Film Review: The King of Kings (1927)

Cecil B. DeMille is without doubt one of the most pivotal and influential personalities in twentieth-century film history. Renowned not only as one of the foundational architects of Hollywood itself, but also for a prolific and staggeringly successful career that bridged the final glorious decades of silent cinema and the tumultuous early years of the sound era, DeMille’s legacy is inextricably linked to the biblical spectacle. These grandiose productions, which include his 1923 @drax/film-review-the-ten-commandments-1923" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">silent version of The Ten Commandments, corresponded profoundly with his own traditional and conservative worldview.^1^ It was within this context that, three years later, he embarked on another scriptural project, resulting in The King of Kings (1927)—a film often considered one of the last great silent epics produced by the Hollywood studio system and a work that encapsulates both DeMille’s showmanship and his devout intentions.

The screenplay, penned by DeMille’s frequent collaborator and mistress Jeanie MacPherson, draws directly from the New Testament narratives, setting its story in first-century Palestine. It opens with a sensationalised portrayal of Mary Magdalene (Jacqueline Logan) as a fiery courtesan, enraged that her companion Judas Iscariot (Joseph Schildkraut) has abandoned her for a “carpenter from Galilee.” The plot then follows the ministry of Jesus (H.B. Warner) as he performs miracles, gathers disciples including Peter (Ernest Torrence), and eventually journeys to Jerusalem. There, he conflicts with the corrupt High Priest Caiaphas (Rudolph Schildkraut), is betrayed by Judas, and is condemned to death by Pontius Pilate (Victor Varconi) before his crucifixion and resurrection. The film concludes on a distinctly DeMillean note, with the resurrected Christ gazing over a modern metropolis, a heavy-handed symbol of his eternal presence.

Hardly anyone can deny DeMille’s formidable talent or the genuine religious motivation that underpins this grand endeavour. Contemporary reviews hailed it as “Cecil B. DeMille’s masterpiece” and “among the greatest of all pictures,” praising its reverence and scale. Yet, from a modern critical vantage point, inevitable comparisons with his own The Ten Commandments (1923) reveal The King of Kings to be a relatively drier, more didactic affair. Where The Ten Commandments thrived on melodrama and spectacular set-pieces like the parting of the Red Sea, The King of Kings often feels more like an illustrated Sunday school lesson than a compelling historical drama or intimate character study. For its original audience, largely familiar with the Gospel story, the film’s reverential pacing and textual fidelity were likely its strengths, contributing to its status as one of the last great box office successes of the silent era. However, for a contemporary viewer accustomed to the visceral intensity of Mel Gibson’s @drax/film-review-the-passion-of-the-christ-2004" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The Passion of the Christ (2004) or the nuanced humanity of later Christ figures, DeMille’s version can seem stately to the point of stodginess, lacking the creative spark and deeper psychological exploration that later filmmakers, with greater budgets and different sensibilities, would bring to the same material.

Nevertheless, to dismiss The King of Kings as a complete curio would be a mistake, particularly for dedicated cinephiles and enthusiasts of silent cinema. Like @drax/film-review-ben-hur-a" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Ben-Hur (1925), which covered a tangential biblical era, DeMille used the revered subject as a pretext for ambitious technical experimentation. Most notably, certain sequences—particularly the opening and the resurrection—were shot in an early two-strip Technicolor process, offering audiences of the time a breathtaking glimpse of colour in an otherwise monochrome epic. These moments underscore DeMille’s role as a showman first and foremost, using every tool at his disposal to create a “spectacular and deeply reverent” experience. Furthermore, the film’s visual composition is often sophisticated, employing a cinematic language that, as some modern critics note, feels more advanced than many early sound films that followed.

The acting presents an interesting study in early Hollywood conventions. The casting of father and son Rudolph and Joseph Schildkraut as Caiaphas and Judas respectively adds a layer of off-screen fascination. H.B. Warner, personally selected by DeMille for the role of Jesus, delivers a performance of solemn dignity. His casting came with extraordinary conditions: he was contractually obligated to abstain from any “immoral” activities during production to avoid scandal, a stipulation reflecting the intense cultural sensitivity surrounding the portrayal of Christ. While Warner is solid and suitably beatific, some may find his portrayal, at the age of fifty, somewhat too aged and remote, lacking the youthful vigour often associated with Jesus’s ministry. The supporting cast, including Ernest Torrence’s robust Peter and Victor Varconi’s conflicted Pilate, were praised in their day, with several included among “The Best Performances of the Month” upon release.

A significant factor in the film’s considerable length—the original roadshow version ran for 155 minutes—is the profuse use of biblical quotations as intertitles. This textual reliance, while ensuring doctrinal accuracy, contributes to the film’s occasionally plodding rhythm, often pausing the visual narrative for lengthy exposition. The King of Kings is frequently positioned as the second entry in DeMille’s informal biblical trilogy, beginning with The Ten Commandments (1923) and concluding with the sound-era The Sign of the Cross (1932). Its place in cinema history is further cemented by its prestigious launch: it was the first film to have an official premiere at the famed Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Los Angeles on 18 May 1927 (following a world premiere in New York City on 19 April). The film’s reach was monumental; it is estimated to have been seen by around 800 million viewers worldwide, a testament to its enduring appeal as a religious text. It is crucial to distinguish this 1927 epic from the 1961 Nicholas Ray film of the same title starring Jeffrey Hunter; the latter, while covering similar narrative ground, is a distinct cinematic interpretation rather than a direct remake.

The King of Kings is a fascinating historical artefact—a film of its moment. It is a work of sincere devotion and immense spectacle, showcasing DeMille’s unparalleled skill at marshalling vast resources to tell “the greatest story ever told.” Yet, its virtues are often those of a bygone era of filmmaking: its piety can feel like sanctimony, its grandeur can tip into ponderousness, and its dramatic impact is frequently diluted by a rigid adherence to the letter of the Gospel. For the modern secular viewer, it may indeed play as a dry, unimaginative lesson. However, for those with patience and a interest in the evolution of the cinematic epic, it remains an essential, if flawed, monument—a colossus of silent cinema that aimed for the heavens, even if it sometimes forgot to touch the earth.

RATING: 5/10 (++)

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