What force and verve can do. By Matthew Dallman  Just before the fateful final battle where all remaining of the 300 Spartans perish, King Leonidas pulls aside his captain, Dilios, because he has something important to ask of him. This request is more important to Leonidas, we find out, than having Dilios fighting at his side against the Persians. No, Leonidas asks Dilios to forgo his Spartan warrior training (paraphrased: "fight!"), and instead return to Sparta, alone, bearing a message. Man to man, friend to friend, and warrior to warrior, Leonidas says:
This is a simple request, delivered by Leonidas in the Spartans' trademark laconic way. But if you think about it, the discreet genius of the entire film rides on this exchange. It is important that on one hand, we take Dilios at his word — that this is what Leonidas actually ordered him to do — and, more importantly, that we ponder the consequences of Leonidas's order. Though, in both cases, many critics seem to have not. Their criticisms run the gamut. Some say the film's ideas — including heroism, courage, and honor — are too simplistic and trite for our age. Some say it is biased for the Spartans, against everyone else. Some say it stretches creative license too far to violate the historical record, or at least what we know of it. Others say its depictions of the Spartans, King Xerxes, his soldiers, and his cast of strange characters (some inhumanly tall, others with blades for arms, and so on) render the film xenophobic, homophobic, racist, Orientalist, deviously political, and so on. Of course it is true that "there is no arguing about taste", and there are potentially plenty of solid, justifiable reasons to not like this film, or any film for that matter. But what needs be straight ought be set straight, for each and every one of those criticisms seem to miss something central. What the critics miss, or ignore, is how Leonidas's story is told to us. Or specifically, that it is told to us. Dilios is under orders to tell a grand tale with force and verve, and he goes on to do just that — to the Spartan politicians, to other Spartan soldiers, and — here's the kicker — to us. He is our narrator. Nearly the entire film (the scenes of Leonidas' childhood, his meeting with the Persian messenger, the politics of Sparta, all the battles at the Hot Gates) is told as a kind of campfire story. Call it a legend, even. Maybe even a tall tale. At the beginning of the film, we see close-up shots of Dilios surrounded by maybe a dozen on-screen Spartan soldiers, and telling his story. One can assume that he aims to both entertain and instruct, as it were. After we see the film's ending, we learn that he is revered, as a kind of leader of leaders: as if he's the "one who survived" Thermopylae, who "was there", who "speaks with experience", and not just fanciful opinion. Perhaps Dilios rides the wave of his own legend; perhaps the legend just speaks for itself. Whatever the case, he has the Greek equivalents of gravitas, dignitas, and pietas, all rolled into one Spartan super-package. Apparently, being able to tell a good story did wonders for his reputation. Is Dilios' grand tale (assuming it is to some degree grand) justifiable? Let's review. Dilios speaks to soldiers brought up in the rigorous warrior culture of Sparta. He speaks on the eve of a battle to not only save Sparta, or Greek culture, but the ideas of reason and liberty, which we now call "Great Ideas". He speaks at a moment when "troop morale" might be the difference between victory and defeat. In other words, quite a bit is on the line. Quite a bit hangs on each and every of his words. If you were in such a position, how do you think you would tell the story? Would one not tell a yarn? Given the obligations of the circumstance, don't you, well, kind of have to? Of course you do. Regular filmgoers would, I imagine, understand this moral necessity, as something of common sense — that is, to inspire one must first captivate. Some professional critics seem to not. Good thing that the effect of this narrative device is to render categorically moot their critiques of bias, racism, Orientalism, untethered creative license and the like. Dilios aims to tell a rousing story, so that the Greeks win, not bias-free, literal history. Like anything, some details likely get left out, and others likely amplified for dramatic purposes. Realism won't light soldiers' hearts afire; stirring impressionism will. This is part of human nature, is it not? Does it matter, for his purposes, that Dilios told an accurate story, down to every detail? Fresh off the brutal battlefield, where he lost an eye (thankfully, God gave him "a spare") and with the prospect of annihilation of Greek culture hanging in the balance, ought he even try? The honest answer is, of course not. This type of "close-reading" of the film reveals something else. When we the film viewers see rather fantastic-looking King Xerxes, the Immortals, and so on, what we see are Dilios's words, his drama, his possibly too-grand tale, all come to life, as filmic representation of the story he weaves. We are privy to a mind's eye's take on the chronicle of the battle, not the actual battle, or its actual details. As participant in a largely oral culture, we are privy to an imagination that, according to human nature, is naturally prone to run wild, as any would in hearing a grand tale told on the battlefield. To carry this one step further, this means that we, the viewers, are in fact part of the Spartan army. We are compelled, in a sense, to be a Spartan soldier, unnamed and anonymous in the film. Zack Snyder and Frank Miller intend for us to witness the imagination of this soldier, to step into it. If you were hearing a tale of great valor, told from the beginning as Dilios tells it, how would you imagine Leonidas's wolf? Or what Xerxes looked like, supposedly divine? Or "the Immortals", his best fighters? How would you envision Xerxes' generals' heads chopped off? Or the impact of King Leonidas' words and deeds, somehow able to inspire the 300 so miraculously? Or what could have possibly persuaded Ephialtes to betray his native Sparta? We the viewers relive the story just as the Spartan fighters around the campfire do. Dilios must tell a gripping tale of both strong-willed men (and strong-willed women). If you happen to like the film, then he certainly delivers. Maybe this is why the film carries such impact. For the use of the "campfire" narrative device in this film builds by the end in such a way to evoke feelings like "I'm ready to fight for liberty!", or something along those lines. We ourselves become soldiers for these Great Ideas for which Spartans fought and died, yet helped to preserve for us, today. As the film's final moments reveal, Dilios' tale of the noble 300 moved thousands of Greek soldiers. And if this film's box office receipts and vigorous word of mouth are any indications, Dilios' tale moves non-Greek, non-soldier audiences, and does so in abundance. A grand tale with force and verve, indeed. —Matthew Dallman is the composer and producer of the full-length album, I Am Sound. ©2006 Polysemy. All rights reserved. |
