Poor old Julius Caesar has fallen by the wayside in recent weeks. To the ridiculous extent that when someone asked me about the script at the Jerusalem aftershow party, I could scarcely remember the character names.

In a bid to refresh my flaccid knowledge, I went to see a curious little film at the weekend, Caesar Must Die. I'd better not be too unkind about it as I see it has won various prizes (big big prizes) but I don't have the same educated opinion as all of these judges so I think I'll stick to "curious little film".

It tells of a group of prisoners in a prison in Rome who, by way of extra-curricular activity, stage a production of Julius Caesar. The film is principally a clever (curtailed) retelling of the JC story. Notable to even my flaccidist mind for its remarkable liberties with the script. (There were subtitles to support my tourist Italian.)

In actual fact, there were some really beautiful moments. And the whole concept is, of course, pretty exquisite. Men, mostly serving life for Bad Things, acting in a play about men who overthrow an unwelcome authority. And the moment at which the cell doors close on them after they return to the prison after their glorious curtain call (costumes fashioned from belts aside - for I'm sure they're all very Romanesque but they're not my cup of tea - it did appear to be a pretty good show) is beautifully plaintively poignant, personal badnesses aside.

But the moment which left me truly aghast - now I haven't seen an Original Script written in the hand of the great man himself but I'm pretty sure he didn't mean this - was JC's death. Now surely Everyone knows The Line that JC says just a little bit before passing on. It's pretty famous, right?

In this version, JC choked out:

"Et tu, Brute......my son."

What's that about then, eh?