Vibrant, violent, vulgar and visually eye-popping, “Rome” is HBO’s latest bid to redefine what we expect from television’s high end.
Not only is “Rome” the most expensive first season in television history at $100 million, it’s a heady mix of history and fictional characters in a sprawling epic that not only respects but challenges the intelligence of the audience.
Premiering at 7 tonight, it may take viewers more than a single episode to warm to the project.
If you’re not sure where Cato, the right-wing conservative, stood relative to Cicero, the moderate, on the issues in 52 B.C. Rome, or if you need to brush up on Pompey, the grand old warrior, and Mark Antony, the hunk lacking in gravitas, the writers provide easy entry to the saga through a fictional duo who witness historical events.
Lucius Vorenua, played by Kevin McKidd (“Kingdom of Heaven”) and Titus Pullo, played by Ray Stevenson (“King Arthur”) are the mismatched fictional soldiers through whose eyes we witness Julius Caesar’s challenge to the corrupt Roman aristocracy.
Lucius is a dutiful, religious and superstitious man. Exacting in manner, he is content to follow military procedure and trust in his gods.
Titus is a rough, spirited soul who believes Rome needs a strong leader. Where Lucius is loyal to the Republic and sees Caesar’s designs on Rome as traitorous, Titus is game for the fight. He is also expert on the subject of women, giving Lucius sex advice straight out of an imperial Rome version of the Playboy Advisor.
Human nature and notions of empire haven’t changed, the series suggests. Along with class struggles, violent games and boundary-pushing sex talk, the modern-day parallels are plentiful. Togas come and go; geopolitics remain the same.
Talk about sex and violence. Two members of the ruling class scheme over how to politically isolate Caesar as they watch bone-crushing gladiators in a pit. They might as well be contemporary political operatives blowing up enemies on their PlayStations or gorging on Spike TV wrestling while instant-messaging about midterm elections.
A young woman mimics the sounds of sexual climax, aiming to shock the grown-ups. “Where are standards?” an ancient Roman hand-wringer might have asked.
By this point, Rome is beyond setting limits or even recognizing its own excesses. The streets are an unruly tangle of overcrowded slums juxtaposed with extreme wealth.
Now that he has conquered Gaul, Gaius Julius Caesar, played by Ciaran Hinds (“Road to Perdition”), is declared an enemy of Rome by the noblemen of the city. The top 1 percent fear his populist views will undo their comfy lives.
“Our beloved Republic is in the hands of madmen,” Caesar tells his legions. He knows how to spin too. He stops Mark Antony from washing the blood off his face, for better effect. Today he would have the wounded hero rise in the Senate balcony for a wave.
“Rome” may be a slow build at the water cooler. The story, created by John Milius, William Macdonald and Bruno Heller, is as dense as the ravishing visuals, reminding us that ancient Rome was messy and teeming with colorful life – literally, the sets boast richly colored buildings quite unlike stark white Roman ruins.
While the first hour is daunting, the series offers a terrific villainess who also has a knack for humor.
Caesar’s niece Atia is a sexual predator who uses her body to get what she wants. What she wants, mainly, is attention.
Atia, played by Polly Walker (“Patriot Games”), is the most conniving and manipulative antagonist since Nancy Marchand’s Livia Soprano. If “The Sopranos” is about moral ambiguity, “Rome” is about amorality. And Atia is the poster babe.
As Atia, Walker also gets away with some oddly humorous moments, when her ludicrously self-involved character comes close to sounding like Jennifer Saunders’ selfish, shrieking head case in the British comedy series “Absolutely Fabulous”
On the sidelines, Atia’s son, Octavian (Max Pirkis), notes that “the Roman people are suffering, the streets are full of the homeless and starving” while the nobles are unbelievably rich. He’s just an observant 11-year-old in these early episodes, but the kid’s got game.
TV critic Joanne Ostrow can be reached at 303-820-1830 or jostrow@denverpost.com.
