacle, Antony attempts to poison him, forcing the heir and his steadfast companion Agrippa (Chris Egan) to flee to Gaul. There, they supposedly recruit one of Caesar’s mythical "lost legions," now reduced to banditry – a narrative flourish with no basis in historical record. Meanwhile, believing Octavius dead, Tyrannus joins Antony’s army as a centurion. His subsequent discovery of Octavius’s survival and his pivotal, last-minute defection during the climactic battle between the rivals – deciding the outcome – serves as the miniseries’ central, highly improbable action set-piece. This sequence epitomises the show’s core flaw: substituting grand, fictionalised personal heroics for the intricate political manoeuvring, shifting alliances, and genuine military strategy that defined the actual power struggle following Caesar’s death. The real Octavius’s path to power was a masterclass in cold political calculation, leveraging legal authority and financial patronage, not reliant on a gladiator’s sword arm.

Shot on location amidst the evocative ruins of Rome and Central Italy, Empire possessed the potential for grandeur. Its budget, while not HBO-level, was sufficient to create a plausible sense of place and deliver moments of visceral action. The premise – reconstructing arguably the most consequential and dramatic chapter in Western political history – promised a potent blend of high-stakes intrigue, personal ambition, and world-altering consequences, akin to the later phenomenon of Game of Thrones but rooted in documented reality. Tragically, the miniseries squandered this potential. The primary culprit is the overcooked, multi-authored script, which commits the cardinal sin of historical drama: it attempts to simplify a profoundly complex historical moment by injecting excessive, anachronistic fiction whilst simultaneously stripping away the intricate factional tapestry of the late Republic. Characters like Tyrannus and Camane are pure inventions, serving only as narrative conduits for action and romance, but their prominence comes at the expense of historical figures and dynamics. The script abandons adherence to the historical record wholesale. Mark Antony’s motivations are distorted into cartoonish villainy; the nuanced political landscape, where figures like Cicero, Lepidus, and Brutus held shifting positions, is flattened into a crude binary of "Good" (Octavius and his fictional protectors) versus "Bad" (primarily Antony and the conspirators).

Compounding these internal weaknesses was Empire’s disastrous timing. It premiered in close proximity to HBO’s lavish, critically acclaimed series Rome (2005-2007), which covered precisely the same historical period with far greater ambition, nuance, and production value. HBO’s series, benefiting from a significantly larger budget and the freedom to depict the era’s brutality and sexuality without network censorship constraints, rendered Empire instantly obsolete. The comparison was brutal: where Rome offered morally ambiguous characters, intricate political machinations, and a gritty, immersive portrayal of daily life, Empire appeared staid, sanitized, and fundamentally unoriginal. The character of Tyrannus, a noble warrior betrayed seeking vengeance for his charge, bore an unmistakable, unflattering resemblance to Maximus Decimus Meridius from Ridley Scott’s Gladiator (2000), further cementing the miniseries’ reputation as a derivative cash-in rather than a serious historical work.

That said, it would be unjust to dismiss Empire entirely. The cast, working against the limitations of the script, delivers commendable performances. Emily Blunt, before her breakout in The Devil Wears Prada, imbues the thankless role of Camane with palpable anguish, effectively portraying a woman torn between religious duty and burgeoning, forbidden affection towards future emperor. Vincent Regan brings a welcome gravitas and physical presence to his version of Mark Antony, making the character’s villainy at least somewhat compelling, even if historically unrecognisable. Fiona Shaw, in a brief but potent appearance, is utterly captivating as Fulvia, Antony’s formidable and politically active wife – a figure of genuine historical significance often marginalised in fiction, yet here given a fleeting glimpse of her intimidating power, making her underutilisation all the more frustrating.

Ultimately, Empire is another cautionary tale in historical adaptation. It possessed the raw materials – a pivotal moment, evocative locations, and talented actors – but was fatally undermined by a script that confused dramatic simplification with historical understanding, prioritising invented melodrama over the far more compelling complexities of the actual events. Its release alongside the superior Rome highlighted its mediocrity, while its reliance on tropes from Gladiator underscored its lack of originality. The miniseries fails not because it dramatises history, but because it actively obscures it, replacing the messy, fascinating reality of Rome’s death throes with a hollow, fictionalised spectacle. It is a production that mistook the trappings of historical drama – togas, swords, marble sets – for its true essence: the profound exploration of power, ideology, and human frailty that defined the Republic’s fall. Two millennia after Caesar’s fall, Empire proves that understanding why it happened remains infinitely more dramatic than any fictionalised sword fight.

RATING: 4/10 (+)

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