#7 ‘Lawrence of Arabia’
White Savior on a Camel, with Extra Sand
There are desert mirages, and then there is Lawrence of Arabia—a four-hour cinematic hallucination where British imperialism rides shirtless into the Middle East and somehow comes out the hero. David Lean’s 1962 epic is widely hailed as a masterpiece, and to be fair, if you’ve got a fetish for sweeping landscapes and tortured white men staring nobly into the middle distance, it absolutely delivers. But once you brush aside the dunes and dramatic sunsets, you’re left with the same colonialist delusion dressed up in prestige.
Peter O’Toole stars as T.E. Lawrence, a real-life British army officer turned mythic white messiah who, according to this film, single-handedly wrangled the fractured Arab tribes into a freedom-fighting force with nothing more than a sharp jawline and unearned self-assurance. The Arabs, of course, are portrayed as noble savages—mystical, volatile, exotic, and utterly dependent on this pale Englishman with a death wish to teach them the meaning of nationhood.
How convenient.
The film stretches across continents and ideologies but somehow forgets to include any meaningful Arab perspectives. Omar Sharif, the only notable Middle Eastern actor in the cast, is given just enough screen time to prop up Lawrence’s existential crisis. The rest of the locals are reduced to background chants, facial hair, and the occasional betrayal—because no colonial epic is complete without some moral ambiguity that conveniently doesn’t apply to the central white protagonist.
Lawrence himself is a martyr in a linen robe, tormented by violence, power, and his own inflated myth. The camera loves him—lingers on him—invites us to admire his suffering as something profound, even poetic. But what it never asks is: what the hell was he doing there? The film romanticizes occupation, manipulates revolution into a personal identity crisis, and then wipes its hands of accountability by blaming Lawrence’s descent on “the system.” Not empire. Not Britain. The system.
And don’t even bother asking where the women are. This is a film where testosterone and colonial arrogance are the only love story worth telling. There isn’t a single speaking female role. Not one. You could air this in a monk’s monastery without needing a content warning.
Yes, the cinematography is breathtaking. Yes, Maurice Jarre’s score makes your spine vibrate. Yes, O’Toole glows like an oil painting lit by the sun itself. But all this beauty is in service of a hollow tale—one where imperialism is rebranded as personal tragedy, and conquest becomes character development.
In the end, Lawrence of Arabia isn’t really about Arabia. It’s about a man who went to the desert, stirred the pot, and came back broken—and we’re supposed to feel sorry for him. Never mind the people whose land was used as his existential playground.
2.5 out of 5 camels
(One for the cinematography, one for the music, half a star for Omar Sharif trying to dignify this white-savior fever dream. The rest belongs in a sandstorm.)
