300

300

Mar 12

Visceral, violent, stirring, intense–these are words that describe 300.

Sensitive, feminist, complex, layered–these are words that describe films other than 300.

I love Frank Miller to little tiny scary pieces, but as I get older, I find his work tends to disturb me more and more. He’s at worst a virulent chauvinist who kinda hates women; at best, he’s simply ignorant of how to convey them with any level of understanding or sensitivity. The lone female in 300, King Leonidas’ wife Gorgo, has two major character beats: She is pseudo-raped by a mustache-twirling politician, and then she stabs that politician in the guts in front of the entire city council. In other words, her most delicate aspect is violently violated, and she responds with violence herself–as a man would in this distorted reality.

But of course, if you want reality, flip on MTV. If you want a heightened and madcap version of “reality,” go to the movies, where 300 delivers Gladiator on steroids. It’s a film almost completely defined by its images and action, pure cinema mainlined straight to your crotch. And that goes for the ladies as well as the gents–guys will respond to the amped-up battle sequences, gals will love the heavily-greased buff dudes in loincloths.

Whether male or female, a lack of squeamishness when confronted with absurd and graphic cartoon violence is required. I counted three heads lopped off bodies myself, but then I sorta stopped counting. I was too busy waiting for Gerard Butler as Leonidas to spit another movie tough-guy platitude at his troops, his enemies, or his wife.

Every line is shouted. Every sword and spear is true; every wound gushes CG blood all over the place. Yet nary a drop falls on the ground or the combatants. That’s the movies for ya–where else can you find a bloody bloodless war?